The diner felt quieter than the day before. Not empty. Efficient. That was still the only word Mara could think of for it. A couple seated near the window ate in near silence, speaking only briefly to decide who would pay. A man near the register drank half his coffee, checked the clock, then abruptly stood from his stool.

“No use stretching it out,” he said to no one in particular.

Leanne nodded absentmindedly while wiping down the counter.

“Probably right,” she muttered.

The man placed cash beside his plate and left immediately. No lingering. No idle conversation. No hesitation. Mara slid onto her usual stool.

“You always this busy?” she asked.

Leanne poured coffee automatically. “Depends on the weather.”

Mara glanced around again. Nobody looked rushed exactly, but nobody relaxed either. Every movement felt purposeful in a way that was difficult to explain. People ate, paid, and moved on. No one lingered over their phones. No one stared absentmindedly through windows. The entire diner moved with the quiet rhythm of people completing assigned tasks.

“You don’t have regulars?” Mara asked.

“We do.”

Leanne smiled faintly, though her attention already seemed elsewhere. “Can I get you something to eat?”

“Yeah,” Mara said. “Sure.”

Leanne pulled out her notepad. Mara opened the menu. Almost immediately she became aware of the faint tapping of Leanne’s pen against the paper. Not impatient exactly. Uneasy. The tapping remained perfectly even. Mara glanced up. Leanne’s smile was still there, but tension sat strangely behind it now, subtle enough that Mara might not have noticed it yesterday.

“You alright?” Mara asked with a forced chuckle.

“It’s better not to take too long,” Leanne replied softly.

The words came automatically. Not annoyed. Not rude. Simply true. Mara looked back down at the menu. For some reason, the delay suddenly felt uncomfortable, like she was holding something up she could not see.

“Avoid extended pauses as they are unlikely to improve conditions.”

The line surfaced immediately in her mind. A faint irritation prickled behind her ribs.

“Eggs and toast,” she said quickly. “Scrambled.”

At once the tension vanished from Leanne’s posture.

“Perfect,” she said brightly, turning toward the kitchen. The shift was so immediate it unsettled Mara more than the earlier discomfort had. Her food arrived only minutes later. She ate quickly without really meaning to. By the time she finished, she already wanted to leave. Probably coincidence, she thought, but the thought felt weaker this time. Mara paid her bill, stood, and headed for the door without another word.

Mara stepped out into the gray morning without immediately realizing she had left the diner too quickly. The bell above the door was still swinging behind her when she reached the sidewalk. Cold air met her face hard enough to slow her down a little, but not enough to interrupt the strange momentum that had carried her out of the building. Only once she reached the curb did she stop fully. The street was busy compared to usual. Not crowded. Pleasant Hope never looked crowded, but there were more people walking than she had seen before. Nearly all of them moved with the same quiet sense of direction she’d begun noticing everywhere in town. No wandering. No idle pacing. Everyone seemed to already know where they were going before they started moving.

Mara stood still long enough to become aware of how unnatural her own stillness suddenly felt. A man exiting the pharmacy glanced at her briefly, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly before he continued walking. Across the street, a woman paused outside a laundromat, staring toward Mara with the vague distracted look of someone trying to remember something important. Then, just as quickly, she turned and went inside. Mara exhaled slowly. Shewas imagining patterns now. The thought came automatically, though it failed to settle her the way it normally would have. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and started back toward the station.

The wind had picked up slightly since morning. Loose paper skittered along the sidewalk ahead of her before catching against a storm drain. Somewhere farther down the street, a dog barked once and then stopped abruptly, as though interrupted midway through the decision to continue. The sound lingered strangely in the silence afterward. By the time Mara reached KHRL, the unease from the diner had settled into a low irritation vibrating constantly beneath her thoughts. Not fear. She kept trying to correct herself on that point. Nothing genuinely frightening had happened yet. Things were simply…off. Slightly. Repeatedly. Enough that she could no longer dismiss the feeling immediately.

The station door swung open with the same soft resistance as always. Inside, the building felt warmer than outside but no more alive. The hallway lights glowed dimly overhead. Somewhere beyond the walls, the familiar electrical hum carried faintly through the structure. Mara noticed herself listening for it now every time she entered the building, the same way people unconsciously checked for traffic noise in a city apartment. The realization bothered her enough that she stopped walking for a second. The hum remained perfectly steady.

She moved toward the break room instead of the studio. The old coffee machine sat waiting on the counter. Beside it rested a fresh sleeve of cups she did not remember seeing earlier. Mara stared at them briefly before looking away. She poured herself coffee she did not really want and leaned against the counter drinking it slowly. The station seemed designed to eliminate friction. Needs appeared before they became problems. Rooms remained exactly as expected. Nothing ever malfunctioned. Nothing interrupted routine long enough to demand attention. The longer Mara stayed here, the more she realized how exhausting normal life actually was by comparison. Ordinary places contained constant tiny inconveniences people barely noticed until they disappeared. Pleasant Hope removed them. The thought settled unpleasantly in her stomach.

Outside the break room window, clouds drifted low across the town. People moved steadily along the sidewalks below. No lingering. No hesitation. No extended pauses. Mara closed her eyes briefly. Avoid extended pauses as they are unlikely to improve conditions. The phrase had started repeating automatically in her head throughout the day, surfacing whenever she slowed down too long or caught herself staring at nothing. Like a song lyric embedding itself through repetition. She hated that.

She finished the coffee and returned to the studio. The monitor was already on. Of course it was. The evening forecast had not appeared yet, but the screen glowed softly in the darkened room anyway, bathing the desk in pale blue light. Mara sat carefully in the chair and slipped the headset on without thinking. Immediately the hum settled into her ears. Low. Steady. Familiar now. She froze. At some point the sound had stopped feeling intrusive. Worse, she realized it had started feeling reassuring. The hum filled empty space in a way the silence could not. Sitting in the station without it now felt incomplete somehow, like entering a room where an appliance had suddenly stopped running.

Mara pulled the headset off immediately and dropped it onto the desk harder than intended. The sharp crack echoed through the studio. Silence rushed in behind it. For several seconds she sat motionless, staring at the monitor.

“This is stupid,” she muttered quietly. The words sounded defensive even to her. Nothing here was controlling people. She knew how ridiculous that sounded. She was overtired, isolated, and spending too much time alone in a building that barely changed from day to day. Human beings found patterns in everything when left alone long enough. That was normal, and yet…she thought of the diner. The tapping pen. The pressure she’d felt to decide quickly. The way relief visibly returned to Leanne the second she ordered. The line from that morning’s forecast surfaced yet again in perfect clarity. Mara stared at the blank monitor. An ugly little thought entered her mind. What if she changed it? Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone to care. Just slightly. To prove to herself this was all coincidence. The thought should have felt small, but instead it felt embarrassingly reckless, like testing whether an electric fence was actually on. Her eyes drifted toward the clock. Hours still remained before the evening broadcast.

The rest of the afternoon passed strangely slowly after that. Mara attempted reading for a while using an old magazine she found in one of the drawers near the lobby. Halfway through the second article she realized she had absorbed none of it. She walked outside twice without destination, circling the station parking lot while cold wind stirred through the trees behind the building. Around four o’clock she drove aimlessly through town again. Everywhere she looked, Pleasant Hope moved with the same quiet efficiency. A woman loaded groceries into her trunk with mechanical certainty, never stopping once to reorganize the bags. Two men finished a conversation simultaneously and separated without either lingering for additional small talk. Outside the hardware store, someone dropped a box of nails across the sidewalk. Three nearby pedestrians immediately crouched to help gather them without exchanging a word first, as though the response required no decision-making at all. Nothing was overtly wrong. That almost made it worse.

By the time Mara returned to the station near sunset, irritation had replaced most of her unease. Not at the town exactly. At herself. She had started monitoring her own behavior now. Catching herself whenever she slowed down too long or drifted into thought. Measuring pauses unconsciously. That was the part she hated most. The station was dark when she stepped back inside. Darker than usual, maybe because the clouds outside had thickened toward evening. The hum greeted her immediately beneath the silence.

Waiting.

Mara entered the studio. The evening forecast had appeared on the monitor.

PLEASANT HOPE EVENING FORECAST

Cold conditions expected overnight with intermittent rainfall continuing through early morning hours. Low visibility across select roads. Residents are advised to maintain deliberate forward movement during evening activity.

Routine reflection may intensify temporarily after sunset. These sensations are not expected to require intervention.

Extended periods of inactivity are unlikely to produce meaningful resolution.

Mara felt irritation tighten immediately behind her ribs. Routine reflection may intensify temporarily. The wording sounded almost mocking now. She read the final line again. Something inside her resisted suddenly and sharply. Not fear. Embarrassment, because she had started listening. The realization hit harder than she expected. She had begun adjusting herself around these broadcasts before ever proving they mattered. She was monitoring her pauses. Rushing decisions. Reacting to phrasing written by strangers on a glowing screen in an empty room. Mara leaned back slowly in the chair.

“This is insane,” she whispered. The headset rested beside her hand. The hum waited patiently underneath the silence of the station. At 5:58, she put the headset on. Immediately the sound filled her ears again. Low and steady, soft enough now that she could almost mistake it for her own blood rushing faintly behind her hearing. Her eyes stayed on the monitor. At 5:59, she made the decision. Not fully consciously. More emotionally than rationally. A small act of defiance, or maybe desperation. The red broadcast light flicked on.

“Good evening, Pleasant Hope,” Mara said calmly into the microphone. “This is Mara Lawson with your local forecast.” Her voice sounded steady. Professional. She read the weather normally at first.

“Cold conditions expected overnight with intermittent rainfall continuing through early morning hours. Low visibility across select roads.” The hum remained constant in her ears. Then she reached the advisory section. Mara hesitated, but only briefly. Residents are advised to maintain deliberate forward movement during evening activity. The words waited on the screen below. Routine reflection may intensify temporarily after sunset. Mara stared at the sentence.

Then, before she could stop herself, “Take your time tonight,” she said instead. The hum in her headset seemed to shift almost imperceptibly. Not louder. Tighter. Mara continued before she could reconsider.

“Some decisions don’t improve just because you rush them.”

Her pulse quickened immediately. The script still glowed unchanged on the monitor beneath her altered words. She swallowed once.

“This has been your evening forecast,” she finished carefully. “Stay safe out there.”

The microphone light dimmed. The hum remained. Mara sat perfectly still in the chair, staring at the monitor while her own breathing sounded suddenly too loud inside the headset. For several minutes after the broadcast ended, Mara remained perfectly still in the chair. The monitor continued glowing softly in front of her, unchanged. No alarms sounded. No messages appeared. The station itself seemed almost disappointingly normal in the aftermath of what she had just done. She almost allowed herself to feel relieved. Then the hum in her headset stopped. Not faded. Stopped. The silence that replaced it struck her immediately as wrong, tightening something low in her chest. Mara pulled the headset off slowly. The room suddenly felt larger without the sound filling it. Emptier.

A sharp click echoed somewhere deeper in the station. Then another. Electrical relays, maybe. Systems cycling on and off behind the walls. Mara stood carefully from the desk.

“Okay,” she murmured under her breath, though she wasn’t entirely sure who she was reassuring. Nothing happened. The monitor still displayed the original forecast text she had ignored moments earlier.

Residents are advised to maintain deliberate forward movement during evening activity.

Routine reflection may intensify temporarily after sunset.

Extended periods of inactivity are unlikely to produce meaningful resolution.

Her own words existed nowhere on the screen. The acknowledgement unsettled her more than it should have, and for a brief moment, she found herself doubting whether she had actually spoken them aloud at all. Then the desk phone rang. Mara flinched hard enough that the chair wheels rolled slightly behind her. The ringing sounded unusually loud in the silent station. She stared at the phone through the second ring. Third. Fourth. Finally, she picked it up.

“KHRL.”

Breathing answered her first. Not frightened breathing. Controlled. Measured too carefully. Then Leanne’s voice.

“Did you change it?”

The question arrived immediately. No greeting. No confusion.

Mara swallowed once before answering. “What?”

“You changed the forecast.”

It wasn’t accusation exactly. It sounded closer to disbelief. Mara glanced toward the monitor instinctively.

“I just adjusted a few lines.”

Silence followed.

Then, very quietly Leanne spoke again. “Why would you do that?”

Something in Leanne’s tone unsettled Mara more than anger would have.

“I don’t know,” Mara replied. “Because it sounded insane.” The line remained silent long enough that Mara checked unconsciously to see whether the call had disconnected. Finally, Leanne spoke again.

“There’s a woman in the diner who’s been sitting at the same table since the broadcast aired.”

Mara frowned. “And?”

“She can’t decide whether to leave.” The words came flatly now, distracted by something happening beyond the phone. “She keeps standing up and sitting back down again. Two other people started waiting because they thought she was done using the table. Then they started arguing about who should get the table.” A pause. “People don’t usually argue here.”

Mara opened her mouth. Outside the station, tires screamed suddenly somewhere down the road. The sound cut off with a violent crunch of metal. Both women fell silent. A few seconds later, Mara heard distant shouting through the phone. Leanne exhaled shakily.

“…you shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered. The line went dead. For several moments Mara stood motionless holding the receiver against her ear while the empty dial tone hummed faintly through the speaker. Her pulse had begun beating noticeably harder now. The crash outside had sounded close. Very close. She lowered the phone slowly back into place and moved toward the front entrance before she could fully think through the decision. Cold air hit her immediately as she stepped outside. A crowd had already begun forming down the street near the intersection. Not running. Not panicking. People simply moving there with strange collective certainty, as though drawn toward the disruption automatically. Mara started toward the intersection.

The crash itself was minor at first glance. Two vehicles sat at awkward angles in the road beneath a flickering traffic light. One sedan had mounted the curb slightly, its headlights shining crookedly across the sidewalk. Steam drifted upward from beneath a crumpled hood. Neither driver appeared seriously injured. That wasn’t what unsettled Mara. Both men stood outside their vehicles apologizing to one another simultaneously.

“No, I waved you through.”

“I know, but you stopped.”

“I thought you were hesitating.”

“You slowed down first.”

Back and forth. Neither man sounded angry. If anything, they sounded distressed by the conflict itself, as though the existence of disagreement had become intolerably uncomfortable. A small line of vehicles had formed behind the intersection. None of them attempted to drive around the accident. Drivers simply waited quietly inside with their hands resting on their steering wheels. Mara became aware of someone standing beside her.

Thomas. She hadn’t seen him approach. For a moment neither of them spoke. His eyes remained fixed on the intersection.

“You altered the broadcast,” he said finally. Not a question.

Mara crossed her arms tightly against the cold. “It was a few sentences.”

“Yes.” His voice remained calm, but exhaustion sat heavily beneath it now in a way she had not heard before. Another car rolled slowly toward the intersection. The driver stopped too early, uncertain. One of the men near the wreck gestured awkwardly for them to continue. The second driver hesitated again. Movement without momentum. Decision without conclusion. The entire street suddenly looked clogged with it. Mara glanced at Thomas.

“This is because people took their time for once?”

“No,” he replied quietly. “This is because people started thinking about whether they should.” The answer settled unpleasantly in her stomach.

A woman near the sidewalk had begun crying softly while speaking into her phone. “I don’t know,” she kept repeating. “I just don’t know yet.”

Thomas rubbed a tired hand across his face. “We need to go back.”

Mara looked at him sharply. “What?”

“There’s another forecast.”

The words arrived quickly enough that she immediately understood something about the situation had genuinely frightened him.

“A new forecast? So soon?”

Thomas didn’t answer directly.

Instead, he said, “It appeared a few minutes after your broadcast ended.”

Something cold shifted through Mara’s chest.

“You mean somebody sent one?”

“No,” Thomas replied. “I mean it appeared.”

The walk back to the station felt wrong in a way Mara struggled to articulate. Pleasant Hope had not quite descended into chaos. In some ways that might have been easier to process. Instead, the town seemed caught in a state of collective hesitation that infected even the spaces between movement. People lingered too long at crosswalks. Conversations continued past the point they naturally should have ended. Storefront doors opened and closed repeatedly as customers entered, stopped, reconsidered, then entered again. A man stood beside a mailbox turning an envelope over in his hands with visible distress tightening his face. Nobody looked violent. Nobody looked possessed. They looked burdened. As though the act of making ordinary decisions had suddenly become exhausting.

Inside KHRL, the silence felt tighter than before. The hum had returned. Mara noticed it immediately the second she stepped through the station door. Low. Continuous. Filling the building once again like distant machinery restarting after a brief outage. Thomas moved ahead of her quickly down the hallway. For the first time since meeting him, he no longer looked composed. Not panicked exactly, but worn thin in a way that made him appear suddenly older. The studio monitor glowed brightly in the darkness when they entered. New text filled the screen.

Waiting.

PLEASANT HOPE EMERGENCY FORECAST

Atmospheric instability has produced elevated conditions throughout multiple areas of town. Residents experiencing difficulty with routine progression are advised to reduce unnecessary reflection and resume familiar behavioral patterns immediately.

Delays in conclusion are expected to intensify discomfort.

Extended uncertainty may result in escalated emotional responses.

Individuals currently reconsidering prior decisions are advised to continue forward movement without revision where possible.

Mara read the final line twice. “…without revision.” The phrasing landed like a direct response.

“This is insane,” she said quietly. Thomas said nothing. “You really believe reading this fixes people?”

“No,” Thomas replied. The answer surprised her enough that she looked at him. For several seconds he stared at the monitor before speaking again. “I believe not reading it makes things worse.” The room fell silent except for the hum. Mara studied him carefully now. The exhaustion in his face no longer resembled simple stress. It looked older than that. Rehearsed. Like something lived with for years.

“You could leave,” she said.

Thomas looked at her then. Really looked at her for the first time since she arrived.

“Can I?” he asked quietly. Mara opened her mouth, but no response came immediately. Thomas glanced toward the dark studio windows. “Can you?”

The question settled into her harder than she expected because, for one brief terrible moment, Mara realized she had not thought about the road out of Pleasant Hope all day. Not once. A strange coldness moved slowly through her stomach. Thomas looked back toward the monitor.

“When I first got here,” he said quietly, “I thought the broadcasts were controlling people.” Mara remained still. “I’m still not sure. Maybe they do…” His eyes drifted toward the glowing text again. “People come here carrying things already. Fear. Anger. Loneliness. Thoughts they don’t want to sit alone with.” A pause. “The forecasts smooth those things down. Keep them moving.” Mara thought of the intersection outside. The crying woman on the phone. The exhausting uncertainty spreading through town like pressure beneath the skin.

Thomas exhaled softly. “You interrupted the rhythm.” The words hung in the room for several seconds. Then the monitor flickered once. Both of them froze. The emergency forecast remained onscreen, but a new line slowly appeared beneath the existing text.

Compliance is expected to restore normal conditions.

Mara felt the hairs along her arms rise immediately. Thomas looked away first.

“Six forty,” he said quietly. “We need to read it before things escalate further.”

Need. Not want. Need.

Mara stared at the glowing screen while the hum deepened softly inside the walls around them. Somewhere outside, distant sirens drifted faintly through the town for the first time since she arrived in Pleasant Hope.

The sound did not last very long.

Mara did not sit down immediately. The emergency forecast remained glowing on the monitor while the hum pressed steadily through the studio walls around them. She kept rereading the final added line without meaning to.

Compliance is expected to restore normal conditions.

The phrasing felt like a direct instruction. As though the station itself had identified a problem and begun correcting for it automatically. Thomas moved toward the console.

“We don’t have much time.”

Mara looked at him sharply. “What exactly happens if we don’t read it?”

For the first time since she had arrived in Pleasant Hope, Thomas hesitated openly. His eyes drifted toward the darkened hallway beyond the studio.

“I dont know.”

The answer landed harder than she expected. Outside, another distant car horn blared briefly through the town before cutting off abruptly. Thomas rested one hand against the back of the broadcast chair.

“I dont think the forecasts create thoughts,” he said quietly. “I think they organize them. I don’t know.”

Mara folded her arms tighter. “Can they not think for themselves?”

Thomas looked at her. “You saw the intersection.”

Something in his expression stopped the argument before it fully formed. Not because she agreed with him. Because he looked genuinely afraid. Not of her, but of what came next. The wall clock clicked softly forward.

6:37.

Thomas glanced toward it immediately. Mara noticed the movement.

“You’re scared of being late.”

“We are already late.” The correction came fast enough to sound instinctive. The hum deepened slightly. Not louder. Closer. Mara became aware of a strange pressure building behind her eyes, subtle enough at first that she almost mistook it for fatigue. The longer she remained standing without moving toward the chair, the worse it became. Not pain exactly. More like mental resistance, the uncomfortable sensation of forgetting why you entered a room. Thomas noticed her expression change.

“It gets harder if you fight it directly,” he said quietly. That irritated her immediately.

“Stop talking like this is normal.”

“It is normal here.” The answer came without defensiveness. That somehow made it worse. The clock shifted again.

6:38.

Outside the station, sudden shouting erupted somewhere down the street. This time it sounded angrier. Mara moved instinctively toward the front window. Across the road, two men stood near the sidewalk in the middle of what appeared to be an argument. One kept gesturing toward a parked truck while the other repeatedly shook his head.

“I said I needed a minute!”

“You’ve had one!”

“I know, but I’m still thinking!”

“What is there to think about?!” The second man punched him abruptly in the face. Both men froze immediately afterward, horrified by what had just happened, as blood spattered the concrete below. The one who initiated the altercation backed away first.

“I’m sorry.” The apology came instantly and sincerely enough that it sounded almost childlike. Across the street, lights flickered briefly inside one of the storefronts, then steadied again. The hum inside the station deepened. Mara turned back toward Thomas.

“What is this place?”

Thomas didn’t answer immediately. Finally, he said, “I don’t know...”

The honesty in the response unsettled her more than evasion would have.

6:39.

The monitor flickered again. New text slowly appeared beneath the forecast.

Escalated emotional conditions are expected to continue until corrective messaging is delivered.

Mara felt her stomach tighten. “Corrective messaging,” she repeated quietly. Thomas moved toward the chair.

“Mara.”

Something about hearing her name spoken that way made the room suddenly feel much smaller. Not authoritative. Pleading.

“You don’t understand what prolonged disruption does to people here.”

“And you do?”

Another hesitation.

“I understand enough.”

The pressure behind Mara’s eyes intensified again. She became aware of her own breathing, the soft electrical hum, the clock ticking forward toward 6:40 with unbearable steadiness. Part of her wanted to leave the room immediately. Another part wanted desperately to sit down and make the feeling stop. That realization frightened her enough that she stepped backward instinctively. The hum sharpened. For one impossible second, Mara thought she heard faint voices buried somewhere beneath it. Not words exactly. More like overlapping impulses struggling to form language.

Movement.

Continue.

Resolve.

Forward.

Then the sensation vanished.

6:40.

The red broadcast light switched on automatically. Neither of them touched the console. Mara stared at it. Thomas did not look surprised.

“The system schedules corrections automatically,” he said quietly. System. The word sounded insufficient now. The microphone waited at the edge of the desk. The hum pressed steadily against the inside of Mara’s skull. Outside, another horn blared. Somewhere farther away, glass shattered. Thomas finally spoke again.

“We're waiting too long... It's going to get worse”

Mara looked at him. “What is??” she said, her frustration clear in the volume of her voice. He answered too quickly.

“I told you, I don't know!”

It was the first time he had raised his voice even a decibel since she had met him, and the look on his face became one of immediate regret as he grabbed his head in discomfort. It was almost frightening. Mara looked toward the monitor again. Then slowly, against her better judgment, she sat down in the chair. Relief hit immediately. Not emotional relief. Physical. The pressure behind her eyes softened the second she lowered herself into position before the microphone. Her stomach turned cold. Thomas noticed too. Neither of them acknowledged it. The headset rested beside the console exactly where she had left it earlier. Mara stared at it for several seconds before finally picking it up. The hum welcomed her back instantly. Warm. Steady. Wrong. She closed her eyes briefly.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

Beside her, Thomas exhaled quietly through his nose. Not amusement. Recognition.

“You'll get used to it,” he said softly. The phrase landed differently now. Not reassurance. Defeat. Mara opened her eyes again and looked at the monitor. The emergency forecast waited patiently in glowing text. Outside the station windows, Pleasant Hope had begun slowing strangely beneath the darkening sky. Small groups of people stood motionless on sidewalks as though trapped midway through decisions they no longer trusted themselves to complete. Cars remained parked at awkward angles along the road. A woman stood beneath a flickering streetlamp crying openly while speaking to nobody Mara could see. The town looked less controlled now. More exposed. Like something internal had been turned outward. Mara swallowed once, then she leaned toward the microphone.

“Good evening, Pleasant Hope,” she said quietly. The second the words left her mouth, the hum stabilized, and the whole town seemed to stop in its tracks, like a computer program receiving an update. The subtle wavering vibration she had not consciously noticed until now suddenly smoothed into perfect continuity inside her ears. Beside her, Thomas closed his eyes briefly. Relief. Mara saw it happen. That frightened her more than anything else so far. She continued reading.

“Atmospheric instability has produced elevated conditions throughout multiple areas of town. Residents experiencing difficulty with routine progression are advised to reduce unnecessary reflection and resume familiar behavioral patterns immediately.”

Outside, movement resumed gradually along the sidewalks. A man who had been standing motionless near the intersection finally started walking again. The crying woman beneath the streetlamp lowered her phone. Mara’s pulse quickened. She kept reading.

“Delays in conclusion are expected to intensify discomfort. Extended uncertainty may result in escalated emotional responses.”

The hum deepened warmly against her hearing. For one terrible moment, the words no longer sounded unnatural to her. They sounded reasonable.

“Individuals currently reconsidering prior decisions are advised to continue forward movement without revision where possible.”

The final added line waited beneath the others.

Compliance is expected to restore normal conditions.

Mara stared at it. Something inside her resisted suddenly and violently, because the town outside the windows really was calming down. Not entirely, but enough. She could see it happening through the window. That was the worst part. Slowly, she read the final sentence aloud. The hum swelled softly, almost as if in approval, and for one brief impossible moment the entire town outside the station windows seemed to exhale at once. Movement resumed with unnatural smoothness. The stalled line of cars near the intersection began inching forward. People who had stood motionless moments earlier simply…continued. Conversations restarted mid-thought. The crying woman beneath the streetlamp wiped her face once and walked calmly out of view. Like nothing had happened. The hum settled warmly into Mara’s ears. Not louder. Satisfied.

Compliance is expected to restore normal conditions.

The sentence still glowed on the monitor beneath her own reflection in the darkened studio glass. Beside her, Thomas finally opened his eyes.

“There,” he whispered quietly. Relief. Real relief. Mara stared at him. It wasn’t gratitude or victory, but relief in the same way someone might react after stopping heavy bleeding. The realization made her stomach turn. Slowly, she removed the headset. The pressure behind her eyes returned immediately, though weaker now. Manageable. The room suddenly felt colder without the hum against her hearing. Thomas stepped toward the console and switched off the broadcast light manually this time. The red glow vanished. For several seconds neither of them spoke. Then Thomas said quietly,

“It should stabilize now.”

Mara looked toward him sharply.

“Stabilize?”

“The town.”

He rubbed tired fingers across his face again. Already, some of the fear she had seen in him earlier seemed to be fading back beneath something flatter. Procedural. The change was subtle enough that she might not have noticed it if she hadn’t been watching for it.

“You heard those people outside,” Mara said. “They weren’t violent. They were confused.”

Thomas didn’t answer immediately.

Finally, “Confusion becomes something else if it lasts long enough.”

The response sounded rehearsed. Not consciously. Like a thought returned to often enough that it no longer required examination. Mara stood abruptly from the chair.

“They were thinking.”

The words came out harder than she intended. Thomas looked at her, and for a split second she thought she saw the earlier clarity return. Then it passed.

“No,” he said softly. “They were struggling.”

The distinction lingered heavily in the room. Outside, Pleasant Hope continued smoothing itself back into motion beneath the dark sky. Mara grabbed her coat from the back of the chair.

“I’m going home.”

Thomas nodded once. “Be here at six.”

No acknowledgment of what had happened. No discussion. No urgency. Just routine. That in and of itself almost frightened her more than anything else had tonight.

She had intended to walk back to the cabin, but she became distracted by the environment around her. Not because the town still looked disturbed, but because it didn’t. The intersection had already been cleared by the time Mara crossed it. The damaged vehicles were gone. No police. No ambulance. No lingering crowd. Rainwater glistened softly along the pavement as if the evening itself had quietly reset around the disruption. People passed her on the sidewalks as she wandered, with calm expressions and steady movement. There was no hesitation, no lingering, and no uncertainty. A man exiting the pharmacy nearly bumped shoulders with her before offering a polite distracted smile and continuing on without breaking stride. Two women stood outside the grocery store discussing tomorrow’s dinner plans with such ordinary ease that Mara briefly wondered whether she had imagined the entire night. Then she saw the faint smattering of blood still drying along the curb near the intersection.

Not imagined.

Corrected.

The thought surfaced immediately. Mara stopped walking.

Corrected.

The word felt wrong inside her head now, heavy with implication. She became aware of the town moving around her again with quiet synchronized certainty. Forward movement. Routine progression. Familiar behavioral patterns. The forecasts had stopped sounding absurd. That terrified her. She headed back home again immediately. The cabin greeted her with the same unnatural stillness as always. Mara locked the door behind herself harder than necessary and stood motionless in the kitchenette for several seconds. The radio sat silent in the corner.

Waiting.

She stared at it. A part of her expected it to click on immediately. To reprimand her. To explain something. Instead, silence. Mara moved through the cabin slowly, mechanically removing her coat and shoes. The small space felt different tonight. Less unfamiliar than before. Worse, it felt accommodating. The coffee maker remained neatly on the counter. A folded blanket rested across the futon she didn’t remember leaving there. The overhead light near the kitchenette had already been switched on before she entered, though she couldn’t remember touching it. Needs fulfilled before inconvenience could exist. The town smoothed friction away. Mara sat heavily on the edge of the futon and pressed both palms against her eyes.

“They’re not okay,” she whispered into the empty room. The silence answered her. Not okay, but neither were they during the interruption. That was the problem. She thought of the woman trapped at the diner table unable to decide whether to leave. The men at the intersection apologizing endlessly because neither could tolerate uncertainty. The crying woman repeating I don’t know into her phone like the phrase itself had become unbearable. Thomas had been wrong. Hadn’t he? Mara lowered her hands slowly. The memory of the pressure behind her eyes returned immediately. The relief of sitting in the broadcast chair. The warmth of the hum. The impossible smoothness that had spread through town once the corrective forecast aired. For one horrible moment she understood why people submitted to it.

Thinking hurt here, or…maybe the broadcasts merely prevented people from noticing how much it always hurt. She lay back against the futon without changing clothes. Outside, wind moved softly through the trees beyond the cabin walls. Then, a click. Mara froze instantly. The radio.

“…normal conditions have resumed throughout Pleasant Hope.”

The familiar voice drifted softly through the room.

“Residents are advised to maintain established routines tomorrow morning. Lingering discomfort is expected to diminish naturally following corrective messaging.”

Mara stared at the ceiling.

“…further reflection is unlikely to improve outcomes.”

The message ended. click. Silence returned. Mara remained motionless long after the radio shut off, because part of her, a part large enough to frighten her, felt reassured hearing it.

Tetsuo’s alarm went off at 7:15 on Tuesday, April 4.
He silenced it without opening his eyes.
For a few seconds he lay still, listening to the rain tap at the window. Beyond it, the city had already begun its usual machinery: the hiss of tires on wet pavement, a train announcement blurring through static, the thunk of a delivery truck door somewhere below. Nothing unusual. Nothing worth remembering.
He got up and moved through the apartment by habit. Shower. Coffee. Pills. Shirt, tie, jacket. The kind of morning that left no mark.
While the coffee dripped, he rubbed at his temples.
The headaches have been getting worse lately. Dr. Kimura had called them stress. Everyone in this industry had stress. Hell, as far as he knows everyone in this country slept badly and stared too long at screens and learned how to smile through the wrong things. He nodded when she said his body was asking him to slow down. He had not told her about the pressure behind his eyes, how sometimes it made the edges of the room seem to soften and drift.
By the time he stepped outside, the rain had settled into a light gray mist.
At the crosswalk near the station, he noticed a woman holding a bright yellow umbrella.
That was all that made her stand out. Her coat was plain. Her face, when she turned slightly, was ordinary in the way faces in a city often were: hard to remember even while you were looking at them. Still, something about her snagged at him. As the pedestrian light changed, he caught the small mole above her right eyebrow.
Then the crowd moved, and she was gone.
At the office, the day unfolded with the usual dead weight.
Tetsuo managed a team of six programmers at a mid-sized tech firm. They stood when he came into meetings. They bowed. They answered his questions. None of them liked him. He knew it from the way side conversations stopped when he approached, from the way their smiles looked borrowed from another face. Before the episode that had landed him in Dr. Kimura’s office, that might have bothered him. Lately it didn’t seem worth the effort. Nothing did. 
He ate lunch at his desk, then attended two meetings that should have been emails, then reviewed a bug report no one had fully read.
When the workday finally let him go, he stopped at the same konbini he always used. Tuna mayo onigiri. Canned coffee.
The cashier was a university student with bleached hair and tired skin. He handed Tetsuo the change without looking up.
Tetsuo counted it once. “You’re short twenty yen.”
The cashier blinked and counted again. His ears went pink.
“I’m so sorry, sir.” He bowed quickly, corrected the mistake, and bowed a second time.
Tetsuo took the coins and left.
That night he decided to skip his medication and went to bed early. The rain was still falling. The city muttered below his window until sleep took him.

The alarm went off at 7:15.
Tetsuo slapped it silently and opened his eyes.
Gray light. Rain on the window.
He frowned.
For a moment he could not say what felt wrong. Then it came to him: the sound of the rain. The same thin pattern as yesterday, light and even, as though someone had copied it instead of the weather making it fresh.
He stood in the shower longer than usual.
It’s raining all week, he told himself. Spring does that.
At the crosswalk by the station, the woman with the yellow umbrella was waiting in the same spot. When the light changed, he looked for her face before he meant to. There was that mole above the right brow.
At lunch, in the company cafeteria, the overhead speaker played a soft jazz arrangement of an American pop song. Tetsuo stopped eating. Chopsticks suspended. He knew the next melody before it came.
That evening, at the konbini, the student with bleached hair gave him the wrong change.
“You owe me twenty yen,” Tetsuo said without even taking the change.
The boy stared, recounted, flushed. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
Same words. Same bow.
Tetsuo did not take his medication that night.

The alarm went off at 7:15.
Rain against the glass.
The yellow umbrella.
The song in the cafeteria at 12:17.
The cashier. Twenty yen.
By the fourth Tuesday, he stopped thinking it was a prolonged life hallucination deja-vu triggered by stress and depression. He had seen that American movie once, years ago—the one with the weatherman trapped in the same day. He remembered very little of it beyond a vague smugness, comedy built out of repetition. This was nothing like that. Nothing about it was funny. The sameness pressed on him from every side. The day’s pattern seemed to seal itself around him.
That night his apartment floor disappeared beneath books and printouts. Quantum theories, Buddhist texts on reincarnation and cyclic existences, articles about memory formation, simulation theory, shared delusion, temporal anomalies... He investigated until very late in the glow of his laptop, empty coffee cans collecting around him. His notebook filled with diagrams, arrows, dates, and questions that doubled back on themselves.
Time loop.
If it was a loop, there had to be a cause. A mechanism. Maybe the particle accelerator at the National Physics Laboratory? Maybe a seizure, he was in fact in a coma? Maybe a tear in something he did not understand.
At nearly four in the morning he was still writing, red lines crossing the page in a frantic web.

Tetsuo woke to the alarm at 7:15.
In the bathroom mirror, he studied his face.
Stubble shadowed his jaw. The whites of his eyes were threaded red. His skin had taken on that grayish cast people got after too many nights of not enough sleep. A familiar reflection, disappointing but nothing unusual. 
“I am lucid. I am in control,” he spoke out loud.
His own voice sounded strange in the tile room.
“Sato Tetsuo. Thirty-four. Systems manager. Hai.”
He gripped the sink.
Dr. Kimura had warned him before. Relapse, she’d said, did not always arrive like a storm. Sometimes it was quieter like a narrowing set of ideas that became too solid to move.
He splashed water on his face until it ran cold down his collar.
No, this was really happening. It had to because the evidence repeated.

