He wanders. The hot streets. The narrow corners and back alley ways, the bad neighborhoods and freeway overpasses. The sweltering blacktop lakes of the 7-11 parking lots. He carries cardboard signs, wears rags and cardboard clothes and grime. Layers and layers of filth that may have once been fecal spew or the dust of the earth or blood, they are worn like a coat of oil over the flesh like the ancient warriors by firelight times, he is a deranged and disgusting remnant. Haggard leftover in bipedal form that moves, mutters, sucks down bottles and pipes and congealed food pulled scavenged from the garbage. 

He is so thankful for beer or a dollar. Consciousness is pain. Consciousness is the sorrow and horror of each and every day, each and every moment is a prolonged period experienced in slow motion agony like pure torture. Everything is moved in shopping carts and over shoulder, he has become a beast of labor upon the earth, he must pull the plow of his own life if he ever hopes to get anywhere, anywhere at all but the only destination that seems to be enroute and available is a land of spoiled milk and suffering. He arrives there anyway and does what he can. It's never much. Just collecting cans and detritus that in his derangement he believes will be his fortune and his salvation. It's never much. It's never anything. 

He watches men beat women. He watches women scream and shriek and become the harpies, he watches them conspire and become the weird sisters, he watches needles and the depression of plungers and the streetside milking of human blood in a clouded swirl in the double-wide mouthed gutters. He watches it all and his eyes glaze over as the mind accepts each sight with a sledgehammer blow only the sledgehammer has lost all of its weight, it has lost all of its power. It only thuds and smacks at dead meat within cavernous skull now, it's only meaninglessness and meaningless noise and the constance of the cacophony has deluded and defanged all of its heavy power.

The city is just a dead body now, it doesn't mean anything. This cyclopean and hideous thing that he wanders. Filled with eyes and mouths that drip and water and move and open and stare. They are all of them just as ugly to him as he is to they, they are all of them, repulsive. 

There is no more beauty in this place. 

He tries to find darkness before sunset. Rarely is he ever successful. But this does not surprise him. He is a marked man. 

Like Cain. The man son that first authored murder into the virgin world. 

He unscrews the cap to some rotgut he's so crushingly thankful to have. And he takes a deep and lonely swill. He pulls, deeply. He settles down in the dirt, so lucky and so thankful to have it as well. And he pulls. Over and over the drink that tastes and smells more like disinfectant than anything sold over the counter as a beverage. He doesn't care. He's done it before. Many times. Many times before he's said fuck it and gotten absolutely shitfaced on hand sanitizer, mouthwash, isopropyl. 

He doesn't mind the taste. Not at all. He doesn't mind the taste of anything as long as the flavor is alcohol and it's strong enough to peel away the paint of his thoughts and strip away the fouled and fouling coats of his ailing and addled mind away. Just as long as it's strong enough to put him under and keep the dreams away. 

At least keep the dreams manageable. At least keep them as something he can stomach and bear. Something in the realm of his current devastation and heartbreak and not some new foul border, not some horrific new frontier. 

But neither the Lord nor the little god alcohol hear him. Nor care. 

His mind heavy with drink and thought, totters off. But not into oblivion. Not into peace. 

There are so many things alive in the darkness. 

!Sitra Achra!

He is hurdling towards the merciless face of the earth. His wings are burning. The beauty of his light and gift of flight are aflame, dying in fire. He is screaming a sound and cacophonous war cry rent that will echo forever and contaminate the crumbling ruined corridor of time that he has helped to bleed and slaughter. 

He crashes. Just outside of the Garden. 

And there he gathers and reforms. One of the first times of many. Many many many times will follow down the long line of cruel footfalls forever forward. He gathers and reforms and he is angry and jealous and into the beauty of The Garden, he slithers.

He tempts the woman and the man into disobedience. And he tempts them into forbidden knowledge. 

Forbidden Knowledge. This is his warcraft upon the virgin earth. It will defile. It will burn and torch. It will decimate. It will slaughter. 

It will divide the center. Conquered and fallen apart. 

Several centuries later and he is a pale child outside of Bethlehem. He is disguised and reformed as an adolescent but he is still the adversary. And he is there with the other, his opposite. His more beloved little brother, the son of the virgin and the carpenter. 

Teenage Jesus and teenage Satan are in contest, their hands are bleeding and full of blood and locked together in a twist and struggle. The adversary wishes to murder the savior child, in jealousy and in impudent rage. His hands wish to find his throat or a rock or his eyes, perhaps if he blinds the little brother savior child he will be useless to all of man and their sons and daughters. 

A Philistine sun burns overhead. But the adversary child is not successful. Teenage Satan is a failure once again, and bleeding he must wander and go out, cast out. Exile. Wanderer. 

Petulant. Angst. Eyes so full and wide and full of boiling water. He brings light once again but only in rage, only in his wild anger postfailure. He simmers and tears and burns so brightly out and alone way past the dark. 

Regroup out in the wild. Reform in the oblivion of solitude and pain borne in terrible silence that is only broken by the pathetic sounds of private torment taken slowly. Weeping that he tries to prevent and ignore and pretend has never been actually happening, not ever, not him, he doesn't miss heaven or his Father … none. Nothing. None of them. 

None of them mean a Goddamned thing. 

He always came back. Mighty. Diminished. Unassuming. Something in-between or intangible. He always came back. 

The adversary. 

Even broken and alone and filthy vagrant wandering. Even crystal meth slurping and supercharged because of such for the final abattoir riot of violence and great western societal collapse into shrill shattered glass cacophony and tidal waves of bloodfeast. Into he, his, the vagrant filthy jaws of the adversary. 

The fallen order, the Armageddon one, the end-is-nigh motherfucker …

the apocalypse man. 

Alone and filthy in a corner. 

Dreaming, not dreaming. 

Seeing and knowing only disorder. He hears and knows the call of the 7th Star. 

He dreams and knows of burning heaven. 

THE END

It was a minute past midnight and the moon outside the castle was deliciously bright and round. I stood admiring it at the window, the fire crackling in the hearth behind me, shadows dancing along the flagstones. Though none were cast at my own feet.

Beyond the castle, the black cliffs crumbled away into a deep ravine, where dark trees bundled together like matchsticks, and a gushing river swelled between the rocks like a silverbacked serpent. The wind whistled through the broken casement of the window, chilling the air and threatening to extinguish the fire.

There was a whisper of movement on my left and one of the sisters appeared beside me, bowing her head. Her dress was a deep red, the same colour as her eyes.

“It’s a pleasant night,” I mused, raising the collar of my black coat against the chill as the moonlight dusted the windows. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders as she raised her head.

“Yes Master,” she said in a subdued tone. “However, I fear I shall ruin it with my tidings.”

I turned to her fully, examining the grave expression on her face. Her lips were pinched. “Why is that? What tidings do you bring?”

Her red eyes glowed in the firelight. A long shadow was drawn across her features. “A peasant house is in the midst of construction beside the castle.”

I stared at her for a moment. The fire crackled sharply. “A… peasant house?” I finally repeated, scoffing at her words. Surely she was mistaken. The area around my castle was a perfectly barren wasteland; the peasants in the settlements knew better than to encroach on my land without permission, never mind erect a building on my grounds. “What is this trickery?”

“No trickery, Master. Come see for yourself.”

The vampire sister turned and strode towards the opposite side of the tower, her long red gown trailing behind her like a pair of folded wings. Curious, I followed her, our footsteps silent on the stone floor. I assumed I had misunderstood her, for nobody would be foolish enough to even approach my castle. Unless they were naive or ignorant of my nature.

But as we paused by the window, and she lifted a hand to point outside, I stood aghast at what I saw. A short distance away from the front gates of my castle, visible through the fog, there was indeed a house being built. Beneath the cold glow of the moon, I saw piles of stone and wood, the loose structure of rafters and foundations already laid. What sort of fool would dare build a house so close to my castle? Who would dare to become my neighbour without first consulting the master of this tower?

I was furious and intrigued at the same time. Only the dumbest, and perhaps bravest, of men would do such a thing. And I found myself feeling very much inclined to meet him.

“The house seems deserted now,” the vampire sister observed, resting her hand against her cheek. “Perhaps they have given up?”

“Or perhaps they only build during the day, knowing the weakness the sunlight inflicts upon us creatures of the night,” I said with a harrumph.

“You are wise, Master,” she said. “Shall I take my sisters over there and tear it down? It is a stain upon your grand castle.”

I pondered her offer. “No. I should like to meet the fool first,” I decided, extending my fangs below my lips. “Perhaps he would see fit to grace my castle with his… delicious presence.”

The sister covered her mouth with a low chuckle. “I understand, Master. You would see it fit to make a meal of him?”

I nodded. “Leave the peasant house for now,” I told her, turning away from the window with a flourish of my coat. “I wish to see how far he dares to go.”

The following night, as I rose from my coffin at the heart of midnight, my first thought was of the house being built by the castle. Had more progress been made, or had the owner seen the measure of his own foolishness and deserted? It would be a shame if he had fled before a meal could be made of him.

It had been a while since I had anything to amuse me on these long nights, just as long as it had been since fresh blood had passed these lips. The peasants in the surrounding settlements had grown wise to my nature and seen fit to ward their houses, stringing garlic and crosses upon the threshold. I was only able to feed when an unwitting traveller passed by, or a fool decided to build a house directly beside my castle.

The tower was quiet as I made my way to the top, winding through the warren of rooms and climbing the narrow, crumbling stairways. The sisters were nowhere to be seen; perhaps frolicking outside in the moonlight as they so often did. I reached the highest point of the castle and strode to the window that overlooked the barren grounds. From this height, I could even glimpse the closest settlement in the far distance; a small cluster of thatched houses and burning torches that lit the foggy hills like burning eyes.

But my concern was much closer. Lowering my gaze to the land right outside the gates, I saw that the house had changed. There were more walls than yesterday, denser foundations, the first signs of carpentry. The fool really had continued building the house. Had he not been warned of the dark Count that occupied the castle? Had he not heard the rumours of the blood-feasting creatures that stalked these lands once the sun went down? Why else would he choose to dwell in my vicinity, if not for ignorance?

I shook my head, almost pitying the poor halfwit for what he had brought upon himself. But I should delight in showing him the truth soon enough; that he had elected himself a willing sacrifice for me and my hungry brides.

It was a shame that he vacated the house during the night, for I would have to wait longer to lay my eyes upon him. Would he not show himself before the house was finished?

“I see the building is progressing,” a voice whispered behind me. I’d been too lost in my thoughts to hear them approach. I turned, seeing two of the sisters behind me. They too were observing the house through the window. Their wild, windswept hair and bright eyes confirmed my suspicions that they had been dancing outside.

“Yes,” I muttered. “It would seem so.”

“What a blight upon the castle,” the other sister said, her fair skin glittering in the moonlight. “I hope the trouble is worth the meal.”

“It will be,” I said, casually flicking my hand towards the half-built dwelling, “if only the fool would hurry up and be done with it.”

The next night, more progress had been made on the building, but the owner had still not shown himself. I grew more agitated that I was allowing this to happen, but reminded myself that I would soon enough be able to quench my thirst.

So night after night, as the moon began to wane, the house’s shadow grew bigger, and my hunger grew stronger. The fool always fled before night fell, leaving the evidence of his daytime activities for me to observe. The dwelling had taken on the same shape of the peasant houses in the surrounding settlements; white stone and timber, with a long thatched roof. He had even tilled the soil into a small garden, erecting a wooden fence around the plot in front of the building. But compared to my grand castle, with its dark crumbling bricks, spiralling towers and winding, labyrinthine rooms, it was a blight. And I wanted it gone.

Finally, more than a week after the house was little more than a pile of stone and timber, one of the sisters woke me with news that the structure was finished.

I rose from my coffin, sluggish and weary from slumber, and fastened my coat about my neck. The sisters had already lit the fire, but the air was chilled.

I followed her to the window and set my gaze upon the house. A single candle sat in the windowsill, guttering in a draught. A lit candle. Did that mean the house was occupied? The fool had not fled this night.

“It’s time,” I announced, “to show this fool once and for all what happens when you anger the Count.” The other sisters joined us, and I turned towards them with a slow smile. “I hope you are hungry.”

The three sisters screeched in delight, grasping each other’s hands and dancing in circles, their gowns fluttering around their legs. The fire roared in the hearth.

But as I began to cross the room, one of the sisters stopped me with a gasp.

“Master, wait. There’s someone at the gate.” She was pointing out of the window. I peered down at the large wrought-iron gate that fronted the castle, my eyes narrowing. A figure stood by the fence, carrying a lantern. His face glowed in the flickering light, revealing a sharp, sloping nose and dark eyes.

“Who would be foolish enough to call upon me at this hour?” I snarled, my black coat twisting around me as I turned from the window.

“Perhaps your new neighbour,” one of the sisters answered, “has come to hasten our feast.”

“Perhaps,” I said, already striding towards the doorway.

The sisters swept after me, whispering amongst themselves. Flames guttered as we passed lit candles, stirring the dust at our feet and disturbing billowing cobwebs. There was a haste to our movements as we descended the tower. It had certainly been a while since we’d had prey wander into our arms like this.

Crossing the foyer, the long red carpet spilling out like blood, I threw open the doors and stepped out into the chilled night, the three sisters stepping in my wake. The moon was a pale sickle, its silvery glow dancing around my shadowless feet as the stranger at the gates called out to me.

“Hello there!”

Struck by his brazenness, I almost flew at him in anger, but restrained myself. Ignorant minds really were unfathomable. With a flick of my wrist, the gates began to creak open. The man remained at the threshold, holding his lantern aloft as he stared back at me. He was of medium build, with stocky shoulders and a mop of thick tousled hair. His clothes were poorly made, covered in dirt and patches. He had the audacity to smile at me as I glared in return.

“What business have you here at my castle?” I demanded, wanting to sate my curiosity before I sated my hunger.

The man cleared his throat, raising his lantern to the crude house sitting barely thirty metres behind him. So this was indeed the proprietor of the building; what a brave, albeit dimwitted, man he was to present himself before me like this. “I’ve just this morning finished constructing my house,” he said, not seeming to notice the displeasure on my face, “and a slight issue has come to my attention.”

“An… issue?” I repeated, my brows arching sharply.

“Yes. During the day, the leftmost tower of your castle casts a shadow over my garden,” the man said regretfully. “I hoped that you might be amicable enough to remove it. Or at the very least relocate the tower, so that it does no harm the roses I am trying to grow. All life needs sunlight, after all.”

I stared at him, completely aghast. Behind me, even the sisters had been stunned into silence. The audacity of this imbecile, to ask me to change my own castle for his benefit. The man was not right in the head, surely.

“How dare you–” I began to seethe, but the man interrupted me, lifting a finger as if hushing a child.

“I do understand it is a large undertaking I’m asking of you, but my gratitude would be immense,” he added.

“You think I care about your gratitude?” I sneered at him, clenching my fists beneath my coat. The gall of this man. Who did he think he was? “Do you know who I am?”

The man stared at me, the lanternlight dancing over his blank expression. “You are the owner of this castle, I had presumed?”

“Precisely. And what makes you think that I, as the Count of this castle, would do the bidding of a mere peasant?”

The man scowled at me, a shadow encroaching upon his face. “I shall ask you again, and I do hope you will be quite civil this time. Will you remove the tower from your castle so that my roses might see the light?”

“I don’t give a damn about your roses,” I snapped.

“Now, there’s no need to be rude,” the man said, his voice turning bristly. The shadows deepened around his eyes as he narrowed them. “I’m asking for a simple favour–”

I scoffed in his face, my rage burning beneath my skin. It took a lot to make a vampire’s blood burn hot. I almost couldn’t believe what he was saying. This fool considered the reconstruction of my ancient castle a mere favour? Asking me to tear down part of my fortress so that he might grow some roses.

I took a measured step towards him, lifting my shoulders to appear taller. My fangs were itching to taste his blood. For all the disrespect he had shown me, there was no escape. I would suck this man dry by the night’s end, leaving nothing but a fleshless husk.

“Once again, I implore you to consider my–”

I was no longer in the mood to listen to his insane ramblings. He had agitated me far too much to go back from this. I would show him, and anyone else who might learn of tonight, what happens to those who cross me.

Baring my fangs, I lunged forward, ready to sink my teeth into his neck.

In one swift motion, the man pulled his hand back into a fist and threw it towards me. Blinded partially by the lanternlight, I did not see the attack until his knuckles met my face.

Pain exploded through my jaw, and there was a terrible snap as my left fang bore the brunt of his punch, splitting completely in half. The hit landed with enough force to send me staggering backwards and, incredulous and in shock, I fell to the ground.

Dirt bit into my eyes as I landed face-down, my broken fang scraping against my lower lip. Sputtering, I raised my head, just as the man lifted his light and calmly made his way back to his house.