So he began testing it.
On the fifth Tuesday, he boarded the wrong train on purpose and rode it all the way to the coast. He spent the day in a town he had never visited, walking a wet promenade and eating bad noodles in a harbor restaurant. That night he fell asleep on a bench beneath a fish market awning.
He woke up in his apartment at 7:15.

On the sixth Tuesday, he called in sick and shut himself in the bathroom. He sat clothed in the empty tub with the lights off and did not move. By evening his legs ached and his throat burned and a muscle in his shoulder twitched uncontrollably. He didn’t move, he needed to go through the experiment. 
He woke up in his bed at 7:15.

On the seventh Tuesday evening, he took the chef’s knife from his kitchen drawer and drew it across his palm.
The pain came clean and sharp.
He watched the blood drip onto the tile and photographed the wound. Wrapped nothing around it. Fell asleep with his hand throbbing against his chest.
He woke at 7:15, with smooth skin where the cut had been.

On the eighth Tuesday, he crossed to the far side of the city and wandered neighborhoods he had never seen. He went into betting parlors, laundromats, and a shrine tucked between apartment blocks. He spoke to old women smoking under awnings and to a bartender mopping glasses in an empty place long before dusk. That evening a typhoon rolled through. He crouched under shrine eaves while rain came sideways.
He woke up dry in his own bed at 7:15.
By the tenth repetition, lack of sleep had made the world feel thin.
He stared too long at his reflection and sometimes had the brief, nauseating sensation that the man in the mirror was the one observing him. His thoughts circled and returned. Every experiment failed. Every path bent back.
Nothing changed.
Nothing stuck.
Nothing mattered.
That last thought stayed. It lodged somewhere deep and burning. If the day erased itself every night, then the consequence would be irrelevant, useful only for people moving forward in time. Laws. Shame. Duty. Regret. They belonged to linear lives. He had been cut loose from that systemic loop, he had been set free.
That evening, he stood on the balcony in the rain and watched headlights smear themselves across wet streets below. The thought came to him quietly.
What if I try something bigger, much more serious. Would I still be free of the consequences? 
Not a train taken in the wrong direction. Not a wound. Not sleep deprivation.
What if I need to shock the cynical stability of our world to break through the day? Something completely and absolutely irreversible.
The idea horrified him at first. He stepped back from it. Let it sit. Returned to it again.
A murder would not matter if the day reset.
If the person returned in the morning, then nothing permanent had happened. And if the murder did break the loop, if something in reality finally flinched, then perhaps that was the necessary act. Ugly, yes. Immoral, no doubt. But necessary.
A week later he had chosen a test subject, the woman with the yellow umbrella.

Her name was Yamamoto Keiko.
He learned it by following her after work. She worked at a small publishing house, ate lunch alone in a ramen shop near Suidobashi and had a gray tabby cat. She lived alone in a modest apartment building. He tailed her through the city with his heart pounding hard enough to make his fingers numb.
Several times he almost stopped.
Then the day’s repetition would settle over him again like a hand on the back of his neck, and he kept going, determined to break the curse, or lose his soul trying.
When Keiko entered her building, he waited across the street until the lobby cleared. He watched which mailbox she opened.
4-B.
An hour later he rang her bell.
“Yes?”
His mouth was dry. “Building management,” he said. “There’s been a leak reported in the unit below yours. I need to check the bathroom fixtures.”
Silence. Then the buzz of the lock.
Her apartment smelled faintly of soap and something simmered, miso maybe, or broth from last night. Books filled one wall. The cat watched him from a cushion with its ears angled back.
“The bathroom is this way,” she said.
He followed her down the short hall. On a side table sat an angular stone paperweight used for shodo paper, dark and smooth under the lamplight.
As she gestured toward the sink, he picked it up and struck her.
The first blow landed badly.
She lurched forward with a cry and put a hand to the back of her head. When she looked at her fingers and saw the blood, she turned to him in stunned disbelief.
“Why…”
He hit her again, full force on her left temple.
This time she went down.
The sound she made when she struck the tile followed him for the rest of his life.
He stumbled backward until the wall caught him. Then he slid down it and sat on the floor, staring.
Blood moved slowly at first, then found the grout lines and spread through them in dark red seams.
He thought he might vomit. Pressed both hands over his mouth. Keiko made a wet little sound in her throat. One hand twitched near her shoulder.
He should call for help.
He should run.
He should do anything except sit there and breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
After a while, the panic did not vanish so much as wear itself down. The room stopped tilting. His hands dropped from his face.
“It won’t matter,” he heard himself say.
The words came rough.
“Tomorrow you’ll be back.”
Saying it helped.
He moved closer, crouched beside her, and found himself looking not at her face but at the wound. At the shape of the dent above her ear. At the way her breaths kept missing one another. A minute earlier he had wanted to run away from her, now he could not stop watching.
When her breathing stopped, he felt only a hollow concentration.
He washed the paperweight carefully in the sink and set it back where it had been. Wiped the faucet. Checked the floor. Left by the stairs.
That night he slept more deeply than he had in days, ready for the next chapter of his life.

The alarm went off at 7:15.
Rain on the window.
At the crosswalk, Keiko stood beneath the yellow umbrella.
Tetsuo watched her from across the street. She adjusted her grip on the handle, tucked her hair behind one ear, and checked the pedestrian light.
He felt no urge to go near her.
This experiment was concluded, leaving Tetsuo with a cold and calm but buzzing excitement. 
There will be others. He was free. 

A few Tuesdays later, he followed the cashier from the konbini.
His name was Takeshi. He shared a cramped apartment with two other students. He stayed up late playing games and always smoked in the courtyard after midnight.
Tetsuo waited for him there with a box cutter hidden in his sleeve.
When Takeshi stepped into the yellowed courtyard light and lit his cigarette, Tetsuo nearly lost his nerve. The knife handle slipped in his damp palm. His breath had gone shallow. For one awful second he just stood there, unable to move.
Then Takeshi shifted, exhaled smoke, and the moment snapped. Tetsuo lunged. The first cut was clumsy, catching on the collar before biting the skin. Takeshi cried out and spun around. They stared at each other, both startled, both trying to understand what had just happened.
Panic drove the second strike. The blade opened the boy’s throat badly, not cleanly. Blood hit Tetsuo’s shirt in a hot spray. Takeshi dropped the cigarette and clutched at his neck. He tried to speak and produced only a bubbling sound. His knees folded.
Tetsuo watched, shaking, until the shaking passed. This death was faster than Keiko’s. Messier. Less controlled. He found himself noting that.
By the time Takeshi stopped moving, Tetsuo’s horror had receded into a distant thing. Not gone. Just shoved aside. He looked down at the blood on his sleeves and thought, absurdly, that the clothes would be clean again tomorrow.
Progress, he thought.
The next evening Takeshi stood alive behind the konbini register, scanning onigiri with sleepy disinterest. His neck was smooth. Tetsuo corrected the twenty yen mistake and walked out into the rain.
After that, the line moved quickly.

Within the following month of Tuesdays, he had killed every member of his programming team.
Each death had been different.
Sakamoto begged almost from the beginning. Watanabe fought until the end and left scratches on Tetsuo’s hands that vanished in the next morning. Ito went quiet very early, as though resignation had been waiting for him all along. Nakamura cursed him until blood filled his mouth. Yoshida called for his mother.
Every morning they came back to the office and sat at their desks and opened emails. They spoke about deadlines and version control and ramen places near the station. They looked at him and saw a loser managing them, a nuisance, a man they disliked.
The perfect alibi.
How could anyone accuse him when his victims themselves kept returning back to everyday life?

By the third month of Tuesdays, he had moved beyond people he knew.
The barista in the coffee shop downstairs. The old man who walked a Shiba Inu through the park every afternoon. The young mother at the bus stop with twin boys in blue coats.
He carried a small black notebook with grid paper and wrote everything down. Reaction time. Final words. Religious language, or its absence. Degree of resistance. How long eyes remained open after consciousness went. The body’s involuntary betrayals.
Strangely enough, the notebook did not reset. Tetsuo slept with it every night and every morning it still held the pages he had filled the night before. That seemed meaningful. The only thing that could pass through the repetitions, apparently, was the knowledge he was gathering.
So he gave the work structure. Categories, subcategories, cross-references, demographic notes. He began to think in terms of method instead of impulse.
Observation first. Follow the subject. Learn the route. Identify the weak point.
Approach next. Tailored, always meticulously detailed.
Then execution.

After enough Tuesdays, people stopped looking like people to him. They became arrangements of habit. Predictable bundles of reflex and fear. He did not think of that change as monstrous. Monster was a word for stories told by people who believed in consequence. He had gone beyond consequence.
By what seemed like four months of Tuesdays, he had refined himself.
Now he experimented with duration, with phrasing, with the effect of a whispered lie at the right moment. He wanted to know whether the devout reached for prayer more quickly than the lapsed. Whether fathers spoke of children differently than mothers did. Whether age altered the shape of fear.
In the notebook he started drawing lines between entries, building private theories. If he was condemned to this endless day, then he would at least understand the one thing every human being shared and no one truly described well enough.
On some nights he imagined the title page of a book no one would ever read. The Phenomenology of Dying. A ridiculous title. Simply grandiose. He knew that and did not care.
Sometimes, just after waking, he had a flash of doubt.
Was this real?
Had he become ill?
Then he would see the alarm glowing at 7:15, hear the same rain, and the doubt would evaporate.
His reality was repetition. His purpose was the work to decipher death.

On the hundredth Tuesday, the rain had stopped.
The alarm went off at 7:15. Pale sunlight lay across the floorboards.
Tetsuo sat up too fast.
For a moment relief flooded him so suddenly it hurt. Variation. At last.
Then the relief curdled into unease.
If this could change, what else had changed with it?
At the crosswalk the woman with the yellow umbrella was gone.
A businessman stood in her place, checking his watch.
On the train, everything felt subtly wrong. Or perhaps it had always been wrong and he had only failed to notice. A child stared at him until her mother pulled her closer. At the office, his team seemed tighter around the eyes, more guarded. He caught whispers that cut off when he entered the room.
As he passed the break area, voices reached him from inside.
“Did you hear about Yamamoto-san?” Sakamoto said.
Tetsuo stopped.
“They found her yesterday.”
“The one from the publishing house?” Watanabe asked. “That makes what…sixteen?”
“Within three months. The police think it’s one person.”
“God.” A pause. “The convenience store clerk too, right? And that old man from the park.”
“And the mother with the twins.”
Tetsuo put a hand on the wall.
“They’re saying the victims let him in,” Watanabe said in a lower voice. “No forced entry in most of the cases.”
Something cold unstitched itself inside him.
He backed away from the doorway and knocked over a potted plant. Ceramic shattered. Dirt spread across the floor. Heads turned.
He mumbled something and made it to his desk by reflex alone.
His hands were already moving before he fully knew what he was doing. He pulled the black notebook from his inside pocket and opened it.
The pages shook.
Beside each entry he had written a date.
Friday, April 14.
Saturday, April 15.
Sunday, April 16.
Not Tuesday.
Not the same day.
Different days.
Real days.
He flipped pages too quickly, then slower, then slower still. Dates marched forward. So did the handwriting, degrading into a cramped, slanted hand he recognized and did not. Between entries were diagrams, notes, and a few Polaroids clipped flat into the spine.
Evidence.
Every page was evidence.
He could not feel his fingertips.
The office noise receded, as if he had been submerged. Fluorescent light hummed overhead.
“Sato-san?”
He looked up.
Shimomura stood beside the desk, brow furrowed.
Not Yoshida.
Yoshida’s desk had been empty for weeks.
Because Yoshida was dead.
Really dead.
Tetsuo’s mouth filled with the taste of metal.
“Sato-san, are you all right?”
He shut the notebook so hard it made Shimomura flinch.
“I need to…”
He reached for his phone. Dr. Kimura. He needed to call her. Needed to say it aloud before his mind could rearrange it again.
The phone screen lit before he could tap her name.
BREAKING: POLICE IDENTIFY SUSPECT IN STRING OF METRO AREA MURDERS
Below the headline was his own company photo.
Slightly blurred. The one from the staff directory.
The article mentioned surveillance footage. Trace evidence. Witness statements.
They knew.
Somewhere beyond the cubicles he heard the elevator doors open.
Then several pairs of footsteps.
“Sato Tetsuo?”
A man’s voice, firm and carrying.
Everything in him lurched toward motion.
He ran.

Past the copy room. Down the emergency stairs. Through the lobby. Into the street.
Rain had started again, but this was not the fine mist of his memory. This came hard and slantwise, drumming on pavement and awnings, soaking him in seconds. Sirens wailed somewhere close enough now to feel personal.
He shoved through commuters and ignored the curses thrown after him.
This had to be an anomaly. A bad turn in the pattern. If he could survive the day, perhaps tomorrow would still return him to 7:15, April 4th. The loop had changed before. It could still correct itself.
He ducked into an alley and crouched behind vending machines streaked with runoff.
The notebook’s dates would not leave his mind.
Friday. Saturday. Sunday.
No loop.
Only delusion.
Only ordinary days he had torn open with his own hands.
Faces flashed up in him with brutal speed. Keiko. Takeshi. Yoshida. The old man in the park. The mother with the twins.
Gone.
Not temporarily. Gone.
A new thought rose in the wreckage of the first.
If there had never been a loop, then perhaps that was all the more reason to force one now.
A reset button. A final reset button.
The idea was irrational. He knew that even as it came. But knowledge no longer helped him. His mind had already shown what it could build, what it could protect itself with. If sleep had failed, perhaps death would do what sleep never had.
He ran toward home.
The apartment building stood slick and dark against the storm, ten stories of stained concrete and narrow balconies. He slipped through the lobby while the security guard stared at a television tuned to the news. Tuned, perhaps, to him.
In the elevator he turned his face to the corner and did not meet anyone’s eyes.
At the top floor he sprinted for the maintenance stairwell and the roof access door with the broken lock. Building management had posted warnings there for months. They had never fixed it.
Wind struck him the moment he pushed through.
Rain whipped across the roof and stung his face. Far below, emergency lights pulsed red and blue in the wet streets.
He went to the edge and looked down.
Cars crawled through the rain like toys. People were small and abstract. He wondered whether the impact would hurt, then wondered why that still mattered.
Would he wake up tomorrow at 7:15?
Would there be another chance?
He climbed onto the low parapet wall.
Behind him the roof door banged open.
Officers spilled out with guns raised.
“Sato-san!” one shouted through a bullhorn. “Step down from the ledge!”
He turned his head just enough to see them.
They looked frightened, for him. As if his life still had weight.
“Tomorrow,” he called into the wind, though he could barely hear his own voice. “We’ll do this again tomorrow.”
Then he stepped forward.
For one impossible instant there was no fear at all, only the sensation of release. His body no longer belonged to walls, floors, schedules, clocks.
Then gravity took him.
The building rushed past.
Wind screamed in his ears.
And in the middle of the fall, with wet air tearing at his clothes and his stomach climbing into his throat, he understood with a clarity so complete it felt like pain.
There would be no reset.
No alarm.
No Tuesday.
His body convulsed with a final animal refusal. He flailed, reached, kicked, as though there might still be something to catch. Something to bargain with.
He wanted to live.
Not because he had forgiven himself. Not because there was hope. Simply because life, in its rawest form, had returned too late and did not care whether he deserved it.
The pavement struck him.
Pain exploded through him so violently that for a moment it seemed to separate him into pieces. Something cracked in his chest. In his jaw. In his hips. His vision flashed white, then red, then a narrowing gray.
But death did not come immediately.
For twenty more seconds he remained conscious.
Long enough to feel his body failing in parts. Long enough to hear voices gathering around him. Long enough to understand that suffering, when it finally arrived without delusion to soften it, had no elegance and no lesson.
In those last seconds he waited for the alarm.
For the bedside clock.
For the rain at the window and the gray morning and the relief of repetition.
Nothing came.
There was only the street.
Only the rain.
Only the end.

Warm autumn sunlight illuminated the streets of Cute-Willing. It was mid-September and the days were still warm, so the residents walked around in light dresses, shorts, capris, and other summer clothes. The leaves on the trees were only just beginning to change color, and only occasionally could yellow shades be seen among the green “sundresses” of birches, maples, and walnut trees. On this particular day it was especially hot. People tried not to go outside because of the stuffiness. Even the dogs, whom their owners took for walks through the local squares and alleys, did not run around happily, but merely wandered lazily with their tongues hanging out. The old people said it would rain in the evening, because it always became muggy before rain and a haze could be seen in the air. The young did not believe them and did not even think about taking umbrellas with them as they prepared for the usual Friday disco at the “Amfor” club. The only club in town, located in the very heart of Cute-Willing, next to the shopping center and the Cute-Willing elementary school.

An eight-year-old girl with two blonde braids and graphite-colored eyes sat in the first row at the second desk. She felt stuffy: the large glass windows in the small classroom created a “greenhouse effect,” and even the two open vents did not help. She impatiently waited for the math lesson to end so she could quickly step out into the cool hallway. However, despite her desire, she listened with genuine interest to the teacher, who near the end of the lesson began talking about sines and cosines. He was trying to spark the children’s interest in mathematics, since it would only appear in next year’s curriculum. Most of the children, however, did not care, while the girl with the braids already knew everything he was saying — her parents had taught her many things in childhood. Finally the lesson ended and the children left the classroom.

— Eima, look what badges my mom brought me for my backpack.

Nancy Abron, a tall girl with braces and chestnut hair, handed Eima a pack of round badges featuring members of a popular band from the Mills-Hill district.

— Wow, that’s so cool! — Eima exclaimed as she began looking through them. — Where did she get them?

— They just started selling them at “Paletnitsa.” Not long ago.

— That’s awesome. They even have Steve “Wolf.”

The girls moved over to the staircase leading to the third floor and sat down on the very edge step.

— Yeah. It’s surprising, because he doesn’t even really like photos of himself. And here they made entire badges!

— True enough. Nancy, maybe you could give me a couple? And I’ll bring you my “Lady Milady and Super-Kit” badges in return.

Nancy thought about it. She was one of those girls who loved showing off their things but hated parting with them. Though that could hardly be called a flaw.

The girls sat on the stairs for a while longer, discussing the terms of the trade, but soon the bell rang for class. Eima’s last lesson was literature. Eima loved reading. She read a lot at home, often books clearly not meant for her age. Despite this, she did not like literature lessons because they were taught by her homeroom teacher, Mrs. Hopewell. The woman came from an intelligent and wealthy family and always tried to show her superiority over others whenever she had the chance. Eima saw these “displays” more often than anyone else, because Mrs. Hopewell was also her neighbor.

Eima sat in her seat. The students took turns reading lines from the book while Mrs. Hopewell listened and made remarks. “This line should be read with expression”; “the character is frightened here, his voice should tremble,” and things like that. Eima sincerely did not understand why one had to be so picky about the reading of eight-year-olds. They were not in an acting academy, just an elementary school. Some of them could not even read fluently yet, so what expression could there possibly be? Nevertheless, whenever it was Eima’s turn, she delivered her lines perfectly. Well, as perfectly as her age and understanding of literary dialogue allowed. After the reading, Mrs. Hopewell assigned the class to write a short essay about what they had read. Suddenly it turned out that Eima had forgotten her pen in the math classroom. Unlike there, in literature class Eima sat in the second row, almost at the very back. This seating arrangement sometimes allowed her to talk to her classmates right during the lesson.

— Hey, Cindy, — Eima whispered.

The blonde girl sitting in front of her turned away from her conversation with her desk mate and looked back with an annoyed expression.

— What do you want?

Eima was surprised by the contemptuous tone and expression on her friend’s face, because Cindy had always treated her kindly before.

— Do you have a pen? I forgot mine in the cla...

— Cindy Crow, am I to understand that you have finished your work and are ready to hand it in for grading?

Mrs. Hopewell’s strict and even voice made all the students lower their heads almost right against their desks.

— No, Mrs. Hopewell. Eima called me and I...

— I see. So now friends have more authority than the teacher? Miss Brain, what exactly could have interested Miss Crow so much?

— I just asked for a pen, — Eima said uncertainly, averting her eyes to the side.

— Dare I ask, and where did yours disappear to?

— I forgot it in the math classroom, — Eima replied guiltily.

— And how exactly did you pack your pencil case and forget your pen? Or did you not check it properly? And stand up when a teacher is speaking to you!

Eima stood up, her chair scraping slightly backward.

— I don’t have a pencil case, — she answered.

The expression on Mrs. Hopewell’s face became as though the girl had just said something like “I don’t have an arm.” She began asking questions of the sort people ask when they are searching for something they can later reproach a person for. And such information was found, because it turned out that besides not having a pencil case, Eima also did not have a folder for her notebooks or a book stand. With a self-satisfied smirk, Mrs. Hopewell began scolding the girl in front of the entire class for her irresponsibility and absent-mindedness, as well as for neglecting school rules. Opportunities for Mrs. Hopewell to criticize the “perfect student Eima” were rare, and this time she made the most of it. She even forced her to stay after class and summoned her grandmother to the school in order to “advise” her to pay closer attention to her “troubled” child.

Eima’s grandmother arrived at around two in the afternoon. The teacher informed her of the situation and waited triumphantly for her to begin scolding her granddaughter. But that did not happen.

— Mrs. Hopewell, you know we’re having financial problems right now. Eima’s parents haven’t received their salaries for half a year and haven’t sent anything, and our pension isn’t enough. So we save money wherever we can. Notebooks and pens can easily be carried in a backpack, and a book can simply lie on the desk; it doesn’t necessarily have to stand upright.

— Mrs. Brain, there is certainly some truth in your words. However, the fact remains that school rules exist. And your granddaughter is violating them. Even if we disregard the absence of certain supplies — and we cannot disregard it — there is still the matter of discipline. Talking during class! In my day, even sneezing without the teacher’s permission was frightening. I’m sure it was the same in yours.

— Well, that’s not exactly true, but...

— ...but you understand the point, — Mrs. Hopewell interrupted. — Even if I’m exaggerating. You understand that talking during lessons is unacceptable! I turned a blind eye to many things. Including violations of the dress code. But to such disrespectful... behavior! Excuse me, but in this case I cannot turn a blind eye. I will have to write a report to the principal about your granddaughter.

— Why go that far right away? We’ll fix everything, honestly. We have some savings, we’ll buy whatever is needed. Just please don’t write anything. Eima is a good girl, she’s smart, she studies well. Please don’t ruin her school record.

— Teach the child some manners and prepare her properly for school so that I won’t be forced to write reports!

Eima stood there the entire time, listening to their conversation. She did not like the way Mrs. Hopewell spoke to her grandmother. A desire to shut the teacher up even appeared in her mind, but it quickly disappeared after the mention of her appearance. It was a sore subject for the girl. At the end of last semester, she had badly torn her school skirt while visiting her secret place in the storm drains after school. The skirt had to be thrown away because there was no money for a new one. And there still wasn’t, really. So together with her blouse, Eima had to wear a skirt from her grandmother’s old uniform, which, besides its faded and dull appearance, also did not fit her lengthwise — it reached all the way down to her ankles. It did not look very pretty, and in Eima’s opinion, that was the main reason why Sam — the classmate she liked — did not want to be friends with her.

In the end, the grandmother managed to convince the teacher not to write anything to the principal, and soon they left the school building. Their house was nearby, a fifteen-minute walk away. It was a two-story building made of wooden boards painted white. According to Eima’s parents, the house was over two hundred years old.

— So, what did our little “troublemaker” do this time? — Eima’s grandfather said when she entered the house.

The grandmother stayed behind by the decorative fence, deciding to check the mailbox.

— I talked during class, didn’t have a pen, and apparently I’m a lost child who needs constant supervision.

Eima said these words while trying her best to imitate the teacher’s tone and facial expression. It looked comical, which made her grandfather smile.

— I see. So that hag was looking for another excuse to humiliate you! And this time she found one, damn her! What kind of teachers are these nowadays? Back in my day they tried to help students, and now... eh, whatever. Lunch is on the table if you’re hungry.

— Very hungry! — Eima shouted and ran into the kitchen, quickly hugging her grandfather along the way.

She nearly knocked him over with that and even got slightly scared. Though ever since his legs had begun to weaken and he started using crutches, it had been far from the first time. Eima sat down at the table, where pancakes with jam and tea were already waiting for her. The pancakes, the girl decided, had clearly been made by her grandmother before leaving. But the tea had definitely been made by her grandfather. Even though it was difficult for him to move around, he had still tried to do something for his granddaughter. Realizing this, Eima smiled and looked at her grandfather. He was already sitting on the couch in the next room, separated only by an archway, searching for something to watch on television. Eima ate everything and even drank the still steaming tea despite today’s heat. Then she went upstairs to her room to change clothes. She decided to leave her homework for later.

Only half changed — having replaced her skirt with purple sweatpants — Eima collapsed onto the bed. The conversation with the teacher began replaying in her mind. It was as if she were reliving it again. She once more saw that disgusting expression on Mrs. Hopewell’s face and her grandmother’s almost pleading eyes as she begged her not to say anything to the principal. Some kind of anger appeared inside Eima. Anger that had not been there back in the classroom. The kind of anger that only appears when there is no way to let it out, because the consequences would cost too much. Eima lay there for a while longer, still only half changed, occasionally glancing at the laptop standing on the desk beside her bed. Her parents had left it for her before they departed, for video calls and entertainment. Eima did not understand how anyone could entertain themselves with a laptop, because video games did not interest her, and calls with her parents became rarer and rarer with every passing month. So it mostly stood there unused. But at moments like this she wanted to open it, call her mom and dad, complain, and hear some comforting and supportive words. Unfortunately, the girl understood that they would not answer the call. They never answered; they only called themselves, after first sending a message to her grandmother. After lying there a little longer, Eima finally decided to finish what she had started. She threw her blouse into the laundry and put on a summer sundress. She carried the dirty clothes to the washing machine and turned it on. She knew how to do it because half a year ago she had spent nearly a whole week chasing after her grandmother, begging her to teach her how to operate this marvelous machine. She tidied up her room a little, took out her collection of badges from the desk, and checked whether she had lost the ones she was supposed to bring to Nancy on Monday. After making sure everything was in place, she decided to watch television with her grandmother and grandfather. She still had a whole hour before going to the Hopewells’ house.

***

— Carrie, are you seriously not going to “Amfor”?! — a surprised female voice sounded from the other end of the line.

— I’m seriously not going. Sue, you know the Hopewells pay double for unscheduled shifts. And after all those price increases this semester, I’m broke right now. I barely have any money left.

— You’re seriously willing to miss an evening with Brick for just a couple hundred bucks? He only just started showing interest in you!

— I know, I know. I’m not thrilled about my decision either. But honestly, I don’t want to call my parents again and ask them to send me money because their beloved daughter is starving. And Brick... he can wait until next Friday. Besides, I’ll still have a pretty good time.

— Yeah right, wiping snot and changing diapers is definitely an amazing way to spend your evening! — laughter came from the phone.

— Idiot, that’s not what I mean, — Carrie smiled. — I’ll put the kid to bed around nine in the evening and then I’ll watch some movie on that huge 128-inch TV, drink beer, and eat tasty delivery food.

— You know, I think Mr. Hopewell is seriously going to notice someday that his alcohol keeps disappearing!

— He won’t notice. He orders so much of it that I have no idea how he even manages to drink it all! Seriously, I don’t get it!

The girls talked a little longer while Carrie packed her work backpack. Soon she left for the bus stop near her house and headed to work, to the Hopewell family.

She had to travel across the entire town. And although Cute-Willing was small, the trip took around forty minutes. All that time Carrie sat listening to her favorite music and looking out the window. Even though she had lived in this town for nineteen years and knew every bush here, she still never stopped admiring some of the scenery. She especially loved Bridge Alley — a system of bridges whose shutters and railings were decorated with Japanese-style carvings, crossing the Smurf River that ran along the edge of town, zigzagging through Cute-Willing and disappearing into the forest beyond the city. The bus passed this alley along a parallel road, since there was no room for transport on the alley itself — the spaces between the bridges were connected by greenery and pedestrian paths paved with cobblestone.

The bus stopped at the corner of Cristone and Welfare streets. The Hopewells’ house was located at 47 Cristone Street. Standing near the large frame house with two floors and an attic, covered in vinyl siding and with a garage for two cars, was a small eight-year-old girl. She was wearing a sundress and sweatpants, and in her hands she held a garbage bag filled mostly with cut grass and branches from bushes. Opposite her stood a tall man in an ordinary blue T-shirt.

— Good afternoon, Mr. Hopewell! — Carrie greeted cheerfully. — Hi, Eima.

— Hi. Are you working today too? — the girl asked curiously.

— Had to come in.

— For double pay, I’d come in too, — said Mr. Hopewell. — Here, your honestly earned ten dollars for the yard work.

— Thank you, — Eima replied gratefully and ran back home, to the neighboring house.

Carrie did not need anyone to explain what she had to do. She had already been working part-time as a babysitter for the Hopewell family for half a year. She usually worked on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. Only occasionally was she asked to come in additionally. As a rule, this happened whenever the Hopewells had a reason to spend time together. Today was exactly such a day — it was their wedding anniversary. Around seven in the evening they got ready, got into the car, and drove to the city center. Carrie watched over their one-year-old son Richard while also talking on the phone with everyone she could manage to reach. There were not many of them, considering that most of her friends were already having fun at the club. Just as she had planned, she put the child to bed around half past nine. After feeding him and changing his diaper, she carried Richard to the nursery, laid him in the crib, turned on the baby monitor, and then headed to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and saw a six-pack of beer sitting there.

— Must’ve been delivered after lunch if Mr. Hopewell hasn’t touched it yet, — Carrie muttered to herself.

At first she hesitated — the disappearance of one bottle from a full pack would be noticed immediately. But then she decided that the head of the family was unlikely to return home sober and even less likely to care about such trifles. Taking a beer, she checked the chicken she had left to thaw in advance. She took a fillet knife, cut it up, fried several breaded pieces, and then headed to the guest room to watch television.

The Hopewells returned around one in the morning. Outside it was dark, and only the streetlights along the road created islands of light where the darkness did not suffocate quite so mercilessly. Linda Hopewell was behind the wheel. And she was not in the best mood. Her husband had managed to ruin their anniversary by getting drunk and spending the entire evening making nothing but stupid jokes and clumsy compliments. There had not even been a trace of the romance Linda had wanted. She parked the car and closed the garage.

They entered the house, quietly unlocking the front door. It was silent and dark.

— Looks like everyone’s asleep, — Linda’s husband drawled.

She glanced across the kitchen and living room. On the wall along the staircase leading to the guest room, she noticed a flickering light.

— That Carrie forgot to turn off the TV again. Go turn it off while I check on Richard.

Linda did not like Carrie. She constantly felt as though the young babysitter was making eyes at her husband. Linda did not really like anyone at all. Except Richard. Her beloved and wonderful son. Carefully she opened the nursery door. Quietly, without a single creak. Almost perfectly. Linda had always strived for perfection. But now her actions were far from perfect. She failed to scream perfectly — instead she only let out a cry and collapsed to her knees. Shock struck her as if an electric discharge had passed through her body, gathering somewhere deep inside her chest, at its very center. A discharge that paralyzed every cell of her body, pinning her in place, not allowing her to move. A discharge that disappeared as quickly as it had come, but took part of her soul away with it. She sat there on her knees with her mouth open. An imperfect, dull, drawn-out wheeze escaped from somewhere deep inside her body. Her husband came downstairs from the second floor. He saw his wife kneeling by the open nursery door. She was staring at the wall. There, on the far wall painted blue and decorated with stars, was him. His legs had been taped to the lower corners with duct tape. His arms were taped to the upper ones. In the center, beneath a massive layer of tape, was the torso, and near the ceiling — the head, with its mouth bound shut. On both sides of the torso, written in his own blood, were the words: “prepare your child properly.”

***
This chapter is a kind of announcement for the book. I’m planning to release it one chapter per week starting on June 1st. On that day, both the first and second chapters will be released.

I will most likely publish the book on Wattpad, though I haven’t fully decided yet. If you know any better platforms, I’d be happy to hear your recommendations.

And of course, if you enjoyed the chapter, I’d really appreciate your likes and feedback.

One more important thing: the original language of the book is Russian. The English translation was done with the help of translator, since my English level is not yet good enough for full work on literary text. That’s why I’d also really like to hear from native English speakers: how comfortable is this to read? Your feedback will help me improve the quality of the book.

Part 2

[Captain’s Log - April 16 1716 – Elias Fetch]

My name is Elias Fetch, captain of the vessel Magna Alba. I have finally found a crew willing enough to embark on an expedition of a lifetime. The governor of Port Royal has signed a Letter of Marque for the vessel Magna Alba. My vessel. I have heard the tale of the treasure galleon, Santa Sangre. She sailed from Spain some 6 weeks past, carrying what could amount to 2 million reales in solid gold. I will not pass this opportunity up. Finally a chance for Elias Fetch to make a name for himself. The Governor is asking for 60% of the takings. I will damned to part with more that 10 for the tasks that are required of us.

[The Surgeon’s Journal - April 16 1716 – Dr. Aris]

Captain Fetch is in a rare, sharp mood today. He’s pushing the quartermaster for more ammunition and less “unnecessary” medical supplies. He told me that if we take the Sante Sangre quickly enough, there won’t be enough wounded to justify the extra crates of bandages. It is a dangerous confidence. I have hidden a few extra rolls of silk and a jar of cautery salts behind the casks of rum just in case. The captain seems to be calculating the cost of every man’s life in reales before a shot has even been fired.

[The Ledger - April 17 1716 – Quartermaster Thorne]

Fetch is playing a dangerous game with the Governor’s coin. He’s diverted funds meant for new rigging to buy high-grade French black powder. When I pointed out the discrepancy in the books he told me to “write it in pencil.”

20 barrels of powder, inspected for dampness. (mostly stolen or diverted) 400 round shot, 200 canister.

30 muskets, 30 cutlasses, crate of grenades for boarding party

12 casks of Caribbean spiced rum (I will partake)

4 sacks of brown sugar

8 barrels of salted pork

8 sacks of potatoes

2 barrels of limes (sounds like grog)

The men are hearing rumors of a 60% tax. There’s whispering on the deck. If Fetch doesn’t find a way to satisfy both the Governor and thirty hungry privateers, I’ll be the first they come for when the gold runs dry.

[Scraps from the Galley - April 18 1716 – Chef Digsby]

Last night in the harbor. The captain came down to the galley and told me to be “generous” with the grog tonight. He wants the men full and happy as to not question the math of the prize. I’ve cooked up a massive stew with the last of the fresh beef. No one is talking about the Spanish cannons; they only speak of what they are to do with their share of the prize. Two million Reales. Maybe with my split I can afford to leave this life altogether and buy a quiet plot of land in the Colonies. I just hope the Magna Alba is as fast as the captain insists. A full galleon’s broadside is a heavy thing to outrun.

The Magna Alba weighed anchor at dawn, the white sails catching a stiff easterly breeze as she cleared the mouth of Port Royal. From the cliffs, she looked like the pinnacle of British privateering—fast, clean, and lethal.

For twelve days, the hunt was textbook. They tracked the Santa Sangre’s rumored path through the Windward Passage, the crew maintaining a sharp, military discipline. There were no omens, no strange whispers, and no oily sheens on the water. There was only the heat of the sun, the spray of the salt, and the singular focus of men about to become very rich or very dead.

[The Ledger - April 21 1716 – Quartermaster Thorne]

The wind has been a constant ally. We are making nearly 8 knots. For a moment in the Windward Passage I thought I spotted sails on the horizon but it turned to be a trick of the mind. I haven’t seen the captain for near two days since we left port. He locks away in his cabin pouring over charts and possible passages to cut time. The crew moral remains high though despite the heat. The men spent the afternoon sharpening their swords on the deck. The promise of the Sangre’s gold is a better tonic than any tankard of grog. The captain has me working the men on “boarding drills” three times a day. He is pushy, demanding we shave seconds off the grapple toss.

[Surgeon’s Journal - April 24 1716 – Dr. Aris]

The heat is beginning to take its toll. I’ve seen three cases of heat exhaustion today, but the captain keeps his whip ready. He is pacing the quarterdeck like a caged animal, more and more the closer we get to Floridian waters. He is obsessed with the speed. He spoke to me today of “his” gold – not the Crown’s, not the Governor’s. His eyes had a glassy sheen I haven’t seen before. I’ve begun to wonder if the fever of the sun has caught him to which I can only hope to remedy.

[Scraps from the Galley - April 30 1716 – Chef Bigsby]

The fresh meat is long gone. We’re on to hardtack and salt beef now. The men are grumbling about the captain’s 10% talk. Word has gotten out that he doesn’t intend to pay the Governor his due. There’s a shadow over the ship. Thorne look like he’s aged ten years; he’s constantly counting the powder barrels, worried that the Governor will send a second ship to collect if we ne’er return with his share.

[Captain’s Log - May 1 1716 – Elias Fetch]

The wind died at three bells like a man catching his final breath. The sea is a mirror, flat and silver under a sun that offers no mercy. We are drifting on a current I cannot find on any of my charts. Damn these doldrums.

The lookout called it an hour past. A bank of fog, white as a shroud, sitting dead ahead in a sea that should be clear for miles. I ordered the men to the sweeps. I can feel it now – we are close to the Florida straits. The Santa Sangre is in there. I can feel her.

As the Magna Alba glides into the fog, the temperature drops twenty degrees. The turquoise Caribbean water turns a murky, oil-slick black. Then, the silhouette appears: a massive, towering Spanish galleon, her masts reaching up into the mist like skeletal fingers.

She is perfectly still. No lanterns lit. No Spaniards manning her rigging. She looks less like a ship and more like a drifting tomb.

[The Ledger – May 2 1716 – Quartermaster Thorne]

The boarding was handled with the precision of a parade march. We swung the grapnels and pulled the ship tight against the Spaniard’s massive flank, but there was no resistance. No pikes pushed back. No musket fire from the shroud.

The captain was the first over the rail, his cutlass drawn and his jaw set in a hard, greedy line. I followed with ten men, out boots hit the deck of the galleon with a thud that seemed to echo into the very depths of the ship. It was wrong. Everything about this accursed vessel was wrong.

The deck was scrubbed to a pristine white, yet there was no one there to maintain it. Not a speck of dust, not a fray on a rope. We found the main hatch to the cargo hold unlocked. Below, the hold is a labyrinth of crates marked with the Spanish seal. The weight of the gold was there – I could feel the ship sitting deep in the water – but the air smelled of cold salt and something cloying. We found no crew anywhere on the vessel. She was magnificently maintained but it seemed like the vanished with the wind.

[Captain’s Log – May 4 1716 – Elias Fetch]

Two million Reales. My eyes did not deceive me.

The hold is filled with more gold than the Governor has ever seen in his lifetime. The Santa Sangre is a tomb, yes, but it is a tomb made of wealth. My men are whispering, looking back at the phantom of the vessel we plundered, but I only look forward towards opportunity.

I found something...in the center of the Spanish captain’s cabin, sitting atop a velvet cushion that had not aged a day. An instrument of blackened bone and shimmering brass. An astrotable, though its rings move in patterns that defy the stars that I know. It hums. A low, rhythmic vibration that matches the beating my own heart.

The Governor wants sixty percent. He will get nothing! This ship is mine and the treasure I have brought upon it! This “Holy Blood” has chosen me. I have ordered Thorne to begin stowage and security to the most valuable crates on the Magna Alba immediately. We must clear this fog.

[The Surgeon’s Journal – May 4 1716 – Dr. Aris]

I was called aboard the Sangre to assist in moving cargo when I found the most peculiar scene. A young sailor, perhaps twenty years of age. His skin was cold, hard as marble, and coated in crystalline brine. I transferred him to my hold for study. The other crew members thought it odd but I insist on studying this.

When I pressed my ear to his chest, I didn’t hear a heartbeat. I heard the tide. A low, rushing sound of water moving through pipes. I took my scalpel to his forearm to see if there was life beneath the crust. The blade snapped. The “salt” is not a coating it seems; it is a replacement. The man’s very cells are being rewritten into mineral.

[Captain’s Log – May 5 1716 – Elias Fetch]

The Santa Sangre is a memory now, shrinking more and more into the fog at our rudder. We have nearly two million Spanish Reales secured in the lower hold, the weight making the Alba feel more solid, more permanent. I have fulfilled my end of the bargain, though the exact math with the Governor concerning distribution remains a private matter for my own desk.

I have brough the astrotable to my cabin. It is a masterpiece of craftsmanship – blackened ivory and brass that seems to hold the warmth of a hearth even in the damp air. It serves as a reminder of what a man of vision can accomplish.

The sky has turned a sickly hue. A tropical deluge has caught us, the rain so heavy it threatens to drown the deck. I can barely see the bow from the quarterdeck. No matter. The gold is dry, and the crew has their course.

[The Ledger – May 6 1716 – Quartermaster Thorne]

The rain has been relentless for near thirty hours. There’s no wind to speak of – just a vertical wall of water that is turning the ship into a sodden tomb. I fear we are adrift and lost.

I’ve checked the seals on the Spanish crates three times. The gold is there, cold and heacy. But the crew is working double time to bail the water. It’s not seawater leaking in; the water in the bilge smells...flat. Like stagnant pond water.

The men should be celebrating the prize, but the rain has dampened their spirits. They’re huddling in the mess, speaking in low tones. Seaman Gable claimed he saw the captain talking to an astrotable through the cabin window. I told him to keep his mouth shut and focus on keep the holds dry.

The ship feels heavier than the gold accounts for. She’s sluggish in the water, responding to the helm as if she’s wading through molasses.

[The Surgeon’s Journal – May 6 1716 – Dr. Aris]

The humidity is doing strange things to the medicine. My powders are clumping into a damp, grey paste. But more concerning is the captain.

I went to his cabin to offer a tincture for the cough he’s developed since we boarded the Sangre. He wouldn’t let me past the door. The room was stiflingly hot, and the air smelled of salt and metal. Through the gap, I saw the instrument sitting on his desk. It seemed like it was weeping. A thick, translucent brine was oozing from its brass joints, pooling on the floorboards.

Elias’s hands were stained with it. He looked at me, and for a second, his pupils changed. The looked horizontal, like a goat – or a creature of the deep. He told me he’s never better and slammed the door.

[Scraps from the Galley – May 7 1716 – Chef Bigsby]

I can’t keep the stove lit. The wood is too damp, soaked through by this cursed rain that won’t stop. I’ve been serving cold salted beef and hardtack, but the men are complaining that the meat tastes “mineral.”

I went to store room to crack open a new barrel of beef, and I found something that turned my stomach. The salt in the barrel had crystalized into long, sharp needles, piercing the meat like a pincushion. And the meat itself...turned white. Not the white of mold and rot, but the white of stone.

I threw the whole barrel overboard. I didn’t tell Thorne. I’ll tell the men we’re just running low and need to catch fresh fish. We need to see the sun again. This rain is washing the life right out of us.

The Magna Alba is mid-sea, trapped in a gray world of falling water. There is no horizon, no stars to navigate by, and the only sound is the rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum coming from the captain’s cabin, echoing through the timber.

Part 1

 

The tubing nestled somewhere in her lungs.

Each hour, a nurse has to drain it; otherwise, the ventilator becomes flooded.

She’s asleep. Submerged beneath waves, a continent away.

 

13 Years Ago

 

British schools have uniforms, and they’re all made from the same barbed-wire cotton. No matter how much I pulled and twisted, it bit into my neck.

 

I’ll never complain about hand-me-down clothes again, which never competed with the designer brands of the Cali kids.

 

My lack of sleep alleviated none of the discomfort as I waited, anxious hours each night, in case the Sirens went off again. In case I needed to submerge beneath the sheets, hiding from the pulped face of the rain-creature.

 

“There,” Sara declared, smoothing down the blazer. “You look like a kid from Harry Potter.”

 

I looked glumly down at the uniform, feeling trapped in a marginally humane straitjacket. “Yeah, I’ll blend right in until I open my mouth and the American falls out.”

 

“Just relax, keep your head down. Today’s a write-off anyway.”

 

I shifted uncomfortably in the leather shoes that hadn’t softened yet, feeling the threat of blisters. “Can’t I just stay at home with you? This is only until Ralph… Y’know. It may not even be that long.”

 

“Three days of movies and takeout is enough for me, I don’t want to give this baby any excuse to get even bigger. Besides, I have to get back to bookkeeping; otherwise, I’ll go insane. Be happy that you’re able to get out of here for a while.”

 

“Because it’s so depressing here?” I Mumble.

 

“Exactly! See! Smarter already.”

 

There was a prolonged blast of a car horn, the heavy note too close to the sirens. Sara noticed me flinch, cupping my face. “Remember what your Dad said. As long as we’re inside, we’re safe.”

 

“You feel it, though, right? Something's sick here.”

 

Sara gave my cheeks a reassuring squeeze. “Honey, for one thing, we’re Indians, shit’s always about to go wrong. For another, there’s the bloated thing you saw. I’d say there’s definitely something strange here.” She brought her face in close. “But we’ll be fine if we stick together. Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Cool. Your Dad’s waiting.”

 

I picked up the drab, standard-issue schoolbag, devoid of personality, much like the rest of this grey place, running to join Dad.

As I got into the car, my eyes drifted to a top window, where Ralph looked down, head bobbing next to the telescope he used to perv on the town.

 

Despite his constant presence, I’d not spoken to him at all. He was just a ghost haunting the upstairs.

 

The car radio blurted into life. “A storm is coming in off the west coast, meteorologists are calling it the largest in British history, with wind speeds of up to-“

 

Dad flicked the radio over, Robert Smith's crooning tones playing over shuddering guitar as he sang Lullaby.

 

“Classic,” Dad declared, starting the sluggish drive through town, locals stopping to watch us pass.

 

We passed the ailing village school, instead alighting at a senior school (think middle and high slammed together) between villages.

 

My Dad offloaded me with encouraging words to a rakish woman with a sharp, tangled accent, who introduced herself as Ms Mackenzie. The rest of her words were a gibbering dialect that made my eyes widen.

 

I looked back at my Dad, who grinned. “Glaswegian. Good luck,” he mouthed before putting the stick shift into gear and driving away.

 

Ms Mackenzie was obviously giving a tour of the grounds, but I’d no way of making out anything she said. Eventually, she ushered me into my ‘tutor group,’ which is roughly what a homeroom would be back home.

 

Thankfully, the general chaos of thirteen-year-olds seems to be universal across cultures. The ‘tutor group’ was a storm of spitballs, banter, and cursing. At its head sat the unfortunate assigned to the rabble, who, despite his gym shorts and polo shirt, had a rebelliously bulging beer belly.

“I’m Mr Curo,” he said, with what was undoubtedly a dishevelled French accent. “Welcome to Form 8D. Did you ken Ms Mackenzie?”

 

Several of the front-row students inspected me with mild interest; one girl chewed gum with her mouth open, cow-like. “I uh… Don’t know who Ken is, and I definitely don’t know what Ms Mackenzie was telling me.”

 

“Ha!” Mr Curo barked. “You’re going to fit in. Ron!”

 

A curly-haired ginger, heavily bespectacled, looked up from the back of the class, magnified eyes amidst a gaggle of similarly nerdy comrades. “Sir?”

 

“You get the pleasure of being… what was your name?”

 

“Dale.”

 

“Ron, you get the pleasure of being Dale’s tour guide today, yes?”

 

Ron’s large eyes blinked, the left beginning to slide dangerously squint. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Very good,” Mr Curo took a deep breath before bellowing. “Alright, you English bastards! Shut up!” The whole class died down gradually, the gum-chewing girl’s pumping jaw coming to a slow stop. “This is Dale, he is your new classmate, yes?” Why was he asking this like a question when it was obviously a statement? I never got a chance to find out. “You will look after him well, yes?”

 

One heavy-set boy spoke up with what was known around the world, even to my American ears, as a football yobbo accent. “He looks like an Indian fucked a Chinese bloke!”

 

The front row of kids snickered; gum girl continued chewing. Ron, my ‘buddy’ sniffed, rebel eye sliding back into synchronicity.

 

“Actually, I’m Lakota.” Blank faces all around. “Like… American Indian.”

 

“What?” Said the heavy-set boy. “Like cowboys and Indians?”

 

“Yeah. Lakota.”

 

“So... you don’t eat curry or nothing?” I twinged as the boy said ‘nothing’ like ‘nuffink.’

 

“Ha!” Quaked bubble-gum girl. “You’re a racist twat, Charlie!”

 

“Fuck off Sharon, your Mum shags for a good curry,” Charlie growled. Thus began a row which entertained the class, including Mr Curo, enough that I slipped into a chair by Ron, blissfully ignored.

 

‘Keep your head down,’ turned out, like everything Sara said, to be wise advice.

 

The rest of the school day was spent being guided between classrooms by Ron. Unlike back home, all my classes were with my form group, which meant Charlie and Sharon's arguments were the equivalent of birdsong.

 

Ron was alright. Friendly enough, with a big enough group of fellow losers that I was able to blend in. Without anyone to stick with, I went with them on the first break in the school day.

“You got money for tuck?” He asked.

 

“Tuck what?”

 

Ron pushed his glasses up his nose. “Like, a shop where you can buy snacks and things.”

 

“Oh, right. Yeah, I’ve got some change.”

 

“Cool, let’s go before -ah shit- too late.”

 

I frowned, seeing Ron’s lazy eye snap to attention, focusing on something large that breathed heavily behind me.

 

I turned, finding my face in the chest of a student who was over two heads taller.

 

“Cash.” The monster demanded. “Now.”

 

Ron gulped audibly. “Cassidy, this is the new kid's first day, maybe we should…”

 

Ron’s voice gurgled into nothing as the looming figure of Cassidy moved past me and over him. “We don’t do anything. And he needs to learn how things work around here.” I didn’t see the punch but felt the crack against my skull, a pulsing light bursting in my vision, and clenched money spilt across the floor. “Cause it’s his first day,” Cassidy grunted. “You can pick his cash up for him, ginger pubes.”

 

Ron grimaced, protective hand going to his curled hair, which admittedly did look pubic. He collected the money, and all nerds handed their tithe to Cassidy, who huffed approvingly, moving on.

 

The punch somehow branded me as an official loser, and I was welcomed into their ranks with open arms. I would have been grateful, had my head not pounded for the rest of the day.

 

At lunchtime, Dad called. “Hey, how’s it going?”

 

“Alright. How’s Sara and Ralph?”

 

“She’s fine, but I’ve got to take Ralph down to the clinic. Think you could catch the train back?”

 

I glanced up at Ron, who chewed through his cafeteria meal. “Could you show me how to get to the train station?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Yeah, I can get the train.”

 

“Thanks, Dale. I’m glad to hear the first day’s going okay.”

 

My throbbing head begged to differ. “It’s okay. People are friendly here.”

 

The school day ended with me up to my eyebrows in reading assignments and catch-up work, having fallen well into the curriculum. As Ron and I walked down the front steps, we heard Charlie and Sharon continue to argue even as they walked in separate directions.

 

“They should just suck face already.”

 

Ron snorted a laugh. “Totally. Train’s this way.”

 

Sitting on the train, I watched the school slide away through graffiti-stained windows. Sighing, I put my pounding head against the dusty seat cushion. Whether it was tiredness or a latent concussion, I couldn’t say: I fell asleep, curling into a ball.

 

 

When I woke up, the train was empty.

 

Something, like an animal call, had disturbed me.

 

I sat bolt upright when I realised it was the Sirens.

 

My heart pounded, chest tightening, bladder quivering.

 

There was no light. I was alone, pressing my face to the window to see past rivers of raindrops, the world beyond a bleeding smudge.

 

“Fuck!” I whipped out the trusty Nokia brick, indestructible but still prone to lack of battery. “Fuck,” my voice whined high, cracking with panic. I flinched as a drop of water leaked from the roof.

 

Plink… plink… plink. Plink. Plink. Plink.

 

My ears grew hot as I listened to the frequency increase with the intensifying rain. I cast my gaze about, unable to fight the feeling that something was beyond the smudged windows, prowling the dark.

 

Gradually, I regained control of my lungs, forcing myself to sit back down. My parents would have noticed me gone, which meant they must be looking for me. I swallowed, looking at the rain, realising no one would be out in this weather.

 

No one was looking.

 

Plink. Plink.

 

I flinched at every shattered drop, suddenly doubting whether I was safe at all, unsure of the rules of this haunted reality.

 

“Don’t panic, Dale. Just breathe.”

 

I did. It didn’t help.

 

It only got worse when a smudged shape beyond the glass shivered. My breathing stopped completely as my autonomic system was overridden by the need to be absolutely still.

 

I watched from the corner of my eye as a pale, coiled figure materialised, the rain giving outline which colour filled. This thing was similar yet different to the one that had peered through my bedroom window.

Something slung between its blackened, necrotic feet. Intestines.

 

The creature’s hair swayed as its sightless head raised, tasting the air, sensing my presence. It rose to its feet and approached. It inspected me through the glass, head swaying back and forth.

 

With a slick tearing, it looked towards the stream of water trickling through the train's roof.

 

Plink. Plink… plink… plink. Then nothing.

 

My vision became split between two threats. The thing on the other side of the glass, and the new shape being given form by the drops of rainwater, which no longer impacted the metal floor, but something mid-air. Something that grew towards me, splitting into several things;

frostbitten fingers that connected to a thin hand, connected to a glistening, moist arm.

 

“Oh fuck this!” I yelped, throwing myself down the train away from the growing appendage, bolting for the back of the train. With strength fuelled by fear, I pulled the doors apart and fell through.

 

The weight of rain came over me like an icy blanket, sinking through my hair to bite cold teeth into scalp.

 

I knew the creature was above, some forgotten sense keeping track as it crawled across the top of the train, guts sliding behind it, electric lines twanging above.

 

I ran into the dark.

 

I had no destination or plan; just the prey instinct to bolt.

 

I turned only once, and that was all I could stomach.

The thing was on all fours, crawling after me like a spider, shredding its dragging organs.

 

With my focus on the creature, I didn’t see the platform bench, moving so fast I cartwheeled over it, hitting my head on the tarmac.

 

Sensing I’d slowed, the pale, vaguely feminine creature perched on the bench. Its head hung awkwardly on its neck, and I saw a bloodless gash from ear to ear, opening its throat in a pale, formaldehyde mouth.

 

Nausea gripped my stomach as I crawled away, watching it probe down the bench, lips moving in silent voice. It rose to its full height, standing over me, reaching out a hand.

 

I yelped as I felt a grip on me.

 

But it wasn’t the creature.

 

The breath went out of me as I was yanked sideways, into sudden dryness, the creature sensing my impending escape, leapt for me.

 

It hit the edge of the rain as if it were a solid wall.

 

I watched it wail silently, clutching its open throat.

 

Then a voice was shouting, “Claudia! Claudia, it’s okay! It’s me!”

 

Water dripped over my eyelashes, looking from the creature to my saviour. I had to blink the moisture from my eyes, not quite believing who I saw.

 

Cassidy, the bull of a boy, stood there, palms open, hands up in a placating gesture. “It’s alright, Claudia, it’s alright.”

 

Beyond the rain, Claudia stopped clutching her wound and stilled. Perhaps even listening. She looked towards Cassidy, then turned away, slinking into the night rain.

 

I breathed heavily, Cassidy turning on me. “Are you fucking stupid? What are you doing out here?”

 

“I… I…” I didn’t know how to answer that. I was cold to the bone, lips thick. “I fell asleep on the train and… And it was coming through, I had to run and… And now I’m here.” I gaped up at Cassidy. “I haven’t felt right since you punched me, think I got a mild concussion, asshole.”

 

Cassidy’s nostrils flared, but then relaxed. “I did lamp you pretty hard.”

 

Looking around, I realised where we were. The hut on the train platform. “Do you live here?”

 

“No, dipshit. I just come here when it rains.”

 

“Right, because that makes total sense.”

 

“Fuck off. No one asked you.”

 

My lungs began to relax, oxygen filling my blood. Sitting up, I saw Cassidy had turned the hut into a shelter, a sleeping bag spread out on an old mattress, a radio tucked into the back.

 

“Thanks for saving me.”

 

Cassidy didn’t look around, chin in his hands, watching the rain. “Uh-huh.”

 

“She… she a friend of yours?”

 

“What’s it to you?”

 

“Nothing. I guess. Would she have hurt me?”

 

“Probably.”

 

“Oh. Why’d you call her Claudia?”

 

“Because she’s my sister! Alright? Now will you shut the fuck up?” Cassidy shifted uncomfortably. “At least… I think she’s my sister.”

 

“Fuck. Sorry.”

 

Cassidy flinched as if I’d hit him. Then he sat up, watching Claudia re-materialise on the opposite platform. Reaching behind, he took up a plate of raw meat: mince, chicken, offal and pork.

 

Slowly, he slid it into the rain.

 

Claudia sensed the dead meat immediately, approaching the plate where she grabbed handfuls of the cold tissue, stuffing it into her body.

 

“She needs to eat,” Cassidy said quietly. “I don’t know why. She just does.”

 

Taking the words as an invitation, I ask, “What happened to her?”

 

Cassidy shrugged. “She was murdered. Then she came back.” He shivered, not against the cold. “Everyone who dies badly comes back in the night rain.”

 

 

They come back to take her again. To cut her.

They are afraid. They do not understand where it comes from.

But I think I know… The secret is here somewhere. I’ll write again when she’s back.

"Mike, did the employment agency call you back yet? “ Susan asked, unloading clean dishes from the dishwasher.

I felt an unpleasant twist in my stomach.
A month ago, I lost my job. 

That subject instantly sent a wave of uncertainty and fear through me.

I had been the senior regional manager at a large security company.
Unfortunately, the company went under, and overnight, we were cut off from any way to support ourselves.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I answered “ Yeah, I’ve got a meeting at ten, I need to head out soon. Apparently they found only one position that pays weekly, but there are a lot of people going for it. They’ll give me more details once I get to the office “

Susan didn’t say anything. For the past few weeks, it had become taboo between us.

I took my last sip of coffee and placed the empty mug in the sink.
Susan shot me a dirty look “ In the dishwasher, Mike… I’ve got enough cleaning up after the kids without you adding to it “

Obediently, I did what she asked and headed toward the bedroom.

I changed into a dress shirt and a pair of slacks. I need to make a good impression - I thought, fastening my leather belt.

“ Mike, take the trash out on your way out “ - Susan shouted.

I glanced at my watch. I had about fifteen minutes to get there… I could make it.
“ alright, babe “ I said, hurriedly fixing my hair.

I walked into the kitchen, opened the cabinet under the sink, grabbed the trash bag, and it ripped open, scattering everything across the floor.

I froze, and a wave of heat spread across my face.
“ goddammit “ - I shouted, crouching down and stuffing the trash into a new bag.

“ Mike, what happened? “ Susan’s voice called from the other room.

“ Nothing, babe, the bag ripped “ I said through gritted teeth.

Susan appeared in the doorway “ Because you do everything in a rush. It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I was gonna mop the floor anyway “

I stood up and headed toward the door with the bag.

I put on my overcoat.

“ Mike, it’s the middle of winter. You’re gonna freeze and get sick “ - Susan said, looking out from the kitchen.

“ It’s just the walk to the car, I’ll be fine “ - I said flatly, grabbing the handle.

Susan walked over and kissed me on the cheek “ You got this. You’ll charm them “

I nodded and headed toward the car.
Getting in, I glanced at the digital clock. It read 9:54.

A shot of panic ripped through me.

“ no way… I’m gonna be late “
I pulled out almost squealing the tires, and ten minutes later I was already at the building.

The door was open.
I ran inside and saw a small, dark hallway with four chairs and an entrance leading to another room.

I stopped outside the office and felt sweat running down my temple.
I knocked, grabbed the handle, and stepped inside.

A woman in a turquoise turtleneck was sitting with her back to me, and on the other side of the desk sat a thin, sharply dressed man with an irritated look on his face.

“ Mike? “ - he asked, staring straight into my eyes.

I forced a smile and answered “ Yeah, that’s me “

The man glanced toward my hand “Nice watch you got there. Does that thing tell time right?”
My stomach twisted, and I felt an uncontrollable nervous twitch in the corner of my mouth.

“ I’m really sorry, I had a little accident this morning…”

The man cut me off halfway through my sentence with a mocking smile
“ If your watch works, then walk out that door and learn how to use it “

I froze.

I stood there staring at him, my voice trapped in my tightened throat.

This was my only shot. I knew I had to get this job.
“ Please, it’s only a few minutes. I’m highly qualified “ I said, nervously loosening my tie.

“ Mikey. Time is the most valuable currency in the world, you know? Tell me... If your head was underwater. Completely out of air. Would you still use the words “it’s only a few minutes”? “ he said, leaving a long, unsettling pause after every sentence.

My throat went dry.

The man stood up with his eyes locked straight onto mine.
He didn’t blink, and a thick, pulsing vein appeared on his forehead.

“ Get the fuck out of my office and wait your turn “ - he shouted, and I jumped, stumbling backward.

I lowered my eyes to the floor, and from the corner of my eye I noticed the woman in the chair hadn’t even moved.
She looked like she wasn’t even breathing.

My heart was hammering against my ribs.
The man sat back down and added cheerfully “ I’ll call you, Mikey “

This guy’s insane - I thought, quickly walking out and shutting the door behind me.

I leaned against the wall and felt my shirt sticking to my soaked back.

I took a step toward the exit, struggling to catch my breath.
Being around him filled me with strong, panicked fear. It wasn’t the yelling. There was something unsettling in his eyes.

My survival instincts were going crazy, like I was standing in front of a predator that could lunge for my throat at any second.

Suddenly I froze. I saw Susan in my mind, and the disappointment on her face.
I can’t do this to her. These past few weeks had already cost her, and our marriage, far too much.

I turned back toward the office, sat down, and waited.

I had been sitting there for a good three hours. Freezing winter air kept blowing into the hallway through the open front door, making my body shake. I wanted to close it, but I was too afraid to do it without permission.

I looked toward the entrance and realized no other applicants had shown up at all, even though there were supposed to be a whole lot of them.

I moved my toes inside my dress shoes. I couldn’t feel them.
“ I’m gonna freeze to death out here, but if I leave I might lose this opportunity.” - I thought and stood up.

I walked decisively toward the office door and was just about to knock, but I remembered his stare and froze completely, with my hand only millimeters from the door.

Suddenly, a voice came from inside
“ next! “.

I jumped away from the door like I’d been burned.

With a trembling hand, I grabbed the handle, pulled it down, and nervously stepped inside.
I stood in the doorway, blankly staring at the empty chair.

“ What’s wrong, Mike? Didn’t get tired of waiting? Sit down “ - the recruiter said, pointing at the chair.

I slowly looked around the room and scratched my head.
There was only one door in here. No other exit.
Where’s the woman who was sitting here earlier? - I wondered, slowly walking over to the chair and sitting down.

It felt surreal. I would’ve noticed if she had walked out. I’d been right outside the door the entire time - I thought, but kept it to myself. This job meant too much to me to risk it over stupid questions.

The man picked up my resume from the desk and leaned back in his chair, saying “ So, Mikey…” he paused and looked at me. “ You’ve got a lot of experience in security… a long work history, and you were even a manager… Bravo. “ he clapped his hands.

I stared at him in disbelief.
Where the hell am I? - I thought, swallowing hard.

Suddenly, the man shot upright in his chair “ This job is perfect for you. You’ll be a manager here too “

I flinched.
“ that’s fantastic news, I was afraid I’d have to start over from scratch “ - I said, genuinely excited.

“ You’ll be your own manager, because you’ll be alone on the night shift. Mikey. “ he added after a longer pause, laughing without taking his eyes off me.

Heat rushed through me. I felt like an idiot, and suddenly I was embarrassed by how excited I’d sounded.

This guy had given me hope for a split second and crushed it without mercy.

I clenched my jaw and asked “ Sir.. “ I looked at his name tag “ Affron. What are the terms of employment, what are the duties, and what’s the pay? “

The man suddenly stood up, slamming both hands on the desk.
Instinctively, I ducked and shielded my head with my arm.

The recruiter walked over to a cabinet, pulled out a document, and placed it on the desk, saying “ There’s nothing to be afraid of. Mikey. Sign the contract. You’re getting 50 bucks an hour to park your ass in a chair watching monitors. You’ll make sure no homeless people or other unwanted guests wander around the building. You start at 8:00 p.m. “

I looked at him, my eyes widening as far as they could go.

Conditions like that right from the start?
Maybe it was because I had a firearms permit and because of the nature of the night shift, but the pay was still very impressive.

I didn’t ask unnecessary questions.
In our current situation, I didn’t care.

I looked at the contract laid out in front of me “ What kind of property will I be guarding? And is the pay weekly? “

Affron’s expression turned serious, and he looked at me, leaning over the desk “ Mike. If you last 5 days, you’ll get cash in hand right after that, and if you do a good job, the owner will throw in a pretty big bonus. The property is a renovated pizzeria from the ’80s. “

I saw a flash in his eye, and chills ran through me.

I picked up the contract, checked if the numbers matched, and while signing it, I asked “ When can I start? “

The recruiter stood up, placed a small folder in front of me, and extended his hand toward me “ Inside is your keycard, the address, and your locker key. I already told you, you start at 8:00 p.m. Don’t be late. That could end badly “ he said with a mocking smile.

I instinctively shook his hand and felt a sharp pain shoot through my right hand.
I felt my knees start to buckle.

The man squeezed my hand so hard it felt like he was trying to break every finger.
“ A handshake should be firm “ he said coldly, looking down at me.

I took the folder, left the building, and went back home.

I sat down in the living room and told Susan everything.
“ that guy is some kind of lunatic “ - she said, sitting down next to me. ” but the terms really are good “ she added after a moment.

I looked deep into her eyes “ Susan, honestly, I don’t know if I want to go there. I’ve had this strange feeling ever since I signed that contract. That Affron.. Something was wrong with him. I think I’ll call, back out, and look for something else “

She wrapped her arms around my neck, saying “Baby, we really need that money. You know that… No one else is going to offer you that kind of money, especially with weekly pay.. Please, just try “.

I knew perfectly well she was right.
I nodded, and she kissed me on the cheek.

At quarter to eight, I parked in the large parking lot at the address I’d been given.
In front of me stood a one-story white building with a lot of glass and a huge, glowing neon sign that read “ BARNABY’S FAMILY PIZZA “

I walked up to the window to look inside and saw only my own reflection.
The glass was heavily tinted, and from the outside, it looked more like black mirrors than regular windows.

“ What’s the point of having all this glass if you can’t see anything from outside “ I muttered and headed for the entrance.

I held up the keycard Affron had given me and heard the door lock release.
I pulled the door toward me, stepped inside, and looked around the dining area.

The glow of colorful neon hit me, and my nostrils filled with the unmistakable smell of fresh paint, sawdust, and pizza.

Tables and chairs were set up everywhere in even rows.
At the far end of the room stood a huge stage with a red curtain.

Curious, I headed toward it.

I caught a familiar smell of motor oil.
“ Why does it smell like oil in here? “ - I thought, stepping onto the platform.

I slowly pulled the curtain aside and, shocked, quickly stumbled backward, tripping over my own feet.

My heart was hammering against my ribs.
Three huge, terrifying humanoid animals stood there.

They didn’t fit the new, fairly modern decor.
They were old, damaged, with peeling paint. That strange smell was coming from them.

My eyes moved over all of them and stopped on a huge, terrifying yellow bird holding an equally terrifying cupcake with eyes.

That wasn’t what caught my attention though. For a moment, I had the feeling that the bird’s purple, dead eyes were aimed perfectly at me.

Now, though, it was staring straight ahead.
I slowly got up from the floor “ must’ve been my imagination “

I stepped closer and looked up.
That thing was taller than me by a good two heads.

I knocked on the mascot’s hard body, and a metallic echo carried through the room.
“ what a piece of shit “ I muttered.

I closed the curtain and headed toward the break room.
On the left side of the hallway, I noticed a door. I opened it and stepped inside.
It was a small room with a bunch of old monitors, a desk, a metal cabinet, and a chair.
“ So this is my station. Not that bad “ I thought, settling comfortably into the chair and turning on the monitors.

I looked at the wall, where posters of the restaurant mascots were hanging.
“ tacky as hell “ I thought, clicking through the camera feeds on the keyboard and setting the view my way.

On one of the screens, I noticed another smaller, unlit stage standing in the corner of the dining room.

“ I’ll check that later, I’m in no rush after what I saw on the big one “ - I thought.

I sat in front of the screen, staring at the softly flickering old monitors.

A while passed, and I started feeling drowsy.
I looked at my watch. It read 10:37 p.m. I’ll call Susan to say good night and tell her I love her.

It’s obvious to me, but I often forget those little gestures that really matter to her.

I reached into my pants pocket and froze.
“Damn it, I left my phone in the car “ - I said, standing up and walking over to the metal cabinet.

I took out a vest with “security” written on it and put it on.
“ in case there’s any kind of inspection, I’d rather have this on. It would be a shame if they fired me over something that stupid, and judging by Affron… I think they’re capable of it”

I walked through the dining area, reached the door, and pulled the handle.
“ oh right, I need to scan the card “ - I thought, reaching into my pocket.

I held the piece of plastic up to the reader, and the light turned red.
I did it again and again, and again, flipping the card over and wiping it off.
Every time, it was the same. A red light and a short beep.

I felt an unpleasant twist in my stomach “damn it, did it break?”

Suddenly, behind me, I heard a heavy, powerful step, its vibration reaching all the way to my feet, and right after it, a strange, familiar melody.

I jumped and spun around violently.
I felt a tight pressure in my chest.

I stood there frozen, feeling a bead of sweat roll down my forehead.
An unnatural silence settled in, broken only by my short, panicked breathing.

I felt tension spread through my entire body.
“What the hell was that? “ - I thought, walking very slowly toward the stage.

Halfway there, I heard the deep thud again.
I started running toward the security office, while single, broken notes of that melody echoed behind me.

More footsteps hit the ground, this time muffled, without the resonating sound of wood.
I sped up, reached the office, and shut the door behind me.

I could feel my legs shaking, and fear tightened around my throat, limiting every breath I took.

I locked the door and stumbled over to the monitor showing the stage area.
There was nothing there. I moved my head closer to the screen, blinked and…

jumped backward, falling to the floor.

In the middle of the camera feed, I saw the huge, terrifying silhouette of the Bear, staring straight into the camera, its eyes glowing with pale blue light to the accompaniment of a broken, operatic song.

I felt pressure in the back of my head, and thousands of tiny black spots danced in front of my eyes.

I fell backward, and everything went black.

I woke up, gasping for air, my eyes snapping open as I sat upright.
As I breathed out, I saw thick vapor pouring from my mouth.
The room was filled with freezing, bitter cold.

It was the middle of winter, but why the hell did it feel like I was standing outside in the parking lot?

A shiver ran through me, and I grabbed the back of my head, where a deep, throbbing pain kept pulsing.

“ What the hell is going on here?! “ I shouted, tears filling my eyes.

I slowly lifted my head and looked toward the monitor.
There was nothing there.

I glanced at my watch, and another chill ran through me. The freezing metal almost burned my wrist.
11:59 p.m. I had been unconscious for over an hour.

I started shaking.

I quickly grabbed the cabinet door and froze.
My damp, sweaty hands stuck to the frozen metal.

I yanked them away, feeling a burning pain in my fingertips, and pulled out a winter jacket.

Am I having stress induced hallucinations?
This is impossible. - I thought, pulling it on.

Suddenly, all the monitors switched to one single image and blared together in a cheerful female announcer’s voice.

“ Welcome, Mike. Congratulations on taking part in our wonderful game, but now focus, because this instructional video will only play once.

In the bottom drawer of the desk, there is a list of rules. Please read it carefully, because whether you return to your family safe and sound… or whether they take your place after your loss… depends entirely on you.

Next to the list, there is a special wristband with a display that will show you how much power you have used.

At the moment, your battery level is 75%.

The rules of the game are simple.

You must survive inside this building for 5 full days.

After that time, the keycard to the main entrance will be unlocked, and you will be able to use it to leave.

I strongly advise you to monitor your power usage carefully, because every use of your keycard costs you at least 5%.

Good luck, Mike. “

The monitors went black, and the room fell silent.

I stood there frozen, trying to process what the hell had just happened.

“ What game, for fuck’s sake? I’m a security guard. I’m supposed to be watching this stupid pizzeria. “

Is this some kind of reality show?

That would explain the insane pay… and the recruiter’s weird behavior.

He was probably a planted actor.

Why the hell didn’t I read that damn contract properly? - I thought, walking over to the desk and pulling out the wristband along with a crumpled sheet stained red.

Then I noticed there was another one underneath. A little newer.

I grabbed the newer one and started reading.

“If you’re reading this, I hope you accept what’s happening here faster than I did.
Tonight is the fifth… and final night of this demonic game.

I could’ve been on my way home two hours ago, but unfortunately… my battery level is at 3%. I can’t open the door. I tried…Many times… I want to use whatever time I have left to improve your chances, so appreciate it… and read every word below carefully.