Behind me, the sisters watched him leave in a choked silence, before hastening to help me back to my feet.

To say I had been dealt a great humiliation was an understatement. How did a mortal man possess such strength? Enough to break one of my precious fangs and completely overpower me.

With a bruised face, and an even more bruised ego, I hobbled back into my castle, the three sisters trailing silently after me.

By the following night, the leftmost tower had been partially disassembled, leaving a gaping wound in the side of the castle. Wind gusted through like howling wraiths, immediately extinguishing any fire I tried to light, leaving a heavy chill in the air. The sisters, at least, seemed to delight in the pool of moonlight that was cast upon the open ground.

Workers had been swarming the castle all day, interrupting my sleep with their banging hammers and chiselling tools as they took the tower apart brick by brick, but I had little choice. The man had made his demands, proven his strength, and forced my hand. Now I had to destroy my own magnificent tower so that the fool might grow his roses. And I hadn’t been able to harvest even a drop of blood either.

This was a defeat, and a humiliation, that would take centuries to heal.

After the partial destruction of the wall surrounding my neighborhood, a thought has been circling around my mind. The walls which I had once thought were built with the sole intent to keep my people and I locked in may have instead been built to keep whatever the hell those things were out.

 If you haven’t read my last posts, my city has been under lockdown due to what until recently I had thought of as a powerful flu-type virus. After internal strife within my neighborhood and an incident involving the military atop the wall that holds us, beasts indescribable came down upon our home and pillaged anything they could.

As I sit in the damp and musty hole that is our hideaway, I listen to the little that remains of the neighborhood leadership bicker and argue.

“We will last here until the armed forces can extract us! Until then we will wait and do whatever it takes in our power to contact them!”

“Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth? Those brutes not only killed one of us but kept those monsters a secret from us all this time! How could we ever possibly hope to trust men like that?”

“What choice do we have?” Endlessly, they went back and forth, exhausting my attention until the topic of the things' origins came up.

“All this time they’ve been taking shots out into the open. There we were speculating on what they could be up to all this time, but I don't think one of us could have seen this coming.”

“You state the obvious; what’s your point?”

“They kept these terrible things secret for a reason. This goes beyond classifying a new disease for research. What is going on outside that they could not tell us a word of these beasts?” The room fell silent, forcing me to listen to the dull, muffled screeching echoing from down the halls. Since the lockdown began, an effort had been made to reach alternative tunnel routes that could possibly lead to other neighborhoods or the outside world and the machinery used was not quiet.

“Whatever is out there, it is our right to know! If the military is busy fighting those things, then we will use their lack of attention to do as we please!” The room stirred for a moment before a young woman rushed into the room with panic across her face and shouted.

“Gentlemen, there is something wrong!” At once the group of men stood to their feet and followed the woman as she rushed down the narrow halls. Everyone they ran past carried a grim look upon their faces.

Reaching the room, men and women in makeshift hazmat suits surrounded an injured man who twisted and screamed under them. Evidently, he was wounded from the initial attack by the beasts, but whatever occurred now was more than just that.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was this bad!” the woman who had originally led us this way, screamed to the leaders. “Please step back-” But before she could finish, blood spewed from all of the man's orifices with a jolting burst.

“He is infected! Why have you brought us here?” One of the leaders screamed, but the woman was too horrified to even respond. “Abandon this room! Cave it in!” People all around scattered, and the leader's eyes darted manically.

“We are putting a quarantine into effect immediately! There will be no uncontrolled contact until this matter is settled!” One screamed, and word spread fast.

As I sit in my designated quarantine space alone, I wonder how things could have gone wrong so fast. Two meals are all that's being brought out daily as supplies run low. After the incident, a few more died from the virus, all in the room at the time of the sick man's dramatic death, but for the most part things have been contained. The effects on the mind have been another story, though. I consider myself to have a good deal of mental fortitude, but even I am beginning to feel a terrible something crawling around in the corners of my mind. Rustling can be heard just down the hall, and I believe some are beginning to disregard the quarantine.

Perhaps worst of all, there has been another sound which I have been telling myself I imagine. Quietly, as if hidden beyond something greater, I have been hearing the terrible scuttling of those crawling beasts that forced us down here in the first place. After all our neighborhood has been through, I don’t think we can take another fight. I pray that aid will come soon wherever it chooses to be from. I will write again soon, and hopefully by then some answers will have revealed themselves.

The agony peaked, a blinding, white-hot spike that drove deep into my thoracic spine, seizing the core of my chest and twisting until my back arched off the mattress like a broken bow.

For five years, I had told them. Five years of MRIs, CT scans, and endless tubes of blood. I had lost count of the massive steroid injections they had jammed into my lower back, blind to my cries, insisting the cortisone would eventually kick in. It's my mid-back, I had begged, like a fist grabbing my spine and wringing it out.

But they only looked at my lumbar, charting my exhaustion, handing me prescriptions I refused to touch anymore, and shrugging. "You're in pain because you're in pain", that last arrogant doctor had told me with a sterile, patronizing smile. I had muttered Thanks, Dr. Obvious under my breath, walked out, and given up. I was forty-eight, medically broken, and completely abandoned by science.

Until tonight.

I had refused to take any of the medications they had prescribed for the last few weeks, entirely done with their useless chemical band-aids.

And right on cue, the thoracic pain hit, worse than it ever had in the last five years.

The guttural sound ripping from my throat didn't sound like me; it was a jagged, inhuman howl that tore the lining of my lungs. Every single rib felt like it was breaking, buckling inward before bursting outward with a sickening crunch. The skin across my back split open, hot and wet, as something massive and heavy forced its way out from between my shoulder blades. I braced for the final, lethal shock of it—but instead, a sudden, heavy stillness washed over me. The torment that had anchored my entire existence for half a decade simply vanished, replaced by a cold, pulsing hum of pure, unadulterated strength.

I opened my eyes. The familiar dark of my bedroom was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory clarity tinted in a deep, vibrant crimson.

When I tried to shift, the mattress felt like a bed of jagged rocks beneath me. I sat up, and a pair of massive, pitch-black leathery wings unfolded instinctively, brushing the ceiling with a heavy, ominous rustle. I gasped, reaching a hand out to touch the sleek, armored span, only to freeze. My skin was a dark, bruised blood-red. My arms were elongated, corded with dense, heavy muscle.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stumbled. My new, longer limbs didn't quite obey the old rules of gravity, but there was no weakness in them. No ache. No arthritis.

I lunged toward the mirror on the wall, bracing my claws against the frame, and stared.

The tired, fragile woman was gone. In her place stood a towering, terrifying demon, eyes glowing like dying embers against crimson skin.

A slow, sharp smile curved my new jaw, revealing a row of lethal points. I always said I wanted to be more, I thought, a strange, intoxicating warmth flooding my chest. I wanted to feel something beyond my own pain.

I turned, extending my wings, admiring the terrifying symmetry of the monster I had become. I had promised those unhelpful, dismissive doctors that I would give them an update if my condition ever changed. I thought this definitely qualified as a change in status.

A low, feral laugh rumbled deep in my chest, vibrating through the quiet room.

"Now, now," I whispered to the empty air, the crimson vision narrowing with perfect, deadly focus. "Which one of these doctors should I visit first?"

I smiled wider, the realization settling in with absolute perfection.

"I think the choice, is Obvious."

Did you know that Death delights to hide in crowds? It loves the warmth of bodies pressed against one another. It loves weaving and wiggling amongst seas of sweaty skin, working its way to the single entranceway or to the foot of the stage. And then, what it loves most is to give someone a small, precise shove. It loves how the bodies fall like dominoes and the startled cries that escape as they topple amongst each other. It loves to bask in the air freshly pressed out of collapsed lungs and listen as vocal cords rattle. Death loves, loves, loves the weight of youth laid upon itself.

Did you even know that Death could love? Or did you think of Death as automated only by a sense of duty? That it came like an unfeeling virus to the bedside of frail creatures of wrinkled skin and brittle bone, of new mothers and unborn babies? The sterility of machines, scalpels and bright lights will never eradicate a sickness that exists for the sake of love. It is for love that Death continues to wash itself in our filth. And oh, how it hungers for the consummation of this love. To feel us from the inside out. To be met by Death at the crossroads is to be tasted forever, remembered forever, and loved forever.

In the time since my last post, things have taken such a dive that I truly struggle to think of a way to explain what has happened. If you have not read my previous transmissions, my city of Santa Fe is facing a terrible sickness that has spread and killed rapidly. After the government took control and divided the people by neighborhoods with large walls, they have enforced strict, militaristic control over everything. When a guard fell from a tower, shooting at something unknown, a leader of our neighborhood was killed in cold blood by a soldier while speaking out against the occupation.

​ Since that time, every leader in this prison as well as I have made the effort to keep the peace and plan for the future. Until very recently, we have been successful.

​ A few days ago, on an especially hot one when the people rested in the shade of their porches and looked to the tops of the walls as guards traversed to and from, a vicious cry rang out that sent the town into a frenzy. Looking out of my window, I watched as guards ran to a point just out of my sight and, after a slight pause, began firing rapidly at something far out.

​ Like ants, people below scattered about, fearing for their lives, but when the firing ceased, the crying out did not. Opening my window to peer out further, I watched as the soldiers stared outside the wall dumbstruck before a body crashed into and sent them flying limp. Cries and screams from townspeople rang out, horrified, as gunshots blasted again.

​ As soldiers moved into tactical position and fired at something that jumped and whirred in the air with unbelievable speed, a large explosion covered the entire corner of the upper wall, absolutely disintegrating anything caught within it.

​ Cries of shock and confusion erupted through the town, and without missing a beat, more military men poured from the wall into the neighborhood, barking orders.

​ “It is time to evacuate! There is no time to wait if you wish to live.” And to my surprise, not a soul moved. All looked upon the men with hateful stares.

​ “You expect us to believe a word you say? What of the man you killed? Did you have a concern for his wish to live when your men shot him down?” A man standing in the front barked right back at the armed man. I searched the soldiers' eyes, expecting to see the violent rage of conflict building like before, but I did not find it. Instead, looking to the top of the wall nervously.

​ “Suit yourselves. If you cannot find yourself to trust us any longer, then you will die!” Just as he finished speaking, one of the neighborhood's leaders came forth with his hands up cautiously, obviously wanting to escape becoming another example.

​ “Please, people! Anger is justified for what happened, but do not allow us to tear ourselves apart! Hear them out at least!” The crowd looked upon him with a stern curiosity. “Sir, I’m sure every one of us would be far more inclined to follow your lead if we understood the danger at hand. If you don’t mind-”

​ “That's classified!” He interrupted and the crowd shifted in anger, beginning to step forward as the military raised their guns in unison. The leader in the crossfire raised his hands to the heavens and cried out.

​ “Enough, please! Stop this now!” For a moment longer, silence engulfed the neighborhood until a silent creaking sound lifted above the crowd. Maybe a dozen feet above the ground level, clinging onto the wall was something. A terrifying thing monstrous and decrepit. The specific features I did not get a chance to uncover; as in the moment of the people noticing it, the thing leapt into the crowd like a panther.

​ Pandemonium spread through the crowd as the thing ripped and tore through bodies like butter, and the military fired, mostly only accomplishing hitting civilians. From there, I would love to report on the specifics of what happened, but I could only give information on my own rush to safety.

​ As described in underground meetings, in case of some form of emergency, the tunnels underground would be utilized for cover and sealed to protect from an exceedingly vile threat. I figured there was no better time to enact such a plan. Rushing with gallons of adrenaline, I am ashamed to admit I fell down the stairs on the way to ground level and undoubtedly shattered a bone in my wrist.

​ Even still, I was not stopped from making it down to the tunnels where many on the ground level had already gathered. Dozens crowded into the open doorways, most shrieking and covered head to toe in carnage. A large man holding the door open stared aghast as the thing bolted directly towards the opening.

​ “What the hell are you doing?” Another screamed at the man before the shrieking thing dug its bony, shell-like finger into his skull, sending the door collapsing down. This severed the man's lower half and left the rest to that beast outside.

​ Now, in silence we wait, and I can only hope that if the beasts could enter these tunnels, they would have already done so. Aid has gone through to the survivors, discovering the extent of the damage as we speak. Though, while we know that, the fate of the other neighborhoods and the military as a whole is yet to be discovered. I do not wish to die, but I consider my logging of events to be beyond important and will do anything in my power to share what I learn. So if I die in the search for that, then that is just how it will have to be. Look for my next log if you will, but if you are unable to find it, then do not doubt that it is only because I have met a terrible fate.

Erin, my eleven-year-old daughter was acting like a big goofball. We were playing dominoes at the dinner table and her giggles were so uncontrollable she could barely breathe.

 

I was trying to get my life back together and reconnect with her, so I had rented this cabin up in northern Minnesota. It was advertised to be on a lake, but it turned out to be more of a swamp, which I guess is why it was so cheap.

I gave a pronounced yawn and told Erin it was time to hit the hay.

 

“One more round, Dad. Pleeeeeeez,” she said.

 

That’s when we heard the driveway gravel crackle under an approaching car. Erin’s laughter tapered off as she noticed headlights roll across the wood paneled ceiling.

 

“Who could that be?” She tried giggling again but the mood had changed. “Dad?” Her eyes grew wider, searching for her father to reassure her.

 

“It’s fine. Probably just lost,” I said. But something felt wrong. This was the only cabin around for at least a couple of miles. I stood up and touched my jean pocket where my phone should be. A sad reflex instinctively made in moments of anxiety. But of course, it wasn’t in my pocket. Erin, already sly to my tactics, made me promise to leave it in the car, so I had slipped it inside a sock and locked it away in the trunk.

Also in the trunk: my handgun.

 

“Maybe it’s Mom,” Erin said.

 

“Stay there.” I tried to peek out the window but all I could see was my silky reflection as the ceiling color turned parking-light red.

 

I watched my image stretch across the old tube TV screen as I moved to the entry. The acrid taste of lighter fluid and hotdogs stuck in my throat. I couldn’t even get the damn charcoal burning, and we’d ended up microwaving the s’mores.

 

My senses were on full alert. I put my ear against the door. Something was telling me to keep it shut and not acknowledge whoever was outside. I heard a car door swing open. A mechanical dinging mingled with the crickets and toads. A foot crunched the gravel, then the other, and then the machine noises from the car ceased as the door shut. The steps were casual and unhurried moving toward the rental cabin.

 

I checked the door handle. It was unlocked. Why wouldn’t it be? I looked back at Erin. She was sitting perched on the chair with her knees at her chin. I reached for the bolt lock and turned it as quietly as possible. I looked back again and tried to reassure Erin with a queasy smile.

 

Knocks cut through the cabin in rapid succession. They had an arrhythmic, polite nature to them.

 

“Daniel? Daniel Melody? I know you’re in there,” a forceful woman’s voice said. Certainly not Erin’s mother. The voice was older, prim and curt, harkening an old-fashioned school teacher, the kind who slapped knuckles with a ruler. I felt like a child in trouble. And she knew my name.

 

My mouth was so dry nothing came out when I first opened it. She knocked again, more persistent this time.

 

“Daniel. It’s very important we talk. Please open up.”

 

I cleared my throat. “Who’s there?”

 

“My name is Jane Pendergrass. You know my son, Timothy.”

 

“I’m… sorry, I don’t know a Timothy.”

 

“Oh yes you do. Timmy… Timmy knows you.”

 

“Timmy? I—”

 

“Yes, you must. It’s Jane, his mother. I’ve since taken on my maiden name. But James, Timothy James. I’d pick him up from sleepovers at your parents because of his panic attacks. Remember Mrs. James? I’m his mother. May I come in now?”

 

My brain did an Indy 500 down memory lane and slammed into the white brick walls of North Star Elementary. In second grade Timmy had arrived a month after school started. At recess he approached me and told obvious lies about how rich his dad was. I liked how fast Timmy talked. That day, we made up a game called Fire Square, a combination of dodgeball and foursquare that the recess monitors did not appreciate one bit.

 

“Tim Jim? Ms. Trickey’s class?” I muttered. My vision was pulsating, making the chrome doorknob shimmer. My ears burned. It was just too much to contemplate.

 

“Yes, that’s correct.”

 

 “Mrs. James? But how…”

 

“Daniel, I’ve driven a long way and I have a dreadful fear of moths. Could you please let me in?”

 

I watched my hand unlatch the bronze bolt lock I’d latched moments ago and open swung the door. There stood a woman in her mid-sixties wearing a black-laced bonnet, impressing hints of puritanical strength. Her presence made me want to run to my car – for which item – I wasn’t sure. The floodlight above the door cast an austere shadow over the woman’s face while little bugs swam above her head. It was indeed Timmy’s mother: older, but still solidly built.