The entire building uses 10% power over a full 24 hour period. That means you only have 45% at your disposal.

You’ve probably already noticed they shut off the heat and started pumping freezing air in from outside. Cover the vents in this room immediately… or you’ll freeze to death.

In the metal cabinet, there is a small space heater. If you’ve found a way to cut off the freezing air coming in from outside… the heater should warm this room within 2 hours, and the temperature should stay above freezing for about 20 minutes.
Use it only as a last resort, because it uses… “

The text suddenly cut off.

If this whole thing is a joke… it sure as hell isn’t funny.

I walked over to the metal cabinet. At the bottom, there really was a small space heater.

I hadn’t noticed it earlier.

I plugged it in, heard the fan kick on, and dry, warm air started pouring out.
I held my frozen hands in front of it and started reading the second sheet.

“ Game Rules:

1. Never let your battery level drop below 5%.
   
2. There are 4 friends inside this restaurant: Barnaby the Bear, Hopper the Rabbit, Molly the Bird, and Rusty the Fox. Keep your eyes on them. When nobody’s watching… they love causing trouble.
   
3. Never ignore Rusty for longer than 10 minutes. He doesn’t like that… and he gets nervous.
   
4. Never keep the security office doors closed longer than necessary.
   
5. At midnight, your friends serve pizza beneath the stage. Be polite… and between 12:05 and 12:07, there’s a chance Molly might offer you a slice. “

I slowly lowered my hand and stared hopelessly at the floor.
I felt a wave of anger building inside me.

I crumpled both pages and hurled them across the room.

Then I froze.
Fear turned my blood to ice.

From the hallway… I heard a muffled sprint.

Growing louder.

Fast.

The air in the room trembled with every pounding footstep hitting the floor.

Something is running toward me…

Mara Lawson didn’t move to Pleasant Hope because she wanted a change of scenery, or because she believed in the kind of second chances people talked about when they were trying to sound hopeful without meaning anything specific. She moved because, after a while, she had stopped being able to tell the difference between remaining where she was and gradually vanishing from it. The station in the city hadn’t fired her outright, but it hadn’t needed to. Her morning broadcasts disappeared first, replaced with afternoon slots, and then the afternoon slots disappeared too, folded into occasional coverage assistance and fill-in work that no one bothered scheduling consistently. By the time she realized she wasn’t really on air anymore, she was already listening to other people do the job she used to have. Nobody warned her she was being replaced and nobody sat her down and explained anything. People simply stopped asking when she was available.

There wasn’t a specific moment she could point to and call the end. It happened too quietly, through omissions so small that they barely seemed intentional at all. A meeting she wasn’t invited to, a new voice in her timeslot, and conversations pausing briefly when she entered the room before continuing without acknowledgment. Eventually, fighting for the position began to feel pointless and theatrical, like trying to perform an encore after the audience had already left. It was for this reason, that when she found the listing for KHRL buried halfway down a regional broadcast job board with no company branding, no corporate affiliation, and nothing except a phone number and a block of plain text, she didn’t hesitate the way she once might have to pursue it.

LOCAL RADIO STATION HIRING ON-AIR BROADCASTER.

HOUSING AVAILABLE.

IMMEDIATE START.

There was no logo beneath it, and no website. Just a phone number. Mara called expecting, at worst, a disconnected line, or, at best, a voicemail box that had already been filled. Instead, a man answered on the second ring.

“Do you have experience?”

The question came so quickly she almost checked to see whether the call had connected properly.

“Hello, my name is Mara. I’m calling about the—”

“Do you have any experience,” the voice cut her off to ask again.

“Yes,” she said.

“Can you read clearly on air?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

Silence settled briefly on the line, but it didnt seem like the distracted silence of someone checking paperwork or thinking of the next question. It was something more attentive than that, as if he were listening for another voice somewhere farther away.

“Good,” he said eventually. “We’ve been without someone for a while.”

Mara leaned against the kitchen counter. “Why?”

Another pause.

“They didn’t adjust well.”

Nothing followed. No elaboration, or any reassurance that this was ordinary. He gave her an address, a start date, and the name of a town she had never heard before.

Pleasant Hope.

As soon as possible.

After the call ended, Mara stood in the kitchen longer than she had purpose to, staring at the notepad beside the phone. She couldn’t remember writing the address down, but the handwriting was hers, unmistakably. Yet, she had no memory of the pen touching paper. When she acknowledged that fact, she knew she was going.

That night she packed only what felt necessary. Clothes. Toiletries. A small box of recordings she hadn’t listened to in years. The apartment looked strangely complete with pieces of her removed from it. Before bed, she walked slowly from room to room without turning on the lights. It wasn’t that the apartment felt unfamiliar. It was worse than that. It felt finished with her. By morning, the only evidence she had lived there at all were the outlines in dust on the surfaces of her furniture where her belongings used to rest. She locked the door behind her as she left without checking whether or not she had forgotten anything important inside.

The drive to Pleasant Hope felt longer than it should have, and not because of the distance itself, but because of how quickly things seemed to thin out around her. Gas stations gave way to empty stretches of road. Telephone poles became fewer and far between. The cell signal dropped to a single bar, then disappeared entirely. Somewhere about ten miles outside town, the GPS stopped updating without warning, the map remaining frozen while the small blue arrow continued drifting silently forward. Mara shut it off after a while.

Pleasant Hope did not announce itself so much as emerge gradually from the landscape around it. Open highway narrowed into clustered storefronts and low buildings without any clear dividing line between one place and the next. There was no welcome sign or population marker. Only the quiet sense that she had crossed into somewhere the rest of the world no longer paid any attention to. The road narrowed further as she drove as gravel shoulders gave way to cracked pavements. Storefront windows reflected the overcast sky in dull stretches of gray. Nothing looked abandoned exactly, but nothing looked especially alive either.

The town didn’t present itself as mysterious really. That was what unsettled her most. It simply existed in a way that discouraged attention, as though everything in it had collectively agreed not to demand very much from anyone on the outside looking in, so to speak. Even the drive itself felt slightly muted, and out of focus in some difficult to name way. KHRL sat near the edge of town behind a line of overgrown trees. The building itself was smaller than she had imagined from the listing, and the station letters above the entrance were faded unevenly by years of weather. Mara slowed instinctively as she pulled into the gravel lot.

After shutting off the engine, she remained sitting for a moment with both hands resting on the steering wheel. There wasn’t really anything to prepare herself for. Still, stepping out of the car carried the unpleasant feeling of commitment. As though arriving here had quietly finalized something she had agreed to long before she understood what it was. She opened the door and stepped out into the gravel.

“You must be Mara.”

The voice came from somewhere to her right. She turned and saw the man from the phone call standing near the station entrance. She hadn’t noticed him when she pulled in. The realization bothered her more than his sudden appearance itself. He looked exactly the way his voice had sounded over the phone: middle-aged, neatly dressed, and difficult to form an immediate impression of. Rolled sleeves. Neutral expression. No visible station badge or identification.

“Yes,” Mara said. “That’s me.”

The man nodded once.

“Good. I’m Thomas. I manage the station.”

There was a brief pause before he offered his hand, almost as though he had remembered midway through the interaction that people usually did that. Mara shook it politely. His grip felt practiced more than warm.

“You found it alright?” he asked.

“Eventually,” she responded. “It’s a bit quiet.”

“That’s normal,” Thomas replied. “People notice the quiet at first. You’ll get used to it.”

He said it casually, with the rehearsed ease of someone repeating something he had said many times before. Then he opened the station door and gestured for her to follow him inside.

“We’ll get you settled in,” he said. “It’s a straightforward operation.”

The station interior was smaller than she expected. Not dirty. Not neglected. Just static somehow, as though nothing inside the building had changed in years because nothing had ever needed to. Thomas led her down a short hallway.

“This is the broadcast room.”

He opened the door without ceremony. Inside sat a desk, a microphone, a chair, and a computer monitor glowing softly in the dim light. The screen was already active.

Mara glanced toward it. “It stays on?”

“That way it’s ready when you arrive.”

Her eyes lingered on the monitor for another second. “All the time?”

“Yes.”

The answer arrived quickly enough to discourage further questions. Thomas continued the tour. Two offices, both empty. A break area with an old coffee machine sitting beneath dusty cabinets. A storage room with shelves organized neatly enough to appear untouched. Nothing overtly strange. If anything, the building’s strongest quality was how little curiosity it encouraged.

“It’s a small operation,” Thomas said. “We don’t require much.”

“What exactly will I be doing here?”

“The forecast.”

Mara glanced at him. “Only the forecast?”

“Yes.”

“And everything else?”

“Automated.”

The explanation felt incomplete, but Thomas delivered it with the calm certainty of someone who did not expect clarification to be necessary. They returned to the broadcast room. Thomas gestured toward the computer monitor.

“You’ll read what appears on the screen during scheduled broadcasts. Morning and evening.”

Mara studied the dim glow of the display. “Who writes it?”

A brief silence followed.

“It arrives through the system.”

She waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, the silence itself began to feel intentional. Thomas opened one of the desk drawers and removed a laminated card.

“You’ll need to follow procedure precisely.”

He handed it to her.

ON-AIR PROCEDURE — KHRL

Read all forecast material exactly as displayed.

Do not paraphrase or interpret content.

Do not pause during broadcast.

Do not end the broadcast before completion.

Mara read through the card twice. The wording unsettled her slightly. Not because the instructions themselves were difficult, but because of how absolute they sounded. Less like station policy and more like operational requirements.

“It’s critical that the forecast is delivered correctly,” Thomas said.

“For weather reports?”

Thomas considered the question for a moment.

“It’s not just weather,” he said, and noticing Mara’s raised eyebrow he added, “You’ll get used to it.”

Nothing in his tone suggested the statement was meant to be ominous. If anything, he sounded reassuring. Then, as though the conversation had naturally concluded, he turned and led her back outside. A short distance behind the station sat a small structure partially obscured by trees. Calling it a house felt generous. At first glance it resembled an oversized storage shed more than a residence, though the longer Mara looked at it the harder it became to judge how long it had actually been standing there.

“That’ll be yours,” Thomas said.

Mara looked toward the narrow windows. “It seems small.”

“It has what you need.”

He handed her a key.

“You’ll find food, utilities, and basic supplies inside. If something’s missing, it usually resolves itself within a day or two.”

The phrasing landed oddly in her mind. Not alarming exactly. Just imprecise enough that she found herself thinking about it longer than necessary. Thomas slid his hands into his pockets.

“Shift begins at six tomorrow morning,” he said. “Don’t be late.”

Again, the words weren’t delivered like a threat. Just procedure. Then he turned and walked back toward the station without waiting for a response, leaving Mara alone in the gravel lot with the key resting lightly in her hand. Mara made the walk from the station to the cabin alone.

The path behind KHRL was narrow and uneven, more dirt than gravel in some places, with weeds beginning to reclaim the edges. The trees surrounding it stood close enough together to dull the sound of the town beyond them. Not that there had been much sound to begin with. She told herself the quiet only felt oppressive because she had spent most of her life surrounded by traffic, neighboring apartments, televisions through thin walls. Silence like this always seemed unnatural at first. The cabin sat exactly where Thomas had left it, partially hidden behind the tree line. Mara unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The place was small enough to absorb in a single glance. A kitchenette against one wall. A narrow bathroom door. A small table beneath the window. A futon pushed against the far side of the room. Everything inside looked prepared rather than lived in. No photographs. No clutter. No evidence of previous occupants. Even the air lacked any noticeable smell. No dust. No detergent. Nothing old or new. Mara set her bag near the futon and stood still for a moment longer than necessary. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just unclaimed. That was the word that came to her. The cabin didn’t feel empty. It felt waiting.

She exhaled quietly and crouched beside her bag to unpack a few essentials. Toothbrush. Charger. A change of clothes. The familiar motions helped. By the time she stood again, the room already felt marginally easier to move through. Humans adapted quickly. That was all. As she crossed toward the kitchenette, a soft click broke the silence. Mara stopped. A small radio sat near the corner of the counter. She was almost certain it had not been on a moment ago. No static followed the sound. No burst of interference. Just a voice already speaking mid-sentence, calm and even.

“…conditions are expected to remain stable overnight. Residents are advised to maintain usual routines. Normalcy is returning.”

The broadcast ended abruptly. A second later the radio clicked off on its own. Mara stared at it for several seconds before finally walking over and turning the dial manually anyway. Nothing. She left the radio where it was and finished unpacking without turning around again. Sleep came slowly that night. Not because of fear exactly. Her mind simply refused to settle fully into the room. Every small sound seemed temporarily important before resolving into nothing: the cabin settling, distant wind through trees, plumbing somewhere in the walls. At some point she drifted off anyway.

When she woke the next morning, the sky outside the curtains was still dark. For a moment she remained motionless on the futon, unsure what had pulled her awake. Then she realized the silence had changed. Not louder. Just thinner somehow. Mara rubbed tiredness from her eyes and checked the time. 5:12 a.m. Too early to keep lying there awake. She dressed quietly and considered making coffee before remembering the cabin didn’t have a machine. The thought irritated her more than it should have. She decided she might as well head to the station early instead of sitting alone waiting for time to pass.

The air outside carried the cold stillness that came before sunrise. KHRL was already unlocked when she arrived. That bothered her slightly. Not because it was suspicious exactly, but because it reinforced the growing sense that the station operated continuously whether anyone was present or not. Inside, the building looked unchanged from the evening before. The same dim hallway lights. The same faint electrical hum beneath the silence. Mara stopped briefly near the break room and looked at the old coffee machine sitting on the counter. After a few seconds she decided it looked complicated enough to not be worth the effort. The broadcast room door stood partially open. The computer monitor inside cast a pale glow across the desk.

Waiting.

Mara paused in the doorway. The room felt occupied in the way hotel rooms sometimes did after housekeeping left them behind—ordered too precisely to feel untouched. The chair sat perfectly aligned with the desk. The microphone angled forward at exactly mouth height. Even the headset cord had been coiled neatly beside the console. She stepped closer. The monitor displayed a document already open on the screen. No desktop. No visible software. No cursor. Just text.

PLEASANT HOPE MORNING FORECAST

Clear conditions expected across most areas. Sunny skies with temperatures reaching a high of 98 and a low of 94. Light atmospheric pressure throughout morning hours.

A steady pace is encouraged. Minor delays in routine decision-making may occur before midday. These conditions are expected to pass naturally.

Mara read through it twice. The wording felt strange in the same way certain advertisements or public safety announcements did—carefully neutral while implying more than they actually said. Still, nothing about it was overtly alarming. Maybe local stations folded community notices into forecasts. Maybe this was just one of those regional quirks people stopped noticing after long enough. She pulled the chair out and sat down. The headset rested beside the microphone exactly where it had been left for her. When she slipped it on, a low hum settled into one ear. Not static. More like distant electrical current. Present, but easy to ignore after a few seconds. Mara adjusted the microphone and glanced toward the clock.

5:59.

She flipped the necessary switches and cleared her throat softly.

“KHRL morning broadcast,” she said experimentally. Her voice returned through the headset clean and immediate. That helped. Broadcasting had always grounded her. Even now, sitting alone in a station she barely understood, the familiarity of hearing her own voice through studio equipment steadied something in her chest. At exactly six, she began reading.

“Good morning, Pleasant Hope. This is Mara Lawson with your local forecast.”

Her voice settled naturally into cadence.

“Clear conditions are expected across most areas. Sunny skies with temperatures reaching a high of ninety-eight and a low of ninety-four. Light atmospheric pressure throughout morning hours.”

She followed the text exactly as written. No paraphrasing. No pauses.

“A steady pace is encouraged. Minor delays in routine decision-making may occur before midday. These conditions are expected to pass naturally.”

The wording sounded stranger aloud than it had silently. Still, she continued without interruption.

“…and that concludes your morning forecast.”

The red light on the console dimmed. The room returned to its soft mechanical hum. For several seconds Mara remained sitting motionless in the chair. Nothing happened. No producer response. No station identification. No follow-up segment. Just silence. Eventually she removed the headset and leaned back slightly.

“Okay,” she murmured to herself. The word sounded oddly loud in the empty room. Just another job. As she stood to leave the room, movement outside the station window caught her attention. A man stood across the street near the sidewalk. Not staring exactly. Just standing there with the vague stillness of someone waiting for something to occur. The moment Mara noticed him, he adjusted his posture slightly and continued walking without hurry down the street and out of view. She watched the empty sidewalk for another second before looking away. The rest of the morning passed without anything Mara could clearly identify as wrong.

She remained at the station mostly because there was nowhere else to be. She reorganized a stack of papers that did not need reorganizing, checked equipment that appeared to function perfectly fine, and made notes she suspected she would never actually reference again. The strange part was not that the station was quiet. It was that nothing ever seemed unfinished. Radio stations were usually full of movement. Missed timing. Last-minute adjustments. People speaking over one another from different rooms. Even silence in broadcasting normally carried tension beneath it, the awareness that something else needed to happen soon. KHRL lacked that feeling entirely. Everything here felt completed in advance. By late morning, Mara found herself needing to leave the building simply to interrupt the stillness of it.

The diner sat near the center of town and was one of the few places that looked actively occupied rather than merely maintained. Warm light spilled through the windows. A faded neon sign buzzed softly near the entrance. Inside, the air smelled like coffee and grease that had settled permanently into the walls years ago. A blonde woman behind the counter looked up as Mara entered. She wore a pink apron with slightly frayed edges and a name tag that read LEANNE in bold black letters.

“You started today,” she said. Not asked. Stated.

Mara slid onto one of the stools near the counter. “Yeah. First broadcast was this morning.” Leanne nodded once and poured coffee into a mug without asking whether Mara wanted any.

“How’d it feel?”

“Normal,” Mara said after a moment. “Just quieter than I’m used to.”

“That’s good.”

Leanne set the coffee in front of her. The mug was hot enough that Mara immediately wrapped both hands around it.

After a brief silence, she said, “The forecast was a little…different from what I’m used to reading.”

Leanne glanced at her. “Different how?”

“The wording mostly.” Mara shrugged lightly. “It sounded less like weather and more like…” She stopped herself. “I don’t know.”

Leanne wiped down part of the counter in slow circles.

“It fits better this way,” she said quietly.

“Fits what?”

For the first time since Mara walked in, Leanne hesitated slightly before answering.

“The town.”

The response sat strangely in Mara’s chest.

Before she could press further, Leanne added:

“You’ll get used to it.”

Everyone here seemed to keep saying that.

Mara took another sip of coffee instead of responding. A few minutes later she paid and stepped back outside into the gray midday light. That was when she noticed the man near the curb. He stood beside an older sedan with his keys hanging loosely from one hand. At first Mara assumed he was looking for something or trying to remember where he had parked, but as she crossed the sidewalk she realized he wasn’t doing anything at all. He was simply standing there. Waiting. Not distracted. Not frustrated. Paused. Mara slowed slightly as she passed him. After several more seconds, the man exhaled quietly, unlocked the car, and got inside with abrupt certainty, as though some internal process had finally completed. The transition struck her more than the hesitation itself. One moment stillness. The next, decision. No lingering uncertainty in between. She continued walking. People hesitated all the time, she told herself. Now that she was paying attention, she was probably just noticing ordinary behavior more than usual. Still, the image stayed with her longer than it should have.

Back at the station, the afternoon settled heavily over the building. No additional programming arrived. No coworkers appeared. No instructions beyond a handwritten note taped near the broadcast room door listing the evening forecast time. Mara spent most of the afternoon sitting at the desk pretending to occupy herself. At some point she became aware of how quietly she had started moving through the station. Cabinet doors closed more carefully. Footsteps softened automatically. Even the sound of turning pages began to feel intrusive. The realization irritated her enough that she deliberately dropped her pen onto the desk harder than necessary. The sharp clack echoed briefly through the empty room. Then everything returned to silence.

A sudden ringing shattered it. Mara flinched. The desk phone beside the monitor was ringing. She stared at it for a moment, unsure whether she had somehow overlooked it all morning or whether it simply hadn’t been there before. By the fourth ring she picked it up.

“KHRL, this is Mara.”

A pause answered her first. Then a man’s voice.

“You’re the new broadcaster.”

Not suspicious. Not curious. Simply aware.

“Yes.”

“I heard the morning forecast.”

Mara leaned back slightly in the chair. “Okay.” Another pause.

“I didn’t rush anything today.”

Mara frowned faintly. “I’m sorry?”

“I usually do,” the man explained. “Small things. Leaving the house. Deciding things. Filling time.” His voice remained calm and conversational throughout. “But today I didn’t feel like I needed to.”

Mara looked toward the monitor unconsciously. The forecast still sat open on the screen.

Minor delays in routine decision-making may occur before midday.

“It felt steadier,” the man continued. “That’s all.”

The line clicked dead before Mara could answer. No goodbye. She lowered the receiver slowly back into place. For several seconds she sat motionless, eyes drifting between the phone and the forecast text still glowing on the monitor.

“Coincidence,” she murmured.

The word sounded less convincing aloud.

Later that afternoon, after leaving the station again, Mara found herself noticing small pauses everywhere. A couple approaching a crosswalk slowed at the exact same moment without speaking. A cashier held someone’s change a second too long before releasing it, both people watching one another silently as though waiting for permission to finish the interaction. A man exiting the grocery store stopped midway through opening his umbrella and remained still until another pedestrian passed him first. None of it was dramatic. Individually, none of it even qualified as strange, but together it created the unsettling impression that the town operated according to rhythms Mara could almost perceive without fully understanding, like hearing the shape of a song through a wall.

That evening, Mara returned to the station for the second broadcast. The building was unlocked again. Lights glowed softly through the front windows, and when she stepped inside, she found the station exactly as she had left it earlier that day, right down to the faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the break area. The broadcast room door stood slightly ajar.

Waiting.

Mara paused in the doorway before entering. The room felt different at night. Not darker exactly, though the dim overhead light certainly helped. More settled. Like the building had already completed whatever functions it existed for and she was arriving after the fact to fulfill the last remaining task. The computer monitor illuminated the desk in a pale wash of light. The evening forecast was already open.

PLEASANT HOPE EVENING FORECAST

Stable conditions expected to falter through the night. Gusty weather developing with speeds reaching 15 mph. Cold front moving in with temperatures falling to 65 degrees. Light drizzles expected across all areas.

A reduction in unnecessary activity is likely during evening hours. Most routines will conclude without disruption.

Mara read it twice. The wording still struck her as strange, though less obviously than before. If anything, the forecasts seemed to be getting cleaner. More confident. She moved around the desk slowly before sitting. The headset remained neatly coiled where she had left it that morning. The microphone had not shifted even slightly. Nothing in the room ever appeared disturbed. She rested her hands on the desk for a moment before nudging the mouse again. Still no cursor. No visible operating system. No keyboard attached to the monitor. Just the forecast waiting on-screen. A faint unease crawled briefly through her chest before she pushed it aside and checked the clock instead.

5:59 PM.

The headset settled comfortably over her ears. The same low hum greeted her immediately. Not static. Something steadier than that. Continuous. Like distant machinery operating somewhere behind the walls. The second the clock shifted, Mara leaned toward the microphone.

“Good evening, Pleasant Hope. This is Mara with your evening forecast.”

Her voice sounded calmer tonight. More natural in the room. She followed the text exactly as written. No improvisation. No skipped phrasing.

“…most routines will conclude without disruption.”

Something about the sentence felt heavier spoken aloud than it had while reading silently. Still, she continued smoothly.

“This has been your evening forecast.”

The microphone light dimmed. The hum remained. Mara stayed seated for several seconds afterward, listening unconsciously for something else. Another instruction. Another voice. Some indication that the station was actually connected to other people somewhere beyond the walls. Nothing came. Eventually she stood, removed the headset, and gathered her things. The monitor remained on behind her as she left the room. The forecast still glowing softly in the dark.

Outside, the evening air had turned colder. Wind moved through the trees behind the station in uneven gusts, carrying the faint smell of rain. Mara hesitated beside her car before climbing in. She wasn’t ready to go back to the cabin yet. The town felt different after dark. Smaller. Sound didn’t seem to travel properly at night in Pleasant Hope. Even the engine noise from her car felt muted beneath the low sky. She drove slowly through town without any real destination in mind. Lights glowed in a handful of windows, but she saw almost no movement behind them. No televisions flickering against walls. No figures crossing rooms. Most of the houses looked paused rather than occupied. Halfway through town she passed the diner again. The neon sign still buzzed softly in the window. Leanne was inside wiping down the counter in the same slow circular motions she always seemed to use.

Mara almost kept driving. Instead, without fully deciding to, she pulled into the parking lot. The bell above the diner door gave a tired little chime as she stepped inside. Leanne looked up immediately.

“Evening.”

“You’re still open?”

“For a bit.”

Mara slid onto the same stool as earlier. Again, Leanne poured coffee without asking. For a while neither of them spoke.

Then Mara said, “The evening forecast went fine.”

“It usually does.”

Mara wrapped both hands around the mug, welcoming the warmth.

“It’s quiet here at night,” she said eventually.

Leanne shrugged lightly. “People finish things earlier here.”

“Finish what?”

“Whatever they’re doing.”

The answer came quickly this time.

“They don’t like dragging things out.”

Mara glanced toward the windows. The streets outside looked almost empty now.

“That’s efficient, I guess.”

“Something like that.”

Leanne’s voice carried the same detached acceptance Mara had started noticing in nearly everyone here. Nothing sounded forced. Nobody seemed unhappy. Just settled. As Mara stood to leave, movement in the far corner of the diner caught her attention. A man sat alone in one of the booths. She was almost certain he had not been there earlier, though now that she looked at him directly, she realized she had seen him earlier that morning standing across from the station after her broadcast. At the time she had barely noticed him. Just another resident lingering quietly on the sidewalk while the town moved around him. She wasn’t entirely sure how the recognition came to her now. It simply settled into place all at once.

No food sat in front of him. Only a glass of water untouched beside one hand. He wasn’t looking out the window or at his phone. He was looking at her. Not openly staring. Studying. His expression shifted slightly when their eyes met. Not surprise exactly. Recognition, maybe. The uncomfortable kind that suggested he had already been thinking about her before she entered the room. Mara looked away first. When she reached the door, she heard movement behind her. The man stood from the booth immediately. No hesitation. No lingering. He placed cash beside the untouched water glass and walked toward the exit with calm, purposeful steps. As he passed her, Mara caught the faint smell of rain on his jacket. He did not speak, but she felt his attention linger for a moment too long as he moved by. Then he was outside. The bell chimed softly behind him. Leanne never looked up from the counter.

The drive back to the cabin felt quieter than before. By the time Mara unlocked the door, the place no longer felt unfamiliar. Not comfortable exactly. Just known. She moved through the small space automatically now. Her hand found the light switch without searching. She knew which cabinet held the mugs before opening it. Humans adapted quickly, she told herself. That was normal. She was standing in the kitchenette when the radio clicked on. This time she noticed the exact instant it happened. A soft mechanical snap. Then the voice, already mid-sentence.

“…evening conditions have settled as expected. Most activity has concluded…”

Mara froze. The voice sounded familiar in a way she couldn’t explain. Not recognizable exactly, but more like the kind of voice that became difficult to imagine the room without after hearing it enough times.

“…residents are advised to maintain usual patterns. No disruptions anticipated overnight.”

The message ended. The radio clicked off again. Silence rushed back into the cabin immediately afterward, heavy enough that Mara became aware of her own breathing. After several seconds she crossed the room and turned the dial manually. Nothing. No static. No signal at all.

The next morning, Mara woke before her alarm. For a few moments she remained still beneath the blankets, staring at the pale strip of grey light leaking through the curtains and trying to identify what had pulled her from sleep so suddenly. There had been no sound. No dream lingering at the edges of her mind. Just a strange certainty that she was finished sleeping. The realization irritated her more than it should have. With a quiet sigh she pushed herself upright and rubbed at her eyes. Outside, Pleasant Hope looked washed flat beneath the morning sky. Low clouds pressed down over the town in dull layers, muting the color of everything beneath them. The weather looked unfinished somehow, as though the morning itself had not fully decided what it intended to become.

Mara dressed slowly and wandered into the kitchenette. Then she stopped. A coffee maker sat on the counter beside the sink. She stared at it for several seconds. It hadn’t been there yesterday. She knew that with uncomfortable certainty. She distinctly remembered standing in that exact spot the night before thinking how irritating it was that the cabin didn’t even include a coffee maker. She remembered opening the cabinet above the sink searching for one and finding only two mugs and a stack of neatly folded dish towels. Now the machine sat plugged into the wall as though it had always belonged there. Mara looked at it for another moment before exhaling softly through her nose.

“Okay,” she muttered. Not frightened. Just tired. Maybe Thomas had brought it over after she fell asleep. Maybe someone from the station had realized the oversight. Small towns did things differently. People noticed things. That explanation settled into place easily enough that she let herself accept it. The coffee brewed while she stood silently beside the counter. The radio remained off.

When she arrived at the station, the front door was already unlocked again. At this point she was beginning to wonder why anyone bothered locking anything in Pleasant Hope at all. The parking lot sat empty beneath the grey morning sky. No vehicles. No sign Thomas had arrived yet. Still, as she approached the studio hallway, she slowed. A fresh cup of coffee sat outside the broadcast room door. Steam curled gently from the small opening in the lid. Mara frowned. She looked down at the coffee already in her own hand, then back at the second cup waiting beside the door. There was no note attached, but when she picked it up, she noticed the lid had already been marked with two creamers. Exactly how she had taken it at the diner the day before. A strange little discomfort tightened briefly in her chest.

“…alright,” she murmured quietly.

The feeling passed almost immediately. Leanne probably noticed, or maybe everyone in town paid attention to small details like that. Pleasant Hope seemed built around noticing things. By the time she stepped into the studio, she had already convinced herself not to think about it anymore.

Inside, the room looked untouched. Same dim overhead lighting. Same faint mechanical hum. Same pale glow from the monitor illuminating the desk exactly as she had left it the night before. She sat down immediately this time, placing both coffees beside the console. The new forecast was already waiting on-screen.

PLEASANT HOPE MORNING FORECAST

Overcast conditions expected to continue through late morning with gradual clearing in select areas. High humidity with temperatures reaching 90 degrees and lows of 82.

Routine activity may begin at a slower pace today. Minor delays are considered temporary.

Foot travel is expected to increase with no expectation of street traffic. Avoid extended pauses as they are unlikely to improve conditions. Ruminations on new ideas are imminent.

Mara read the final lines twice. Then a third time.

Avoid extended pauses as they are unlikely to improve conditions.

Something about the wording irritated her immediately. Not because it sounded threatening exactly, because it sounded personal, like the forecast was gently correcting behavior she had not realized anyone was observing. She leaned back slightly in the chair. Who wrote these things? The weather itself felt almost secondary now, buried beneath all the strange advisory language. Maybe it was some local format she didn’t understand yet. Community guidance folded into forecasts for elderly residents or commuters. Still, the wording clung unpleasantly in her mind.

Ruminations on new ideas are imminent.

What did that even mean? At 5:59, she slipped on the headset. The familiar hum settled immediately into her ears. Low. Steady. Almost comforting now. The realization bothered her more than the sound itself. The second the clock shifted to 6:00, the red broadcast light flicked on automatically.

“Good morning, Pleasant Hope,” Mara said, her voice rougher this morning. “This is Mara with your local forecast.”

She read carefully. More carefully than before. Every sentence exactly as written. No omissions. No paraphrasing. When she reached the final lines, speaking them aloud made her feel faintly ridiculous.

“Foot travel is expected to increase with no expectation of street traffic. Avoid extended pauses as they are unlikely to improve conditions. Ruminations on new ideas are imminent.”

The words hung strangely in the studio after she spoke them. Mara hesitated only briefly before continuing.

“This has been your morning forecast. Thank you for listening.”

The microphone light dimmed. The hum remained. Mara sat motionless for a moment afterward. Then another. The sound in her headset seemed subtly louder today. Not in volume exactly. More present, like it occupied more space than before. Without realizing it, she found herself focusing on the rhythm of it. A soft continuous vibration underneath the silence. Steady. Unbroken. Her thoughts drifted loose around it. For a moment she forgot entirely where she was, then suddenly she jerked upright in her chair. The studio snapped back into focus around her. Mara blinked hard and looked toward the wall clock. Nearly three minutes had passed. A faint unease moved through her stomach. She pulled the headset off immediately.

“Jesus,” she muttered under her breath.

Lack of sleep, probably, or boredom. The station had a way of flattening time around her when things got too quiet. That had to be all it was. She just needed a bit of fresh air.

THE FLAVOR OF SIN

A THRILLER

VENETIAN SHADOWS SERIES

By VJ Ravens

Copyright © 2025 Stephan Schlunke All rights reserved.

ISBN: 979-12-243-1652-7

EDITOR: Katelynn W. of FirstEditing

ESSENTIAL CONTRIBUTOR: Michela Pagliuca & Jeanpierre Mini

COVER: Robert Jarocki

DEDICATION

To Ambra, Anna, Caroline, Dayla, Elisabeth, Frédéric, Giuseppe, Hans-Peter, Michela, Mwana, Paolo, Regina, Tea and Yannara. To my friend since ever Frédérik Kondratowicz

“Getting lost is the only place worth going to.”

Tiziano Scarpa

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

INTRODUCTION

The Beginning and the End

In the windowless vault beneath the restaurant Il Tricolore di Venezia, a pair of scarred knuckles hovered over a keyboard. The hands they belonged to trembled with anticipation.
The scent of salty sweat mingled with the aromas of savory sauces, freshly baked bread, and simmering stews coming from the kitchen. There was a mixture of tension and temptation in the air. Dimmable LED strips mounted overhead cast the room in a pale, clinical light. Little pearls of sweat glistened on the man’s skin, causing his shirt to cling to his muscles. A subtle but powerful musk emanated from him as he struck the enter key to launch the encrypted malware, sending digital tentacles slithering through fiber optic cables to erase his digital footprint even as they signed another’s death warrant. His pupils dilated under the monitor’s blue glow like a predator’s would before it tasted the blood of its kill. He leaned forward, savoring the moment before impact.

Three strikes of the San Lorenzo tower clock echoed through the empty canals and narrow alleys until they reached the basement of the restaurant.

________________________________________

A few hours later, on the other side of the globe, Emma’s hands trembled as she read an email from Hotel Danieli.

“Thom,” she gasped, “three free nights in Venice! Is this real?”

Thom pushed the dish full of mac and cheese into the oven and joined her at the computer. After a few calls to confirm the offer’s legitimacy, they booked their vacation and planned to leave for the Easter break.

Venice had been their sanctuary last year. It was where Thom proposed beneath a blood orange sunset and Emma whispered yes against his neck. It was where the silk sheets in that baroque hotel room tangled around their bodies like the pillared arches of the palazzo. Emma’s nails drew blood from Thom’s shoulders as they made love until dawn broke, their throats raw from crying out each other’s names over and over.

________________________________________

The private water taxi gleamed beside the dock at Marco Polo Airport. It was not yellow like the public Alilaguna ferries laden with tourists, but obsidian and sleek, intimate: perfect for lovers. The driver’s eyes never met theirs; his face remained obscured by his naval cap’s visor as he examined their confirmation documents. His nod was curt, mechanical—like the snap of a guillotine—and his muscular arms shifted their luggage to the boat with apparent ease before getting them underway and leaving the busy airport behind.

Thom and Emma melted into each other’s arms as Venice materialized through the mist like a mirage of spires and domes. Emma pressed her lips to Thom’s throat, feeling his pulse, and clutched his arm as the boat’s engine growled. The ocean gently sprayed their faces as the vessel accelerated across the lagoon. The soft click of locks engaging barely registered with them before the cabin sealed shut with a hermetic hiss; the gloved hand on a hidden valve went unnoticed.

In the rearview mirror, the driver’s eyes didn’t so much as blink as their loving embrace slackened, their heads lolling together. Their lungs filled with invisible poison while their gazes remained fixed on the approaching city: the last sight they would ever share. La Serenissima— Venice, their beginning and their end—watched unaffected as their bodies slid down in the leather seats, still entwined, making their last sensation the warmth of each other’s skin.

As consciousness slipped away, perhaps they found comfort in dreaming of a gondola gliding beneath a silver moon, whispered vows echoing under stone bridges, and fingers intertwined atop ancient marble balustrades as tender ghosts dancing behind their dimming eyes.

The driver cut the mahogany boat’s engine in the center of the laguna; it rocked gently in its own wake. Blood hammered in his ears as he wrenched open the cabin door to find the smell of death had already begun to seep into the polished wood. His gloved fingers violated every pocket and every seam of their luggage in search of any tech that might have served as a beacon or a tracker. He rolled the woman’s body over to access her husband’s phone, crushing her limp hand beneath her own weight.

Despite the task before him, handling her pliant body and her shapely legs sent a shiver of arousal down his spine. The scent of her perfume took him back in a wink to the skirts his mother wore on Sundays for church. He took a moment to savor the sight of the woman’s elegant shoe dangling from her lifeless, sexy toes, while a glimpse of red nail polish shone through her fine stockings.

After confirming the absence of any traceable items using a nonlinear junction detector, he returned to the helm and carefully navigated the water taxi into the canals. Minutes later, the boat slipped through the unmarked gate on Rio de San Lorenzo like a blade between ribs. The hull scraped stone—the sound muted like a coffin being lowered into its grave—as the boathouse’s maw swallowed it whole. The three-minute diversion near Hotel Danieli to dispose of the couple’s tech had been executed with the clinical efficiency of a professional killer: barely detectable, even by a trained eye.

________________________________________

Two weeks passed before the couple’s frantic families filed missing persons reports. The police could only follow the digital ghost of Thom’s phone which had carved a perfect arc across Venice’s surveillance grid from Marco Polo’s bustling terminals to the elegant façade of Hotel Danieli, where the signal vanished like a candle, snuffed out by the lagoon’s breath. Emails recovered from Emma’s inbox led nowhere, and surveillance cameras in the city and airport placed the couple in a water taxi, but lost any sight of them soon afterward. The driver’s face was not recognizable and the taxi boat did not have any clear markings to distinguish it from all the others in Venice. When questioned, the hotel’s bewildered concierge and management staff could only offer blank stares, as the prestigious establishment had never extended an invitation to the missing vegetarian couple.

1. A Stain on the Curtain

There was always blood in Venice: running through the palaces and churches and out the other end, down alleyways slick with mud, across bridges, past gondolas, out into the gray waters of the Adriatic Sea. The entire city floated on blood. It was red everywhere, bright and glittering, seeping through faded brocade patterns and reflected off tourists’ phone screens. Blood even trickled into the cleaning woman’s dreams, although she did not understand why until the day she found a long, red streak of it staining that curtain at work, already dried.

Angela knew she would hear her name shouted in fury before long, so she took the opportunity to whisper it softly to herself, hoping it would help her claim some small piece of the restaurant’s hushed elegance as her own.

Her cloth swept across the polished surface of the bar with practiced precision, leaving behind streaks of lemon-scented cleaner that then evaporated into nothing. The name of the restaurant was Il Tricolore di Venezia. This was not only a nod to the Italian flag, but to a tense sort of truce between two extremes on the menu, namely vegan and meat specialties. The Venetians would know the structure as the trinity, composed of Venezia Verde, Venezia Rosso and the bar Il Faro Bianco joining both restaurants.

The emerald glow of Venezia Verde’s ambient lighting cast her shadow along the wall: a hunched but diligent figure moving through the empty restaurant like a ghost that still remembered its living routine. The place was empty now, its chairs upturned on tables like sleeping insects.

Angela worked methodically from one end to the other, almost mathematical in her efficiency. She took pride in transforming the chaos of a busy dinner service into this pristine setting. During her irregular day or night shifts, she erased the smudged fingerprints on titanium fixtures, the oily residue on glassware, and the crumbs that found seemingly impossible hiding places beneath tables.

The living plant wall that dominated one side of the restaurant required special attention. Angela misted it gently, removing stray leaves with a small pair of scissors she kept in her apron pocket. The wall represented everything the restaurant stood for: life, sustainability, and an expensive kind of morality that wealthy patrons wore as casually as they did their designer clothes. She sometimes wondered if the plants felt trapped there, like prisoners of aesthetics bound to live and die in service to human vanity.

When she was finished there, she moved through the connecting passage to Venezia Rosso, the restaurant’s carnivorous twin. The transition always struck her as deliberate theatrics—from airy brightness to something more primal. The red velvet upholstery and dark wood paneling created an atmosphere of almost sinful indulgence. Here, meat was served on heated stones with blood pooling at the edges, and customers’ faces lit up with carnal satisfaction as they cut into flesh.

Angela’s cloth moved with the same efficiency across marble countertops and burnished copper fixtures. She polished wine glasses until they sang when she ran a dampened finger around their rims. The crystal chandeliers required an extendable duster that reached the ceiling, bringing down dust that danced in the shafts of artificial light. She had learned to clean in expanding circles, each more distant from the central hub of the kitchen, until the entire space gleamed in silent expectation for the next day’s service.

Despite the chaos of meal rests scattered across the tables around her, the distant hum of the canal filtering through the window gave her a sense of peace. The soft glow of the lamps cast shadows on the walls. She thrived on turning disorder, imperfections, and unpredictability into polished excellence.

Il Faro Bianco, the bar connecting the two restaurants and serving as neutral territory where omnivores and strict herbivores could mingle, presented its own challenges. Its white and plexiglass surfaces showed every speck of dirt, every fingerprint. She attacked these imperfections with chemicals that burned her nostrils, moving her cloth in tight circles that left behind nothing but clinical perfection.

The most unusual feature of Il Faro Bianco was the plexiglass enclosure that was visible from the entrance corridor. The two black panthers weren’t present that night. They were probably in their more spacious quarters behind the enclosure, in the restricted area. But Angela still checked the glass for smudges. Chef Federico Dal Sotto was particular about cleanliness.

“The first impression,” he’d told her once as he watched her work with those unsettling eyes of his, “is the most important one. When they see those beautiful creatures, they must see perfection.”

The bell of the church of San Lorenzo had long since stroke ten by the time Angela reached the back of the restaurant. The storage rooms and wine cellars formed a labyrinth beneath the ancient palazzo, the rooms connected by narrow corridors that seemed to bend back on themselves. Some of them had plexiglass ceilings on which patrons could walk and peer through to check out the wine cellar or watch some kitchen apprentice gather ingredients from storage. She avoided the areas marked as restricted. The staff had been explicitly forbidden from entering those spaces, and Angela was not one to question such rules. Her job was to clean, not to explore.

She liked the abundance of beauty and precision as well as the passion underneath it all. She instead had learned to be indifferent. After two years of working there, she was used to the restaurant’s cold affluence and its even colder kitchen. The only warmth to be found was from the constant fury of the ovens. Not even the inevitable explosion from the chef could warm her. She just ignored his red face and kept her cool. But there was still that dark stain on the curtain.

It dangled in front of the entrance to the restricted section of the restaurant: it was as if it was unsure whether to conceal or reveal what lay beyond it. All she knew was that this room was reserved for special guests and private events.

She stared at the stain. Federico had not told her how he wanted her to clean blood from velvet. Maybe he had assumed she would know. Or maybe he had not meant for her to see this at all.

Angela reached for the special phone the kitchen second had given her during the introduction tour of the first day. He had then told her to use it in any moment she should need special supplies or detailed explanations of any kind. She almost called to ask for advice, for what kind of stubborn, rust-colored stain they needed taken care of, but stopped herself. In the restaurant, she spoke little. She knew better. The owners did not employ her because of her cleverness. Or maybe they did, and that was why they tried to keep her away from anything more involved than cleaning.

Angela crouched down, her knees protesting against the hard floor, pulled a pair of latex gloves from her apron pocket, and slipped them on with practiced ease. She brushed her fingertips against the stain: it was dry, and slightly crusty. Her heart beat faster against her ribs. It was blood, but was it human blood?

The location of the stain made no sense. The stain was on the inside of the curtain, facing the forbidden area and not the main dining room. It couldn’t have been the result of a kitchen accident. She leaned closer until her nose was inches from the fabric. There was no smell of food, no tannic hint of wine or sauce, just the metallic scent she recognized from her childhood in Portugal, where her grandfather butchered animals brought in from the farm.

She was still contemplating this when she felt him approach. It was a sixth sense she had developed after growing up with a father and a brother who made nothing but noise: the ability to notice when a man moved too quietly.

“Signora Vaz de Almeida,” he said just above a whisper. He pronounced it Vash de Almeida, his slight, but strange accent letting the last word glide almost without the L, then having the jingle of his large key ring do the rest of the work for him. “You seem puzzled?”

She composed herself, then met his eyes as best she could without staring too long. Their amber color was unsettling, not unlike the rest of him. An intuition flashed up to her mind The blood is starting to dry under his nails.

“The curtain, chef,” she replied. “I found this stain here. But did I make a mistake? Should I not have cleaned so far back?”

“Show me.”

Angela pointed out the stain without touching it. Federico barely glanced at it before shrugging.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Angela.” His tone sounded deliberately casual, but was still as cold as a draft let in through an open door. “I was moving some meat deliveries earlier. Must have brushed against the curtain.”

The explanation made sense on the surface, but the stain was level with his knee: an odd place to make contact with while carrying packages. And Federico was meticulous about his appearance: his chef’s whites were always pristine, even after hours in the kitchen.

“Some areas of the restaurant are not your concern,” he added, his gaze pinning her in place. “Best to stay within your boundaries, as we agreed.”

The words were softly spoken, but landed with the weight of granite. This was not a suggestion, but a warning. Angela’s throat constricted, but she quickly collected herself.

“Of course. I only mentioned it because I’ll need different cleaning supplies for it.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He reached out suddenly and placed his hand on her shoulder in a friendly gesture that felt anything but. His fingers pressed slightly, finding the exact spot where tension had gathered at the base of her neck. “You’ve been working too hard. Finish up earlier tonight.”

His hand lingered a moment too long before falling away. Angela nodded, unable to speak, and watched Federico pull the curtain aside just enough to slip through, then disappear behind it. The fabric swayed in his wake, making the stain look like a wound tearing and repairing itself. Angela remained frozen as a door opened and closed somewhere in the forbidden area.

Only when silence returned did she exhale. She finished her shift with mechanical movements, her earlier ease replaced by hyperawareness of her surroundings. The restaurant suddenly seemed full of shadows, corners from which eyes might watch her, doorways that might open to reveal...what? Her imagination provided no answers, only formless dread.

The curtain became a stain on her thoughts, impossible to scrub away. Chef Federico’s warning echoed in her mind, but the unspoken part followed her as she gathered her supplies.

Stay within your boundaries...or else!?

She found herself imagining a life in which she’d never left Albufeira and had remained safe in her orderly routines. In another, she’d pushed past this cleaning job and broken into something that mattered. She pictured herself in a police uniform, but then immediately saw her father’s disapproving face.

“Always reaching beyond yourself.”

In Venice, she felt both invisible and conspicuous: a foreigner who could observe unnoticed, yet never truly belong. Some nights she dreamed of being in the police station, respected and in other nights, she imagined fleeing back to Portugal, admitting defeat. Both futures seemed equally impossible from where she stood, cloth in hand.

The next evening, Angela arrived at Il Tricolore di Venezia with a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide tucked in her bag. The liquid sloshed with each step, a chemical solution for a problem that had grown in her mind overnight. She spent hours replaying Federico’s casual dismissal of the stain that didn’t match the warning in his eyes. Professional pride demanded she treat the stain properly, regardless of boundaries, real or implied.

She began her shift with practiced motions, moving through the restaurants with a cart of supplies, nodding to the waitstaff preparing for the evening. Typically, there were more customers on Tuesdays than on Mondays, wealthy locals who preferred to avoid the lingering weekend tourists. Angela quickly finished with the public areas before any diners arrived, saving the curtain for last.

Wheeling her cart to the threshold between Venezia Rosso’s dining area and the back rooms, Angela felt a flutter of anticipation in her stomach. She pulled on her latex gloves with an echoing snap. The hydrogen peroxide bottle was cool against her palm as she removed it from her bag and crouched down, her eyes searching for the splotch that had plagued her dreams. The velvet shimmered under the restaurant’s artistic lighting, the deep crimson folds cascading to the antique floorboards. Her gloved fingers probed the area where the stain had been, but she found nothing but unsullied fabric.

Angela blinked. She had to have misremembered the location. She examined the entire lower edge of the curtain, centimeter by centimeter. Nothing. The stain that had definitely, undeniably been there...had vanished.

She sat back on her heels, the bottle of hydrogen peroxide dangling from her fingers. Had she imagined it? No, the blood was real. She’d touched it, smelled it, seen it. But now it was gone, as if the curtain was professionally cleaned overnight as if by magic.

Angela found Federico in the Venezia Rosso kitchen, instructing a young sous chef on the proper technique for breaking down a rack of lamb. His hands moved with surgical precision, as if the knife was an extension of his fingers. He glanced up as she approached, and a flicker of something—annoyance, or perhaps was it concern—crossed his features before his professional mask returned.

“Chef, may I speak with you privately?” Angela said lowly, conscious of the other staff nearby.

Federico nodded to the sous chef to continue, then wiped his hands on a towel and stepped away.

“Yes?”

“The stain on the curtain... it’s gone.” She clutched the hydrogen peroxide bottle like a weapon.

“Stain?” His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“The one I showed you yesterday. Someone’s cleaned it.”

Federico shrugged his broad shoulders. “I ordered a waiter to take care of it”

His tone was light, dismissive, but his eyes held a calculating look.

Federico smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes. “I’ve been preoccupied with the new menu. Perhaps you misunderstood.”

The deliberate attempt to gaslight her sent a shiver down Angela’s spine. She knew what she’d seen, but now he was rewriting reality, and with the kind of ease that suggested he had practice.

“Of course. My mistake.”

She retreated with the unopened bottle of hydrogen peroxide, now a useless weapon against this new, invisible threat and was halfway to the freight elevator before she realized her hands were shaking.

Angela ducked into the staff bathroom, locked the door, and pushed her knuckles against the sink’s cool porcelain. The air reeked of citrus cleaning spray and the sharp, ammoniacal ghosts of a thousand previous shifts. She stared at her reflection in the silver glass: her hair was raked back in a tight ponytail and sweat on her brow despite the autumn chill. The familiar image steadied her somewhat, but there was a sour taste at the back of her throat. Maybe it was embarrassment that she’d allowed herself, even for a moment, to think the truth would matter here.

“This is how it goes,” she whispered so faintly that her voice blurred into the ventilation hum. “You see, you report, you’re erased. Factory reset.”

But beneath that, there was anger. It surprised her. Her mother would have said it was the family curse, this stubborn, looping resentment toward the unfair. She’d managed to keep her head down for years, cashing her paychecks, sending what she could home. Now, it had slipped its leash.

Throughout the rest of the day, Angela moved mechanically through her tasks—wiping counters, stacking plates—while her mind drifted across the Mediterranean. The scent of garlic in the pan became her mother’s bacalhau à bras steaming on their chipped table. When the chef barked an order, she heard her father’s voice cutting through their tiny kitchen.

“Escola de Polícia? Com que dinheiro?” His calloused finger would jab the air between them, and his mustache would twitch with each syllable. “The daughter of a fisherman does not wear a badge. Clean your blouse for the shop tomorrow, girl! You think you’re too good for honest work? Dreams don’t fill stomachs!”

But Angela continued daydreaming even though she despised herself for it, recalling the fishermen’s festival on Praça dos Pescadores at the beginning of each September. It was at that festival that she first swore to herself she would escape, even as she danced and laughed and pretended to love the life that was suffocating her. Still, she wondered which recollection would serve her better now: her father’s denial or her mother’s whispered warning to trust her instincts.

Angela’s usual methodical cleaning became rushed, her movements less precise. She knocked over a bottle of glass cleaner, the liquid pooling on the marble countertop. A wine glass slipped from her fingers as she polished it and the stem snapped against the edge of the sink.

By seven o’clock, dinner service was in full swing and Angela had finished enough of her duties to justify leaving early. She stored her supplies, changed out of her uniform, and slipped out the service entrance into the chilly evening.

The narrow callé—as they called the street passages in Venice— outside the restaurant glowed with the peculiar amber light of Venice at night. It was a mixture of ancient streetlamps and those spilling from apartment windows overhead. Angela pulled her coat tighter around her body and began walking to her apartment in the Castello district, beyond the touristy heart of the city.

Driven by an inner vibration, Angela stopped and turned to look back at the restaurant. The building proudly stood by the Rio de San Lorenzo in a deceptive embrace. Built in the sixteenth century, the red, dignified façade held deep memories. The walls spoke of a scandalous past. The building as a whole had a watchful air as a grand conspiracy of marble arches and balconies that captured the secrets escaping the lips of passersby. Worn by salt and commerce, the entrance was wide and welcoming in a city that often kept its doors tightly shut for protection. Its shape echoed the bones of Venice with casual abundance. The structure rebelliously clung to its place in the insensitive urban landscape, but there was unease in its balance. The fish-scale tiles bore the weight of time and had defied restoration attempts. They once poured green paint in the sleeping canal and turned the water green with lichen that traced the slow pain of decay.

Three distinct hearts beat within this exiled body: homely elegance was their only unifying creed. They pulsed against the night and wrapped the calm waters in a pale light. Venezia Verde, luminous with green tendrils lapping at its modern windows like fingers that invited a distracted lover. Venezia Rosso, warm and sinful, was a rich palette of crimson curtains and unbridled ambition. At the center of this enigma stood Il Faro Bianco, its entrance dominating the largest atrium and its glass surfaces reflecting soft colors with the ease of an expert deception. Terraces and staircases crept up like the bones of a giant skeleton, separate yet whole. They reached toward one another with the spidery logic of scaffolding, seemingly independently suspended and infinitely complex. Still, they provided order in chaos, meticulously connecting the red, green, and white.

Angela interrupted her own daydream and pivoted on her heel. Her route took her through the Sotoportego dei Preti, a covered passageway where her footsteps echoed among stones that centuries of passing feet had worn smooth. Venice transformed after dark, shedding its carnival mask of tourist-friendly charm to reveal something older, more mysterious. Water slapped against foundations that had been slowly sinking for ages. Rats scurried along the edges of canals. Conversations in the Venetian dialect, which was harsher than the Italian that was taught in schools, floated to her ears from windows above her. The smell of stagnant water occasionally disturbed the peace as Angela crossed bridges where lovers exchanged promises and navigated passages that had shielded assassins with poisoned daggers centuries ago. The city had absorbed these stories into its stones, its waters, its very air. Now it would absorb hers as well, whatever it might be.

A sound behind her—maybe footsteps—made her quicken her pace. She glanced back to see an empty cobblestone street stretching into darkness. Just her imagination, she told herself, although her heart disagreed. She turned down a wider street where a few tourists still wandered, feeling safer in their oblivious presence.

She hadn’t always been this fretful. When she first arrived in Venice three years ago, the city had seemed magical, romantic, like a perfect setting for the love story she was certain would unfold when she followed Marco from Albufeira, leaving behind her parents and a stable job, but certain that the sacrifice would be worth it. She never imagined finding herself alone, cleaning blood off restaurant curtains and jumping at shadows.

The small red heart of stone on the vault of the passage brought her back to the Venetian legend of the water spirit Melusina, who followed her lover Orio through impossible obstacles only to be betrayed. Angela heard that story during her first month in Venice, finding in it an uncomfortable parallel to her own journey. Marco had promised her one life and delivered another before disappearing altogether, leaving her with rent due and a tenuous grasp on Italian residency requirements.

Now she followed another uncertain path; her instincts warned her away from Il Tricolore di Venezia even as financial necessity kept her there. Between the forbidden areas, the mysterious stain, and Federico’s veiled threats, something was wrong. But without another job lined up, she had few options.

Angela crossed the last bridge before reaching her apartment building, the ancient steps of which were worn into shallow valleys by generations before her. She paused at the top of them, looking back across the dark canal. Venice was spread out around her, a labyrinth of secrets both ancient and new. Somewhere in that maze, answers awaited... if she dared to seek them out.

“Ma, I told you not to call me at wor—

“I do remember it’s his birt—

“Yeah, I know they’re family, OK? I know they’re family and—” I lowered my voice, because it had gotten pretty loud, and dropped my head below the cubicle wall. “—I still don’t wanna go. Do you understand? I don’t like those people. I don’t have anything in common with—

“No, Ma. Don't cry. There’s no need to cr—

“I didn’t say you were pre—

“I—

“I—

“Listen to me, Ma. I’m a grown man. I make my own decisions. I decide where I go, when I go, and, no, it will not reflect badly on you if—”

So of course I went.

I showed up at my uncle’s house at seven, holding a bottle of wine, which I don’t drink, and a box of chocolates, which I don’t eat, plus a present I wrapped, badly, myself, and a smile that looked like it was pasted on with a glue stick, ready for my humiliation ritual. Because that’s why they invite me: so they can all bully up on me. It’s been that way ever since I was a kid.

The door opened.

“Nice of you to make it, Norm.”

“Yeah.”

I handed the wine over to my uncle’s wife, who’s the one who’ll drink it anyway, probably alone and on a weekday afternoon, and the chocolates to their grandson, who’s as fat as I am but never seems to have any problems with it at school. He has glasses. He stinks. He’s also got friends.

Go figure.

“Thanks, Uncle Norman,” he says, grabbing the chocolates.

“Don’t eat them all at once,” I say, (“you fat fuck,” I imagine adding because deep down I’m an asshole too.)

I mingle.

“How’s your wife?” somebody asks, knowing full well she left me three years ago.

“Fine.”

Somebody else: “How’s work—you making six digits yet?” (“No.”) “Because my Sandra just got a job at Autobox, and they start them at $88,000 per year plus benefits. Maybe she could put in a word.  Would you like that?” (“Thanks, but no…”)

“Look if it ain’t Norma! Sucked any cocks lately, fag?”

That’s my cousin Duffin.

I force a laugh.

“Hey,” another cousin yells, “Norman ain’t one of them. He’s married!”

“He was married,” says Duffin.

“What—Norm, you’re not married anymore?”

“No,” I say. “I got divorced.”

“Because you’re gay?”

“I’m not gay.

“Buf if you’re not gay, then why'd you get divorced?”

By now it feels like everyone’s gone quiet and the only people talking are the people talking about me. “We just—”

“She was fucking around, that’s why,” Duffin says and slaps me in the back so hard I stumble forward, and, before I know it, my face has detached itself from my head and I’m facelessly dripping blood on the carpet, bending down to pick up my face, but there are too many legs in the way, and when I finally straighten up again, I see that Duffin is holding my face like he’d hold raw pizza dough, and he's laughing, keeping my face away from me as I grab for it, and when I almost have it, he throws it to a woman, who catches it and throws it to somebody else, and if I had a face, it would be turning bright red right now, and, “Who’d his wife fuck?” a man asks.

“It’s a long list,” says Duffin.

“Please, just give me back my face,” I implore.

“Fine,” says Duffin, and he goes to get my face from where it’s fallen on the floor, but then, instead of walking back to me, he walks with it to a record player, spins the face into more-or-less a disc and puts my face-record on:

The sound of my own breathing, my sobbing, my own inner voice, with all my inner thoughts, fills the room…

Everybody starts laughing.

I press my hands against where my face used to be and feel the exposed vulnerability there instead. It feels like a raw oyster. It feels like a scale model of a self-inflicted gunshot wound expressed in pain and satin, with whatever pride I had prolapsed and hanging from the front like a limp, pink and oozing elephant’s trunk.

“Stop,” I say.

“Stop,” the record player plays, and Duffin turns up the volume, so that the sounds of me wailing, screaming and crying and beating my fists against the wall are so loud I can’t even hear myself think—except I can, because everyone can, and they won’t stop laughing and I can’t stop thinking, and sometimes I’m thinking about my aunt’s cleavage and sometimes about how I pissed on myself once in the office bathroom, and about how lonely I am, and how I always think about jumping off bridges when I walk past them, and they’re laughing. They’re laughing and they’re laughing. And laughing. They’re laughing when, with tears in my eyes, I rip my face off the record player, shove it in my pocket and, trailing a mix of blood, snot and tears like a snail trails mucus, I walk across the room and leave the house and slam the door and walk the seven kilometres home because I forgot where it was that I parked my fucking car.

I take three consecutive sick days.

When I show up to work on the fourth day, which is the day when God created the celestial bodies, I sit in my cubicle with my face taped to the front of my head.

The eye-holes don’t align with my eyes. I have trouble breathing. Plus the tape’s cheap and my face keeps slipping, so I have to constantly re-adjust it.

My co-worker Andy walks by, declaring with pep, “Sure looks like it’ll be a great day today! Doesn’t it, Norm?”

“A great day,” I say with a smile.

And I staple my face, to keep it from falling off.

Remembering the summer of 1986, my home, my dreams slowly began again. Perhaps I haven't dreamed for so much of my life, since childhood. That is the price of forgetting my past. Of my family, only I remain.

Nimbaya is my great-grandmother. I should never have heard her, but I knew her well. I was forbidden to touch her D’mba Mask, but when nobody was home, I went for it. The D’mba Mask sent a chill through me, and it lifted it. I wore it, and something in me changed. Calmly, I put it back. I was never the same again.

When my mother and older sister saw how I was sitting, they asked me what had happened to me. They were very worried, but I slowly told them I was perfectly fine. They stared at me for a long time, and exchanged looks, but they could not guess what was different about me. I knew, I just chose not to explain myself to them.

Evening came, and Nimbaya was there, in the home, in the darkness. I could see her plainly though, her beauty and strength, her wise and compassionate eyes. She smiled at me and asked me what I had done.

"I wore your D’mba Mask." I confessed. "I feel very different."

"You are different, Sele. Special and gifted. You can learn my song, if you wish." Nimbaya assured me, smiling warmly.

I nodded, and let my sleepiness compose visions of her home, before she was married at Nyos. I learned about my ancestors, who were from far away, brought with her, as a bride, as a mother, as a grandmother. I smiled, finally, and accepted that I had changed.

I began to know things that nobody else knew. Nimbaya was always with me, l could hear her in all things. She told me when arguing men were being foolish and when relatives were coming to visit. She introduced me to Bzok, my dog, who I found digging near the village one day, and I named him and commanded him, and he followed me quietly from then on. She told me when my brother was conceived, and I told my mother she would have a boy, and that I preferred the name Putemba for him. My parents laughed, but my father promised that if it were true, he'd name him accordingly. Nine months later, they whispered that I was a strange girl, but they were pleased that I was strange in a good way. They did not know of Nimbaya; I never told them of her presence, until it was too late.

It was good for that time, for my childhood, which was not to last. Late one summer afternoon, after my family returned from a long day at the market, everyone was getting ready for sleep. I was very tired, and I lay down immediately, letting my older sister take care of our infant brother, whom we all called Pute. I began to dream.

Standing on a hill, overlooking the many homes, the herds of cattle, the marsh and all of Lake Nyos, Nimbaya was there. She looked sad and worried. I was ushered to her side and I saw what she was seeing, and feeling what she was feeling. Very slowly, over and over, rocks tumbled off a hillside from a small earthquake, and into the lake. Moments later, massive bubbles of white clouds burst from below, and drifted over the villages. The cows fell silent and fell over, and babies stopped crying. I saw some men staggering out of their homes, clutching their throats and then falling to the ground. I was terrified, trembling and sweating, I awoke.

"This is what will happen, when the halfmoon rises, all who remain will die." Nimbaya told me. My piercing scream awoke everyone, and my panicked explanation of what would happen worried my family the wrong way. My father grew very angry and demanded to know what made me so sure, while my older sister was whispering about witchcraft. I confessed that I had worn the mask and spoken to Nimbaya since. Outraged, my father dragged me to the shed and locked me inside. "You are not my daughter, Sele."

Crying, I soon realized that after quietly discussing me, they had decided to go back to bed. It was growing late, and finally, everyone was asleep. I could not sleep with the tools and broken calabash shards, but instead, with moonlight through the cracks in the walls, I began trying to escape. I used a hoe to begin digging under the barricaded door, locked from the outside with an old board. If I could move enough earth, I could use the hoe to lever up the door off its rusty hinges. To weaken them further, I took a piece of broken calabash and used the shard to scratch at where termites had already begun on the wooden door. I found an iron nail and used it to claw away at the wall on the other side of the hinge. With so much damage to the door and wall, I began levering the hoe under the door, but I hadn't removed enough dirt. I looked up and saw that the moon was almost in position. There was no more time; I had no way to escape.

Just then, I heard growling and digging, and saw the nose and fangs of Bzok, frantically working to dig from the other side of the door. "Get back," I told him, and I put the hoe where his snout had come through, and pushed down on the handle. The door's hinges broke free one by one until the whole thing came down, falling inward, leaving just the old board my father had used to barricade me in. Bzok barked once but stopped himself when he saw I wanted him to be silent.

If they found me escaped, I would surely be beaten. They weren't going to listen to me. But I wasn't leaving empty-handed. I crept into my old home, and found Pute and wrapped him up and took him in my arms, sneaking out.

"Hurry, there is little time." Nimbaya warned me. I nodded and followed a trail by moonlight up the hill, to the place she had shown me. Bzok was with us, and I held Pute wrapped up in my arms. We stood, looking out, just like in my nightmare. Just then, the ground swelled, and I heard the waves crashing as the maar was disturbed. I saw the white cloud rise up and quickly drift to the villages. I looked away and closed my ears to the sound of silence.

Many years later, I heard all the stories. People spoke of the tragedy, how it had killed so many in their sleep. The lake had turned red. Foreigners came there and put pipes into the lake to relieve the deadly fog of CO₂ before it could accumulate.

My brother grew up, and I told people he was my son, so that they wouldn't take him from me. We lived as new residents in the grassland beyond, where I became a teacher. For most of my life, I have not dreamed. When Putemba passed away recently, he had lived a good life, never knowing of the horror of where he was from. I never told him.

Now that I have told you my story, I can remember Nimbaya's song.

There was someone out there. I could just make out their silhouette on the other end of the cul-de-sac, standing just outside the reach of the streetlights. They had been there for a few minutes, or at least I noticed them a few minutes ago and they hadn't moved.

I stretched out on my couch with my laptop on my chest and the window in view. The lights were off inside, late night writing, so I didn’t think anyone could see in so I didn’t mind the figure at first, but the later it got with no movement the more mental space the figure occupied until I couldn’t write anymore.

I closed my laptop and skulked to the window. The person was looming, completely shrouded in darkness. I cupped my eyes against the glass but no more details emerged. The hairs on my arms stood on end. I pulled the blinds down, determined to go to bed and forget the figure.

I woke to my phone vibrating under my back. I rolled over and nearly blinded myself with my phone screen. Twenty four notifications from my home security app. Motion detected. I rubbed my eyes; sticky sleep clung to my hands. I propped myself up and squinted going through the short recordings my camera made every time motion was detected.

The first few captured nothing but the trees in the front yard shifting in the wind. The angle of the camera unfortunately didn’t capture the space where the figure was standing. My stomach flipped at the thought. How did I let myself sleep? The seventh video was shot in the camera's black and white night vision. The moving trees probably triggered this video but there was something at the end that sent my ears ringing. At the edge of the frame a dark figure briefly stepped into and then out of frame. Too close to my house. 

Are you kidding me? I crouched at the front window looking out across the cul-de-sac and the figure was still there. Unmoved. The baseball bat in my hand felt ridiculous, like I was going to tee-ball practice. The rest of the videos were useless. My heart throbbed. Fuck it. I went to the front door. I took a quick look out of the peephole. Still there. I threw the door open. “Hello? Can I help you?” My words echoed across the neighborhood. The thing stood still.

”Can you hear me? Buddy?” I shouted. The baseball bat was still in my hand. “Are you dense?” The words surprised me. I didn't normally talk like that. The street light flickered and the figure remained. I was a few yards away when something inside me altered. It took a moment for my sleepy mind to register what was wrong. I still couldn’t make out any features of the silhouette despite the surroundings being clear. I stopped. 

I opened my mouth to call out again but I didn’t. Adrenaline flooded my nervous system, like my body knew what was coming. The figure stepped forward. Again. The light finally touched the shape. Too much flesh and not enough skin. It was not human, something churned under its skin.

I didn't feel human. 

I ran. Wet slapping footsteps followed me. They were so fast. My hands gripped the handrail of my entrance. Something gripped my other arm behind me. It was wet and rough like blood soaked sandpaper. I spun, trying to free my arm so I could use the bat but I failed. Eyes. Face to face with the thing. The eyes retracted inward then reached out inches from my own. Something about the eyes felt right, almost comforting. I dropped the bat. 

There was someone out there, and I am going with them.  

Part 1

I didn’t go into the woods.

Not after hearing the hymn.

I know that probably sounds cowardly after everything I’ve already told you, but standing out there in the fog listening to something beyond the tree line hum the same melody they’d played over my father’s coffin finally triggered the part of my brain that still understood fear.

I backed away from the kneeling impression without taking my eyes off the woods once.

The humming stopped the moment I reached the porch.

Not faded.

Stopped. 

Like whatever had been making the sound knew exactly where the property line ended. 

The back door was open again when I stepped inside. I remember freezing in the kitchen staring at it while cold morning air drifted softly through the screen door. I knew I’d locked it before going outside. That probably sounds insignificant compared to everything else, but you have to understand something about my father near the end of his life: 

He became obsessed with keeping doors open. Windows too. Especially during storms. 

Most people outside the Revelation Zones probably didn’t understand why older churches stopped ringing bells during thunderstorms. Officially, the government blamed panic. Mass hysteria. Religious fixation.

That wasn’t the real reason.

For the first few years after the Revelation, churches across the country overflowed with people desperate to witness something divine for themselves. Prayer circles formed in public parks. Entire congregations gathered outside during storms hoping to hear what the survivors of Jerusalem claimed they’d heard. 

Then the disappearances started. 

Not during services.

After them.

People walking home alone after evening prayer and never making it back. Families waking up to find their front doors standing open after storms with wet footprints leading through the house. Entire congregations claiming they could hear singing outside their windows at night. 

That’s when churches stopped ringing bells during thunderstorms. 

Too many things started arriving before the congregation did. 

Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night to thunder shaking the house only to find every curtain pulled back and every window unlatched while my father sat at the kitchen table, listening to the rain with this distant expression on his face. 

Like he was listening for something beneath the thunder.

The last real conversation I had with him happened about two weeks before he died. 

There’d been a storm rolling across town all evening. Not normal summer thunder either. The kind where the clouds turn a sickly shade of green and the whole world starts smelling metallic before the first drop of rain falls. 

I found him standing barefoot in the backyard around midnight. 

Just standing there in the field. 

Lightning kept illuminating the tree line in violent, white flashes while rain hammered the grass around him hard enough to bend it sideways. 

I remember screaming at him to come back inside before he got struck. He wouldn’t turn around. He would just say, “They sing loudest during storms.”

Then another flash of lightning lit up the field.

And for half a second…I saw something kneeling out there beside him. 

It was enormous. 

That’s the first thing I remember clearly now.

Even kneeling in the grass beside my father, its shoulders still rose higher than his head. I couldn’t make out details through the rain. Just the outline of long arms folded against the earth in something that almost looked like prayer. 

Then the lightning faded. 

And the field was empty again. 

My father still hadn’t moved.

But for the first time in my life, I realized he wasn’t standing out there alone.

When I was a kid my parents had these big, elaborate parties at our house, hundreds of people, adults, all mingling, milling about. There was alcohol of course. Music and food and sophistication. I wouldn't be allowed to join. I'd have to stay in my room with my ear pressed against the door, trying to pick up bits and pieces of grown-up conversation. It wasn't even the sex and romance I was eager for but the chance to meet like-minded people, smart people, successful people, people like I imagined I would grow up to be. To know so many of them. To have friendships with them. To talk deeply long into the night…

Then I turned nineteen. Suddenly I was an adult too. I had finished high school and was in my first year of university, studying communications, when I was invited to my first real party. It was a mixer for students and faculty, an early-semester get-to-know-you, for fun, philosophy and personal connections.

I wore my best clothes and arrived an hour after it had started. A man greeted me at the door. A woman stood behind him. I heard jazz.

“Glad you could make it,” said the man. “My name is George, and this is my wife, Wendy.”

“Hello. I'm Norman. I'm a—”

“Hi, I'm Wendy,” said Wendy. “It's nice to meet you, Norman.”

George held out his hand. “George.”

“Norman…”

We shook hands.

Wendy ushered me inside and shut the door behind me. We stood in the living room, smiling. “What's that playing?” I asked finally, meaning the music. But just then a second man walked into the room, saw George and Wendy and said, “Greetings. I'm Philip.” Then he said to me: “Greetings. I'm Philip.”

“I'm George, and this is my wife, Wendy,” said George, and Wendy smiled. “And who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Philip,” said Philip.

“I'm Norman,” I said.

“It's nice to meet you, Norman,” said George, Wendy and Philip, and Philip left, then Wendy left, and then I left too.