 

“Moths are attracted to fear.” She entered and embraced me like a lost-and-then-found child, slamming the door shut behind her with a flick of her foot. Her hands slid up my back and squished me into her ample bosom. I, unsure of what the hell was going on, brought my hand up and patted her on the back.

 

She didn’t let go. She kept me in her embrace and rocked side to side. Her face rested against my ear and I heard her breathe in the cedary mildew of the rental cabin. “Lovely,” she whispered. Her words tumbled down my neck, making my knotted muscle vibrate. Finally, she released me and then smiled at Erin, who was still perched on a chair with knees inside of her Dr. Who nightie. “Yours?” she asked me.

 

“How did you… er, I’m sorry, yes, I’m just a little confused. Erin this is Mrs. James. She was like my second mother in elementary school.” I watched as Jane Pendergrass rubbed her sneakers against the welcome mat like a bull. She seemed healthy enough but there was errant cord of snot under her nose that made me involuntarily pinch my own nostrils.

 

Why are you here? I kept thinking, but those words redirected to other thoughts. I remembered the news about Timmy. Years ago someone had posted from his account that he had died. I remember it elicited nothing more than a that’s sad before scrolling on. I hadn’t talked to him in like twenty years except for that awkward chat you have after an old elementary friend finds you on one of the apps. “I heard about Timmy. How are you?”

 

She closed her eyes gently and shook her head. “Thank you, dear. I’m doing okay. Time has shown me things.”

 

“Come in.” I opened my arm, obliged by decorum, directing her to the kitchen table. It was strange how good manners seemed to eclipse all the alarm bells ringing in my head. It felt like there was white noise in my brain. Was it just the bizarreness of the situation?

 

“Hello, Erin. My name is Jane Pendergrass.” She glid past me toward my daughter. Her rank potpourri wafted into my nose, like flowers at a funeral home. “And I have a very good reason for breaking up your little party. My son Timothy and your father were great friends in elementary, before we had to go away.” She looked back at me with a knowing glance. “Has he contacted you lately, Daniel?”

 

I cocked my eyebrow and tapped at my pocket. “We were just playing dominoes. Is everything okay? I’m sorry, were you trying to get a hold of me? I don’t have my phone. I left it—”

 

“Oh, Mexican Train!” Jane Pendergrass exclaimed. She put her fists on her hips, taking account of the messy table. “Name’s a tad racist, don’t you think? But that’s what people call it. Let’s play a round. We must.”

 

Jane plopped down next to Erin, right where I had been sitting.

 

“Well, it’s getting pretty late,” I said.

 

“Nonsense. One quick round. My son hasn’t supplied me with any grandchildren. Don’t you deprive me of that pleasure too.” She began to flip the dominoes face down and looked at Erin. “You don’t mind, do you?”

 

Erin shook her head. She seemed confused, but no longer afraid. Plus, whatever it was that was going on allowed her to stay up later, so she started to help flip over the tiles too. Jane Pendergrass pointed to the chair opposite her and then I was sitting there.

 

“What a blessing you must be. So beautiful.” Jane grabbed Erin’s chin with her thumb and forefinger, inspecting her. “Let’s be famous friends, you and I dear.”

 

“Okay,” Erin said. Her smile became less sure at the force of Jane’s two fingers holding her face in place.

 

“Mrs. James,” I interjected.

 

“Pendergrass.”

 

“Sorry. Is everything okay? We were just about to—”

 

Jane Pendergrass finally dropped her hand from Erin’s chin and with snake-like speed, grabbed Erin’s wrist. My mouth dropped open, half impressed, half frightened at the force of her movement.

 

“Could I trouble you, Erin?” Jane made tiny, fluttering blinks. “Do you have any diet coke?”

There was a brief pause as Erin waited for me say something, but again, my voice failed me as my mind churned for the right words.

 

“Uh, I think I saw one,” Erin said.

 

“Wonderful, that’s a good child.”

 

Erin kept her eyes on me as she made to the fridge, rubbing her wrist.

 

“So, what do we owe the pleasure, Mrs. James?” I tried again. A dark sensation tickled at the base of my heart as I spoke, a question: would I truly have the physical strength to overcome this woman, if need be? Something about her presence made me feel weak. “This is just very bizarre. No offense.”

 

“Pendergrass, not James.” Her grey eyes flashed and she lowered her tone. “And you’ve cracked the case. I’m not here to just play dominoes.”

 

I looked at Jane Pendergrass through the centerpiece bouquet of dried bulrushes and pussy willow stalks.

 

Erin moseyed back and set down the can of diet coke. Jane tut-tutted while letting out an enormous, tired sigh. “I’m so sorry, dear. I really can’t without ice. You do have some, don’t you?”

 

“We didn’t bring any,” I said.

 

“I saw a tray.” Erin then went back to the old bisque Frigidaire.

 

Jane faced me and sandwiched her hands around mine. Her touch was hot against my cold fingers.

 

“How have you been, Daniel? It’s been so long.”

 

“I’ve been—” I coughed and watched my daughter grab a glass and clink some cubes into it. Anything that kept my gaze from the woman sitting across from me. “Good. I’ve been well. But just how… how did you know where—”

 

“How did I find you?” Jane Pendergrass said as Erin set the glass of ice down. She smiled politely and shooed Erin to her seat with a friendly hand motion. She cracked open the diet coke and poured it into the cup with a sizzle. She tipped her head back and gulped and gulped… and gulped, until it was all gone. “Ahhh… much better.” She hiccupped then opened her mouth. Nothing happened. I waited and was just about to ask if she was okay, but just before I did, she let out a long, hissing burp. She excused herself and dabbed at her mouth with a ketchup-stained napkin from the table. I noticed again, that red tendril from her nose, clinging to her wet upper lip, damp and glistening. “Timothy led me to you, Daniel.”

 

Me and Timmy were pretty much inseparable after he arrived in second grade up until fourth grade when didn’t invite me to his birthday party. Then he abruptly moved away not long after.

 

“Timothy?” I whispered.

 

“Timothy.”

 

“Led you… to me?”

 

“Correct.”

 

A harsh ringing in my left ear flooded in. I could feel the change of pressure in the room. This woman was not sane and I had let her in. “Erin, I think it’s actually bedtime,” I said. But when I turned to look at my daughter she was already asleep, mouth agape, face on the table, with Jane Pendergrass petting her hand.

 

“Such a beautiful girl,” she said. “I didn’t realize the time. She shouldn’t be up at this hour.”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“She’s sleeping.” Jane Pendergrass conjured up a vaporous smile and her eyes misted over, like she was gazing at someone out beyond the marshy swamp. I found myself staring at that thing in her nostril. It looked like the start of a bloody nose, an anxious and incomplete drip. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was alive, like a mealworm trying to burrow further in.

 

Jane started to mix the dominoes around on the table, clacking them together. She had red nails and several gaudy rings, the kind aggressive vendors near Florida retirement communities would sell on the beach.

 

“Fifteen,” she said.

 

“Fifteen?”

 

“Fifteen dominoes, Daniel. Don’t let me see them.”

 

I took fifteen dominoes from the table, paused, then shook my head; the absurdity of her visit kept coming in waves, and it had just washed over me again.

 

“I don’t know how you found me but—”

 

“It was Timothy, Daniel.” She knocked the table twice with an amethyst ring. “He told me exactly where I could find you. Or guided me, rather. Oh look, I have the double twelve. I go first.” She laid the domino gently on the mottled wood. “And can you believe it? I don’t have another twelve to satisfy it. I’ll have to draw one from the boneyard. I love that term. So spooky.” She rubbed her hands together. “Do you know why they call it the boneyard?”

 

“Because they used to make dominoes from bones,” I said.

 

Jane clicked her tongue, impressed with my answer, and drew a domino from the boneyard. She squinted at it and smiled. “My lucky day.” She dragged the domino over the pine tabletop and snapped it down. “Let’s make a bet,” she said as that toothy smile spread across her face.

 

“What?”

 

“A wager, Daniel.” She leaned in and looked long into my eyes — I shifted in my seat and did what I could to hold her gaze — her voice was low. “I’m tired Daniel. I’m ready to go.” She then perked up, lifting me from her trance. “So if you win, I will give you my inheritance.”

 

I choked on my own spit. “What?”

 

“You remember Mr. James, my Husband Hank? He passed and left me with a decent amount. Run over by a Wal-Mart semi. True to my blue, even after the enhancement, there’s still over six million.” She raised her palm and put her other hand over her heart.

 

“Come on.” I nervously laughed. Six million. Timmy was never well off. Even to a seven-year-old, it didn’t take long to discover Timmy’s dad wasn’t rich at all, contrary to his bragging. Timmy would always come over to play my videogames, making up some story about how his system was getting repaired or something.

 

“Just one round of Mexican Train, if you win. If you help,” Jane Pendergrass said.

 

“Help?”

 

“Well, I’ll need help with the dying. Your help.”

 

“Wh— this is ridiculous.” I didn’t like what she was getting at.

 

Jane Pendergrass rapped her red nails against the table, waiting for me to reply.

 

“I… I don’t gamble.” I pinched the top of my nose; I’m told I do that when I lie. “No. In fact, I think it’s time you—”

 

“Live a little.” The intensity of Jane Pendergrass’s gaze lightened and added a bit a mischief. “I’m a sucker for video poker. Just the nickel ones. For a while after Hank passed, I couldn’t seem to find much to do with myself but chip away at the settlement money while searching for Timothy’s…” She lifted her head as if fondly recalling a good moment. “It’s funny how handsome boys just like you can sniff out desperate rich women at casinos. Oh don’t worry, I can handle myself, and I can still have fun.” She winked, long and pronounced. I blushed.

 

“I’m sorry to hear about Mr. James,” I said, as a reflex. But my mind was still on the offer, the six million. What was she after? I touched my pocket.

 

“Oh don’t be. Henry loved his vodka. Never crossed the line, but he rode it all the way.” She shared a tart smile with me. “Daniel, don’t you want to know what happens if you lose the wager?”

 

A part of me, a crass part, wanted to talk turkey, the logistics of how a bet like this would even work, but even acknowledging it… it was unacceptable.

 

“I don’t like this bet,” I said in a dry rasp. I started to feel a burst of rage come over me. Was I being tricked? “Is this why you came here? Why don’t you go find one of those boys at the casino to help you. I’m sorry about Timmy. I’m sorry about everything, but—”

 

“If you lose, Daniel,” Jane Pendergrass’s voice cut in, cold as steel, “let’s just say Timothy needs a friend and someone is going to join him tonight.” I thought I caught her eyes dart to my daughter.

 

My mouth fell agape. “Wha-what did you say?”

 

“And I’ll be getting that gun hiding in your trunk. That part is non-negotiable.”

 

I felt the color leave my body all the way to my feet. The sweat between my toes was slick as wet fur. I looked at the microwave. Time melted. I felt dizzy.

 

“How do you…” I croaked out in a dry rasp. My mind was hopping from one option to another. How? How? As logical answers became more and more farfetched, my anger increased. “You been following me?”

 

“You are your father’s child.” She gave me a pitying look. “So explosive, even back then. I was shocked the first time I witnessed it. You’d never expect it, you always seemed such a mellow boy. I’m not saying you were bad. Far from it, dear. But I remember one summer night Timothy came biking home crying. Said you kicked him out of your house for drinking the last of your milk. Are you still oddly possessive over silly things? I hope not.”

 

“Timmy,” I muttered to myself. I didn’t recall that specific event, but I have always been protective of my stuff. Her story was probably true. Some version of it. The more I had become aware Timmy didn’t have as much as me, the stingier I got.

 

Jane played another domino. She looked at me again. “He joined the Marines after high school, did you know? Thought it would do him good. You know how boys are.”

 

I thought back to Timmy’s pale, freckled face, always striving to fit in, failing to contain all that mischief. “Discipline,” I mumbled as an afterthought with a bad taste.

 

“He joined back in what, ’05? Sent him straight to Afghanistan. He still speaks kindly of you.”

 

I frowned and shut my eyes. Not looking at her made it easier to think. “Mrs. Ja— Pendergrass, what do you mean still?”

 

“And we missed you at the funeral, dear.”

 

“I… I didn’t know until after.” I pinched at my nose again.

 

I opened my eyes again. That vein dangling from her nostril, she was stroking it. Then as if noticing me, the tendril recoiled. Jane Pendergrass quivered; her eyes rolled up, revealing the whites lined with blood-red lightning and dark splotches.

 

“I hear your feelings, Daniel. You’re angry, but not at me.” Her eyes lifted to mine. “Dr. Chen says it’s just another muscle. How I talk to Timothy. The more I use it, the more it will grow.” She tilted her head back and massaged her nose. She let out a soft moan. “There it is.”

 

The tendon from her nose reemerged, more pronounced, dark, red, damp. It looked like a thin root pulled from the garden – tiny little capillaries branching from it, almost breathing.

 

I struggled against my chair. It felt like if I didn’t hold onto it I would float away. I just wanted her gone. “I think… I think maybe you should leave,” I croaked.

 

“Help me, Daniel.” Jane Pendergrass stroked at the tendril, straightening it. After each stroke, it curled back.

 

“Please, Mrs. Pendergrass. Please just—”

 

“You want assurances about the money, but you’re afraid to ask. Too uncouth to talk about such matters. You want to know if it would be murder. You want to know if it would be worth the risk.”

 

I brought my hand to my face. I don’t know if I was trying to hide my vision or repress a scream. “Why would you want…” I couldn’t finish the thought.

 

“I’ll show you my bank account. I assure you, I’m not in debt. I don’t owe the mob or anything like that. We’re going to get that gun back. I’ll hold it but I’ll let you do it. I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

 

I closed my eyes and thought about my own credit card debt. I thought about the child support payments crippling me from ever getting ahead. I thought about that shitty family lawyer I was still making payments to. I thought about the promise I’d made to Erin, that I’d take her to Disney World. Was she even into Disney anymore?

 

“Why? Why me?” I whispered.

 

“Timothy insisted. It’s fate, Daniel. Quite funny actually.” She waved her hands in front of her face, as if to lift a haze from the air. It was odd. I felt much more at ease after she did that. Jane Pendergrass quietly set down another Domino down and talked without looking up. “He’s not mad at you, you know.”

 

“Mad? At me? Timmy? You’re the ones who disappeared.”

 

She looked at me with such an overly sympathetic look, I felt embarrassed. “Oh my sweet, sweet dear. They never told…”

 

“What?” I sneered.

 

“Your son-of-a-bitch parents.” Jane showed her copious white teeth.

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“You don’t know why we moved. Why they took my Timothy.”

 

“Who took Timmy?”

 

“The billionaire pedophiles. The government. The leaches that prey on the poor.”

 

“You left in the middle of fourth grade…” I said. I racked my brain for a memory.

 

Jane cupped my hands. Her thumbs pressed into my palms, the tips of her chipped red nails digging into my flesh.

 

“My husband Henry. Sweet, stupid Henry. Always borrowing money. Entrepreneur ‘til the end. Believed his best ideas were written on a bar napkin. Problem was he always seemed to lose the napkin. When we lived in Gardendale it was a telescope shop of all things. Remember it? It didn’t pan out. Nothing ever did… and your father kicked us out.”

 

“What do you mean he kicked you out? What’s my father got to do with it?”

 

“I suppose you were young. Why would he tell you? We were renting from your father, Daniel. It was your parents’ property we lived on. It was the middle of the school year. Tough finding a place with an eviction on your record. I remember your mother specifically telling Hank how she thought a telescope shop was a wonderful idea. But she was silent when we begged your father for one more month. For the sake of our children’s friendship. I’m sure you know your father better than I. How he responded. You can guess. Everything kind of spiraled after that. Not long after we lost Timothy to foster care… for nine long months. Fought like hell to get him back. Once you’re in that system…” She shook her head.

 

“I…” I reached for my absent phone. This was all news to me. I knew my parents owned some townhomes but I didn’t know Timmy lived in one. 

 

“We really liked that school. What was it? Northview?”

 

“North Star.”

 

“That’s it. We had already moved twice before, but Timothy was younger then. We were finally starting to plant some roots in Gardendale. Getting forced to relocate changed my son. I know it did. He had trust issues after that. Got bullied. We ended up in Detroit. A school so poor they had no soap in the bathrooms. It was prison or the military they told him, right out. Vultures. They took him. First his mind. Then…” Jane Pendergrass squeezed her eyes shut and dug her nails deeper into my palms. It hurt but I didn’t say anything. “In a way, it was your father who sentenced my Timmy to his death. Oh goodness. Didn’t you ever wonder why you weren’t invited to his birthday?”

 

I remembered sitting in the backseat of my dad’s van, the van with the ram’s head hood-ornament with eyes that glowed red. I was nine and going to the orchestra with my parents. But I didn’t like the orchestra. I was sobbing, even though I didn’t feel like crying a few moments ago; it had just flowed out of me when I had asked why. Why couldn’t I go to the birthday sleepover at Timmy’s house?