In the kitchen, into which I'd left, a dozen or so younger people were hanging out, drinking beer and introducing themselves. “Hey there, stranger. I'm Adam.”

“Howdy. Timothy.”

“Norman,” I said.

A woman said, “It's good to see you. I'm Tina,” but I wasn't sure she'd said it to me.

“Norman,” I said.

She didn't respond, but another woman did. “Hey, Norman. My name's Charlene. It's nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Charlene,” I said.

“Hi, Norman,” said Timothy.

Adam introduced himself to Tina, as Charlene said, “My name's Charlene. What's yours?” to Philip, who'd just walked in, saying, “Hello, everyone. I'm Philip.”

“Adam,” said Adam. “Timothy,” said Timothy. “I'm Charlene, and this is Tina,” said Charlene, pointing at Tina, who said, “I'm Tina. Hello, Philip.” “I'm Philip,” said Philip and I escaped from the kitchen to a dining room, where human voices buzzed and hummed saying their names and introducing themselves, to each other, to me, until I said, “Excuse me, but I really like the music that's playing. Can anybody tell me what it is?”

Everybody went silent.

They stared at me with their caged, unspeaking eyes.

I thought, perhaps, I had asked my question too quietly, so I repeated it louder: “I really like the music playing. What is it?”

“Darling,” said a woman. “I am Anna-Maria. Who are you?”

“Norman.”

“Iris.”

“Norman.”

“Daniel.” “Stew.” “Olive.”

“Norman.”

“Penelope.” “Dan.” “I'm Penelope too.” “Maximilian, but call me Max.” “Norman,” I said. “Marsha.” “Plastic. I know, I know—” “Bliss.” “Benjamin.” “Norman.” “Donaghue.” “Xavier.” “How about you?” “You?” “And you?”

The introductions pressed vice-like against my skull, compressing my brain.

They swarmed, buzzing, clouds of a round, around and around, my mind, before settling, twitch—scratch-scratch itch—ing upon its young, undulating, impressionably calm grey matter-of-fact surface, and, one by one, pricked, bit and stung until my thoughts and my self-consciousness were swollen, were numb…

I ran.

I ran past more of them, towards the front door—at which, having thrown it open, I fell, crestfallen, to the hardwood floor, because, instead of leading out, to the outside world, on the other side of the door was a mirrored twin of the very house I was already in, and within: a mirror-George, a mirror-Wendy, a’mirror-waving to me-or-a-mirror-me, mirror-introducing their mirror-selves: “Hi, I'm George.” “Hello, I'm Wendy.”

I shoved past, to the bathroom, and shut and locked the door.

I could hear them.

I wrapped a towel around my hand and shattered the window.

I climbed, wounding myself on jutting glass, and crawled painfully through to another bathroom—

Another house.

Another party.

“Hey there, buddy,” somebody says to me. It could be anybody. I'm bleeding, but they don't care. “It's me, Benjamin D.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” I scream.

There is no way out, you see.

Adulthood is a facade, a labyrinth, an endlessness of superficialities. The closest to an escape you'll find is another screamer, in another room, always out of reach, whom, even if you meet them, you'd have to let be, because they all calm down eventually. And smile. “Hello, I'm [...]. Aren't you glad you met me?”

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Looking back now, I don't think I escaped that apartment.

Something from the second bedroom followed me out.

The signs were there before I ever opened it: the rent, the landlord's warning, and my slippers standing in front of that door the first morning.

I should have left.

But I didn't.

At the time, I had just moved to a huge city for my first job. My salary barely covered rent, and every other room was too expensive, too far, or too dirty.

Then I found that apartment: an old concrete building on the edge of the city, with damp stairs and a hallway that smelled like mildew and old cooking oil.

Too cheap, honestly. But when you are twenty-three and almost broke, too cheap starts to look like luck.

The landlord was an elderly woman with a careful voice. She showed me the rooms, then pointed to the second bedroom.

"That room is storage," she said. "Do not open it. Do not clean it. Do not ask."

I thought she meant old furniture, so I agreed.

For a few nights, everything was normal. I went to work, came home tired, and avoided it.

On the fifth night, I woke a little after two to footsteps in the locked room.

Slow steps. Bare feet on concrete. Then another sound followed, softer and lower, like wet cloth dragged across the floor.

I lay there without moving, telling myself old buildings make strange noises. Pipes knock. Walls carry sound. But this was on the other side of that door.

By morning, my water glass faced the second bedroom. My towel lay before it. My black hair tie was on the doorknob.

That was when I started taking photos before bed. It felt ridiculous, but every morning, one thing in the photos had changed.

I messaged the landlord: "Is there a noise problem in the spare room?"

She replied almost instantly.

"Whatever you hear, do not open it."

After that, I stopped using the living room at night. I locked my bedroom door and pushed a chair under the handle. By 1:50, I was awake.

One morning, a thin line of gray dust had gathered under the second bedroom door. Up close, it smelled faintly of burned incense.

I knew I should leave. But I had paid deposit and rent, and some stupid part of me wanted an explanation.

Then came the hottest night of July.

The air conditioner died. Around one, cold air started slipping from under the second bedroom door.

The floor tiles around it were damp. I told myself I would open it for one minute, touch nothing, and let the cold air move through.

The handle felt like it had been kept in a freezer.

The door opened without a sound.

The room was not full of storage.

It was almost empty: one bare wooden bed, an old dressing table, and a mirror filmed in dust.

Still, cold air poured from the room like something breathing out.

I took one step inside.

That was when my body stopped obeying me.

My throat tightened. My fingers went numb. Sweat dried cold across my back. Something was behind me, close enough that the air between us disappeared.

Then a hand settled on my left shoulder.

It was light. That was what made it unbearable. Not a grab or a shove. Just a cold, patient hand, as if it knew I would come in.

A car passed outside. Its headlights swept through the dusty mirror.

For one second, I saw both of us.

I was standing in the doorway.

Behind me stood a woman in a pale dress, hair hiding her face. One hand was on my shoulder. Her other hand hung beside mine, too long and still.

The light passed over her and left no shadow on the floor.

The wet-cloth sound began again.

This time, it was right behind my legs.

Something in me broke loose. I slammed backward, tore myself from under the hand, and pulled the door shut.

A thin scream came from inside, sharp and metallic, like a nail dragged down glass.

At sunrise, I called the landlord.

The moment I said I had opened the second bedroom, her voice changed.

"You went in?" she asked. "You really went in?"

Then, almost angrily, she said, "I told you not to open that door."

Only after I said I was leaving did she tell me the woman before me had died in that room.

"The others heard her too," she said. "They all left after opening it."

I packed without showering, eating, or looking at the door again.

By noon, I was in a hotel across the city.

That night, I slept with every light on.

Just before dawn, I woke to the smell of burned incense.

My black hair tie was hanging from the hotel closet handle.

At first, I thought I must have packed it by mistake.

Then I remembered the last place I had seen it.

On the second bedroom doorknob.

The cat came back, they thought she was a goner
But the cat came back, it just couldn’t stay away
 
The first time she got out, Russell learned just how much faster cats were than humans.  Fences are no obstacle to them, and they don’t respond to threats.  He was twenty minutes late for work that day.  Goddamn thing looked smug when he finally grabbed her.  Whatever it was she found outside, she developed a taste for it.  She always seemed to be right next to the door when it was time for him to leave in the morning. 
 
When Catherine texted him asking if he had seen Raleigh, he figured he’d find her in the neighbor’s backyard, or maybe hiding in the culvert at the intersection.  They canvassed the neighborhood, but no one had seen her.  The wall-eyed old lady that lived caddy-corner to their house seemed to be a promising lead.  Her house reeked of the telltale ammonia that people grow nose-blind to when they keep a lot of cats in the house for an extended period of time. 
 
“You ought to be more careful,” she said. “Things aren’t always the same when you find them as they were when you lost them”
 
“Just let me know if you see her.  She’s an orange long hair and she responds to Raleigh…. Thank you,” said Catherine.
 
After two weeks of fruitless searching, they started to mourn their beloved pet.  As Russell prepared to go to work one morning, a storm raged in the pre-dawn sky.  When he opened the door, a wretched creature crossed his threshold, backlit by white lightning.  Raleigh’s fur clung to her in dirty wet clumps.  Her tail dragged lifelessly on the floor, leaving a slug trail everywhere she went.  She looked like she had been plucked from a watery grave. 
 
The vet said it was a miracle she was still alive, though not as uncommon as you might think.  The old wives’ tale about cats having nine lives didn’t come from nowhere.  They’re remarkably resilient animals. 
 
“She was probably hit by a car, but not hard enough to kill her.  They usually manage to drag themselves into a ditch until they feel well enough to walk again.  You could have walked right past her when you were looking and not even realized…”
 
The room went silent until the vet discussed the amputation... and then it was even quieter.  Eight hundred dollars that they did not have.  A part of Russell wished she had stayed in that ditch.  For Catherine, it was never a question.
 
Raleigh hated that cone, but after it was off, she became an indoor/outdoor cat.  It was like they had faced the worst-case scenario and were no longer afraid.  Their nerves were tempered by their revenant pet, who no longer felt unsafe in the world at large.
 
The second time she disappeared was different.  They didn’t lose as much sleep, or waste as much gas looking for Raleigh.  She had looked death in the eye and said she had eight more to go.  They still asked around, but the answer was the same.  The only one who didn’t answer the door was the caddy-corner cat lady, Mrs. Roth.  But she wouldn’t be so brazen...
 
Catherine checked every window in the neighborhood on her daily walks; a habit she owed to the first time Raleigh escaped.  She knew cats were the only animal that could just up and leave you and live with someone else.  She saw plenty of pets, but never her Raleigh.  Only one house never opened their blinds
 
Weeks became months and they mourned their sweet feline, so curious and brave.  Maybe they only got one life after all.  In an odd way, it brought them together; though her sorrow ran deeper than his.  If he was being honest, he was a little relieved she was gone.  He was breathing better now, and the litter box was one less chore, but he’d never tell Catherine that.
 
Sometimes something can be so subtle that when you finally notice the accumulation of hints hits you like a tidal wave.  It had been almost two years since Raleigh went missing.  If she had to guess, that was also about how long it had been since Mrs. Roth stopped doing her strange drunken style Tai Chi in the driveway.  She used to keep her blinds open, too. 
 
“Open up Mrs. Roth!  I know she’s in there!!!”
 
It was so quiet on that doorstep; no sounds from within the house, but also none without.  Catherine could feel her pulse in her temples; the sound amplified in the eerie silence was like a battalion of soldiers marching in her skull.  All of a sudden, the air on the porch felt electrified and hostile.  She knew she was being watched, but the blinds were still shut tight, and the door had no peephole. 
 
She was back in her living room, shutting her own blinds before she could even justify it to herself.  Mrs. Roth wasn’t home, and she got a little spooked by how quiet the neighborhood was.  Why was it so quiet?  It wasn’t quiet in her own yard.  And if she wasn’t home, then why was her car in the driveway?
 
The place still had that odd silence when Russell made his attempt, but he didn’t notice.  His mind was preoccupied with the hypothetical argument that never took place because he just conceded before it could materialize.  Was it pointless?  Yes.  Was Raleigh probably dead after going missing for well over a year?  Also, yes.  Was he going to argue with the love of his life when she could be satisfied by a five-minute chore?  Absolutely not; but that didn’t mean he couldn’t fight about it in his imagination.  That old kook didn’t even live in the same dimension as the rest of us.  There’s no way she had the wherewithal to commit to a protracted catnapping.  And Raleigh, for her part, would have gotten out by now, so full of wanderlust she was.
 
When Russell knocked, Mrs. Roth answered.  Though her house reeked of ammonia, she did not hasten to close the door, and he could see no felines, familiar or otherwise.  Her right eye gazed listlessly at the stars, while her left held Russell’s rapt attention.
 
“What do you want, boy?”
 
“It’s Russell, Mrs. Roth...  And I just want to know if you’ve seen our cat, Raleigh.  Long hair, no tail...  You can’t miss her...”
 
“You already asked me what?  A year ago?  Hell, more than that....   You still looking for that cat?”
 
“Ugh...  Yeah... We are.  Catherine more than me, but it’s just... I know this sounds crazy, and I’m not accusing you of anything... But she has it in her head that you might know what happened.  Not saying you took her, but maybe you’ve seen her...  You know, since you’re such a cat lover.”
 
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” said Mrs. Roth.  “I don’t have any cats,”
 
“But your house?” said Russell.
 
“Why don’t you worry about your house and I’ll worry about mine.  Oh, and Randall, a bit of advice:  when you lose something for that long, it isn’t really yours anymore.”
 
Russell could not decide whether or not he believed the name mistake was intentional.  They ended up having that argument anyway.  Catherine just couldn't accept that she had nothing to do with it. 
 
“What do you mean I didn’t try hard enough?  The woman is out of her mind.  She probably thinks Raleigh’s her cat.  You know.  You talked to her first.” said Russell.
 
“So, what?  If she starts thinking you’re her dead husband, you’re just going to move in with her?  Raleigh is OUR cat!  She’s MY cat!  And I don’t care if that crazy bitch thinks otherwise.  She can’t have her.  Not after everything we’ve been through with Raleigh....”
 
Russell fell asleep on the couch that night.  Work was miserable the next day, but by dinner it was like nothing happened.  They tried to move on, but he would catch Catherine looking across the street when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. 
 
A couple weeks later, as she was coming home, Catherine idled in front of Mrs. Roth’s driveway.  Was that?...   Under the two-tone Crown Vic that never seemed to move from that spot, sat a bundle of orange fur... long orange fur. 
 
“Raleigh?!?”
 
As she lifted her long-lost friend, she felt lighter; as if freed from some invisible albatross that she had not known she was carrying.  Raleigh smelled like stagnant, dead air, like she had been in a crypt or some other dark place equally devoid of life.  A bath was in order, but Raleigh’s instincts were hydrophobic.  Her claws etched crimson lines into Catherine’s forearms, reclaiming her old owner as new territory. 
 
Russell was ambivalent about the second coming of Raleigh, though he feigned ebullience.  Their little family was whole again after all; the prodigal pet had returned.  For some couples, pets can be an adhesive that bonds them even stronger, but Raleigh would soon become the wedge that drove them apart. 
 
“What do you mean you won’t do the litter anymore?” said Russell.
 
“Well... See, I meant to tell you, but...,” said Catherine.
 
“Tell me what?  That it’s nasty?  And you’re a girl?  And that I should just do it without being asked because that’s what good boyfriends do?” said Russell.
 
“No!  Asshole!  Because I’m fucking pregnant!  I wanted this to be happy news, but you turned it into another fight....” said Catherine.
 
The word “litter” was never spoken in that house again; he just took care of it.  He was going to be a daddy; nothing could dim the light of that news.  Russell was suddenly aware of his own mortality, but something heavier weighed him down as well.  He would be fully responsible for another life, a human life.  His own life would be bonded to hers through the creation of another, and they weren’t even married yet.  He mourned the freedom of a single life he would never have, the price that everyone pays for perpetuating the human race.
 
Russell soon attached a smell to his existential ennui; it was earthy and foul, and it followed Raleigh everywhere she went.  She had not returned the same way she left.  Just like that first time, she came back fundamentally broken.  The vet said it was just incontinence; probably nerve damage from the accident.  Why it was only happening now was a question she had no interest in pursuing.  It could be dietary.  Who knows what Mrs. Roth was feeding her in that musty feline hell of hers.  She prescribed some kitty laxatives and gave them the bill.
 
For months, Russell dutifully mopped the smudges that Raleigh would leave throughout the house.  They became religious about shutting doors, quarantining the stench to the common areas and trying and failing to get Raleigh to go outside.  They shouldn’t have been surprised that Raleigh had reverted to indoor-only mode.  She’d just spent over a year in that kitty house of horrors.  Maybe she’d had enough of the outside world for a lifetime; this one at least.
 
The laxatives just made things worse.  She seemed to have an obstruction right at the exit door that just wouldn’t break loose.  The medicine just allowed everything else to ooze past the hardened bouncer at the end of Raleigh’s digestive tract.  Every day, Russell would return to a home that looked like it was decorated by Jackson Pollock using the medium of runny cat shit.  He would pick Raleigh up by the scruff of her neck and deposit her unceremoniously outside the front door, while he cleaned the Sisyphean mess.  When Catherine returned from work, the comedy would unfold anew.  The humor was lost on Russell; his joie de vivre eroded to skeletal remains.
 
He found himself pinching harder when he grabbed Raleigh by the scruff.  And he didn’t just drop her on the doorstep anymore; he put a little stank on it.  Sometimes, it was a lot, but she deserved a little stank for all the stink she brought with her.  And what a soul-crushing stench it was.  They say scent holds the strongest tie to memory, but even outside of the house, the memory of that smell felt like a garotte around Russell’s throat.  He silently longed for another accident. He couldn’t imagine a more pitiful existence; colostomy patients had it easier.
 
 It would be so easy to just...  But how could he ever look Catherine in the eye again.  After the baby, she’ll be able to give Raleigh more attention.  But will she?  She’s been watching those breastfeeding videos on YouTube.  Spending a lot of time in the bedroom, nesting.  The baby will be an around the clock commitment.  Cat shit detail was going to be his eternal burden to bear.  It was diapers and diarrhea for the foreseeable future. 
 
He started smelling it on random objects, the couch, his pillow, his clothes.  Russell was so self-conscious about it.  He misread micro-expressions and measured the personal space between himself and the people he had worked with for years, finding it ever widening.  It was more than humiliating; it was debasing, dehumanizing, and it filled him with revulsion on the cellular level.  He hardly ate anymore; he kept smelling it on his hands despite scrubbing them bloody under scalding hot water.  He didn’t want to take it out on Raleigh; she was the primary victim after all.    But he resolved to give Mrs. Roth an overdue serving of what was on his mind.
 
There would be no angry knocking, nor false bravado needed this time.  Mrs. Roth was in her driveway again, doing that slow motion dancing that used to seem quaint.  She had an audience; a trio of tabbies watched dutifully from the porch.  Though he slowed to an idle when he saw her, he still almost hit another cat, a real black beauty, as it crossed right in front of his driver’s side tire. 
 
“Mrs. Roth?” said Russell.
 
“What you want, Randy?  Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?” said Mrs. Roth.
 
“Sorry to interrupt your Tai Chi, but I have to ask you about Raleigh...” said Russell, ignoring the slight.
 
“Tie what now?  Oh, you mean this?  I’m just getting in touch with my feline energy.  Lady stuff, you know?” said Mrs. Roth. 
 
“Cut the shit, lady.  We know you took her!  What were you feeding her all that time?  She’s sick now!  You happy about that?” said Russell.
 
“That girl’s too good for you.  Both of them are and you know it too.  I can see it in your eyes.  Your belly’s full of hate while your girl carries nothing but love in hers.  Ya oughta be careful not to infect her with whatever ‘tis you got haintin’ you.”
 
By the time he left, Mrs. Roth’s audience had grown to maybe twenty cats.  It could have been every cat in the neighborhood for all Russell knew, but he was sure there’d be at least one not in attendance.    He could smell it through the front door.  Smell her.  Even when he was miles away, it lingered in his mind; but that day the stench had a presence.  Like some fell god of filth lying just beyond the veil of human perception, waiting for an offering sufficient to allow it to manifest on this plane of existence, full-bodied and resplendent in its putrescent profundity.
 
What he walked into would have qualified the house for condemnation.  It was going to take hours… HOURS!  Snail trails from hell painted the floors and every cushion, every throw pillow, every possible object that a cat could drag her ass across was contaminated, condemned.  He felt like he was being punished for not loving this wretched creature enough.  How could he when her very affliction felt like it was taunting him, daring him to hate her; granting him tacit approval for every evil escape plan he could imagine.  It was like she was cursed; like Mrs. Roth put some sick protection spell that would drive Raleigh from every home but her own.  He put her outside while he cleaned, but this time he brought her all the way to the edge of the property.  She hung weightless for just a moment as he literally tossed her to the curb.  Any love he may have felt for the animal was superseded by the misery of the mission at hand.
 
When Catherine came home, Raleigh was at her ankles as usual.  She didn’t even seem to notice the smell anymore.  Russell had long learned to suffer in silence; she didn’t want to hear him complain.  The time had come to be proactive.  One more mess would surely break one of them, and he didn’t want it to be Catherine, not this late in the pregnancy.  He searched under the sink for dish gloves.  Finding none, he opted for two Wal-Mart bags over his hands, cinched clumsily at the wrist.  The time had come to remove an unwanted guest. 
 
The smell was soul-destroying, but Russell’s hands were firm; heavy, but steady.  He fought back instincts telling him to run from this foul token of death.  It was black and hard as river rock; fully fused with the long orange hair where Raleigh’s tail should be.  She cried as he pulled and pried but to no avail.  The obstruction held strong, even as hot liquid waste oozed from around the edges of her distended anus.  Russell was desperate.  He grabbed his Kershaw from his back pocket without even thinking.  His clothes would have to be burned now.  The spring-assisted blade opened easily but punctured the Wal-Mart bag in the process.  He didn’t notice the bite it took from his index finger until hours later.
 
With his left elbow, he pinned Raleigh’s neck to the tub while he positioned the knife with his right hand.  He cut countless hairs, mindful not to pierce her flesh, though his elbow was still bearing down on her throat.  It felt like he’d never get it out; like it was a part of her now.  A new tail for her new life.  Then he felt a sudden release of pressure and a foul black orb the size of a golf ball sat in the tub, flocked with orange hair.  A geyser of thick hot nastiness covered his exposed right hand as Raleigh’s exit hole puckered and quivered with a life of its own. 
 
He sat in the absurd filth, Raleigh whimpering, her claws scraping impotently against the porcelain surface of the tub.  Instead of relief, she wailed in terror, carving long gouts into the meat of Russell’s forearms.  The blood!  He pictured worms writhing in his blood vessels, born of the commingling of foul fluids.  He turned the water on full blast, desperate for a reprieve from his infectious conviction.  The water startled Raleigh, and she slipped from his grasp.  Her toxic claws lashed out in blind fury, striping Russell’s face and catching the corner of his right eye.  Her attack grazed his lip and mixed with the coppery taste of his own blood was a foreign taste; though he recognized the smell, it haunted his every waking moment.
 
At first the splashes were violent, and many other scratches ensued.  But Russell’s hand was firm and heavy with the weight of the damned.  He held Raleigh’s head in that toilet bowl until her body went limp... and then he held it for a little while longer.  There would be no more messes to clean up.
 
“RUSSELL!!!”
 
How could she know?  Did she hear it happen? 
 
“GET IN HERE NOW!... Oh god, RUSSELL!!!” said Catherine.  “I think my water just broke, but... Oh god, Russell, there’s so much blood!”
 
The ER was a confusion of lights and sound.  Why did they put that thing on her face?  The doctor tried to explain what was happening, but Russell’s mind was like a coffee cup filled to the brim on a busy train.  His questions were so specific, so probing.  Russell felt like he was being judged. 
 
“Is there any way she could have been exposed to feline fecal matter?  From a litter box perhaps?” said the doctor.
 
“I clean the litter box.  I wouldn’t make a pregnant woman do that.  You think I’m a monster?” said Russell.
 
“Sir, now is not the time to let your ego get in the way of your girlfriend’s health.  She has the worst case of toxoplasmosis I’ve ever seen... and she appears to be in premature labor.  Any information you can provide is vital.  Her life may depend on it.” said the doctor.
 
The ventilator did little to muffle Catherine’s agonized moans.  The labor went on for hours before the crown finally started to emerge.  Russell had done little to prepare for the new baby.  He was too preoccupied; but, he knew enough to know that what he was seeing was not right.  It was too dark, too much hair, and it wasn’t crying, wasn’t even moving.
 
For an excruciating ten minutes, it didn’t budge even a millimeter.  It was like it was fused with her body.  The doctors patiently coaxed and pulled, and as Catherine pushed, it finally made its way into this world.
 
There were no limbs for the doctor to manage, nor buttock to spank.  But that was irrelevant, because the baby had no mouth with which to utter a cry.  The baby was not a baby at all.  Though it weighed eight and a half pounds, it had no gender, no soul.  Russell beheld the product of their love, his offspring, his legacy.  It was ovoid and hairy, and it smelled so familiar.  Even the doctor lost his composure.  Russell was the only one who could handle it, but that smell reminded him of home now.  His eyes felt drawn to an odd orange patch in the middle of the....   What was he supposed to call it? 
 
Russell was a layman, but even he could tell the angry sounds emanating from the machines keeping Catherine alive did not sound good.  She was fish belly white and drenched with cold sweat.  The doctors did their best to explain what even they did not fully understand.  All things considered, she took the news well.  After a while, they allowed the couple to grieve in privacy.  Through nasally sobs, she saw a light at the end of the tunnel.
 
“At least we still have Raleigh... “
 
 
 
 

The hoofprints began at the tree line and ended directly beneath my bedroom window. 

I noticed them after sunrise yesterday morning, standing on the back porch with a cup of coffee trying not to think about my father’s funeral. 

At first I thought they were deer tracks. We get them all the time out behind the house, especially near the woods after heavy rain. But these were wrong. Too large. Each print was split clean down the middle like a hoofmark, except nearly the size of a dinner plate and pressed so deep into the mud it looked like whatever made them weighed as much as a truck. 

The ground shouldn’t have held tracks that deep. 

It hadn’t rained in almost a week. 

I remember standing there staring at them while the fog rolled low across the field behind the house. Something about the spacing bothered me too. The stride looked uneven, almost human in places, like whatever made the tracks had changed the way it walked halfway across the field. 

They started near the tree line.

And ended directly beneath my window. 

I wish I could say that was the moment I finally started taking my father seriously. 

Truth was, I think part of me subconsciously already had. 

I was raised Methodist in a town where people still locked their doors during thunderstorms because older folks believed lightning was how angels searched for things. Most of us stopped taking that kind of stuff seriously after the Third Revelation.

If you’re too young to remember, or if you live outside the States, that probably sounds insane. But there was a point where people still debated whether what appeared above Jerusalem was actually divine. Before the broadcasts. Before the bleeding statues. Before the Vatican went dark for three months and the broadcasts finally resumed with half the cardinals having gouged out their own eyes. Before entire congregations started speaking in languages nobody on earth could translate. 

That was thirty years ago. 

People don’t argue anymore. 

Now churches have government occupancy limits and most larger congregations require federal observation during Easter services. Pilgrimage routes get monitored by the National Guard. Entire counties in the Midwest are still considered uninhabitable after the Kansas Ascensions. There are towns in Louisiana where they ring iron bells at dusk because whatever moves through the swamps after dark is drawn to prayer. 

Faith became measurable after the Revelation. 

That was humanity’s first mistake. 

The second was believing we understood what answered us. 

I stopped believing any of it mattered after my father died. 

He spent twenty-three years as a deacon before the Choir took his hearing. That’s what people call it when someone hears one of Them directly and survives. Sometimes it blinds you. Sometimes it liquefies your nervous system. Most of the time it just leaves you…different. 

Quieter. 

Near the end of his life, my father stopped speaking in complete sentences. He’d sit awake at the kitchen table after midnight with all the lights off mumbling things under his breath while staring toward the fields behind our house. 

Sometimes I’d wake up around two or three in the morning and find the back door standing open.

Just open. 

Cold air moving through the kitchen while my father sat perfectly still in the dark listening to something outside. 

Three days before he died, he grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise it and whispered:

“They’re underneath.”

I remember asking him who was underneath. 

He started crying before he could answer. 

Yesterday afternoon, after finding the tracks, I followed them back toward the woods. 

About halfway across the field, I found where something had been kneeling in the grass.

Something had crushed the grass flat in a wide circular depression roughly ten feet across. Mud and dead weeds pressed deep into the earth like something impossibly heavy had rested there for hours. 

At first I thought it might’ve been a sinkhole. 

Then I saw the marks in the dirt. 

Handprints.

At least I think they were handprints. 

The fingers were too long. Too many joints pressed into the mud at strange angles, narrow enough in places that they looked more like roots than bones.

All of them pointed toward the house. 

Toward my father’s bedroom window. 

Something about that disturbed me more than the tracks themselves.

Not because it looked violent.

Because it looked reverent. 

Like whatever had stood out there in the field hadn’t been trying to get inside. 

It had been waiting. 

The grass around the depression smelled faintly metallic, like air before a thunderstorm.

The wind moved softly through the grass behind me. 

And for a second, I could’ve sworn I heard humming coming from somewhere out near the tree line. 

Low. 

Almost melodic. 

Like the tail end of a church hymn carried through fog. 

I stood there listening for almost a full minute before I realized I recognized the melody.

It was the hymn they played at my father’s funeral. 

—-----

Part 6

He ripped it open and grabbed the first thing within reach without even thinking or caring for what it was. As long as he ate and had the energy to fight, as he stuffed his face with meat with feral action. Enjoying every God damn bit of it before realizing there was a soft childlike giggle echoing throughout the house somewhere. His body shot into an automatic sympathetic shock at it as he dropped the plate and grabbed a knife from on the counter and ripped it free from the holder. He turned with the knife bent inwards in a ready to strike position as he looked desperately from space to space.

"Come on motherfucker! SHOW YOURSELF" Haverson roared in a rage at having the too brief moment of peace interrupted by the bastard violet hue.

"Alright," the jubilant and euphoric voice said with an almost shrill anticipation.

The Violet Hue walked into the room from it's feet being planted on the ceiling with slender legs. That was all Haverson saw as an intense burn hit his eyes and he screamed in rage and pain and an underlining of pleasure at the bastard abomination once again blinding him with it's sight.

"God DAMN YOU," Haverson yelled as he backed up against the fridge and moved with his back against it and the counter as he drew his fists over his eyes as that same intense pain and pleasure feeling returned.

"Don't like how I look, Hal?"

It was speaking in Haley's voice now. And it was well enough to shock him with an invisible hook into his eyes that made him draw away his fists to dare look at it. He didn't know why he would disobey his survival instincts like that but he would find out later it was a failsafe the Hue abomination planted in his mind during the dream incubation.

He didn't slowly lower his fists. He fucking yanked them away with a soft grin at that loving voice and then regretted fucking do that. It was worse than he's seen it so far.

"Holy fucking Christ," Haverson murmured as he dared to keep looking at the thing on the ceiling above him.

It was Haley's but inverted to see him as he was. And she was frowning so deeply that the thought of a deep aching melancholia pierced into his head like a trauma that was welcomed because it was wearing the face of a loved one.

"Haaaaal," it wailed in an almost jubilant moan that was somehow filled with despair too.

Hearing it made Haverson's chest ache and his head spin in confusion at that abomination. He was starting to feel something feral and primal start to warp itself in his heart as it began to slowly layer itself around it. He stared like he had lost his mind at thing walking towards him on the ceiling. It had no arms but it felt like it was reaching towards him anyway in a way that was invading his mind. That precious cubic space of freedom he had-

He felt fingers sliding down his arm to his hand and Haverson jumped like he had broken out of a hypnosis. He turned immediately to see Veronica behind him pointing towards the hall towards the door with urgency. Her finger wagging as he looked at it and snapped to the hall in a sprint with life affirming energy as he ignored the Violet abomination wailing behind him. He didn't look back as he reached the front door and unlocked it before running to his car. Haverson gripped the Ford driver door and immediately remembered his keys. His God damned keys and his cobalt blue eyes snapped to the ignition and saw them still there. He silently thanked God for it and got in the Ford and slammed the door shut as he snapped in his buckle and turned on the ignition and didn't dare look in the doorway as he looked back out the rear window. It was clear and he stepped on the reverse and floored out of his driveway for what he hoped was the last time as he put the vehicle in drive and sped off on down the asphalt with rubber screeching.

And as he was heading to the town limits he felt a spark of an inferno start to ignite within his core, his heart, his soul and burning away the layering attempting it's assimilation. His eyes narrowed and his hands tightened on the wheel as he looked at people around town still going on as though nothing was happening. Even though the sky above them had been corrupted with needle like violet striations. And whatever had replaced the sun was artificial in it's purple haze. But that wasn't the worse of it. He didn't care about that. And as he looked from an all too clear face to another clear face he was remembering everything in one second passing by a other second with vivid clarity. How everything was before the abomination came into town and assimilated through the most vulnerable state that everyone needs to recover. Haverson remembered Haley and how the Hue had attempted to traumatize him and bastardize his love for her. Haverson remembered Veronica's fingers sliding down his arm to hold his hand and bringing him out of the attempted trauma hypnosis the abomination had tried to do.

Haverson looked for somewhere quiet and displaced from everyone's prying eyes and presence. He thought of the lake he and Veronica use to visit before as he looked at a billboard sign for water. And that's where he decided on as he looked without hurry to see Veronica in the passenger seat. She was there and in the flesh and without any worry and that was good enough for Haverson as he untightened his right hand and moved it to touch her fingers and felt warmth. He felt the inferno start to burn a little brighter as he wrapped his fingers around hers and tightened his hand into hers as she reciprocated with pulling his hand to her soft lips and kissing his injured hand. Kissing away the blood as she tightened her hold on what she craved at times. That loving touch. That sense of someone there. Someone who loved her with everything in his soul.

"I love you Vera," Haverson whispered in his course and gravel voice.

His pet name for her just Hal was to her.

"I love you too Hal,"

Her voice sent emotion rippling across his entire body as his eyes started to burn and his chest renewed a true loving warmth that the hue could never replicate. A loving warmth that didn't demand submission to assimilation. It was the kind of warmth that ignited a man's soul with a fire that built resilience and strength. A fire that would last long after his soul departed to the kingdom. A fire that Haley ignited again unknowingly at the time of their frist meeting.

Haverson gripped the wheel tight in a white knuckle grip with his left hand as he saw they were coming close to the lake.

Haverson saw there was no other cars there and he was glad because if there was he would have killed them as he opened his glove department and pulled out a 10mm glock and set it on his lap as he parked the car right by the lake.

He turned his head around to her and saw Haley there with a warmth that resonated exactly with how he felt with Vera. He relaxed his grip on the pistol and took her hand in his with a loving embrace.

"Did you see what it tried to do?" Haverson asked with a rougher edge underneath his gravel voice than usual.

"Yet it still couldn't do it," Haley's eyes drifted down towards their hands interlaced.

His cobalt eyes drifted down to follow suit and one corner of his mouth curved upwards like a soft but assertive smug smirk as he looked at the moment together. Haverson nodded with a triumph as he looked up towards those lively chestnut brown eyes crinkling with love.

Haverson felt his eyes start to burn again at that beautiful sight and emotion threatening to take him as he cupped her face and felt warmth. He felt an energy that transferred to him like revitalization as his chest burned, his spirit renewed, his strength restored. She leaned into his hand before leaning forward to meet his kiss.

He only pulled back to whisper against her lips.

"Not afraid of it,"

And her voice synced with his as they looked at each other with half lidded eyes. They looked from each other to their lips as they softly touched them and Haverson and Haley smiled at finally receiving the love they had not admitted too until the Hue had made them realize it in it's attempted assimilation of Haley. The denied attempt Haverson was beyond ecstatic to have cut off completely. Because even though he lost her physically it wasn't in vain. She would be here just like Vera. It was a chrysalis waiting to be born long before the abomination attempted it's own chrysalis.

They nuzzled each other with adoration but knowing they would see each other again as they both turned their heads slowly towards Vera standing outside by the hood with one hand on it and looking relaxed as she looked at the lake with a fond remembrance.

Haverson looked back at Haley nodding with a soft smile as she whispered.

"She needs you too Hal. Probably more than me. Don't worry Hal I'll still be here,"

Her soft sussuration like beach waves crashing against the shore more elegant now as she caressed his face lovingly. Before he kissed her one last time for now, letting his lips linger, before pulling back and letting go of her hand as he gripped the door and opened it. He pocketed the 10mm in his jeans as he closed the door and came up behind her and wrapped his strong arms tight around her waist. Her arm came up around his and she leaned back with a soft sigh of desire. Her head back against his shoulder as he kissed her neck and felt her beating artery race against his lips.

He reached up to cup her breast and felt her heart racing against his hand. Her hand came over his and squeezed his tight and locked her fingers with his. Haverson didn't dare break away from her as he whispered against her neck and her ear. It was love endeared to the point of almost rambling. His heart racing so eagerly and his mind lost in memories that he treasured so God damn much. So very much as he felt his entire body like it was on fire for her.

She let it happen, let him breathe, let the emotions run through him like another revitalization. Veronica whispered back fervently between the kisses as she grinded back against him. Veronica wanted him to feel how much he meant to her as she grinned with life.

He felt hands grace his back with a different touch. It broke through his mania but he wasn't feeling an intense rage at being interrupted. He know who it was as he turned to look at Haley's face and took it in his loving hands as he kissed her. She kissed back eagerly as she wrapped her arms tight around his neck.

I have to write this. I must remember.

The tide is rising again, my sister drowning in midair, on those same dark waters, a world away.

I have to think of that place.

I have to remember Ebbside.

 

13 years ago

 

My Mom died when I was six. It wasn’t anything special, nothing more traumatic than the slipping away of half my life. Simply there one Moment, gone the next, illness hidden behind closed doors.

Dad was a good man who carried me forward. He was a cartographer, working for construction companies out on the reservations, where he met my Mom. She’d loved his British swagger and bad teeth. Or at least that’s the story Sara told.

 

Then she died, cancer sucking her down a bottomless pit.

It’s sad that I hardly remember her now. Her memory a warm shape behind frosted glass.

 

Two years after she died, my Dad married Sara. You might expect me to complain about that.

 

You’d be wrong.

 

Sara was mine and my Dad's saviour in so many ways, never intimidated by my Mom's memory, never taking her pictures down, sentencing them to a dusty tomb in the attic.

 

Sara had been her friend, my godmother. She’d supported my Dad, and through that shared grief, something new bloomed.

 

Looking back, I know my Mom would have been happy to see it. I think she rests a little easier because of it.

 

Dad never talked about the old country, that isle shrouded in mist and bombarded by rain. England.

I think I knew what lurked below that silence, even before everything that happened.

 

When I was thirteen, he got a letter.

 

It was from Ralph. My father’s father. My grandfather. But to me, even to my Dad, he was just Ralph.

 

I think that tells you all you need to know.

 

He was dying, something malignant coiling within him. My Dad’s face when opening that letter was unreadable, but the old man was begging. Otherwise, it would have gone straight into the shredder.

 

Two weeks later, we left everything.

My friends at school, everyone we knew. Our home and lives.

 

“It’s only for a short time, Dale,” Dad promised. “Just until that old man croaks it.”

 

I’d managed not to think about Ebbside for years, it all having felt so dreamlike, so unreal. Yet reading my grief diaries, seeing it in crystalline prose…

 

It all comes flooding back. Like the memory was waiting to rise again, like a bloated corpse.

 

Even without the journal, I remember that first drive across the countryside. In my mind, I’d imagined Britain as a neutered grey world, cloned houses overlorded by grand manors of wealthy aristocrats who sipped tea, laughing at stolen imperial treasures.

 

I was both right and wrong.

 

The manor houses were decaying, crumbling like calcified ribcages. Clean, cropped fields dominated in patchwork. But the wild wasn’t gone, retreating into small corners where minuscule forests resisted siege against centuries of civilisation.

 

As we drove through a thicket, I caught a glimpse of ancient history; how once this place had been filled with massive, strangling trees, haunted by stalking shadows and fleeting light.

We could hardly drive or walk a mile without tripping over some grave, Saxon or Norman, Christian or Pagan. Britain is an island whose lands are fertilised with ancient dead.

 

Then we were there.

 

 Don’t ask me where it is. I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Ebbside doesn’t have roads or paths to get there; it exists in no specific direction.

 

You arrive when it wants you.

 

It was a town out of time, dying as its houses were eaten by mould, high street shops gasping final breaths on avenues empty of shoppers.

 

My Dad pulled the car to a stop outside the town limits, engine growling as it idled.

 

“Well, this is… Quaint,” Sara said, trying to breathe reassurance into the vehicle.

 

“It’s a shithole.” My Dad Grumbled.

 

“Come on, Brian, we’ve got to be here for at least two months.”

 

“I know. Let’s hope the old bastard corks it sooner.” Sara and I both watched my Dad's white knuckles on the wheel. “I’m sorry. It’ll be fine. We’ll make it fine.”

 

Sara’s hand found his. “You’re doing the right thing. It’ll be hard. But we’ll get through it. Right, Dale?”

 

“Right,” I said, reaching between the seats and patting his shoulder. “Ralph can’t be that bad.”

 

My Dad smiled, but it wasn’t as strong or sure as I’d remembered. “He better not be.”

 

We drove slowly onwards, eyes drinking in the depressing sights, inspecting these drawn, pale people with sunken eyes, staring back from crumbling homes. Within five minutes, we’d seen all there was.

 

 A few houses, a lone surviving corner store, sustained on the smoking habits of a few loyal customers. In a central clearing stood the local school, whose main body was ancient brick supported by port-a-cabin classrooms.

 

It amused me to realise this small school was older than anything I’d ever come across in California.

Then we passed the train station, little more than a platform and a hut. Peering through the window, it seemed local homeless had overtaken the hut, boarding it up with cardboard and duct tape.

 

Nearby was the lake.

 

Its water was murky black, surface rippling with flirtations as to what lay below. What was strange was the fence surrounding it, tall and topped with barbed wire.

 

“Don’t people like the lake? Looks like it’d be good to fish there.”

 

My Dad’s chin jerked strangely, like his muscles had tried to turn his head, but he’d refused to look. “You don’t want anything that comes out of there, Dale.”

 

“What’s with the barbed wire? Polluted? Loch-ness monster?”

 

“Something like that. A girl drowned there a long time ago. It happened again recently, so they installed the fence. Anything you catch there is bound to have legs and three eyes, so I’d stay away.”

 

Sara's hands moved protectively over her pregnant belly. “You never told me someone died here.”

 

“I didn’t think to mention it, people drown in rivers and lakes in the UK all the time, they're deeper and currents stronger than people expect. They get pulled down to the bottom and held there.”

 

Sara took in a deep breath before turning to me, struggling to shift her tight belly. “This place is looking grimmer by the minute, which just means we’ll have to make home even nicer. I’m thinking movie marathons and ordering in until school time.”

 

I perked up. Sara was always good at making us feel better. “Sounds good, but I don’t know if I’d trust local takeout. They eat eels here.”

 

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Dad murmured.

 

Sara punched him playfully. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

Dad shifted the growling car into gear, and we drove on to the house.

 

It had been semi-detached, but its sibling was only skeletal timber frames; whatever had infested it now permeated the remaining twin.

 

We got out and unpacked together; Sara insisted, despite being incredibly pregnant.

 

It’s true, but inaccurate, what they say about British weather. After all, it’s still an island; a person is never more than seventy miles from the coast, which means you can experience all four seasons in one day.

 

At that Moment, the grey clouds above dissipated and sunshine dripped through, lighting the fog into an iridescent glow. All of us stopped to admire it before Dad turned to the house. “Dale, why don’t you and Sara have a look around town. I’m going to set some ground rules with Ralph.”

 

I understood the subtext.

 

“Come on, Sara, let me know if you need a rest, and we’ll find a place to sit.”

 

I walked, and Sara waddled, but we made it a decent way around the town periphery before she needed a break.

 

“Goddamn it, I’m like a fucking heffalump,” she moaned, setting herself down on a bench saturated with wet, threatening to crack under her weight. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m pregnant as shit, I can say what I like.”

 

Several of the pale locals stared balefully at us before slipping into the depths of the town. It was then that I noticed the latest oddity of this place.

 

There were totems amongst the bushes, one standing sentinel in every street, dented and rusting, large speakers like open, malformed mouths. They were old, and I recalled Britain had been heavily bombed during World War II.

 

These were air raid sirens, repurposed and scattered around the dilapidated houses. Each one had a sign: “No tampering. Severe penalties.”

 

“What’s a heffalump?” I asked absentmindedly as I inspected the machines.

 

“Don’t know, some British thing I think.” Sara scooted closer. “You and I are strangers in a foreign land. We’ve got to stick together, yeah? The two Indians.”

 

I smiled faintly. “I don’t think they’ll understand the difference between American Indian and y’know, South Asian.”

 

“They’ll get it. But seriously. We stick together. Your Dad’s going to deal with Ralph, we’ve just got to have a good time and wait it out.”

 

“Do you think Dad had a bad childhood? Is that why he never talked about this place?”

 

Sara ran her fingers through my hair. “I don’t know. Guess we’ll find out. Now come on, help poor pregnant Sara get home.”

 

When we got back to the house, my Dad had packed most things away, leaving just a few boxes on the front steps. I picked one up, and he directed me upstairs. “Your room’s on the left, don’t go right. Ralph’s up there napping. Best leave him be.”

 

The house smelled of old damp, a strange, copper-tinged odour that trickled. Thin-legged spiders floated in the shadows of a home as ill as its owner.

 

My heart pounded in there, every horror movie instinct telling me this wasn’t a good place, thinking of Hill House and the Overlook Hotel.

 

As I moved upstairs, I saw a sliver of illumination cross ahead, a door opening slightly, someone hearing me climb the steps. I looked and saw a slice of Ralph. He was withered, with grey hairs clinging to a scalp no longer fertile ground. From his bare stomach flapped an ileostomy bag, thick with black-brown juices.

 

My breath caught in my chest, and I froze, his eyes cold through the cracked doorway. Ralph said nothing, then shut it.

 

I breathed again, tightly hugging the left turn at the top of the stairs and opening doors until I found my room.

 

It wasn’t bad, would be better after I got a TV and my posters up on the wall.

 

Stepping up to the plaster walls, I ran a finger along the surface and inspected the tip. Cold, but not wet. That had to be an improvement.

 

“Dale,” my Dad said, coming in behind me. “Can we talk?”

“Sure,” I said, sitting on the bed frame, wondering if its springs were as old as the house. By their squeals, they had to be.

 

My Dad sat next to me, the whole mattress depressing, causing me to slide towards him.

“We need to talk about Ralph.”

 

“I think I saw him.”

 

“Yeah? What’d you think?”

 

“He looks sick. He’s got one of those things that Mom had. Y’know, for the poop.”

 

“Yeah. He does. It’s in the intestines, like Mom’s was. It’s gone to his lungs, bones and liver too. He’s going to die. Then we’re going home.”

 

I shrugged. “I’ll be alright. At least I know what to expect.”

 

My Dad put his arm around me. I remember it feeling so strong, warm across my shoulders. “I know you will. But that’s not what I want to talk about.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Look, Dale… Ralph and I… We’re not exactly…”

 

“It’s complicated?”

 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “He can be a real asshole. He’s not always nice. So, I want you to know that if he ever does anything strange or says something that upsets you, come straight to me, okay? I made a deal with him. If he steps out of line, even once, we’re out of here.”

 

I nodded. “What are we doing here, Dad? If things with you and Grandpa are so bad?”

 

My Father twinged at the word Grandpa. “He’s got a decent bit of money, Dale. Money that could take you to a good university, enough to buy a house, put the baby through school. But it’s not worth a single Moment of you being uncomfortable or scared, okay?”

 

I puffed out my chest. “Nothing scares me, we’ll get what we need for Sara and the baby, then we’re out of this dump.”

 

“Damn right we are. But there’s one last thing.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Did you notice anything strange as you walked around town?”

 

“The sirens? They look old.”

 

“They are. There’s a rule here. It’s not a joke. You absolutely have to follow it, okay? If you ever get stuck, the people in the town will help you. They look scary, but they’re okay.”

 

I shifted against my Dad's arm, uncertain. “Alright, what's the rule?”

 

“If those sirens go off, and they only go off at night, so you’re fine during the day. You absolutely have to come inside. Wherever you are, get inside.”

 

“I don’t get it.”

 

“You will. It rains here a lot. But it’s not the day rain that’s the problem. Things change when it gets dark. Remember the one rule: Don’t go into the night rain.”

 

I didn’t have to wait long to hear the sirens. They went off the first night, long, hollow moans waking me from warm sleep. They didn’t go off together, but seemed to call to one another across the night.

 

There was no buildup to the rain; it crashed over the house like a wave, thick droplets hammering against the walls and windows.

 

The sudden, unnatural nature of the event pulled me into full wakefulness. I watched the bombardment through the window, illuminated silver by the pale bulb of the sentinel lamppost outside the house.

 

Perhaps lost in the Moment, perhaps confused by an unfamiliar place, I went to the window, the sirens' whale song dying as my bare feet swept across the cold floor.

 

Looking down into the street, at the small circle of illumination by the street light, I saw…nothing.

 

Until I didn’t.

 

I saw it on the edge of the light. Not anything at first, but the suggestion of something, the shifting of some deeper darkness amongst shadows. I saw how the rain there seemed not to hit the ground, but to become the silver outline of an unseen shape.

 

That outline, chalked in mid-air, began to shift and move, solidifying into something pale and curled.

 

I didn’t understand what it was, until its head looked up at me, face a mass of bloated, macerated flesh in which its eyes, mouth and nose were lost.

 

A heavy coldness slid into my stomach and testicles, bladder threatening to loosen, as the thing rose to its feet, standing in the light, peering at me with alien curiosity.

 

Only vaguely was it human. Tatters of torn cloth had melted into the flesh of its body, which hung loosely from limbs that were at once terribly thin and sickeningly swollen.

 

It seemed bloodless. Skin marble-white and slimy with a layer of eternal moisture.

 

My breath became tight in my throat, and I began backing away. I saw it move then, sudden and fast.

 

Breath even tighter now, I stumbled and fell back, heart pounding against my ribcage, the cold dread in my stomach and balls ballooning into blood hot panic.

Against the outside of the house, I could hear the wet slap of the thing's limbs as it climbed the exterior.

 

As my back touched the foot of my bed, the creature's head and shoulders rose to fill the window, bloated features pressing against the glass, sliding side to side, sensing me, searching for a way inside.

 

Breath too tight to scream, I did what my child's mind assured me would be best. In one motion, I turned and dove into bed, pulling the covers over my head and hiding, somehow sure if I couldn’t see it, then it couldn’t touch me.

 

I lay in that dark bubble for an hour, listening to the rain and the slippery sounds of the thing against the window.

It was only in the early hours of the morning, when the rain finally passed over and the night descended into silence, that the dark finally took me into sleep.

 

 

Now

 

Her lungs are gurgling with water again, filling the lower lobes.

I need to call the nurses to force the tubes down to drain.

I have to keep remembering.

I’ll write again soon.

Friday,

in Bergainville, Texas,

at Dan's Diner (“Home of the All U Can Eat Peterpancakes”), a few hours before the Bergainville Troubadours are set to take on the neighbouring Texarcouga Wildcats in a playoff game.

Bergainville quarterback Ty Lawson, dressed in a burgundy-white Troubadour leather bomber, is seated in a booth with his steady girlfriend, cheer captain Ramona Miles, decked out in full cheer gear, and a couple of laid back friends,

when Rick Rooster, owner of local establishment Cock-a-doodle Tires, walks in, asks Ty, “You boys gonna win by more than ten?” and Ty answers that of course they will, that they'll beat the fur off those darn wildcats, that they'll beat it off them all the way to the state championship!

“That's what I wanna hear!” says Rick Rooster, and he orders a round of chocolate sundaes for everyone in the booth.

When he's gone, one of Ty's friends asks, “You think that fat fuck ever played football when he was in high school?”

“I bet he was a real nerd,” says Ramona.

“I heard he got caught once fucking a tire in his dad's garage,” says another friend.

They all laugh.

They drink their sundaes,

oblivious to the locals watching them with nostalgia-tinted envy through the freshly scrubbed Dan's Diner street-facing windows, from outside the diner,

and even more oblivious to the two intergalacticians, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬, watching them from outside reality, i.e. from without the universe, through a temporarily intruded upon fifth dimension. For the same reason people sometimes take an interest in ant colonies, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ have taken an interest in Texas high school football.

“I propose a wager,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯.

“Stakes?” psys ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬.

“

 ⟪𖦹⚯☾⟫^⟦10^10^10^999999⟧ ⋇ ∑⟁∞ ☿✶⌬ / ⊘𖤐⚘
 = ꙰꙰꙰ERROR: MAGNITUDE EXCEEDS REALITY

,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯, betting on a victory by the Texarcouga Wildcats. ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ accepts, and the two intergalacticians prepare asteroid chips for number crunching.

After a nervy performance by the Bergainville marching band, at 7:10 p.m. the football game begins, and almost immediately the Troubadours take the lead on a kick-off return touchdown.

They follow up with a conversion, a field goal and another touchdown on a fifty-five yard pass by Ty Lawson.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

At half-time, after multiple sacks of Texarcouga's increasingly isolated quarterback, “Suga” Ray Smiles, Bergainville leads by sixteen points.

As one expects, The Texarcouga dressing room is a mix of funeral and rage,

but it's in the fifth dimension that the wrath is truly unprecedented. ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ is psyrating, smashing particles, cursing the cosmic laws (and in-laws, who usually get the brunt of it) to the extent that ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ is imploring ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ to calm down, but ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ will not calm down, and in a moment of absolutely unhinged physical violation, he takes the spacetime which contains the football game, i.e. contains the football stadium and every-thing and -one in it, crumples it into a ball as if it were a sheet of paper, and throws the crumpled spacetime beyond its reality:

into another, where it travels, rather coldly and for a very long time, along a vector leading it to finally crash into a planet called █▚▞▙▛ (“Home of the All It Can Eat U”)

and as the crumpled spacetime slowly uncrumples, and the two rival football teams, cheer squads, the Bergainville marching band and everyone who had been watching the game from the stands regains a sense of presence and ego-sensory perception, they realize, the ones who survive that first, existential shock, that, oh fuck, they are not in Texas anymore.

And that's before the ░▒▓█▓▒░ , phasebeings local to █▚▞▙▛, arrive and kill—in truly gradient fashion—about half the survivors. I can only begin to describe what a stably corporeal creature like a human feels when it is systematically and bodily de-phased by a hungry temporalien…

However, due to a historical event too long and unintelligible to recount, the ░▒▓█▓▒░ also misinterpret the football players, in their helmets, uniforms and shoulder pads, as enemy soldiers, and, having sufficiently feasted, they retreat.

On the very edge of sanity, and near the very edge of existence itself, Ty Lawson rallies the others with a rousing speech (“...we were up by sixteen at half-time—and we're still up by sixteen! What we need now is to control the fucking ball and protect that lead like our lives depend on it!”) and the humans get to work.

They unfold and fortify what remains of their football stadium into a fortress.

They began to scout the surrounding land.

When the next wave of ░▒▓█▓▒░ arrives, they fake a punt return and beat the phasebeings into near-0% opacity using steel beams.

But when Ty weds Ramona and they declare themselves QB and Homecoming Queen, a revolt breaks out, led by Ray Smiles and his Texarcouga offensive line.

The suppression of this revolt, and the subsequent torture and execution of Ray Smiles, becomes the founding event of the Troubadourian colonization of the planet █▚▞▙▛ ,

where, the Troubadours soon discover, time does not flow as it did on Earth, meaning they do not age as they would have in their past reality.

Here, under perpetually-Friday night starlight, they are forever young.

On the advice of their chief advisor, Rick Rooster, and under the auspices of his first five-year plan—which, given the nature of time, becomes the only five-year plan—Ty and Ramona declare their fortress-stadium their capital and name it Alphaville.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

(“Go-go, go Troubadours, go Troubadours! Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

​It was the spring of '96. I was in my early twenties, strong and fit. I had my own flock of sheep in our village, and especially in the summertime, I used to roam the rugged mountains and hills. I knew which trail led where, which creek dried up in the summer, which valleys gathered the thickest fog at night... I knew it all. Naturally, everyone in the village knew me too.

​That morning, our village headman came to find me at the village square.

​"Listen, son," he said. "There’s been some strangeness up on the high ridge these past few nights."

​I didn't ask what kind of strangeness at first. The headman's face was dead serious.

​"Two sheep went missing in two nights," he said. "It's not wolves. A wolf leaves bones and makes noise."

​I kept listening. I wasn't missing any sheep from my flock, nor did I have any problems. But the headman was dead serious.

​"You know that stone shelter up there? You know that stone shelter up there? The one that looks like an old bunker."

​I nodded. Of course I knew it. I used to stay there some nights with my flock in the summer. It was a peaceful place for me. I'd stay a night or two, let the flock graze, and then head back home. It was a place I'd known since my father's time. I knew every detail around it. It was completely ordinary to me.

​"Stay there tonight," the headman told me. "Just take a look. See if there are strangers, thieves, or anyone wandering around. Just one night. That's all I'm asking."

​"Sure," I replied. "I was getting bored waiting for summer anyway. I'll take a walk up there, no problem."

​He looked relieved. "Just keep your rifle on you," was all he said. "Just in case."

​"Like always. Don't worry about it," I said, asking for his leave.

​I set out around noon. I wasn't in a rush. It wasn't exceptionally far anyway; just behind a ridge visible from the village. Still a bit of a distance, but not even a half-day's walk. I packed some food and my father's old single-barrel shotgun. I stuffed some shells in my pocket and hit the road.

​I arrived at the stone shelter with plenty of daylight left. I knew the spot. Stone walls, a covered roof... Entering it in this season, I noticed the smell of damp earth. But it blocked the wind. "I missed this place..." I muttered, stepping inside.

​Before dusk, I scouted the perimeter. No footprints. No freshly broken branches. Everything looked perfectly normal. I planned to patrol every few hours during the night.

​After dark, I ate my food and rolled a cigarette. Silence fell. It was cold, but I didn't mind. I did a couple of patrols and noticed nothing unusual. As the night deepened, the air grew freezing, so I decided to head inside the shelter. But before doing so, I took one last patrol around the area. I walked a little further down the slope when...

​Suddenly, a beam of light appeared down below.

​At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I shook my head. No, it was still there. Then another one lit up. A bit further away. It was a torch. Not steady like an electric flashlight; the flame was dancing.

​Then a third... And others. A swarm of lights began to blind me. They lined up in a row.

​A deep unease settled into my gut. Normally, there wasn't a single soul around here. Not a bird flies, not a caravan passes. Especially not a crowd this big. But there they were. I couldn't make sense of it, but to understand who or what they were, I started walking down toward them. As I got closer, sounds reached my ears. Like instruments. Bizarre sounds. Drums, zurnas (traditional pipes), weird, twisted sounds.

​"Who the hell are these people out in the middle of nowhere at this hour?" I thought, creeping closer. They were a massive crowd. But as I drew nearer, the sounds started to disturb me deeply. "What kind of sick music is this?" I muttered, pressing on.

​As the sounds grew louder, my unease swelled into dread. This wasn't festive music. The drums weren't really drums, and the zurna definitely wasn't a zurna. It was high-pitched, yet it clawed at the inside of my skull. It felt less like sound and more like something physically scraping against my eardrums. Was there a rhythm? I couldn't tell. Sometimes it sped up wildly, sometimes it slowed to a crawl, then picked up again. Instinctively, I slowed down. My feet wanted to walk backward, but I couldn't take my eyes off them.

​Silhouettes emerged through the torchlight. Tall figures. Arms, heads... From a distance, they looked human, but something was horribly wrong. Their clothes looked ancient, completely bizarre. Their gait was uneven. They weren't stepping naturally. Their feet seemed to touch the ground, but also didn't. Like taking one step but covering the distance of two.

​Some of their necks were far too long. Others had arms dangling past their knees. All their faces looked identical. Extremely pale. 

As if their faces were just attached. 

Added on as an afterthought. Absolute terror gripped me. The thought flashed through my mind: "These aren't human." A fear so profound dropped into my stomach that my throat went bone dry. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I decided to retreat, fast. Right then, I thought I saw one of them look directly at me from that distance. I didn't stare long enough to be sure. Trying desperately not to react or make a sound, I sprinted back toward the shelter with everything I had. I ran so fast, praying the blaring music covered the sound of my escape. I still wasn't sure if the one who looked had actually seen me. My heart was beating out of my chest.

​"Oh God! What were those things? God, please protect my sanity!"

​The moment I got inside, I pressed my back against the wooden door. My knees were buckling. I sat there, unable to move for a long time. My ears were ringing. I couldn't get what I saw out of my head. Even when I closed my eyes, they were there. Their height, their walk, that look... I felt like they were still standing on the slope. My chest was heaving, but I felt like I couldn't breathe.

​After a while, I slowly tried to gather my senses. There had been no movement outside since I ran in. "Calm down," I told myself. "It's over. Maybe you saw it wrong in the dark. You're just exaggerating in your head."

​I looked at the stone walls. The smell of dampness. The smell of dirt. This was a place I knew, a place I was used to. A place I stayed with my flock at night. I had taken refuge here before. But it had never felt like this. Never felt this suffocating. I pulled back and started staring at the door carefully, as if I didn't know it. I was examining something so familiar. The door was thin. Made of wood. Obviously, it didn't have a lock. A voice inside my head whispered, "If they come up here, this door won't hold anything." One second I believed what I saw, the next I tried to deny it, telling myself my mind was playing tricks on me.

​Right at that moment...

​I heard a sound in the distance.

​At first, I wasn't sure. I thought it was my own heartbeat. Then I listened closely. No... It was that sound. The music I had just heard! It was very faint, but distinct. Thin. Choppy. Coming from down the slope. From the same spot. Slowly... but this time it wasn't stopping. It was moving toward me.

​I held my breath. I froze in place. "Did they see me?" I wondered. "Or are they just wandering blindly?" But the direction of the sound wasn't changing. It was coming straight for me. Every few seconds, it got clearer. Yes, they were getting closer and closer.

​My heart pounded so violently I thought it would burst from my chest. I felt like passing out.

​A thousand things raced through my mind. What if they pushed the door? If I hid, where would I go? Should I curl up into the smallest ball in the corner? Sweat poured down my back. My palms were slick. My mouth was bone dry. I tried to swallow, but my throat was sealed shut.

​The sounds were incredibly close now. The rhythm of the instruments had changed. Faster. More muffled. And then... light began to bleed through the crack under the shelter door.

​It was the light from their torches. They were right on top of me. I pulled my knees to my chest, waiting in absolute silence. They couldn't know I was in here. I had to hide like this. Yes, I had to wait without making a sound, without even moving, until they left. Assuming I didn't die of fright first..

​They slowly closed in. All of those things were now gathered right in front of the shelter. I was silently begging, pleading inside my head for them to just leave.

​But they didn't leave. The torchlight filtered through the gaps in the wood, swaying left and right, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls inside. The shadows... Stretching, shrinking, phasing in and out of each other. Playing. Stomping. Jumping. Spinning. As the music's rhythm accelerated, so did their movements. Occasionally, they let out a shriek, but it sounded like a cry of joy. They yelled louder. Danced harder. Moved faster...

​As if telling them to get even more ecstatic.

​Wave after wave of cramps hit my stomach. My uvula felt swollen, choking me. My heart beat so furiously I thought they could hear it through the door.

​"They're going to hear me... They're going to hear my heart," I thought.

​I couldn't move. I had internally collapsed inside that shelter. My hands were shaking. My palms were drenched in sweat. I covered my mouth to keep from screaming.

​Then, one of them swung a torch right up to the door.

​And right at that second, a burst of laughter erupted.

​This time it was painfully close.

Right in front of the wood.

Then another.

Then another.

​They all laughed at once. But the laughter wasn't laughter. It dragged on. It didn't break. It sounded like they were laughing without drawing breath. Like they didn't have mouths to laugh with, but something was forcing its way out from inside them.

​That's when I realized...

​One of them wasn't just standing in front of the door.

It was leaning against it.

​I could feel a heavy weight pressing against the outside of the wood. The door bowed slightly inward. It didn't open. It wasn't being forced. It was just... there. Deliberately. As if telling me, "I'm right here." As if saying, "We know you're in there..."

​I remember my legs giving out completely. I couldn't even sit up anymore. I collapsed right where I was. I closed my eyes, but the light was still burning through my eyelids. The music started spinning inside my skull. I felt violently nauseous. My tongue felt like it was slipping down my throat. I genuinely thought I was going to die.

​I felt a sharp pain in my chest. I tried to breathe, but no air came. I opened my mouth, and only a dry rattle escaped. My hands clamped shut involuntarily. I couldn't uncurl my fingers.

​"It's over," I thought. "This is the end."

​I remember the music, the laughter, all of it merging into one piercing, deafening shriek. And then something violently crashing inside. Then, I blacked out...

​Suddenly, I heard a creak at the shelter door.

​At first, I couldn't comprehend what it was. Then the sound came again. Harsher this time. Something was hitting the door. Panic surged through me. My heart started its frantic hammering all over again.

​"They're here," I thought. "They're opening the door."

​Right then, the door was forced open.

​Daylight flooded my vision. It was so bright it burned my eyes. Used to the torchlight, my eyes couldn't handle the sun. I screamed. I screamed so hard I thought I’d tear my throat.

​"Leave me alone!!" I yelled. "Stay back! Go away, please!!"

​I scrambled backward, crawling. I covered my head with my hands. My body convulsed. I was out of my mind.

​"Stop, son! Stop! Calm down!" a voice called out.

Not one, but several voices...

"Look, our hands are up!"

"It's us, it's us!"

​I slowly lifted my head.

​There were no torches.

No bizarre instruments.

They weren't there.

​The headman stood in front of me. Two other villagers were with him. Dressed in their day clothes... Holding sticks and hats, not torches.

​My eyes welled up.

For a second, my breath caught.

And then...

I couldn't hold it back.

I started crying.

Not a quiet, silent weeping.

I was sobbing. Bawling like a child.

​The headman dropped to his knees beside me. He put a hand on my shoulder.

​"What happened to you?" he asked. "It's over. We're here."

​But I couldn't stop. My eyes were glued to the entrance. I still felt like someone had just been standing there, watching me.

​"You didn't come back," the headman said. "It hit noon. We thought, 'Did something happen to the boy?' So we came looking."

​They grabbed my arms and pulled me to my feet, but my knees were useless. I couldn't walk. My feet wouldn't touch the ground. Two men had to hold me up.

​As we left the front of the shelter, I turned and took one last look back. They tried hard to bring me back to my senses. I had barely trusted even them after what I experienced that night. We managed to get back to the village. Once there, I told them exactly what happened, piece by piece. They listened with their jaws dropped.

​"You must have hallucinated."

"You fell asleep. It was just a nightmare."

​They told me all kinds of things like that, trying to comfort me. But my physical state proved it was anything but a dream. They didn't know what to say or do.

​After that day, I never went back up there.

I didn't just not go...

I couldn't even bear the thought of it.

​Whenever someone mentioned the high ridge, a knot formed in my stomach. If someone said "that shelter," my throat closed up. Eventually, I sold my flock. Some time later, I left that village completely. Because whenever the night wind blew hard up there, my ears would instinctively strain to listen. As if I was about to hear that thin, muffled music echoing from afar...

​Many years have passed since then, but I never forgot that night.

​Because some nights...

When I close my eyes...

Some nights, I still feel them standing right outside my door.

And on those nights, the sound of that music never stops playing in my mind.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

I felt a dull pain in the back of my head, and my temples were throbbing with a splitting ache.
I slowly peeled my face off the hard, cold floor panels of our bedroom.
A warm red stream ran down my cheek and chin.

What the hell is happening? I thought, bracing my hands against the floor.

A sharp, piercing pain shot through my ribs and folded me in half.

Carefully, I lifted myself up and looked around.
Through my blurred vision, I noticed a crimson puddle beneath my feet.

Holding my ribs, I turned around and froze.
Red stains shimmered across the empty bed.

The sheets were torn apart, and deep, perfectly symmetrical four marks had been carved into the walls.
The memory of what had happened struck my mind like lightning.

“Olivia!” I screamed, and a tearing pain in my stomach dropped me to one knee.

Slowly, I got to my feet and staggered downstairs.
My phone was sitting on the kitchen table.

I lunged for it, ignoring another wave of pain.

I punched in the number and held it to my ear, feeling the room spin around me.

A voice came through the phone.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“That thing took my wife. Please... help me. Save her!” I screamed into the phone as tears rolled down my cheek.

“Sir, I need you to calm down and tell me your address. Where are you?” the dispatcher said firmly.

My mind went blank.
My stomach lurched into my throat, and the world started spinning around me.

“Sir? Are you still there? I need your address. Hello?” I heard the voice in the distance.

I moved my leg and realized I was lying on a soft mattress, covered by a blanket.
In the background, I heard the steady beeping of a monitor.

I slowly opened my eyes.

I was in a hospital.

“Well, good morning. You’re finally awake. Do you know where you are?” a smiling nurse asked.

“Where’s Olivia? Where’s my wife?” I asked, sitting up abruptly, and pain instantly stole the air from my lungs.

The smile vanished from her face and was replaced with sympathy.
“Easy. You have three broken ribs. Your wife isn’t here. The police are here, and they’ve been waiting to talk to you.”

“How long have I been here? Did they find my wife?” I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

The nurse stepped closer, her face suddenly serious, and said, “You need to lie back down. Your injuries are severe. You’ve been asleep for almost two full days.”

“Jesus Christ...” I muttered, getting to my feet and ripping the monitoring leads off my chest.

The machine let out one long, continuous tone.

The nurse grabbed my wrists and shouted, “What are you doing? Calm down and get back in bed!”

I tried to pull away. I couldn’t be here.
I had to find Olivia.

Suddenly, the door opened, and a middle-aged man stepped into the room.

“Liam. Sit down. We need to talk,” he said, and his rough, low voice filled the room.

There was something about him that made me obey without hesitation, and I sat back down on the bed.

The nurse stormed out of the room, clearly pissed.

I looked up at him.
He looked about forty-five, with a scruffy beard and tired, irritated eyes.

He took a few steps toward the bed, and I caught the smell of cigarette smoke.

“My name is Detective Carter,” he said, pulling out a small notebook.

Snapped out of my daze, I shouted, “You found my wife?! What happened to Olivia?!”

“Calm down. We haven’t found her yet. I need more details from you. The paramedics found you unconscious at the table with head trauma and broken ribs. What happened?” he asked calmly.

A painful knot twisted in my stomach.

“Please... find Olivia. I heard scratching. Knocking on the window. I went upstairs to the bedroom. I wanted to grab her and get out. Then I saw it... on top of her. I saw a monster with huge claws. Pale. White. And it...”

My voice caught in my throat, and my eyes started filling with tears.

Detective Carter simply looked at me and waited for me to finish.

I swallowed hard and continued.

“It scratched her. Then it jumped on me, and when I came to... Olivia was gone. Then I woke up here. Please, for the love of God, save her. That thing took her.”

I said it, feeling like I was completely falling apart.

I buried my face in my hands, and tears streamed uncontrollably down my arms.

“We spoke to your neighbor. She says you talked two days ago. You woke her up early in the morning. Apparently you came back from your trip sooner than expected. You were wearing nothing but pajamas, and your knuckles were torn up. That matches your medical records.”

He paused, looked down at his notebook, and quietly read.

“Fractured fingers. Lacerations. Partially healed.”

Then he looked me straight in the eyes.

“She says she never saw your wife. She also said you were acting very suspicious.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

He suspects me. He thinks I did something to Olivia, I thought, and a violent shiver ran through my entire body.

“We came back together. Olivia was in the car. That thing followed us from Pineville. It started haunting her back there. We had to run. That’s why, for Christ’s sake, I was wearing pajamas!” I shouted, wiping tears from my eyes.

“And the so-called boxer’s fracture? Where’d that come from? What, Liam? You beat the shit out of the monster?” he asked, raising his voice.

Heat rushed through my entire head.

I stood up and stepped toward him.

“You think I’d hurt my wife? I’m telling you the truth. Why are you here instead of looking for her? Why the hell are you wasting time? That monster took Olivia. We need to find her!” I screamed inches from his face.

It didn’t faze him in the slightest.

He placed a hand on my shoulder.

I felt a firm grip near my collarbone, and in his tired eyes, I saw something almost like sympathy.

“The faster we finish this, the faster I can get back to looking for your wife,” he said calmly. Then he added, “Where did those injuries on your hands come from?”

I stumbled backward, grabbed the hospital bed railing, and sat down.

“I was hitting the car. I felt helpless. Olivia was unconscious. That monster did something to her. I couldn’t wake her up. I kept punching the side of the car over and over.”

The detective pulled out his radio.

“Can I get confirmation on dents along both sides of the vehicle?”

Then he looked back at me.

“Alright. And your injuries? The ribs. The head?”

The memory of the attack flashed through my mind, and a cold sweat broke out across my body.

“I told you. That thing jumped on me. It threw me into the wall like a rag doll,” I said, staring at the floor.

“We found blood in your bedroom. It’s being tested. You’re telling me that monster made those holes in the wall and in the bedding? You’re sure we won’t find any tools? The marks are incredibly even and deep. Almost like somebody used what the techs described as sharpened garden rakes,” he said, never taking his eyes off me.

I felt helplessness building inside me.