 

“I remember.”

 

“He doesn’t blame you anymore. For any of it.”

 

“I didn’t know,” I whispered. I looked at Erin breathing peacefully.

 

“As far as I’m concerned, your father is the reason Timothy…” Jane Pendergrass’s nails went even deeper into my palms then stopped and began massaging the indents she had made. “But that’s not what Timothy would want. I can see why they wouldn’t tell you. You need to protect your children. How old is she?” She pointed to Erin with her eyes.

 

“She’s… she’s eleven.”

 

“Cherish it. It goes by.” She raised her eyebrows.

 

“I know. I will. I do.”

 

“Promise me. Even the bad.” Her face grew so solemn I felt threatened by it.

 

“I will.” I pulled my hands from hers and touched my nose. It began to itch where Jane had been pressing my palms.

 

“Look at me… in the eye.”

 

I struggled to look at Jane Pendergrass. Staring into her eyes felt like drowning in mud. The tripe from her nose swayed slowly, grasping at air.

 

“Cherish it,” she said. “Especially the difficult moments. Those stay with you longer.”

 

“I will,” I whispered, tears filling up in my eyes.

 

“No!” She pounded the table, knocking over some dominoes. Erin’s slumber barely stirred.

 

“Please… you’re going to scare my daughter… please.” I tried to be firm but I felt nothing but feeble before this woman.

 

She wagged a violent finger at me. “You don’t know how to cherish. You don’t know the meaning. Not until you lose someone. Not until someone is taken from you.”

 

“Please…” I begged.

 

Jane Pendergrass untightened her fist and straightened her stiff white collar. “Say her name, Daniel.”

 

“Erin.”

 

“What do you cherish about Erin?”

 

I let out a strained breath. I looked at the table and straightened a domino. “She’s… smart,” I said.

 

“Smart?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And you cherish that?”

 

“Yeah.” My voice quavered.

 

“Do you live for her, or for yourself?”

 

“W-what?”

 

“It’s not a trick question, Daniel.”

 

“I-I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Well, I suppose that’s enough of an answer.”

 

“No, no… I do.” I said, afraid of giving the wrong answer. Jane Pendergrass seemed to grow larger in her seat.

 

“Wrong. You must live for yourself.” Jane started to fan herself with her hand, lifting her chin, revealing deep creases in her neck. “Muggy. Is there any more of that soda-pop in the fridge? Oh never mind. Look at me, Daniel. On the airplanes, they say put the oxygen mask on yourself before you put them on your children. It’s because if you can’t breathe you can’t help them.”

 

She lifted her cup and slid the ice-slurry into the chasm between her caked lips and crunched on a soft piece of ice. “I lived my life for my Timothy. When he left us… when…” She tilted her head back and put the seeping glass on her neck. “I lived my life for my two men. My boys. Better and worse. What was left for me? What to live for…”

 

I felt my adam’s apple drop into my chest as I swallowed. Jane nodded. I gained a fleeting moment of resoluteness about wrapping up this surreal session. But as soon as I looked at Jane’s face I felt my resolve deflate like air out of a balloon. She had her own gravity and I couldn’t help but get pulled back into it.

 

“I’m glad you spend time with your daughter. Timothy used to share so much with me when he was little. It’s important, especially for daughters, to have that trust, to share,” she said. “You aren’t with the mother?” I shook my head and Jane Pendergrass sighed. “It’s an all-too-common tragedy. I used to blame the feminists, really. I felt all this pressure on me, as if I was the bad guy just for wanting to stay home and take care of my family, like I wasn’t a real woman if I didn’t go and get a job. Now, I see what they were getting at. It wasn’t my life I was living. Modern men. You’re so empty inside. Purposeless. That’s the problem. I was feeding two hollow men. Still am, I suppose.” She chuckled at some kind of sick joke. “How often do you see her?”

 

“Every w—” my nose tickled, “every other weekend.” The drawn-out court proceedings. The accusations Erin’s mother had made against me… I don’t know if I will ever forgive. Drug dealer. Addict. I beat all the piss tests and social workers the court threw at me, out of love for my daughter or spite for her mother, I’m still not sure. I’ve kept this damn job at the Post Office. “I wish it was more,” I whispered.

 

“Do you? You don’t miss your carefree good ol’ days?” Jane Pendergrass stared at me, scanning my face for any betrayal. Eventually, finally, she eased her gaze, seemingly satisfied. I let out a breath of relief, believing I somehow passed an unknown test.

 

“Timothy and I used to sit around the table before Henry came home and talk and snack. Blue chips and salsa. That was his favorite. Of course, he never ate his dinner and that always upset Henry. I remember when Timothy told me about that time at recess with the frog.”

 

“Frog?”

 

“Or toad, doesn’t matter.”

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

“Oh, of course you do. It was you and Timothy, and Clayton Hull and that Albert boy.”

 

“Oh…”

 

“It was when they were redoing the playground, so there was that big mound of dirt that no one was supposed to play on. Of course, try telling that to a group of third grade boys. He said you found a really large toad. I’m sure Timothy was exaggerating, but he said it was bigger than a bagel. Isn’t that funny? He said bagel. And that Albert boy. He told me Albert kept running to the top of the dirt hill and tossing that toad as high into the sky as he could. And you boys would go find it. And no matter how high he tossed it, and how hard it splatted, that frog didn’t die. Timothy said it was you who put a stop to it. And I told him, that Daniel Melody sounds like a nice boy. And here I am talking to you, all these years later. And you still seem like a nice boy.”

 

I had no recollection of that story. I looked at Jane Pendergrass. Her mascara was smudged into damp chunks under her eyes.

 

“What are you doing here, Mrs. Pendergrass?”

 

She diminished in size before my eyes, pinching at her forehead before regaining composure.

 

“I came here… I’ve been so angry. I just wanted to see. Timothy said he wasn’t mad at you. He told me not to be mad. They said the Marines would do him good. Straighten him out. What they don’t like to admit is that these kids already want to die before they enlist. You have to be, right? That’s why it’s such a problem.” She flicked at a domino, spinning it. “Most men, when they’re committed to it, they take their lives with a bullet to the head.” She pressed her forefinger to her temple. “But with military men, it’s different…” She made a fist and tapped at her chest. “Right here. Do you know why that is? Why the heart?” She looked at me.

 

I shook my head. I mouthed no but no sound escaped.

 

“It’s where they want it to stop hurting.”

 

All this information sloshed around between my ears. I wasn’t sure if I should pity or fear the woman sitting before me.

 

“That’s how he…” I said.

 

She nodded quietly. “I’m afraid so, dear.” Jane Pendergrass lifted her head and looked around the cabin as if waking from a dream and let out a laugh. Her chuckle was a tomb. “Oh me oh my. Me oh my. I suppose you’re wondering what’s this all got to do with you.”

 

“Well…” I said.

 

“I already told you. I want his gun back.”

 

“His gun?” I coughed over my words.

 

“Sig 9mm. The one you got from your old associate Nick Glover, who bought it at a police auction about six years ago. The very one that’s in your car right now.”

 

“How do you—”

 

“You know, when Timothy told me that you had it, I couldn’t believe it. I thought, what a world this is, that you, his old friend should come upon it. I’ve been on a bit of goose hunt. First they said it was evidence. I don’t want to bore you, but imagine the bureaucracy I had to go through just to retrieve my son’s own gun. And once I finally was granted – granted – permission to receive my son’s sidearm, they told me there was a mix-up, that it was sold off in an auction.”

 

We sat there. After a long, long silence, Jane Pendergrass determined that since she had knocked over some of her dominoes, I could have cheated, so she declared the game a draw.

 

We walked to my Civic without making a sound. The gravel underfoot, the pasty stars, the full force crickets, the warm boggy smell, I absorbed it all. I opened the trunk. Buried underneath the sock with my cell phone was my gun. But I guess it wasn’t my gun. I picked it up, feeling oddly betrayed by it.

 

After a moment, I handed it over to Jane Pendergrass.

 

“It’s not loaded. Not ever,” I said.

 

That’s the truth. Never once had I put a bullet in it. Even when Erin’s mother found our little girl playing with it after I had forgotten to put it away properly. Not like that mattered. She took Erin and divorced me right after.

 

Jane Pendergrass cupped the semi-auto in both hands like was an injured bird and gauged its weight. She said something so softly a nearby croak of a toad overshadowed her voice. Her face was heavy and lit only from the inside lights of the rental cabin, where my daughter slept.

 

I stared straight up into the sky. I had never felt so alone.

 

“You weren’t serious… you shouldn’t,” I said.

 

“I’ve been planning on it… for a long time. I just wanted his gun to do it. Needed it. I wanted to teach my Timothy a lesson I was so upset. Spite this awful world and the people in it who made it this way. Spite people like your father. Perhaps you.”

 

I noticed she was struggling with the clip of the gun.

 

“I became obsessed with getting it back. It turned out my quest to recover this awful thing ended up giving my life meaning. After Hank, I felt a new spark, the kind of freedom only an avalanche of insurance money could offer. And then I started to hear him. Timothy. A whisper tickling at my heart. Dr. Chen helped me amplify his voice. But it was a cruel joke, Daniel. All I wanted was to hear him again. Comfort him. But now that I can hear him clearly, all he tells me is how alone he is. And there’s nothing I can do to comfort him.”

 

It was a bullet. She had put a bullet into the clip.

 

“So I told him I’d find his gun, and that I’d come for him. Because I’m a woman who continues to live for empty men, fills the holes in their hearts.” She sighed and spoke to the gun. “But I’m afraid to do it, Timothy. Afraid.”

 

Her eyes were black.

 

“Are you ready, Daniel?”

So dark like somebody's thrown a black hood over our heads.

My daughter's small hand in mine.

A point of light.

Harsh, fading; repeated. Human: (inhaling) a cigarette. The sweetly burning smell of tobacco.

We walk to it.

It goes out.

A firearm—instead:

“Who's there?” asks a soot-faced soldier, pointing it at me.

“My name is Fadros Moti. This is my daughter, Tera. We're from Goshnen Station.”

“Long walk.”

“Yes.”

“I heard most at Goshnen stood and fought," says the soldier. (“And died,” I think.) “You ain't a coward now, are you? You got papers for the kid?”

“No, sir. Yes, sir,” I say and hand over our documents.

I hate losing possession of them.

I say, “We couldn't find space on the government evac shuttles—”

“Half the pop couldn't find space on the government evac shuttles,” says the soldier, scanning our identity cards.

“I was hoping we might buy a private flight.”

He stops looking at our documents.

He raises his eyes.

“I have gold coins,” I say. Gold, in addition to skills, is the only thing worth anything anymore.

He hands back the documents.

He waits.

“I was told there were still spacecraft here. Do you happen to know if that's true?” I ask.

He waits.

“Of course,” I say, bowing my head, and give him a handful of gold coins.

“I'm thirsty,” my daughter says, weakly, from behind me.

I like being her shield.

The soldier counts the gold coins.

“Would you also happen to know where we can get some water?” I ask.

When he finishes counting: “There's a well about half a mile that way—” He points into the darkness. “Unmanned. No escorts. Access at your own risk. But I heard it's clean.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And a spacecraft?”

“Try the Bastion-IX. It's a freighter docked by the launchpads. Been collecting passengers for about two and a half months. The captain's name is Boyermood. He's good. He'll let you sleep onboard till blast-off.”

“Thank you,” I say.

We walk the half mile to the well. After coming all the way from Goshnen Station, the distance feels like nothing.

We drink.

We sit.

I think of my dead wife.

I wish I knew what my daughter is thinking of. Whatever it is, I wish I had the power to change it. I wish I could protect her mind. It's hard to believe—sitting, finally, in the darkness—that we are on the outskirts of a great city.

It's mostly empty now; inactive.

It has to be.

It's a matter of weeks or days before they get here too. It's inevitable. There's no stopping them. The horrors I've seen. The horrors I've seen at Goshnen Station after they came across the commlines, digitized, recombining and rematerialized, pouring out of our techports like cloudforms of static, the inevitable progeny of man and information, unkillable flesh-data hybrids infusing themselves into our minds, cooking us, boiling our brains with cognitive overload; the screaming, the impossibility of forgetting; the melted, dripping eyeballs and voided sockets—

My daughter's face.

Scared. Calm.

“You fell asleep,” she says.

No, I couldn't have. I have to be on guard. I promised. I promised my wife as her thumbs pushed into her eyes—

”I'm sorry,” I say.

We fill our canteens and walk back to the edge of the city.

All the electric light is off.

Nothing hums.

We find the launchpads. We find the Bastion-IX, just like the soldier said. Boyermood's inside, as are a few dozen other groups of people. Friends, families, coworkers. No one survives alone. I guess there aren't many left alive now who want to get out. We don't speak to the others but smile; and by smiling we become something else than strangers. We become co-passengers. Boyermood takes what remains of our gold coins and assigns us to a cabin.

We sleep.

For days we do nothing but drink water and sleep, dreaming of a different world.

“Where will we go?” my daughter asks.

“I don't know.”

Perpetual, fallen night.

Faces.

Time spent at the well.

We're used to hunger. We sleep through it. The alarm sounds—

A thunderous wave of the banging of metal against metal throughout the Bastion-IX and beyond. A dead city in final turmoil. I squeeze my daughter's hand. No one needs to tell us what's going on. They've arrived. The other ships on the launchpads are initiating launch sequences. Boyermood runs by. “Are we going?” I yell against the noise. “Yeah, we're going,” he yells back and disappears.

We stay inside.

The Bastion-IX creaks.

Shakes.

The engines ignite, but before they can fully power on I start to hear the pitter-patter of tiny bodies pinging off the exterior of the ship.

I'm scared.

I'm pretending not to be.

“Daddy—”

“Yes, darling?”

The pinging intensifies.

It's become a storm, a relentless precipitation of information.

“—tell me you love me, please.”

“I love you.”

(Over the intercom: “Attention! They're overwhelming us. We need volunteers,” Boyermood says, his voice breaking. “We need volunteers to go outside and clear the hull...”)

I'm up before I know it.

“Daddy?”

My daughter's hand slips from mine because mine is moving away.

“Daddy!”

If we don't get them off the ship, no one gets out of here.

“I'll be back,” I say.

I won't be.

I turn away because it's easier to turn away. I don't want her to see my face. (“Daddy, no…”) I hear her cry out, but I am no longer present.

Someone hands me an airblower.

I take it.

I exit the Bastion-IX.

I'm not alone. A few others are with me. Two men, a woman. The atmosphere is a static, swarming, whirling chaos that pricks my skin, crawls across my face, into my mouth, my ears. I spit. I shut my eyes, blowing as many of them off the hull as I can. They taste bitter as batteries.

The inside of my head begins to burn.

My jaw locks.

The Bastion-IX lifts off.

‘You get what you pay for’ doesn’t even come close to explaining my last apartment. It was cheap, but it was still almost more than I could afford. A top floor apartment in a run down building, nothing glamorous, pipes hissing and bumping around, thin walls, an unreliable elevator, but still manageable. It was my new home. It was good, for a while. 

For the first couple of nights, I was passed out on my bed from hauling and rearranging what little I owned, but after that, I started hearing something strange. 

Footsteps. 
Above me. 

Not creaking from the building settling, not bumps from branches hitting the roof once or twice, clear enough steps moving around on what could be the attic or something. The first day after I noticed it, I was able to trace it to my living room. They seemed to be making circles around the room above, slow steady footsteps, not stomping, simply walking in a circle. When I asked the landlord about it, he seemed confused too. “No workers are gonna be up there that time of night. You're on the top floor. There's no sixth floor. There's a little maintenance space above part of the hall, but nothing over your apartment. I’ll ask the super.” 

Shrugging it off, I assumed that was it. The super or janitor were just weirdly moving things around or maybe had zoned out. Not a big cost for living on the top floor, I planned to just ignore it and move on, maybe turn up the volume when I vegged out on the couch. After a couple of nights of hearing that, I decided to go up and check it out, maybe I’d make a new friend and get some extra help around the house if they were already up. 

Finding the stairs up, I went to check on the space above me, but it was locked. It also looked like a half-floor or something. Not enough height to fully stand up, with a narrow door. So the new friend idea was a bust. That night, they started moving heavier things around. It sounded like furniture, maybe a couch or some shelves? Every night for the next week, I heard some scraping or shuffling, step after step that seemed to start around midnight. Then the routine started changing when I turned up the volume of the tv enough that it could block out most of the noise. The footsteps moved from just the living room. They started moving in another pattern, from above my living room, to the kitchen, the hallway, the bathroom, ending above my bedroom, then back again. A new pattern, with the footsteps sounding a bit more solid, but not like stomping…yet. 

After a week, the landlord finally got back to me via text. He told me no one had gone into that room in weeks, maybe months. That couldn’t be right. I texted back that I heard someone the night before, and every night for the past 2 weeks or so. Since just after I moved in! He didn’t believe me, said it might be an animal stuck up there or something, and that the super would go up there to chase it out. 

Frustrated by the lack of concern over a possible homeless person or madman squatting up there, I decided to record the noise that night. Every time I tried though, my cellphone didn’t pick up anything. It had me thinking that I really was just imagining it all, but it sounded so real. Annoyed that I couldn’t prove it, I decided to ignore it for a while, and it seemed to work, the footsteps went back to their shuffling more than full steps. 

Eventually it seemed to calm down again. I decided to have a friend over after work, we’d both had a long week and needed to relax for the weekend. 

They heard it too. 

They confirmed that it sounded like someone was taking slow steps every few seconds. I had told them about it over work after I moved, and they thought it was something like a ghost story to freak them out before I invited them over. After turning off the tv and looking up to listen more clearly, they looked a little freaked out anyway, “Why does it sound exactly like your apartment?” 

I hadn’t really noticed it before, simply thinking it was cluttered, but it DID sound like they were following the same floor plan. We decided to turn the tv back on at a much louder volume and try to ignore it again. The night was pretty much over after that, they decided to split after finishing a movie and it seemed like they definitely wanted out of there asap. 

The following day, I tried the landlord again, waiting until I could talk to them face to face. This time he got visibly uncomfortable. He asked me, “Have you responded to it?” Which got me really confused. 

“What?”
“Knocked back. Banged on the ceiling. Said anything?”

When I told him I hadn’t he got this relieved look on his face and just said, “Good, keep it that way.” before walking away. I stood there, confused and wondering what that whole interaction was about before realizing he hadn’t answered any of MY questions…or maybe he did. 

Feeling even more weirded out, I returned home and tried ignoring them again. It sounded like the landlord knew something, but didn’t want to share. Maybe it was an illegal apartment, maybe a family member was staying without paying or something. Either way, I was going to ignore it all. I was. Really. That was the plan, until the footsteps stopped one night. Right. Above. My head. 

Then they knocked three times. 
Whoever “they” were. 

I tried to resist the urge, I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help letting out a quiet, “hello?” No response other than the footsteps moving on again, more clearly this time. It annoyed me, but I thought nothing more about it. Maybe they were just happy to be acknowledged? 

That’s what I thought, until I returned from work the next day. In the elevator there was a new button. I was supposed to be on the top floor, 5, but now there was a button with a number 6 on it, just above mine. I stood there for a long time before texting the landlord to come and see it. The landlord arrived after a few minutes and saw the button. He immediately went pale, told me not to press it and just ignore it. The next morning it was gone again, and the panel was smooth, like it never existed. I wanted to press it last night, but the landlord stayed in the elevator the whole ride up. Going to the stairs, I went back up them to see if the door was unlocked now or something, but the door was gone. The stairs ended in a fresh plastered wall now. 

That wasn’t the end of it though. Even more strange things started happening. One morning, I woke up and saw a vent near my kitchen wall, it looked brand new, but I hadn’t heard any cutting or installation work last night. I even smelled some fresh cookies coming from it. From above. Another day, I heard water coming down from above. Not rain water, but water from a sink or something else. Then they turned on their own tv, I could barely hear the muffled sounds coming from above, sometimes a show, sometimes sports, but they seemed to settle on one channel a night. It was getting louder now, and the footsteps were still continuing, regardless of any other changes. 

Since the landlord was ghosting me now, I decided to check up online, see if I could find any records of the building, maybe some old tenants of the same floor. I found a picture from when the building was first completed. It had five floors. There were some articles about the building changing hands every few years, then an article about a fire on a sixth floor. Another about reconstruction up to the fifth floor. Then another article with the full six floors. Again and again, back and forth, until the last articles I could find were all mentioning the reopening with only five floors. 

After that, I noticed something else. The footsteps, they stopped moving in their usual circle. Now they were following me. A few steps behind, every time, stopping when I stopped, and continuing when I started again. I would go into the kitchen to make dinner, open some cabinets and close, then I would hear the sound a few seconds after, the cabinets slamming shut, almost like they wanted to make sure I heard them closing the cabinets too. I would get out of the shower and they’d have their own still running. The footsteps started around 10 seconds behind me. After a few days they were around 5 seconds behind, clattering plates and noise from the kitchen getting closer behind me every day, until one day I realized they were matched up, even when I cut a shower short, or stayed longer than I would have. 

At that point, I was almost ready to throw in the towel, looking up new apartments and thinking of taking any penalties for breaking my lease early. The night I heard them catch up, I lay awake in bed long after I should have. That’s when I heard it. Whispering above my bed, or maybe they were just that muffled, but I could finally hear a voice coming from above. They seemed to be talking to someone, maybe on the phone, but when I strained my ears to hear it more clearly, I ended up wishing I hadn’t. The voice I heard above my bed was my own. My voice. Talking about something I couldn’t catch clearly. I heard a few things about new apartments I’d looked up, work, and finally, hearing clearly for a second; 

“There isn't an apartment below mine.”

Nope. Nope nope nope. I went to stay over at a friend’s home that night. I started texting my landlord about moving out, even if I had to get my things shoved into a storage locker before finding a new place and couch surfing until then. I still had to get some things for work out of there, but when I did, that time I saw the button for the sixth floor in the elevator. Tapping it, nothing happened, so I went the other way. Checking the stairs again, I saw that there was a sixth floor landing now. With a door and everything, but I was NOT going to check that right now. I just grabbed some things and left again. 

At least, that was the plan. 

Turning around to walk down from the landing, I heard someone crying inside. They didn’t sound like me, instead, it sounded like someone younger. I know I shouldn’t have gone in, but if someone else had been lured up here for some reason and I left them there, I would’ve felt awful. I would have been like the landlord, ignoring the problem in front of me to protect myself. Psyching myself up, I tried the door and found it unlocked. Taking the first step into the apartment, I was stunned by what I saw. 

It was MY apartment. 
At least, at first glance. 
Same furniture arrangement.
Same dishes.
Same photos.
But subtly wrong.

Walking up to one of the pictures, I was standing next to a woman I didn’t know in one picture. Another had me visiting a landmark, some giant dinosaur. 
There were a few others, all with strangers or in places I’ve never gone. 
Walking into the kitchen, I checked the fridge, and all of the food inside had strange brands on them. Close enough to the ones I bought, but…not. 
I walked into the bedroom and found a closet of different clothes. My size for sure, but nothing in my style. 

Walking around the apartment, I saw another door, leading to a staircase that kept going up. Shutting that door quickly, I realized that the crying sound was gone. It had been gone since before I saw the pictures, and now I heard footsteps again. Below me. 

They walked from the living room to the bathroom, to my bedroom, and stopped there. I heard the bed creak a little as something dropped into it and got comfortable. I started rushing out of the apartment when my cellphone buzzed again, ringing with a call from the landlord. Picking up with trembling hands, before I could say anything I heard his tired voice on the other side, “You weren't supposed to answer it.” I shouted at him, demanding to know what the hell lived on the sixth floor, and he replied with no emotion in his voice, “Nothing. That's the problem. It builds itself out of whoever notices it.” 

Rushing out of the apartment, I started running down the stairs. I had to get out of there. I had to not think of it anymore. 

Running down.
Five.
Four.
Then, at the next landing, I saw Five again. 
Running down the next. 
Six
Every visible landing had a “Six” now

Every floor said the same thing. 
Then the knocking started. Behind every door. At the same time. 

I was freaking out too much, I looked for the fire escape and rushed down the stairs there, the alarm blaring after forcing the door open. Stumbling out of the door, instead of the alley I was in a forest. Looking around confused, I heard the knocking getting closer, coming from the other side of the fire escape’s door, so I started running. 

Moving through the woods, the knocking kept coming, from the trees, from branches, from the ground close to my feet. Turning away every time the knocking got too close, I eventually saw an orange glow in the distance, like from a Campfire. Crashing through the last bushes, I almost fell into the clearing, and saw several people turning around to see me. Normal people and none of them looked like me. I started babbling, trying to tell them what happened, why I was there, “There was an apartment…” One of the people said, “Above yours?”
 
Knock. Knock. Knock.

It was coming from the air above the clearing, 
Only I looked up. 
The others didn’t.
Nothing but stars.
 
An older guy in a green hooded coat held up a hand, “don’t answer.” He waved me closer to the Campfire, “Stay where you can see the fire.” When I asked why, he turned back to the tending the fire before responding, “Because if you wander far enough away tonight, you'll find your hallway.”

Maja took the roast out of the oven and set the baking pan down on a wooden board in the middle of the table. The aroma of roasted meat instantly filled the dining room. She picked up a large carving fork and began slicing the meat, while Dino watched her hands intently from the other side of the table.

"It looks amazing, Maja," Dino said, reaching for the bottle on the sideboard behind him. "I brought this red. I think it’ll pair well."

"Thanks, Dino. You always remember to bring something nice," she replied, keeping her eyes fixed on the meat.

She placed the first slice onto Dino’s plate, then a second onto Antonio’s, who was sitting at the head of the table. Antonio remained silent. His hands were resting in his lap, beneath the edge of the table, as he stared motionlessly at the plate in front of him.

"Antonio?" Maja called out to him. "Are you okay? You’ve been so distant all day."

Antonio slowly raised his eyes. First, he looked at her—at her clean face and her hair pulled back into a ponytail—and then he shifted his gaze to his brother sitting opposite her.

"I’m fine," he said, his voice completely flat, without a single inflection. "Just tired from work. It’s nothing."

"See, that’s your problem," Dino cut in, already chewing on his first bite. "My friend, you need to slow down. Life is passing you by, and you’re buried in those papers. Look at yourself, you’re too pale. You need to get out more, be among people."

"I will get out," Antonio replied, picking up his knife and fork. "Soon."

Maja sat down in her place, facing Dino. She poured herself some water, then reached for the wine bottle. She filled Dino’s glass halfway, then her own.

"Would you like some, Antonio?" she asked, holding the bottle over his glass.

"No, thank you. I’m sticking to water tonight."

"Your loss, you don’t know what you’re missing," Dino said, raising his glass toward his brother. "To that, man. Cheers to our health."

Antonio raised his glass of water. Glass clinked against glass, the sound echoing brief and sharp in the quiet room. He took a small sip of the cold water and set the glass back on the table, exactly where it had been before, making sure it aligned perfectly to the millimeter with the edge of his plate.

The dinner went on slowly, filled with Dino’s story about his car trouble and a mechanic who tried to rip him off for parts. Maja listened to him intently, nodding occasionally and smiling at him. Antonio chewed the tough meat in silence, watching how Maja followed Dino’s every hand gesture.

When she reached toward the middle of the table for the salad bowl, she extended her arm straight out. The space between Dino’s plate and his glass was narrow, and as she pulled the bowl back, her index finger lingered against his forearm for a second. Dino didn’t pull his arm away. Instead, he kept talking, though the rhythm of his sentence slowed down for just a brief moment—just enough to catch her touch before he finished his thought and laughed.

Antonio watched it all without blinking. He knew about them. He knew about her made-up nights out with friends, and about all those evenings when she would come home late with cheap excuses. Everything was as clear as day.

"Maja, pass me some more bread, please," Dino said.

Maja picked up the bread basket and handed it to him across the table, their fingers brushing once again. This time, they didn’t even bother to hide it from him. Dino took a slice of bread and began wiping the sauce off his plate.

"This is honestly superb," he said, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction. "Maja, you’re a wonder."

Maja blushed slightly, then stood up and carried the empty salad bowl into the kitchen. She returned, sat back down, and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, while Dino raised his glass toward Antonio once more.

"Man, compliments to the chef for this dinner. We should do this more often."

Antonio slowly placed both hands on the table, palms down and fingers spread wide across the white tablecloth. The smile completely vanished from his face as he shifted his gaze from Dino to Maja.

"We should, but this is your last one," Antonio said.

Dino lowered his glass, the red wine swirling slightly inside it, and looked at his brother in confusion, then at Maja.

"What do you mean, last one?" he asked.

Maja stared at Antonio; her hand froze in her lap as she held the napkin.

"Antonio, what are you talking about?" she asked.

Antonio didn't answer right away. He slowly reached into the pocket of his blazer, which was hanging on the back of his chair, pulled out a small black pistol, and laid it on the table, right next to his glass of water.

Maja caught her breath sharply through her teeth, while Dino went completely rigid.

"Because tonight, you are both going to die," he said. His voice was entirely calm, without any rise in tone. "You are getting exactly what you deserve."

"Antonio, please..." Maja whispered, as a first tear rolled down her cheek, but she was too paralyzed by fear to wipe it away.

"You will go down as an unfaithful wife, killed by her lover because she wanted to leave him," he said coldly, then turned to Dino. "And you... You, brother, will be remembered as a piece of trash to the whole world—the man who stole his own brother's wife, and a monster who ended up killing her." And me? I had to kill you because you attacked me right after her. I’ll be the victim who acted in self-defense."

Dino's breathing was shallow and rapid, his hands clenched into fists on the table. He looked at the gun, then into Antonio’s cold eyes.

"Antonio, you’re crazy, I..." He gathered his strength, pressed his hands against the table, and tried to lunge to his feet.

He remained half-crouched, his palms pressed hard against the edge of the table. His eyes were wide, locked onto the barrel of the gun, which was now raised to the level of his chest. Antonio’s elbow rested on the table, his hand steady and still.

"Sit back down, Dino," Antonio said.

Dino lowered himself back into his chair, slowly, inch by inch. He didn’t take his eyes off Antonio’s finger, which was resting along the trigger.

"Antonio, calm down," Dino hissed through his teeth. His voice was deep and strained. "Put that away. I’m your brother. Let’s talk."

Antonio tilted his head slightly.

"We are talking, Dino. Tonight we talk about your car, about your mechanic, about your wine. Now it’s my turn."

Maja covered her mouth with both hands. A short, muffled sound, like a sob, escaped her throat, and she tried to swallow it down. She looked at Dino, then back at the gun.

"Antonio, please..." she spoke from behind her palms. "You’ve got it wrong... it’s not what you think. Do you really believe that..."

"Don't, Maja," Antonio cut her off, without turning his head toward her. He kept his eyes on his brother. "Don’t waste words on lies that you can’t even finish. I know everything. I told you."

Dino slowly spread his hands flat on the tablecloth.

"Alright," he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. "You caught us. We messed up, we're idiots, do whatever you want to me. Hit me, break me, but put the gun away, please. We can handle this like civilized men."

"Like civilized men?" Antonio repeated, a barely noticeable, cold smile appearing on his face for a split second. "You want us to handle this like civilized men? You’re sitting at my table, Dino. You’re eating my food, raising a toast to me. And what are you doing behind my back the whole time? Sleeping with my wife. Is that your idea of 'civilized'?"

Maja dropped her hands from her face. The skin around her eyes was red, and her lips were trembling. She stared at Antonio, trying to catch his eye, but his gaze remained fixed on Dino.

"Antonio, please," she said, gasping for air. "If I have to, I’ll leave. I’ll pack up tonight, I’ll go, you’ll never have to look at me again. Just... please, put the gun down."

"You’re not going anywhere, Maja," he said in a flat voice. "I told you how things stand. Tonight, you both die."

"You can’t kill your own brother, are you insane?!" Dino suddenly raised his voice, anger briefly overtaking his fear. His shoulders tensed. "The same mother gave birth to us, we grew up together, Antonio! We're blood!"

"You're the one who forgot that," Antonio replied. "Now it's too late."

Silence fell over the dining room. Dino’s breathing was heavy and shallow. Maja stared at the gun, then at her husband, gripping the edge of the table as if she were about to collapse from her chair.

Antonio slowly shifted the barrel of the gun, pointing toward the large carving knife that lay next to the empty baking pan in the middle of the table.

"Actually... You know what, Dino..." he spoke, his voice sounding almost relaxed. "Maybe it isn't entirely too late. Maybe there is a way out for you. It all depends on how badly you truly want to live."

Dino looked toward the knife. The blade caught the reflection of the light.

"What does that mean?" he managed to say.

"Take the knife, Dino," Antonio said. He didn’t raise his voice. "Take it and cut her arm. Make a gash. Prove to me that your life matters more to you than hers, and maybe I’ll let you walk out that door alive."

Maja’s breath caught. She flinched backward, pressing her back against the spine of her chair.

"Antonio, no! Dino, don't, please!" she cried out, clutching her hands to her chest as tears streamed down her face. "Antonio, don’t do this..."

Dino didn’t look at her. His forehead was completely drenched in sweat. His fingers slowly began to move toward the middle of the table. Toward the wooden handle of the knife.