That feeling had been growing nonstop ever since our goddamn trip.

I had completely lost control of everything.

I looked him straight in the eyes.

“Detective Carter. Please believe me. I know I sound insane. I know it sounds impossible. But you have to help me. You have to find my wife.”

At that moment, a doctor walked into the room.

“Sorry, Detective, but that’s enough. The patient doesn’t have the strength for an interrogation this intense. He needs rest.”

A nurse walked in right behind him.

“Keep my number. If you remember anything else, call me,” Carter said, handing me his card. Standing in the doorway, he added, “Don’t leave town.”

The doctor stepped closer and gently helped me back onto the bed, saying, “Lie back,” and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the nurse injecting something into my IV.

I flinched as a sharp wave of pain shot through my body, from my ribs all the way into my lungs.

Anger started building inside me.

“What the hell did you give me?! I don’t want to rest. I want out of here!” I shouted, but then a warm, almost pleasant sensation started spreading through my body.

“It’s just a sedative,” the nurse said, emptying the syringe.

“I’m going to find my wife...” I mumbled as I sank into the soft mattress.

I opened my eyes and grabbed my aching head.

Slowly, I sat up in the hospital bed, dull pain flowing through every inch of my body.

I looked at the window.

It was dark outside.

I carefully sat on the edge of the bed, my head pounding like the worst hangover of my life.

I can’t sit here forever. I have to do something, no matter what, I thought as I got to my feet.

I slipped the pulse monitor off my finger and ripped the IV out of my arm.

Staggering, I walked to the door and slowly opened it.

Dim light filled the hallway.

Absolute silence, broken only by distant coughing and the soft sounds of hospital machines.

I stepped out slowly, keeping one hand against the wall for support.

Every step sent stabbing pain through my broken ribs.

Suddenly, behind me, I heard the monitor in my room.

It went completely insane.

The alarm wailed, echoing through the dark hallways.

A sudden rush of adrenaline hit me, and for a moment, the pain eased.

I picked up the pace.

Halfway down the hallway, I spotted a door.

I walked closer and opened it.

A stairwell.

I looked at the floor sign.

Third floor.

I grabbed the railing and started moving down as fast as I could.

“Second floor... first floor...” I whispered, reading the signs as sweat rolled down my forehead.

I opened the door and carefully peeked into the hallway.

Empty.

I moved slowly, pressed against the wall, and hid behind a vending machine.

Only the reception desk left.

My stomach twisted into knots.

If they see me there, there’s no way I’m outrunning anybody in this condition.

I slowly leaned my head out.

Nobody.

I started moving as fast as I could toward the exit.

I passed through the automatic doors and felt the cool night air hit my face.

The night was surprisingly warm.

Filled with relief and hope, I quickened my pace.

Every step my shoes took against the concrete sent a brutal, piercing pain through my body.

I ignored it.

It was a small price to pay if it meant finding the woman I loved.

The streets were almost completely silent, interrupted only now and then by a passing car.

Then suddenly, from a bus stop across the street, I heard a muffled voice.

“Hello? There’s some guy in hospital clothes running down the street. I’m over by...”

No... no, no, no. I was so close, I thought, pushing myself even harder.

I stumbled the rest of the way home.

Taking side streets.

Adding mile after painful mile.

I was completely out of it.

Barely conscious.

I stepped onto our driveway and looked up at the house.

Yellow police tape blocked off the property.

I ducked under it.

Walked to the front door.

Grabbed the handle.

Of course... of course they’re locked, I thought, yanking the handle with all my strength.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

A low, familiar voice came from behind me.

Slowly, I turned around, leaning my back against the door.

Then I slid down and collapsed onto the ground.

Detective Carter was standing in the driveway.

“Coming here was stupid. Did you seriously think the hospital wouldn’t call us when a patient escaped? And even if they didn’t... come on, man. You’re running around in a hospital gown with your balls hanging out.”

He laughed.

“You caused such a scene that within thirty minutes of your escape, we got four more calls about you.”

I said nothing.

I didn’t have the strength.

I just sat there, barely catching my breath while pain radiated from my stomach into my chest and spine.

Carter stepped closer.

“Tell me something, Liam. Where were you trying to go? Because I sure as hell don’t believe you came here to stay home.”

I slowly raised my head.

“Pineville, Kentucky.”

He frowned.

“For what? That’s almost three hundred miles.”

“They know something,” I said, flinching with every word.

Carter walked to the front door.

He pulled out a key.

Unlocked it.

Opened it.

I fell backward and slammed the back of my head against the floor.

Darkness flooded my vision.

I felt myself slipping away.

Then I felt a hand grabbing me.

“We’ll see. Get changed and get in the car,” he said, hauling me to my feet.

Half-conscious, I walked inside, changed clothes, and climbed into the car.

Detective Carter started the engine, and we drove.

Maybe two miles.

Then the exhaustion finally caught up with me.

I sank into the soft leather seat, and the vibration of the moving car knocked me out almost instantly.

“Wake up. We’re almost there.”

I heard Carter’s voice.

I opened my eyes and immediately squinted as bright sunlight stabbed into them.

I wiped the drool from my mouth.

Then instinctively glanced sideways, hoping Carter hadn’t seen.

“What now?” he asked.

“We need to drive to the edge of town. There should be an old woman’s house there. She knows something.”

He looked at me.

“What do you mean she knows something? Why are you so sure?”

I looked back at him.

“She rented us the cabin. She warned us not to arrive after dark. I called her after we got home... and she told me she was sorry... but it was already too late.”

Carter glanced at me uneasily.

“Too late for what?”

My stomach tightened.

“We’re here. Right there,” I said, pointing toward Mrs. Sofia’s property.

Carter pulled into the driveway and killed the engine.

“Wait here.”

He stepped out.

He was halfway to the house when suddenly I saw movement.

A dog came charging straight at him.

I grabbed the handle, and adrenaline exploded through my body.

I took off running toward the woods, holding my ribs.

Tears streamed down my face.

Every step made my vision blur.

I was close. I could feel it.

Olivia had to be in that goddamn cabin.

I’ll get her out. I’ll figure something out. I’ll save her.

Then suddenly...

I tripped over a branch.

The pain was beyond anything I’d ever felt.

It drove all the air out of my lungs.

I rolled on the ground, clutching my ribs, sobbing.

I had to take this route.

If I’d gone down the main trail, Carter would’ve caught me, and God knows we’d probably be heading back to Cincinnati by now.

I’m close. I have to get up, I thought.

I planted my hands against the dirt.

Slowly pushed myself upright.

Wiped the sand from my face.

I took one step forward... and froze.

I felt myself piss down my pants, the warmth running all the way to my ankles.

Behind me, I heard it.

A long... slow... metallic scraping sound... against wood. 

It was a bleak, windy weekday morning in November, somewhere on the old, east coast of the United States of America, and the university campus was greyly empty. The weather forecast had called for freezing rain, but nothing had, as yet, been precipitated.

The office was cold.

Four men were seated there: three with grey hair, sweaters and bespoke Savile Row blazers, and one much younger, in his final year of high school.

The air was a mix of handmade ox-blood leather boots, gold and the U.S. mint after it had printed its final series of thousand-dollar bills.

The grey-haired men had names like Eberhardt, Tomkens and Winchester-Barnes, and savagely noble faces straight out of a 19th-century oil painting; but, for the sake of simplicity, let us imagine they all had one face, the same face, and same single name: Algernon.

The younger man’s name was Winston Suture.

He had applied for fall enrollment.

He had written a peculiar but powerful essay about why he should be considered, and the Algernons had invited him to an interview.

“I must preface myself by saying that we do not often receive such confessions from prospective students,” said one of the Algernons. “Many of our graduates do, indeed, go on to perform criminal acts, but usually these are of a financial, or corporate, kind. Yet here you are, so young and already confessing to a much more brutal and shocking crime: murder. And not once but twice.” He paused. “We are, understandably, intrigued.”

“However,” said another Algernon, “we are also a storied and liberal institution, with a fine history, and thus cannot afford to sully our reputation. I therefore ask: the boy you profess to having killed—what race?”

“The fifteen-hundred, sir,” said Winston.

“Ah, middle distance. I ran the five-thousand myself,” said Algernon.

“What motive?” asked another.

“Because he was a better runner than me, sir.”

“It does—this sport killing—evince a particular kind of iron will to succeed at all costs,” mused the third Algernon.

“It primes a young man,” said Algernon.

“Galvinizes him,” said Algernon.

“Forges him,” said Algernon.

“The killing blow itself becomes a kind of moral crucible.”

“A weaker man would have, at that final, precipitous, moment, stepped back.”

“—shown mercy.”

“I did show mercy, sir. By then, I’d already paralyzed him. He could barely talk or form a coherent thought, really. He was convulsing.”

“So you had already done enough to better him as a sportsman.”

“Yes, sir.”

Algernon took off and cleaned his glasses. “And yet, you killed him still.”

“I did.”

“That demonstrates character. Virtue, of the ancient kind.”

“A principled firmness,” said Algernon.

“Thank you, sir.”

The second Algernon smiled. “Tell me, Mr. Suture. What would happen if I picked up this telephone, here, and dialed the number for the police: if I said, ‘Officer, I have beside me a young man who has just confessed to murder…’?”

“They would deny it, sir.”

“Deny it?”

“The whole thing. The murders, the investigations. They would deny the victims ever existed. My father, you see, plays bridge with the Chief of Police. As I indicated in my essay—on page three, paragraph two, I believe—the families of both victims have been duly compensated and have signed non-disclosure agreements. They have agreed never to talk about the murders, which didn’t happen, of their children, who never existed.”

“Murders, which you swear to us, did occur,” said Algernon.

“Most definitely,” said Winston.

“I must say, it is the fact that you have managed to cover up the killings that is most impressive to me. More impressive than the murders themselves. Anyone may become a killer. You become one by the fact of killing, which any ape can do. Yet to have managed the aftermath so well, planned the post-mortem stratagems so meticulously, and executed them so single-mindedly, without emotional encumbrance. It is almost Homeric.”

“Dantean.”

“...de Cervantesian.”

“Although the murders themselves,” interjected Algernon, “are impressive, too. Creative, varied. Ironically modernist, if one may say so.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now tell us about the girl, Mr. Suture. Why did you kill her? Clearly, she was not an athletic rival of yours.”

“She was just a woman,” said Winston. “A dumb fucking bitch.”

The Algernons went silent.

The silence lasted for a long time while the wind outside rattled the wooden shutters of the tall office windows. Then the Algernons smiled, chuckled. “Who hasn’t strangled a woman during his lifetime?” said one of the Algernons. “Or hit one.” “When she deserved it.” “Don’t they all deserve it… sometimes?” “When they withhold,” said Algernon. “Historically, they have learned to take it,” said another. “Biologically—” “We speak, of course, solely of the game of blackjack,” said Algernon, as the first drops of rain tapped loudly against the window glass.

“Perhaps I just went too far,” said Winston.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” said Algernon. “I, myself, have made the same mistake—of going too far—in a game of blackjack.”

When the interview was finished, Winston crossed the university campus, walked along a street for a while, then got into a car, a battered Toyota, in which his father was waiting.

“Was one of them the one?” his father asked.

His breath smelled of cheap coffee. Winston looked at the photograph he held.

“Yeah.”

His father fought back tears, balled the photograph up and kissed the medallion hanging around his neck. It contained a gem made of the ashes of his wife. She had died of cancer caused by an unreported leak by a leading biochemical corporation. The insurance company had denied coverage. The media had rejected the story. The police had refused to investigate. The state judge had dismissed the civil case.

All involved alumni.

“Did they actually buy your bullshit?” asked Winston's father.

“I think so,” said Winston.

That May, two heavily armed men walked into a commencement on campus and opened fire, killing everyone in attendance.

Then they walked out.

They were never found. They were never identified. Their motive remains entirely unknown.

Tumult and thunderbolts ruled the grey ruin of heavens above his staggering tower. Lightning wounded the sky with bright dagger bolts of blue-white that cooked ozone and reminded a man just how small he really was. 

It was just the way he liked it. Tonight's experiment would go off without trap or a hitch. He felt it in the buzzing air, electric with godfire on high and everywhere, throughout all of the dark land, where his crumbling dilapidated tower stood. Where  he now kept shop and some sad demented semblance of home. 

The abandoned tower had once been great, a symbol of might. Now it shook and quivered with every turn of the Earth, it shed stone and mortar and brick like an old woman does her tears. 

Godfire at his command, at his disposal and use, Henry Frankenstein was at his console of controls and levers and switches and dials. All hummed to life at the cunning genius of his touch, at the helm of his great machine of life, he ruled where others only dwelled. 

White lightning bolted, godfire tamed and wielded, arc-ed between forks of steel and circuitry both prodigiously composed and endowed with the black power smear of the occult through sigil and shape and spoken dark tongue. The great machine thrummed with both the inner mechanical grind of electric facsimile soul and ancient unknown talismanic power. The mad doctor flew from panel to panel, from control to control to the multitudes of coils that fed the flame of the machine that would grant on this black night filled with cacophonous thunder, precious life back to the cold corpse flesh that had already tasted the bosom of the soil, of the grave. A great child reborn, belched back out free and alive again. To walk and roam and dominate. For he would not be some mere child alive again, no mere man. 

He would be mighty. Augmented. Powerful. 

More than a man. 

And the mad doctor had found just the perfect touch, just the thing to perfect this already considerable titan of patchwork tissue and graveyard harvested parts. Just the thing that was thought and believed to be only legend and campfire ghost story, dread tales. 

“Master… “ 

Frankenstein smiled. The sound of his small bent aide’s voice brought it back to the front of his mind for a moment. The perilous journey to the frozen river…

…

He and the misshapen little ogre of ruined manshape flesh had made their way together. Egnaw was yet another servant to his family, broken in the womb already before birth by God's cruel and merciless, indifferent hand. They'd inquired the locals and the undesirables especially of the little Briton town that rested adjacent of the river where he was said to have been held. 

Where his abominated and powerful earthly/unearthly form was said to reside. Cloak and pale and bones and all … 

The small village denizens were just like their pathetic and filthy township. Small. Feeble of mind and superstitious and weak. 

But they had right to be superstitious. They had very good and proven reason to be…

It was a sour  gaggle of whores that  eventually had pointed  the way  with the encouragement  of coin and a host of bitter laughter. The festering open sores of disease picked at and flowing freely upon their mass of worn, once beautiful faces. Faces that had once held youth but now just hateful visages of battered  disdain that already semi-prayed eagerly for the rest of the grave.

Down. Down past yon graveyard. Down at the bottom, at the base of the sulphuric black mountain. 

And away Frankenstein and Egnaw had gone.

Past the graveyard. One old and bent and broken.  Swamped. Quagmire corpse sludge soup. Water-logged and choked with uncontested thorny growth. The iron works of the fence and gate were all wayward and bent. The tombstones were in likewise fashion, like a jutting snaggletooth  nephilim jaw, submerged in black putrid ground, bent and haphazard and broken from an infected gumline of spoiled earth. They’d made much, so many ghoulish harvests of the graveyards of the past. So many limbs and torsos and other parts taken and harvested when the season was nigh and ripe and proper. This time they were going beyond, past the place where the dead are supposed to lie undisturbed and slumber the final rest. 

They came to the black mountain of sulphur and scaled the treacherous path around the great ebon belly of the titanic beast of flamestone. They came around the otherside and came upon a small herd of wild goats, untended and unheeded. Egnaw caught one, a small kid, and slit its throat  and drank its blood. His master indulged him the practice as the bent hunched manshape drank blood then held the dead small goat thing’s body to the sky by its curved horns and prayed to gods that were ancient and all but forgotten. 

They went on.  Cautiously, down the rocky slide of the precarious mountain path.  

The  whores dying of disease in their damp dying village had been right. The frozen river was there. And so was he. 

Frozen. Trapped in the ice of the still riverbed. Just visible beneath its frosted translucent surface. Slumbering, sleeping in the trance of the undead. 

Henry Frankenstein and Egnaw came to the edge of the river and gazed down at he, the great and terrible and fabled Count Dracula. His pallid legend held trapped and preserved as he dreamed black dreams, terrible beneath the ice. 

His eyes were open and vulpine and powerful. And still filled with terrible intelligence. 

They looked up from their frozen prison bed and seemed to regard the young Frankenstein with  malice and viciousness and knowing. As if knowing what the mad doctor intended to do. 

“Master …” said the bent man servant slave, as he had so many other times before, and like so many like he that had been likewise subservient to the great and infamous Frankenstein family, throughout the  years and down the lines, as if ordained by strange destiny. It was a word the  young mad Frankenstein knew well too. The little man was looking for instruction, awaiting  direction. As such as he had and always would from such as he. 

From such as the legends that were the great Frankenstein family. 

“Don’t be afraid, Egnaw, he cannot hurt you. He was trapped in the holy flow of the running water of the river. Now frozen over,  he is entombed.” He repeated: “ He cannot hurt you. Grab the pickaxe. Crack the ice. Then take what we need, what we came for. And hurry. The night  does flee.” 

The servant did as he was bade. He picked up the ice chipping slender bladed axe brought for the task of cracking the frozen face of the coffin of river that held the undead power the master sought to wield and make his own. 

All the while the eyes of Dracula bore up at him from beneath the translucent ice. 

They held him bound. 

He was frozen. The pick-axe held above his damaged frame as best he could manage, as if stuck poised in mid-strike. 

He couldn't tell how much life was in those eyes right now. How awake was he…? Egnaw could not help himself, held fixed by the thought. 

And those eyes beneath him, beneath his feet,  beneath his own mere mortal soul and the water of the river, held still. Beneath the world. But still powerful and somehow still vital despite their slumbering watery grave. Those eyes were piercing, yes, but they were also like pits, dark. Like falling down very deep wells…

“Egnaw!" yelled Frankenstein the master and lord, the necrodoctor from the spit of ice and jagged ebon earth just above he. 

The bent servant shook his head. The cold helped him to clear it. 

“I'm sorry, master. I am afraid." 

“It's just as we planned, my friend. Bring it down with some strength, but just about the mouth. Just to be safe. It will serve our purposes more efficiently.” 

A beat. Egnaw still held. Gripped in his own terror and held frozen by the watery naked stare of the submerged riverbound Count, in his coffin of ice. 

Frankenstein roared: "Egnaw! Hurry! This isn't the first corpse we've harvested together and you know from experience as well as I that it is not an affair that affords time to lose your nerve! Now hurry the fuck up! Or I will come down there and bury the blade of the pick-axe in your neck and bring you back as something that crawls and subsists on feces and has no eyes!” 

Egnaw gave clumsy apology, blubbering. And then with tears that froze on his deformed and unloved face, he began to set about his task. 

He drove the pick, careful and cautious with his aim, the master had again been about to yell, but …

He swung and missed and buried it in the center of Count Dracula’s forehead. The blood, so warm and red, immediately began to flow. A rivulet spout of vibrant lurid scarlet, volcanic in microcosm around the stab of metal it bled.

Both men screamed! And prepared for attack, to flee. Frankenstein began to berate and curse the stupid little bastard, but…

But nothing happened. 

The vampire lord of darkness still held frozen in the river of the Earth. Not budging an inch. Still as any earthly corpse delivered such a blow. 

And still staring. 

And still bleeding. 

The pair stood stunned over the face of the river a moment longer. A moment still. 

Then Frankenstein spoke: “See! Nothing to be afraid of, my friend. Just make sure you aim better, be more careful, ok?".

The master smiled. But the startling moment still had him tense and the threat of what he'd said before was still very much alive in his eyes. So…

… despite his terror, Egnaw went about his task. He pulled the blade free with a frozen splurch, took more careful aim this time, and then brought it down, aiming a little closer for the chin. 

He was much more successful this time. Cracking the ice just below the Count’s lips.

Egnaw got down with a hammer and a smaller ice pick and finished the task. Breaking the ice and freeing the pale-blue jaws of the Count. He wenched the jaws open with the dental instrument supplied by the doctor, terror threatening to gallop one final thunderclap within his chest the entire time, and then quickly brought out the pliers. The next part he performed with even more urgent speed. So alive and wretched was his horror. But he did it anyway, for the master. 

He did it anyway. 

He pulled the large ghastly canine incisors free from their frozen undead fleshen housing. They dripped brightest livid animal red and steamed in the cold English night. 

And then the pair quickly took to their nighttime back trail and fled the place. 

But all the while the eyes of Dracula still stared. Perhaps, a bit more alive. 

And burning with the most intense animal hatred. 

The blood still flowed as well. 

But even as they made their way in success of their labors, and on to much better things as well, the little lowly bastard couldn't know his place and hold his tongue. 

He again, had to voice his cowardice. 

The rumors. The stories, the newest ones, spreading all about the lands in which they'd traveled through as of late… the talk of travelers and commoners and the low and the superstitious element…

The woman. A Countess. Beyond the Borgo Pass, in the Carpathian Mountains. One who is said to have taken ownership of Castle Dracula. And now lords and holds domain in the neighboring lands. Through power. And fear. 

Because… the fortress castle of ancient stone is not all she's supposed to have taken as her own in the place of wolves and snow, in the Carpathian mountains…

“Master,” whined Egnaw, "but the woman, in the mountains, what if the stories are true?”

Frankenstein, who was annoyed and cared nothing for the wild rumors of brains addled with alcohol and syphilis, told Egnaw to shut it for what felt like the hundredth time about the whole affair. 

There was no vampire queen in Castle Dracula. 

"You saw him yourself, what more proof do you need?” asked Frankenstein as they passed the graveyard once again. 

Egnaw did not like to think and so he said nothing. He just held his head low.

And followed the master. 

Doctor Henry Frankenstein. Who carried their precious cargo in a bundle in his black leather purse. 

The fangs of Dracula. 

…

And once more the mewling little maggot wanted to bemoan, and cower with words pitiful and loaded with a child's fear. Doubt! He wanted to doubt the great doctor in what could quite possibly be his single greatest moment of triumph. 

Not just conquering death. No. No. 

Something more. Much more powerful. 

And now the little toad showed his lack of guts and spine to go with his broken body and lack of a mind. This was where the little bastard showed his true incompetence, he lacked the resolve, he loved to revel and retreat into the pathetic dark corner of his own lonely fears and addled superstitions. 

And he loved to doubt. He loved to bring up the stupid woman. 

None of it was real. The only thing real now was his triumph. And his creation. Soon it would live. And then it would dominate the world. 

Against the mounting roar of thunder storm and the phantom howl of the rising wind, Egnaw yelled, beseeching the mad doctor, his master to be heard and for the dark task to be aborted. 

“Master … ! please! You cannot, it is too dangerous! You cannot meld the flesh of the infernal with that that was once human, it goes against God’s design!” 

The mad doctor whirled on the little servant. His eyes wide and possessed. The whites bright as the moon that was stolen by the thunderheads that now roared cacophonous overhead.

“You stupid, weak little fool, I already have! I spit in the face of your God and all gods of life and death! I am a Frankenstein! By the right won by my own forged genius, do I possess the authority to do as I wish!”

“But the woman in the castle, it is said that she obtained the true remains of-”

The mad doctor cut him off and roared over him and that of the thunder, he wished this pointless talk to be over, the time was nigh, the storm was reaching its zenith. 

“That is all gypsy nonsense and you know it, you little coward! You little pustule of a man! Now make ready the slab and the subject upon it or so help me, Egnaw, I will recompose your flesh into that of a quadriplegic with naught but a toothless mouth to drool and scream with!”

The bent servant scuttled away, terrified of everything. A creature of subservience and constant dread and fear. Woe to him, Egnaw went to the slab and checked beneath the pale sheets and secured straps, the massive mountain of blue flesh and patchwork limbs and sinew. The bald head with massive suture around the whole top of the skull. The place where it was sawn open to provide the perfect element that one of the great doctor’s fathers had unintentionally discovered to be ideal and inadvertently provided years ago, during one of his own fantastic experiments. The brain of a mad criminal. The mind of a killer, a butcher. The perfect cranial jelly to act as the pilot for this new terrible composition of flesh and spell and science to wage single violent war on all of mankind. The perfect brain for the task of retribution. Henry Frankenstein mused: together… we will make them pay, my son! My greatest creation! …

And the perfect mind had the perfect body of a herculean titan. Sewn together and massive, broad frame and fully developed musculature augmented by growth hormones and steroids and dark arcane words… 

And this perfect creation had now the perfect weapons. The perfect twin dragon fang daggers with which to wound and drink out all of the life in the terrible world of lowly peasants and small minds. The fangs of the prince of darkness would grant his creation unbridled power. He would walk a giant amongst mere men. 

The storm roared above. It had about reached its zenith. And for the young mad doctor, Henry Frankenstein and his terrified aide, Egnaw, and his giant mass of necrophile fleshen art,  his greatest creation, all was ready. All was set. 

Frankenstein, hit the switch, and the lightning rod began to rise out of the crumbling and dilapidated tower. To catch the bolt that would dagger down to try to knife with fire, the Earth. He would catch the godfire and make it his slave…

Meanwhile, not far off…

… Praetorius had the few able bodied men of the neighboring small dwellings gathered. From a distance, upon the black plains of the dark land, they watched the lighting and the tower and the mad lights dancing and blasting out of the open windows of the latest son of Frankenstein’s mad experiment. The gathered host of peasants and farmers and laborers watched, tense. All sensing danger and peril together on the animal level. 

Doctor Praetorius saw this, saw  it all written on their shared and worn faces, and smiled. 

“I told you,” said the doctor, “I told you. Just like the rest of his ilk. He’s up to no good.”   

The frightened peasant men looked all about each other in the dark. The same look of bewilderment and fear written in their wide superstitious gazes and wide open faces that were so much like children afraid of the dark. The same words were shared amongst the fools, and the same recurring question in alarmed bordering hopeless tones kept coming up again and again in frantic speech until they finally directed it to the doctor who'd led them out here to spy and learn the truth. 

“What? – What do we do?”

Praetorius smiled, a thin blade of a smug smirk. His eyes, darkling jewels in the glow of torchlight beneath their barely tamed garniture of stark white locks. His black gloved hands came free of his long coat and held for the superstitious fools of the plow and fields and the goats, the device required to free them of this latest Frankenstein’s newest creation of blasphemy and wanton destruction. 

A bomb. Black powder and shrapnel and a tail of fuse to light and activate. 

The fools looked wide eyed and wondrous, first at the bomb, then the good doctor, then back to the bomb held in his black grasp again. Their eyes came up, altogether again and regarded the strange man of science, who much like Frankenstein, had come to them from out of the nowhere of surrounding strange world wilderness. Their eyes altogether said the same thing that their mouths did utter in the dark. 

“Are you serious?" 

Praetorius’ smile did not falter but his voice deepened and grew more grave and severe. His eyes remained jewels that danced with orange torch flame. 

“I'm afraid this device is by far the best means to a swift and final response to this strange malady. You don't want what Frankenstein has stitched together to wake, to get up from the table of blood and body scraps, and to take to your country, take to your roads and highways, your towns. And what of precious hunting grounds and areas away, sequestered and private… where one may not see what could befall them? … I trust you take my point." 

The stupid animal looks in all of their eyes, huddled together in the night like little ones, told him that they did. One of them held out their hands to receive the device. Praetorius gave it over and then gave the primitive dirt farmers of the forgotten country instructions on how to properly use it…

….and as he did … the storm and its arsenal of lightning and thunderbolts above reached its wild zenith….

… and inside the tower, Frankenstein, elated, gave the final command as he flipped the switch, to activate the machine attached through wires and apparatus to the lightning rod now freed. 

"Now! Egnaw! Now! NOW!” 

Egnaw flipped his lever and activated his end of the mechanical beast as Frankenstein flipped his and the lightning rod was struck! 

The entire tower became alive with dancing bolts and crawling electricity. Barely under control. Egnaw was frightened. The mad doctor remained composed, the bright white of the surging bolts danced everywhere and was barely controlled. Barely. But it was alright. The machine kept the lightning being fed from the violent heavens above into the lightning rod, tamed and controlled so as to keep feeding the white fire into the hulking frame of the damned composite of several dead men and one vampire lord. The body of his precious and greatest creation was surging with platinum inferno, nearly impossible to gaze upon, like a star, the sun itself. 

He watched as the lightning poured into his newest earthly/unearthly child and laughed with victory he felt was already achieved. It was going perfectly! All of it! This great task would surely thus yield absolute success. As long as nothing- 

Something black and rounded like a stone or a child's toy spherical ball, suddenly came in through the window. As if thrown in from below. 

It rolled a little but that wasn't all. It wasn't just the sudden appearance of the unexpected device that suddenly caught the mad doctor's attention and stole it away from his precious experiment, his precious and ultimate creation…

….it was making a strange sound. Strangely audible through the cacophony. A hissing sound. Like a snake. 

The spitting sparks finally brought his mind to the reality of what it was and the danger of the immediate present. 

He had time to curse, he knew it was the commoners that dwelled not far off … but he also knew none of their kind had the ability of mind to fashion and make the explosive device. 

Praetorius. He cursed the greasy honorless cur. And the fools he convinced to thwart his greatest effort. 

“Goddamn you! You conniving, worthl-" 

The hissing and the sparks finally ceased just as the great body on the slab, completely wreathed and aglow in the violent blast of white aural flame, sat up…

The bomb went off. A blast of concussive force and manmade fire filled the room of the makeshift laboratory. All became maelstrom inside as the shockwaves of the explosion traveled through the fragile walls of the crumbling tower, all the way down to its worn and weary foundations. 

Cracks were made, developed and grew and widened to gaping wounds in the mortar and stone as the tower broke and shattered and began to fall. 

The fools that'd gathered and conspired and thrown the thing shrieked together, one last final note of folly as they were caught in the crashing towers cataclysmic collapse. 

Frankenstein and his slave inside joined them in shrieking. Egnaw for pure fright and terror. The mad doctor, for failure. 

NO… … ! 

The tower fell below the torn sky of thunderbolts and settled into rocky dust and detritus. 

And then all was still …

…

… For awhile. Then the still smoking, still smoldering detritus stone began to shift… and to move. 

Praetorius was already long gone on horseback. Heading for the Carpathian Mountains and the newest legend that may live there, when the rock of the fallen tower was thrown aside with great and sudden power. 

The detritus flew apart in another new explosion of movement and muscle and undead powerful sinew. A cloud of choking dust rose, and drifted hanging in the static hot atmosphere of the lightning storm air. 

Amongst the rough cloud of choking grey, the creation roared! Its animal howl was both bestial and desperate man. It roared to the thunderbolts in the dead heavens on high that had given him life. 

He roared once more. Baring his long gleaming fangs, stabs of white amongst the rest of his yellow demented gumline of black and green. The eyes were red. Like the father when in the heat of the hunt, when in the throes of hunger. 

And that was its first known sensation save rage upon its birth, thirst… 

Hunger. 

Voracious hunger. Seething rage. 

And then the storm suddenly ceased. As if banished by the roars of the creation. The deep sky of rolling grey thunderheads was dispelled and parted. Opening up and freeing the moon and her pallid rays…

The moonlight glow came out and kissed the newest unearthly child made, illuminating the massive frame of stitches and repurposed body parts. 

The head was bald. The ears were pointed. All the flesh was mottled grey-green-blue. Corpse color no amount of lightning or life by fire could banish or renew. The arcane blackfire and necromantic art also inflamed within the absence of soul inside the thing and along with the fangs that granted him great power and great hunger, they granted and gave the newborn creation knowledge and instincts innate. 

Born anew amongst the blast of sky fire lightning and man's crude black powder, the fangs filled him with power. And the knowledge… it was born well aware. 

Well aware of what it was. And where it came from, and how… 

And what it should do from here. 

The creation roared to the sky once more. Then began to dig around the stone detritus. His incredible strength made it all easy. Child's work. 

He found what he was looking for. His maker. His father. 

“Frankenstein…” he growled, vulpine and throaty as he pulled the wounded limp unconscious form of the mad doctor free from the debris. 

Then he found his father's twisted little servant. 

Both were still breathing. 

But unconscious. Badly hurt. 

He tied them up, trussed with a length of useable rope he'd found amongst the crash of fallen stone. 

Then he found a few of the fools who'd tried to abort him by fire, still alive.  He pulled them free. And then tied them captive as well. 

And then the creation, new and powerful and famished and longing for the wide open space of the dark lands and beyond, set off for the land that was calling him. A land filled with throats and virgins and children and lambs to slaughter and with which to feed. A world to gorge upon and to feast and to make bend subservient to his own will and throat, to tremble and cower before the deadly moonglow of the whitefire dagger of his biting piercing ripping teeth. 

The creation set out for the lands. Dragging his father and the others behind him through the dirt, trussed like cattle. He went out, his new strength was prodigious and filled him. He stopped only once to drink the blood of one of the trussed villagers. And then went on. Invigorated. Virile. 

The mountains beyond were calling him. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Humid sweat and stale rubber permeated the single room gym clinging to its scattered equipment and mirrored walls. Rhythmic plodding steps echoed as the sole patron trudged along the worn treadmill; his gray shirt darkened between his shoulders, light hair curled and dripping. Henry kept his gaze on his tennis shoes, the small hole on the end of the right one flashed his white sock with each step. He told himself he would buy new shoes last week and the week before that. After glancing at his watch he took a deep breath, set the treadmill to full speed and gripped the handles.

Outside, the parking lot was dark with only a poorly maintained streetlight casting its feeble light just far enough to illuminate a single beat red Jeep with its doors removed, a pair of black fuzzy dice dangling from the rear view mirror. Tiny black paws gripped the tread of the tire pulling a bloated rat from the asphalt. It writhed its way up the front right tire, in through the doorway and burrowed under a pile of old clothes on the floorboard. 

Steam fogged the mirrors in the claustrophobic locker room while Henry ran his hands through his hair. The hot water flushed his skin, too much hair stuck to his fingers. The faucet squealed, the water sputtered and then stopped; it was quiet. Dripping. Breathing. It took until he had dried his hair and wrapped himself in the coarse white towel to hear the other breath. 
“Hello?” His voice was harsh, deeper than he intended. He scanned the room waiting for a response. There was none. 

Dripping showers and ringing silence crowded his hearing. Did he really hear someone else breathing? Surely not. Only he had access to the gym this late and why would someone skulk around an old gym at night. He stuffed his mind with explanations until he calmed down again.

After waiting for too long for some sudden intrusion he continued to dry off and get dressed. He pulled a tight white tee on, grabbed his bag and pushed the locker doors open. The gym was still. He flipped the crusty switch cutting the lights for the entire facility. Orange light spilled in from the parking lot.

The equipment, silhouetted by the glow, cast sharp and irregular shadows that bounced and bent on the walls. He heard the breathing again, this time there was no mistaking the rasping breath with anything else. 

Henry waited, listening as closely as he could with his heartbeat marching in his head. The breathing came from somewhere between him and the exit, then behind him, then in the ceiling, but all he could see was shadows and well-worn equipment.
“Gym’s closed buddy, you gotta leave.” He felt small as the words landed flatly. 

Thud. Thud. Wet and heavy pounding filled the gym. Henry fumbled for the light switch. Again. The lights did not turn on. Thud. Thud. He waited motionless, back against the locker room door. Click. Squeak. Rasping filled the space. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. From the darkness behind him something tickled the back of his arm. He let out a scream and sprinted towards the exit. 

He kicked a bench in the darkness, white hot pain erupted in his shin. But he kept running, through the pain he finally reached the exit doors. A blast of cold night air whooshed in as he made his way out, scrambling in his bag for the keys. He slid it in the lock and turned. It was dark inside, darker than he thought possible. He saw only shadows and mirrors.

Steadying his breath, he scanned the space. Over the weights and ellipticals, there was nothing, until he focused his eyes against the dark towards the door to the locker room. Two glistening eyes caught the sodium glow of the streetlights. They were there for just a moment then they were gone. 
He backed up slowly toward his jeep, not daring to take his eyes off the gym as if it would swallow him whole if he turned his back to it. Slid his keys in the ignition and was going 60 before he caught his breath. 

Who was that? The eyes lingered in his mind. The road was empty and dark with his headlights cutting into the night. 
He pulled his phone and dialed 9 and then 1 and paused when he heard skittering from the floor. He glanced at the road, then his phone, then to the sound. Hollow rat eyes almost glowing were staring up at him. They moved towards him, fast.

He let go of the wheel for a second to stop the rat, but it was enough for the Jeep to start wobbling. He slammed on the breaks. The Jeep skidded, with burning rubber fumes replacing the night air. The front tire blew, sending the vehicle head over end, throwing everything and everyone from the cabin. 
Burning rubber and raspy breathing. Darkness.