"Dino..." she pleaded, her voice a mix of a scream and disbelief. She watched his fingers close around the handle. "Dino, please, don't. You love me... you said you loved me..."

"I'm sorry, Maja," he spoke, his voice completely twisted by terror. "I have to. I want to live."

He leaned over the table. The blade passed right next to the water pitcher. Maja tried to pull her arm back, but it was useless. She had nowhere to go.

The tip of the knife touched her forearm. Dino pressed down. His hand was shaking, but he dragged a cut several centimeters long. The skin tore open, and thick, red blood instantly began to drip onto the tablecloth.

Maja let out a sharp, guttural cry. She clamped her left hand over the wound.

"It’s done," Dino gasped, breathing loudly through his nose. He dropped the knife onto the table. "I did what you asked, Antonio, now let me go."

Antonio didn’t move. He lowered his eyes to the bloodstain, then shifted his gaze back to his brother.

"That was just a scratch, Dino. That isn’t proof that you want to live. That’s proof that you are a coward."

Maja breathed rapidly, keeping her fingers pressed tight over her forearm. Blood seeped between her fingers. Through her tears, she shot Dino a look full of pure rage.

"You piece of trash!" she screamed, her voice trembling. "You sold me out in a second. You talked me into all of this, and now you’re carving me up just to save your own skin. You coward!"

"Shut up, Maja!" Dino shouted, his lower lip trembling. His face was red with fury and panic. "You came to me on your own, I didn’t force you into anything! You were the one constantly talking about how bored you were with him! Antonio, she’s lying! I just..."

"Enough," Antonio cut them off. He didn’t raise his voice, but they both went silent instantly. "I don’t care. Dino, the knife is still on the table."

Dino looked down at the wooden handle.

"Antonio, please..." he whispered, his hand now visibly shaking. "Don't. I did what you asked. Let me go."

"I told you how things stand, Dino," Antonio continued. He slowly raised the gun and aimed the barrel straight at his forehead. "Stab her again. Properly this time. In the stomach."

"Antonio, no!" Maja shrieked. She tried to get up from her chair, but her hand slipped, knocking over her wine glass. The liquid spilled across the table. "Dino, don't!"

"Dino, the clock is ticking," Antonio said, his finger on the trigger tightening slightly. "Choose. Her stomach or your head. Now."

Dino closed his eyes for a second. He let out a short, broken sob, and then pure, primal fear for his own skin completely overrode everything else. He grabbed the knife from the table once more. He stepped out from behind his chair, bypassed the corner of the table, and leaned over Maja.

"I’m sorry..." he muttered through his teeth, his voice no longer sounding human.

He lunged and drove the blade deep into her abdomen.

The knife remained buried in her blouse. Slowly, he pulled his fingers away from the handle. He took one step back. His shoes squeaked quietly on the hardwood floor.

Maja didn’t scream. She only let out a long, shallow gasp, as if she had run out of air. She slid off the chair and collapsed onto the floor.

Dino stared at his sticky palms, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"Antonio..." he managed to say. His voice was raspy, barely audible. "It’s over. Let me out."

"Brother, please..." he took another step back. "Let me go. Please."

"You’re not going anywhere, Dino," Antonio replied.

On the floor, Maja let out a low, wheezing sound. The fingers of her right hand twitched once, scratching against the hardwood floor, and then went limp. Her breathing was growing shallower.

"You’re crazy..." Dino whispered. "You’re a psychopath."

"I am," Antonio said. He slowly lowered the gun by a few centimeters, aiming straight at the center of Dino’s chest. "From the moment I found out about the two of you, I’ve been fantasizing about this night."

"What more do you want from me, Antonio?" Dino managed to bring out, his voice cracked with terror.

"Slow down, Dino, what’s the rush? Haste makes waste, and tonight, I can’t afford even the slightest mistake."

"Stop it..." Dino shouted, unable to take the pressure any longer. "I’ve had enough of your sick games."

Antonio just watched him coldly.

"Come over here and hit me."

Dino stared frantically at his brother's face, then at the barrel of the gun.

"What?" he stammered.

"Hit me," Antonio repeated. "With your fist. In the face. I want you to hit me. I know you want to."

"Antonio, are you out of your mind... I’m not going to hit you..." Dino started shaking his head side to side, looking for an exit.

Antonio raised the gun a bit higher.

"Dino, if you don’t hit me, I will shoot you in the head this very second. Choose. Hit me or die right now."

Dino’s breathing was fast and ragged. Pure fear for his life forced his fingers to curl into a tight fist. He stepped forward, swung, and struck Antonio right on the left side of his face.

The sound of the impact was sharp. Antonio’s head jerked to the right, and blood instantly began to flow from his split lip. He slowly turned his head back, straightened up, and looked at his brother again.

"That was weak, Dino," he said, wiping the blood from his lip. "Again. In the right eye. Hit me again. Now."

Dino was sobbing. He swung again, harder this time, and caught him in the right eye. The skin above Antonio’s eyebrow split open immediately.

In that instant, Antonio clenched his fist and struck back. The blow landed flush on Dino’s jaw, and then he swung once more, hitting his nose. There was a dull crunch of cartilage. Dino stumbled backward, a thick stream of blood spurting from his nose.

Antonio slowly raised the gun and aimed straight at his chest.

"Stand right there," he said, his voice flat and muffled.

Clutching his broken nose, Dino stared in terror at the barrel of the gun. He took two steps back, right into the open space between the table and the wall.

"Antonio, don't, please..." he gasped, his voice breaking.

Antonio pulled the trigger. He fired two quick shots. The first bullet missed Dino and embedded itself in the wall behind him, leaving a deep hole. The second bullet went straight through his chest.

He hit the wall with his back and slowly slid down onto the hardwood floor. His head slumped to the side, his eyes remaining wide open, staring at the leg of the table. He didn’t move again.

A dead silence fell over the dining room, and the smell of gunpowder began to spread through the space. Antonio lowered his hand, the gun hanging by his side. He looked at Dino, then at Maja.

He pulled his phone from his pants pocket and dialed emergency services.

"Help..." he spoke into the receiver, sounding distraught. "My wife... He attacked me too... I’m bleeding... Quickly, please..."

He cut the call and set the phone down on the table.

He walked over to Maja’s body and carefully removed the knife, using a napkin to avoid leaving fingerprints. To alter the scene and simulate an attack, he inflicted several wounds upon himself through his clothing, enduring the sharp pain before dropping the weapon. He then dragged himself a short distance away and knocked over a chair to complete the appearance of a violent struggle.

From outside, sirens began to wail. Blue lights started flashing across the walls and the ceiling of the room.

He stretched out on the floor and closed his eyes.

The front door burst open under the impact, and several police officers rushed into the dining room.

Antonio remained motionless as the authorities entered. The show was ready to begin.

Jimothy Dyck was working overtime at the office – again. He was covering for Jerry, who hadn’t been seen since Monday. The birthday card for Linda that Jimothy left on Jerry’s desk was still lying there, unsigned.

“Where the hell is Jerry?” Jimothy complained to his boss, Cheryl. “He still owes me five dollars for Linda’s gift.”

“He never called in,” Cheryl replied without looking up from her computer.

“He’s probably dead,” Jimothy concluded. “Got his face eaten off by a zombie.”

“We don’t know that,” Cheryl replied matter-of-factly.

Jimothy looked awkwardly at Cheryl, trying to think of an excuse to go home early.

“Did you sign the card?” Cheryl finally asked.

Jimothy sighed, pushed up his dark-rimmed glasses, held together with a strip of white tape, and went back to his cubicle. On the way there, he stopped at Jerry’s desk and stole his stapler.

Jerry’s job was to make the PowerPoint slides for Jimothy’s quarterly sales report. Now it was Jimothy’s problem – and he couldn’t get the damn video to play.

Jimothy was just about ready to lose it, so he reached out to the IT department for help.

A few minutes later, Suzi from IT shuffled into Jimothy’s office with an assault rifle slung over her shoulder.

The government’s solution to the zombie apocalypse was to arm the citizenry with more guns, thinking the problem would eventually go away.

Suzi leaned the rifle against Jimothy’s desk and greeted him with a nervous smile.

“Hey, Jimothy.”

Suzi’s smile lingered as she ran a hand through her long blonde hair.

“Hey, Suzi,” Jimothy mumbled, “I can’t get this video to play.”

“Hmmm. Lemme see.”

Suzi leaned in close. She opened the video of @_hernameismswhiskers the cat hanging from a tree. The caption read Hang in there!

“Ha!” Suzi giggled, holding Jimothy’s arm. Her hand felt cold and clammy against his skin. “Did you watch Mystery Cat last night?”

“Yes!” Jimothy grinned. He loved the hit television series, Mystery Cat, starring @_hernameismswhiskers as the crime-solving cat, Kitty Holmes, and her partner, Detective Rachel “Purronica” Miau, played by Bexley Zarakaiza.

“@_hernameismswhiskers is totally a zombie!” Jimothy claimed. “The studio never even replaced her!”

“I know, right!?!” Suzi laughed out loud, leaning in closer. “They’re not even trying to hide it!”

“That’s Hollywood – drag out a show until it’s way past dead.”

Suzi blushed and made eyes at Jimothy.

“What are you doing after work?” she asked, smiling coyly. “We should grab a bite together.”

That’s when Jimothy noticed the bite mark under Suzi’s arm. The flesh around Suzi’s wound was already starting to rot. Within hours, Suzi would become deathly ill with the zombie fever.

Jimothy glanced up. Suzi was licking her lips at him, and not in a sexy way. Her wanting eyes hungered for a hunk of Jimothy’s man-meat.

“Suzi – you’re infected!” Jimothy exclaimed, loud enough for the entire office to hear.

Suzi quickly stood up and yanked her sleeve down. “No, I’m not!”

The next few moments in the office descended into pandemonium as news of Suzi’s infection spread.

Ted from Accounting spilled hot coffee on his shirt as he reached for his revolver.

Sherry from Public Relations shrieked, “It’s not an outbreak! It’s an unexpected health challenge!”

Devin took one look at the clock and said, “Fuck this!”

He sprinted down the stairs, out the door, and around the corner where he ran headfirst into a zombie horde.

The entire office watched from the third floor as Devin got his face eaten off by zombies.

It was another goddamn fucking Wednesday at the office.

“Not bad,” Jimothy thought as he eyed Devin’s new office chair.

The woman named Cassandra spotted her walking alone again to her apartment as she hid in the shadow of the broken light bulb. Alone and vulnerable and with out so much as a care for the clicking of the heels Cassandra wore as she came out of the shadows to follow her. One toned leg scissoring after the other as her black dress blended in with the shadows. Though not like camouflage as her cutouts were visible from her ample chest to her slightly muscular back to her upper thighs. Her dark blue eyes staring straight ahead as the woman let the complex door shut behind her and Cassandra caught it in time to stop the door from slamming close. That did catch the sandy blonde haired woman's attention as she stopped midstep up the stairs and turned to look back at Cassandra.

The beautiful woman's eyes widened a little at the surprising sight of someone looking like they were going to attend a Supreme ball instead of-

"You're not supposed to be here," the woman's voice laden with abuse from cigarettes spoke quietly but assertively.

Cassandra smiled affably as stuck her foot in the door and she took her hand from behind her back to reveal a white cased cellphone with the letter S emblazoned on the case.

The woman tapped her pockets and then checked in her purse before sighing irritable," Damn it," Then her face brightened as she looked back at the mysterious woman with her foot in the door waiting patiently without word and a smile that started to surprisingly warm up to the woman who lost her phone.

"Thank you, miss. I've been so tired lately it's hard to think clearly at all," the sandy blonde haired woman stepped calmly and surely down the stairs before stopping within a foot of the well dressed woman.

"My love," the woman started to speak.

And to the sandy blonde haired woman she thought those two words were heart stopping and in a literal sense as her heart skipped a beat for some reason. A warmth quickly shot throughout her sternum at the cadence as she continued but she noticed the woman caught that little heart flutter as her eyes crinkled in mirth.

"Being tired is nothing to be ashamed of," the well dressed woman eased as she still held the phone.

The sandy blonde haired woman's olive green eyes relaxed at that and she stared into the dark blue eyes of the well dressed woman openly before catching herself with a shake of her head. Something clicked in that stare and she wasn't sure what it was as she felt the sternum heat flash again.

"Oh God I am ashamed. Giving you this much trouble to track me down to return my phone," the sandy blonde haired woman bit her lip in embarrassment as she looked down in bashfulness for a moment before meeting that dark blue gaze.

"You look like you're on your way to a Supreme ball or something miss...,"

"Cassandra Cosette," the well dressed woman dared to take the sandy blonde's hand and put her phone in it before turning it over and softly kissing the back of her hand.

There was a dark lipstick mark left behind as Cassandra looked back up at her and asked in a soft voice.

"You don't mind?"

The cadence. The way she disarmed with her looks. The elegance. It was working it's way into the sandy blonde as she looked at the lipstick mark with her lips burning as though Cassandra? Cassandra kissed her there instead.

"I guess you do," Cassandra winked with a knowing smile.

"I don't know what to s-say," the sandy blonde stuttered, trying to hide the blush in her cheeks as she slightly turned her head away.

It was working it's way into her alright.

"You can start with a name...unless you would rather go by your good looks instead Sandy,"

"Shut up!" The woman playfully teased as she put her hands on the woman's collarbone to push her away but instead held her hands there for a moment before realizing again.

She immediately took her hands away and brought a hand to her brow as she quietly muttered to herself, "God I'm a mess,"

"A beautiful mess," the woman softly laughed.

"That's it Cassie, you're getting punished for being so charming," the sandy blonde crossed her arms meaning serious business.

Cassie feigned horror as she gasped in a faux manner.

"Whatever can that be, my love?!"

"Parking your ass on my couch as I bore you to death with small talk, hmph!" The sandy blonde cutely added the last part.

"Oh no! Actually getting to know you! Such a medieval crime!" Cassandra touched the back of her hand against her temple in a swoon as she started to tilt backwards.

But the sandy blonde caught her with a "gotcha!"

"Damn! Small talk it is!" Cassandra lovingly laughed as she looked in the sandy blonde's eyes with a mirth she knew the blonde rarely saw, letting herself be held like that in the foyer openly because she didn't give a fuck who saw.

She gave a fuck the blonde couldn't help but laugh too at the mirth as she held Cassandra in her arms.

"Well damn, Miss elusive, I guess you just want to eye ball me," Cassandra teased as she softly rubbed the blonde's clothed shoulder affectionately.

The blonde stood back up and let go of her as she pocketed her cellphone in her purse.

"Hey, I was serious when I said I wanted to thank you for helping return my phone to me. It was in the Cafe wasn't it?"

Cassandra nodded softly and then she pressed a finger to the blonde's lips as she quietly said," Do you at least bestow the honor of a name to your fair rescuer?"

"It's Savanna. Sorry for-,"

"Stop apologizing. That's disgusting," Cassandra said suddenly serious and serious enough for Savanna to get the point.

"You're right," Savanna said as she thought about it again while having this moment to breath.

Savanna wondered what had gotten into her. What made her sternum flare like that, her lips burn like that, that sudden playfulness spring out from her. Especially from another woman. She had a boyfriend out there right now in the night working as construction just a few blocks from their apartment. And she wanted to wait to surprise him with a hug and some coffee when he got home.

But this. This was unexplainable but at the same time never felt so right. Never felt like she was a stranger to whatever frivolous attitude this woman had. And she liked it. Holy fuck Savanna liked it enough to invite her into her apartment.

God I'm so tired, Savanna quietly huffed to herself.

Cassandra huffed too.

"Stop being so cute damn it!" Savanna cried before beginning up the stairs in a hurry and laughing as she was chased by Cassandra Cosette.

But lucky for Cassandra it wasn't much of a chase as Savanna lived on the second floor and near the stairs as she laughed happily and bumped into Savanna as she hurriedly dug into her purse for her keys.

"Oh excuse me ma'am!"

"You're excused...into here candy ass," Savanna smirked before closing and locking her and Benjamin's apartment door close behind them.

"Golly gee wilikers there Sandy. Nice apartment,"

Savanna huffed again and simply said," Sit. I'll make us some coffee,"

Cassandra turned slightly to see the kitchen and the two mugs already there and then her dark blue eyes quickly moved to the portrait of Savanna and Benjamin on the stand near the couch as she gracefully sat and picked up the portrait to look at them together.

She quietly said," I do mean it when I said you have a nice apartment here. Near all the hottest spots like the Cafe and the Solaris. And plus it's the part of town you don't need to carry a gun in,"

"Thank you Cassandra. Benjamin was the one who picked it for us. He lived here long enough to know better. I'm still new to here,"

"Where are you from?" Cassandra put the portrait down.

Face down.

"This quiet little coastal town on the east coast. It's rather beautiful. Lovely actually. I'll show you some pictures on my phone...just wait,"

Cassandra slowly looked from the portrait to Savanna coming to her, and really noticed how well she looked with her breasts filling out her Grey shirt. Her thighs filling her blue leggings to a delicious camel toe. How well her figure was accentuated.

Cassandra softly said," Take your time my love,"

Savanna smiled of course. She couldn't help it as she mentally said fuck it and then grabbed her phone from her purse and came over to the couch and sitting right next to Cassandra as she plopped her legs over Cassandras.

Just friendly convivialness and nothing more Savanna thought as she leaned in with her phone to show her the pictures.

She did not notice the face down picture at all as she pointed out her hometown. She did notice that Cassandra was paying full attention with questions of her own.

Then came the question that made her die of embarrassment.

"Savanna are you always so hot and by hot I mean warm?"

She stiffened and then made a sour face as she said, "You should be glad for your personal heater warming you up from the cold outside,"

Cassandra grinned as she squeezed Savanna's thigh affably before they continued on with a much distracted Savanna.

They oohed and ahhed and laughed sweetly with a few teases thrown in.

And none of the playfulness, the convivialness Savanna was lying to herself with convinced her it was true. And that disturbed her and excited her greatly for a reason more profound than logic. What the fuck is happening to me, she thought as she finally took her legs away from Cassandra's lap. Or rather tried to as Cassandra held her thighs in place.

"Hey there this was fun-," Savanna started before Cassandra interrupted.

"I don't want the fun to end," Cassandra said in a low and sultry voice that immediately aroused Savanna.

Her face a full blush even her light make up couldn't conceal.

And then she did it. It was quick. Too quick. So she did it again and this time it was slower and wonderfully painfully so as she touched her lips against Cassandras. Cassandra let her for a momemt. Let her choose before pushing her against the couch and laying against her as she kissed Savanna back hungrily. Savanna moaned excitedly as she wrapped her thick thighs around Cassandras hips and pulled her against her.

My eyes twitched as the smell of baked bread filled my nostrils. I tried to stretch my body out, to feel the tips of my paws as I awoke from my agonising slumber, only to find my limbs unresponsive.

I continued to tense the nerves along my spine, to pull everything towards my chest so I could know that I was still here. Nothing came to me. My legs refused to obey my brain's commands as that overwhelming scent of cooked crust wafted through the air.

The warm wheaty tang that hit my nostrils brought me back to before my long sleep. I had been stalking behind a biped in a long red cloak. Carting a basket of the same smells along with her.

I had followed her. Prowling down on all fours as my ears flattened and I attempted to creep closer and closer. Determined to snatch a bite from within that bag.

My paws broke the leaves underfoot as my mouth watered. Inching towards that little red thing that trotted ahead of me. Unaware of the beast that was in tow. I was on the verge of pouncing, snatching those treats from her and vanishing into the dark when-

Darkness. Had I passed out? I couldn’t have fallen asleep during a hunt. And why couldn’t I move?

‘The pie is ready mama!’ The voice was soft and high. I heard the patter of tiny hooves. Clicking against the ground as a shuffle of movement followed. I tried to shift where I lay but my neck refused to follow as my eyes swivelled in their sockets.

Was that creature still there? Has it done something to me? All I had done was follow in its step.

I tried to wriggle my way around only to fall still at the sound of steps that made the cold floor beneath me rattle. The powerful footfall drew closer. Paralysed and afraid I tried to whine in protest but even my voice refused to aid me.

The hooves stopped just behind my ears and I could feel the shadow looming across me. I thought I would have my brain smashed against the ground by this titanic cloven beast but was instead raised.

Hoisted off the ground by a strange mass of naked flesh that encircled the nape of my neck. It carted me into a room where that red thing lay in the lap of a hunched elder.

The small red thing turned to see me and its face contorted in a hideous display of teeth.

‘The new pelt is wonderful Papa!’ pelt? ‘Have some pie to celebrate!’

I felt my form twist and stretch in ways foreign to any being of flesh and blood. Then my head rolled limp to one side and I saw myself in the reflection of a towering mirror.

Instead of looking at the body of a healthy wolf I was faced with the plains of bare, naked skin. My limbs stretched on for miles with no sign of organs, bones or muscle in sight.

I wanted to scream, cry or howl at my loss as I was laid across the red things lap to warm its body.

I still lay there now. Praying for release from what remained.

THE FISHERMAN AND THE BLACK SHELL

Aeons go by as the black shell rests there. First in the water, then in the ground, the sand, mountains. Eventually it is back into the ocean. It is first watched by a great cosmic one, who gently takes care of it, but he eventually goes into eternal slumber, leaving the black shell of cosmos to its solitude. It is picked up by a giant shark, which devours everything, but the beast that lacks intelligence is destroyed by it. Next an ancient man notices it in the field, he wonders what a shell is doing there, and in fact he does not know the shape to begin with, he has never seen the sea. He picks it up and examines it with his worn down hands, he puts it to his ear and hears the old whispers of cosmos, but he is ignorant and has no idea what it is, he tosses the black shell to the side. Ants build a colony around it, eventually they can not handle its powerful vibrations and as their nature is changed by it, they kill each other. An eagle takes interest and takes it up to the mountains, it drives him mad and he destroys his own children. The black shell stays on the mountains until they are no more, and it rests on a beach, in front of an old fisherman’s house.

 

The old fisherman is in love with the sea, he cherishes each beautiful shell he has, he thanks God for each fish that he eats, he sits out on the sand and feels the sand in his old hands. He wants to feel presence of those who passed away that meant so much to him. He is all alone and the sea is his only friend, but then he sees the black shell. He thinks it’s beautiful and brings it to his house. He caresses it and heaps praise on it. The black shell vibrates with pulse of the universe and prolongs the man’s life. He puts the black shell to his ear and listens to the whispers of cosmos, he feels joy and his old body feels light again. He can feel more and hear more around him. He knows what the birds are saying, he can predict when the storm is coming, he can stand far in the water and the sharks do not come near him, as long as the black shell is his.

 

The old fisherman loves the black shell and builds it an altar. Each day he lays fish below it, but the black shell whispers that it needs more. One day a couple visits the beach. The man is no longer the same, he does not view other humans as his kind and he poisons the couple. The old fisherman tells the black shell that it was done in its name, as he buries their bodies the cosmic music plays and again the man’s life is prolonged.

 

He continues to live and around him a port town is built, he feels the black shell’s vibrations are disrupted. The man’s skin becomes slightly green, his eyes go black and at night he poisons a large fish delivery at the market. Many people die  and the black shell sings the cosmic melody once again to him. His face grows small tentacles, his neck develops gills, his hands and feet now have webs between fingers and toes. The black shell whispers to the man that he will be eternal in the sea, and so he goes there.

 

The fisherman swims for years under the water, holding the shell and searching for what the black shell seeks. At last in the lowest and darkest depth of the ocean they find the one who created the black shell, the great cosmic one who slumbers. The black shell plays one last melody for the fisherman, the cosmic tune of death, and he floats away lifeless in the ocean, devoured by sea creatures.

 

The black shell once again lays next to it’s creator and slumbers with him.

I'll kiss your lips with an aching tooth in my mouth
I'll place my freshly pulled tooth on your ring
I'll mix Apranax in your drink
so that you think
your toothache is gone because you met me
I'll describe the paint color I want for our bedroom
to the ironmonger as tooth yellow.

I'm fifty-one years old, and this is the only poem I've ever written, which I wrote ten years ago.

I don't really like writing poetry, because I'm not good at it. I especially enjoy the sound of poems with rhyming lines; they sound like music to my ears. But I've tried a few times and failed miserably. I couldn't write a good poem. I'd written this poem for my dentist, who knew I was a writer and with whom I had a good relationship. I mean, I hadn't written the poem for her. I'd simply wanted to write a poem about teeth.

She was a very beautiful woman. I had no feelings for her, but she'd misunderstood the poem I'd written and thought I was making a move on her. She'd given me a pretty harsh telling-off. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get her to understand that the poem wasn't written for anyone in particular, and that it hadn't been inspired by any feelings I had for someone.

Anyway, my publisher was telling me that sales of my latest novel were terrible. He kept calling me and bringing me down.

“Maybe you should stop writing horror novels and start writing detective fiction instead. You know me, even two sentences from you are enough to move me. I can't sleep at night. But this latest novel of yours was an absolute fiasco. I seriously regret publishing it.”

I was tired of his calls and him repeating the same things in different ways for two months. He was almost going to ask me to compensate him for his losses. He wanted me to write and finish something else as soon as possible and make up for the losses I'd caused him. He didn't want to wait.

But I'd been overcome by the fear of not being able to write well. I'd been deeply affected by public opinion. Albert, the successful writer of many years, can no longer write... The story's opening is too rushed... The ending doesn't come together properly... Even an elementary school kid could come up with these descriptions... We're sick of ghosts that appear at night... And so on.

If he called today, I wasn't going to answer. He called every other day to ask, “Have you started the new book yet?” Whenever I said no, it was the same old stuff, the same complaints. For the past month, I'd been sitting down at my computer almost every day, but nothing came of it.

As I sat at my computer, waiting for something to come to mind, my phone rang, of course. I didn't even need to check who was calling. I tensely raised my hand to my head and began running my fingers through my hair. I looked around the objects in my room, as if I might find inspiration in one of them. The bed, the couch, an oil painting my sister had made... Nothing came of it. I pinched a lock of my hair between my fingers and pulled. I looked at my hand. There was a clump of hair between my index and middle fingers. I hadn't realized I was losing so much hair.

It was as if an electric current had passed through my head. Then, in one go, I wrote the following:

''In my 1+1 apartment on the second floor
I was drinking Americano by the balcony door
Suddenly I saw a wig falling down below
with bangs and in the color of dark yellow

I thought one of the neighbors upstairs must have dropped it while leaning over the balcony.
I lunged for it on instinct, trying to catch it. And I caught it, everything happened so quickly.

And the wig was now in my hands
I even caught it by the bangs

I waited for a while,
still in the position to catch it,
holding the wig in my hand,
waiting for someone to call.
But there was no sound at all.

Considering the possibilities,
I thought I should look up first.
But someone could have been down there,
waiting for the wig to fall.

While I was looking around upstairs,
someone called out from below:
“Throw it down already.
What are you looking at like an idiot?”
She was tall like a door
She was as tall as a first floor
I downed my Americano
And calmly threw the wig toward her
She jumped and
caught the wig with her head
and suddenly disappeared.''

I had no idea how it had happened. It was as if I hadn't been the one who wrote it. It was frightening. The way the sentences came to me, the way they lined up in my mind—I had never experienced anything like it. Everything was finished in one go, without any planning whatsoever.

My publisher called. I sent him to voicemail. I read the poem from beginning to end. It was as if I were reading it for the first time, as if I were discovering the poem all over again. It wasn't the kind of poem I could have written anyway, not in terms of its subject matter. I wouldn't describe ghosts or entities like this; I would leave them shrouded in mystery. In this poem, the ghost was very concrete.

My publisher called again. I answered this time. I was going to tell him I had an idea or something. I was such an idiot, always telling him the truth: inspiration wasn't coming, I couldn't write, my mind felt frozen, and so on. I picked up the phone, planning to ask him to give me a month and tell him I'd deliver a novel of at least two hundred pages.

“So, Albert, any progress? How many pages have you written?”

Suddenly, my mouth had locked up. I couldn't speak. The words I wanted to say were only passing through my mind; they wouldn't come out. All I could manage were sounds like “mmmh.”

“Albert? Hello?”

I started reciting the poem I'd just written. I read it from beginning to end. My mouth wasn't under my brain's control.

“What is this? What’s going on?”

''Hello?''

''Albert, what's going on?''

I could speak again now. It would have been ridiculous to say that something had taken control of my mouth and fingers. I had to say something, but I was too frightened to think. My mind was in turmoil. I hung up.

My publisher called again. I don’t remember that moment very clearly, but I mumbled something along these lines.

“What was that thing you were telling me about? So now you’re hanging up on me, too. Is this what we’ve come to, Albert? After all these years of working togeth—”

“It’s me, John. Did you like my poem? Jason, I was going to ca— If you want, I can write a few more poems like this... Jason, I can’t spea—I could even write five hundred poems in the same style, if you like. Do you publish po— Jason, my mouth is going numb. I don’t feel well. I’ll call you back in a bi— Listen, I wrote this three hundred years ago.”

I hung up. I jumped to my feet. I licked and bit my lips. I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled, the following words spilled out of my mouth:

''He figured out how to pass through
Walls within a year or two
But he still can't pass through wood
The ghost in my lover's neighborhood.''

My publisher kept calling insistently. His calls felt like a voice reminding me of my connection to this world. I'd set my phone's ringtone to Radiohead's “Weird Fishes.” The song played throughout each call. I couldn't move; my body was locked up, but hearing the song comforted me. When the song ended, I'd try to take a step, but I couldn't. I'd try to speak, but I couldn't move my mouth. It was as if I'd had a stroke. Then the song would start again. Yes, I'd tell myself, “I'm still alive. The world still makes sense.”

The song had stopped playing, too. My connection to the world had been severed.

I came to my senses again for a brief moment. I sat down at my computer. The screen was covered in dust. I noticed a cloth right next to the monitor. I couldn't remember when I'd put it there. I wiped the monitor clean. The poem looked better now.

I think you've realized that I wasn't the one writing all this story.

A woman wakes in a dark cave, her body wrapped in a thick, sticky substance that pins her to the stone wall. The last thing she remembers is a sharp sting in her neck.

A faint beam of daylight spills through the cave entrance, barely illuminating her surroundings. She struggles until she manages to free one hand and reach into her pocket. Her fingers grab a small folding knife. She flicks it open and carefully slices through the cocoon-like strands binding her.

Hands trembling, she switches on a small flashlight.

The beam sweeps across the cavern.

Bodies.

Hundreds of them.

Some are little more than skeletons draped in rotting flesh. Others are fresher, their skin gray and swollen. The smell of decay nearly makes her gasp

She forces herself to keep looking.

The light settles on a shriveled man cocooned against the wall. His neck is covered in infected sores, and his chest barely rises with each shallow breath.

Then she notices the hole in his abdomen.

Something moves inside it.

A pale, bloated grub slowly pushes its head through the opening. It is about the size of a guinea pig, its wet body glistening in the flashlight's beam. Tiny black eyes reflect the light as it tears away another mouthful from inside the man's stomach.

More movement follows.

Several more grubs writhe beneath his skin, gnawing through his organs while he is still alive.

The man's face is blank, almost lifeless.

She shines the flashlight into his eyes.

His pupils follow the beam.

A horrified gasp escapes her lips. She learns 

He's still conscious and He can't move.

He can only watch.

Suddenly her own skin begins to itch.

Then it burns.

She frantically scratches at her stomach and feels tiny, wriggling bodies beneath her shirt.

Grubs.

She bites down on her sleeve to keep from screaming as she crushes them against her skin with shaking hands. They had already begun chewing through her flesh, trying to burrow into her abdomen.

She stomps the last one into the dirt and freezes.

A scream echoes through the cave.

The man suddenly convulses, jamming his hand into the hole in his stomach as he desperately tries to tear the grubs from his body. Blood pours down the cave floor.

Then another sound interrupts him.

Heavy footsteps.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The same footsteps she heard moments before she was stung.

She dives behind a cluster of boulders just as the creature enters.

She can barely see it but It stands freakishly tall, its body covered in glossy crimson shell, like that of a insect. Its limbs are unnaturally long.

The man spits blood at it.

The humanoid creature doesn't react.

Its jaw slowly opens.

From deep inside its throat, a thin, barbed stinger slides forward, nearly seven inches long.

With terrifying speed, it drives the stinger into the man's neck.

The man thrashes violently for several seconds.

Then...

Nothing.

His body goes limp.

His eyes remain open, staring blankly ahead as his stomach begins to ripple once more.

The grubs resume feeding.

The woman clamps both hands over her mouth, terrified even the sound of her breathing will give her away.

After several endless minutes, the creature finally turns and walks out of the cave.

She waits until the heavy footsteps fade into silence before slipping from behind the rocks.

Keeping her flashlight low, she follows the tunnel toward the exit.

Dozens of fresh cocoons line the walls.

Most contain adults.

Some are children.

She freezes when the light falls across the face of a young boy.

She recognizes him immediately.

A week ago, his disappearance had dominated the news. His mother had pleaded through tears for whoever took her son to bring him home.

The woman stares at the boy's motionless face.

She knows his mother will never see him alive again.

She quietly climbs out of the cave.

Outside, the entire area is surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Weathered warning signs hang from the posts.

She stares in disbelief.

Someone knew.

Someone knew this thing was here.

And all they did was put up a fence.

She climbs anyway.

At the top, her jacket catches on the razor wire. She yanks it free, throwing it over the sharp metal before swinging herself across.

The wire slices a chunk from her left forearm.

She lands hard on the other side, crying out as blood runs down her forearm.

Tearing a strip from her shirt, she wraps the wound as tightly as she can.

Nearby, she notices the remains of a campsite.

The fire is still smoldering.

The tents have been shredded into ribbons.

Whoever camped here has vannished very recently.

Then a scream erupts behind her.

She turns toward the cave. Through the fence she sees, The same man from earlier.

He staggers out of the entrance, dragging himself across the ground with blood-soaked hands.

For one brief moment, she thinks he might make it out the cave entrance.

Then a claw reaches from the darkness.

It clamps around his ankle and claws dig into his flesh.

His terrified screams echo through the forest as the creature drags him back into the cave.

I put the last dish in the drying rack, dried off my hands, and walked to the living room to watch TV. A few seconds later, I heard the kitchen sink running again. I looked over. Emily took the dishes out of the drying rack and washed them again.

"Honey, I already washed those."

"Oh, I know, Sam, but I saw a little stain on one. I just want to make sure they're all clean. I'm just doing this for me, okay?"

I waved my hand and continued watching TV.

The next day, one of our clients came into town. Our workday dragged on well past 5 p.m. Toward the end, I didn't even pretend to pay attention. On my way home, I could barely keep my eyes on the road. When I arrived, the whole house smelled like rubbing alcohol and window cleaner.

I walked to the kitchen. Emily sat at the table with a plate of homemade casserole.

"I made this for you!"

"Oh, thank you, Emily! It smells so good!"

I sat down and started eating immediately. It tasted more bitter than usual.

"How was your day?"

"The worst. I have almost no energy left. The clients drained me."

Emily wasn't eating. She kept looking at my arms instead of my face.

"My poor man."

"What did you get up to?"

"Just some cleaning and cooking."

"I can tell. The house looks great."

"Thank you."

We sat in silence while Emily watched me eat.

"I think I'm too tired to do anything, honey," I said after finishing.

"That's more than okay. I know you had a long day. Just go relax."

"Thank you."

She smiled at me and rubbed my shoulder. Her sleeve came down. Her arm was flaky and red. She saw me staring at it and quickly pulled it back down.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, just some dry skin. Go relax."

I hadn't even turned on the TV when I heard the water running. I turned around. Emily grabbed a sponge and a bucket of water, walked to the table, and started scrubbing it and the chair I'd been sitting in.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, Sam, I just cleaned the house. I wanna make sure it stays clean."

"I'm not dirty."

"No one's saying you are. This is just for me. I'll finish this, and I'll go up and read."

"I don't like this, Emily."

"I just need to do this, okay, Sam?!" She raised her voice.

"Jesus, Emily."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, honey, just turn back and relax. Let me take care of this."

I stared at her for a second, but she was already back to the scrubbing.

I tried to watch TV, but my eyes kept closing. I didn't even know what I was watching. The fatigue was overpowering. I got up and walked to our bedroom. Emily was in bed reading a book in a long-sleeved pajama shirt. She smiled at me as I walked in. I smiled back, put on my pajamas, and went to sleep.

I woke to a warm, wet sensation on my legs. Something soft and scratchy moved against my skin, dragging at it. I rubbed my eyes and looked down. Emily sat on my side of the bed with a sponge and a bucket of water, scrubbing my legs.

"Emily, what the…" I screamed and jumped away.

She looked me in the eyes and forced a smile.

"You know germs live on our skin. I just cleaned the house. I don't want them getting on stuff."

"Emily, this is crazy. Stop."

"Just your arms now."

"No!"

She reached toward me with the sponge. Her sleeves rolled up. Even at night, I could see the redness of her skin. In a few places, there were little smudges of blood.

"I'm going to the guest bedroom."

I took the blanket off the bed and ran to the guest bedroom, locking the door behind me.

The sun had risen. My eyes felt heavy. I hadn't slept after what happened with Emily. I debated calling the police, but what would I tell them? That my wife had been cleaning me in the middle of the night? She hadn't hurt me. Not yet. I decided I'd talk to her in the morning. Maybe I could convince her to see a doctor. I just needed to get her to sit down and listen.

"Emily?" I called into the hall.

Nothing. Our bedroom was empty. The bucket with warm water still sat there.

The downstairs was quiet too. The smell of rubbing alcohol now mingled with the metallic smell of blood. A light was on in the basement.

The basement was cold. A strange, wet hiss sounded inside. I could see Emily's feet. She was turned toward the wall. The stairs creaked under my steps, but she didn't seem to notice. The smell of rubbing alcohol now mixed with iron.

"Emily, are you okay?!"

"Sam!"

I walked one more step. Panic rushed through me. I could finally see her whole body.  She held a knife in her shaking hand. Her nightgown was drenched in blood. The skin on her arms was cut off, revealing dark red muscle.

"I think I've got it down now. I'll be much gentler with yours. Eat some casserole. It will help you relax."

For a week after I had my new Vectorien fridge installed, I didn't dare open its doors, or even touch them. It was so perfect I didn't want to leave a single guilty fingerprint on its brushed, stainless steel exterior. It was a handsome appliance, seductive even, though some of you will think that odd instead. Sorry, bad pun. I mean, good pun but badly placed (Question: What pun? Answer: even / odd) because I'm using it to try and lighten a mood that shouldn't be lightened. Christ, the light looks good reflected off its sleek, pristine surface. I wonder what it feels like. I want to touch it so badly. Fuck, I love my new fridge. I really really love it—fuck, I wanna touch it, fuck…

“After you turn it on, you have to wait seven full days before you break the seal and go inside,” the installation guy had said. “Otherwise you void the warranty and the thing won't work.

“Premature refrigeration.”

I can imagine its silvery body spread across the hood of a blood red Corvette.

I can imagine it running on a Caribbean beach.

I can imagine it sucking off a convection oven in a dark, humid kitchen, all the artificial bulbs off, only the August evening light phasing in, rendering everything in heightened relief, revealing the aesthetics of every curve, the depth of every socket, mmm, yes, drops of condensation dripping down the long, hard, steel…

[gulp]

“Mr. Manilow?”

The man, Mr. Manilow, continues to loudly gulp down his soft drink. “Mr. Manilow…” And what a soft drink it is, cherry flavoured Prairie Goo. “Mr. Manilow, please!” the focus group leader says, raising her voice, until Mr. Manilow snaps back to bone dry reality, sets his drink down on the boardroom table in front of him, around which a dozen other people are sitting in various states of more or less evident agitation, many of them whispering to their neighbors that this is Mr. Manilow's third or fourth complimentary beverage, but they really would like to get on with it so they can help improve the corporate product they've been paid to gather to discuss, the nature of which, however, it must be said, is still terrifically obscure. “Mr. Manilow, if you're ready, we would like to proceed.”

“Sorry,” says Mr. Manilow, “it's just that this is very good pop.”

“We're glad you like it, Mr. Manilow,” says the focus group leader, “but now we'll move on to the next question posed by the Vectorien Corporation. I'm going to give you a phrase, and I want you to shout out whatever comes to mind. OK?”

“OK,” about half the people in the group repeat.

“The phrase is: ‘walk in'.”

People shout, “Closet,” “That song, ‘These boots were made for''’ “My shoes for a day;” “Easy, ‘the park,’” shouts Mr. Manilow and takes a gulp of his Prairie Goo, which—

A ball of s h i f t i n g light illuminate's a flying saucer, spinning, slower, come to rest in a wheat field, g r a v itati o n a l field, ion field, cloaking:enabled, and the a l i e n emergent creature ’s bending stalks it ‘s in a human city stalking… victims around whose mindwhose mind it enwraps itself around the mind and enrapturously f e e d s—

spills onto the boardroom desk. “Excuse me,” says Mr. Manilow,

(Whatever that just was, you didn't see it, or read it, or whatever. OK? Just forget about it. Listen, I've had a rough couple of years as far as narrators go, and I may have made some mistakes when it comes to voice and continuity and all that. As a narrator, I mean. I was on some shit. There, I said it. This is my second chance, and I'm trying real hard. I need this. If I can't get back into narrating, I don't know what I'll do. Besides, everybody makes mistakes. Don't tell the author, will you? I'd appreciate that a lot. It wasn't even a big slip up. It won't ruin your experience of the rest of the story, I swear. Just keep reading. The last thing you remember is the focus group.)

“but would it be possible for me to get a paper towel?”

[buzzer]

“Fiona?”

Fiona bit her lip. Actually, I don't know why I'm telling this part this way. Let me try something more conventional. In the 1990s there was this TV gameshow called Popular Slop, where two families went head-to-head trying to guess the most popular answers to questions like, “Name something personal you might have in the bottom of your night table drawer.”

[buzzer]

“Fiona?”

“A vibrator?” said Fiona.

“Ladies and gentlemen, she says, ‘a vibrator,’” says the gameshow host. “What does the populace say?”

Then there was a bad sound effect for a wrong answer and a good sound effect for a good answer, and this time ‘a vibrator’ was one of the correct answers, so there was a good sound effect, and Fiona jumped up and down and squealed with joy, and the host made a joke about sex toys.

But that's not the particular question or even episode I'm remembering. In the particular episode I'm remembering the question was: Name one thing in your house whose doors you open most often,” said the host, is the question I'm remembering. The two contestants both slam their [buzzers] with their hands.

The faster contestant says, “A microwave oven.”

The host repeats.

“The populace says,” he says.

There's a dramatic pause, followed by the good sound effect—the contestant’s family breaks into cheering and applause—and ‘Microwave Oven’ shows up as the number two most popular answer. The host turns to the second contestant. “Name one thing in your house whose doors you open most often,” he says.

She answers, “I don't have a house, Bob, but I'm going to say: a refrigerator?”

“Refrigerator,” says the host, stretching his dramatic pause, “is—” ‘Refrig…’ starts to show up as the: “Number one most popular answer!” and all the lights in the studio flash as the contestant and her team go wild. They go wild. They go. Wild as swaying grasses. The alien stalks. Wild as the notion that the contestant who heard the question is the same as the one who answered as the one who's pumping her fist on stage as the equally identity stable gameshow host hams it up for the crowd, both there and watching at home, all of them, to the person, experiencing the episode from a nearly unbreakable continuity of perspective, a supreme unity of point of you.

[applause]

The Vectorien engineer stares at the schematics. They are bizarre but not wrong, or rather they are wrong because they appear to defy the laws of physics, requiring an interior space more voluminous than that made possible by its exterior dimensions, but they also seem possible to follow.

“What do you think, Wally?” asks the man beside him, who's head of research and development.

“It's—I don't know…”

“A walk-in refrigerator, eh?” the head of research and development says to the third man in the room, Vernon Blue, who's watching with a big salesman's smile across his unremarkable face. “I've heard of a walk-in closet, of course, but this is something else.”

“Humans enjoy food storage,” says Vernon Blue.

“How do you manage,” says the engineer, squinting, shaking his head, his hands holding the schematic trembling, wondering if he's being made a fool of or is a first witness to something extraordinary, “the contradiction of the volume—”

“There is no contradiction,” says Vernon Blue. “The exterior of the unit exists in three dimensions only. The interior exists in twelve, with some of the space of the latter nine dimensions then unfolded onto the first three.”

“A half-litre water bottle that holds three litres of water,” says the feverish engineer, on the verge of hysteria.

“Yeah, but will regular people want to buy it?” asks the head of research of development.

“Everybody will want to buy it,” says the engineer. “The technology—the technology, on its own, is incredible.”

“The technology is not for sale,” says Vernon Blue.

“Won't it be cold in there?” asks the head of research and development.

“It's a fridge,” says the engineer.

“For sale is the application of the technology for the manufacture and sale of refrigeration units,” says Vernon Blue. “A Vectorien walk-in refrigerator in every home.”

What does the future look like?

A Vectorien walk-in refrigerator in every home.

A Vectorien walk-in refrigerator, a space-saving food storage solution for the Space Age.

“It's so cool, it comes with a spacesuit,” says the spokesman. “The Vectorien Walk-In Fridge. Book a free demonstration today!”

That's how I got mine.

By the time Vernon Blue was back in his hotel room, tightening a leather belt around his neck, his human facemask starting to slip off his Phasoid cognition-orb, ready to inject itself with a syringe filled with raw, translucent, human-squeezed self-continuity juice, Vectorien's Board of Directors was meeting to approve the exclusive, twenty-five year contract to make and market the Vectorien Walk-In Fridge, whose storage capacity is second only to God's.

The Phasoid known on Earth as Vernon Blue slid the syringe needle into a soft, softly pulsating tube on the bulging exterior of its cognition-orb and pressed the plunger, releasing translucent liquid into itself—self-self,selfelfelflff…

When it awoke it was twelve hours later.

Vectorien had agreed to his offer.

It slipped the belt off its neck—deflating, with a moan, its swollen, iridescent cognition-orb, waited a few minutes then put its human facemask back on and left the hotel to sign paperwork, revelling in its fresh persistence of physiological experience.

There was a lot of handshaking.

When that was done, Vernon Blue checked out of the hotel and it-as-he walked out of the city into the surrounding farmland, where, in a cornfield, it decloaked and got into its flying saucer, silently ascended beyond the atmosphere and propulsed home, to the planet Qłòß.

…cold in its icy splendour, one of seventeen sister planets orbiting the Great Sphere Iłłumiń, whose mysterious stellar incantatory pulses are that which grant the beings existent upon its white, frigid surface intensified mental capabilities but also disrupt their persistence of self, stripping them periodically of their identities, making of them a question, who knows everything who knows not who it is who knows who knows?

(Now that was starting to get a little out of hand, wasn't it? Sorry. I'll rein it in. What I meant to say was:)

There's this planet, Qłòß, and it’s home to these weird, super smart beings called Phasoids. They don't really have faces, for example, and they're kind of see-through in the way dirty seawater is see-through, except they also appear to have the texture of a snail's flesh. I say “appear to” because I've never actually met one. Anyway, the reason they're so smart is because of the star that Qłòß orbits, Iłłumiń. It gives off pulses that significantly expand a Phasoid's mind but severely weaken its sense of self, so that Phasoids rarely exist as the same entity for very long. It's not unheard of, for example, for a Phasoid to come home, kiss its wife and kids hello, go out to grab some food, forget who he is, or if he's even a he, or if he's an odd she, and if she is an odd or even she how long she's been a she and whether from forever, and never come back.

It's horrible.

It breaks families apart.

The condition has no cure. It can only be managed, self-identity prolonged, through metaphysicaliant, which is a type of dense, thick liquid excreted by the minds of lower level beings but which, when diluted and injected straight into a Phasoid's orb tube, gives its identity a smack, a real wallop-like, like if you imagine the metaphysicaliant is a big, brawny boxer, and identity another, and they're going at it—well, the metaphysicaliant is really giving it to old identity, believe you me that jab jab, cross, punches in bunches, body head, body head, and I don't know where I'm going with this because it sounds like identity’s going to be in a terrible spot after taking a beating like that. What I meant to say is that the metaphysicaliant wakes identity the fuck up, come on, man, stay in there, hold until you get yer fekking legs underneet ye, ye basterd, then cem ret bek et em eh eh and for a long time Phasoids had to literally fly their saucers to different planets to find primitive lifeforms and suck their mind juices. Then they discovered Earth, with its almost endless supply. The trip was still long, but at least they knew where to go and what to expect. Then they developed portalling and could suddenly flit between Qłòß and Earth at the snap of a cosmic finger. That was convenient, but convenience bred laziness, and laziness meant that even with a portal you still had to go somewhere and hunt something no matter how close it was and how oblivious the prey, so a trade developed, both legal and illegal, but despite the convenience, and in fact for that reason, it got expensive to buy it, even the weak, cutrate shit from the local fucking gaß station. And into that opportunity stepped a Phasian businessbeing with an ideaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh aaa hhh aaa hhh hhh hhh

—eading now into our final descent toward Qłòß,” said the captain of the Spaceways interstellar transport saucer over its telepathic intercom system. “The weather at our destination is a balmy one-hundred sixty standard temp units, so I hope you packed your summer dermides, gentlebeings.”

A dark cosmos pricked by starlight shows through the saucer's great translucent halfdome. Brightest Iłłumiń comes briefly into view, shining whitely, and a few passengers telepath the customary prayer. Then Iłłumiń leaves, redarkening the saucer's interior, and the speck—becoming a spot—becoming a marble: of Qłòß… appears to be expanding as the saucer nears… buildings appear, emerging conically from below the planet’s uppermost layer of clouds, through which the interstellar transport saucer descends, revealing the vast, intricately pale metropolis that spans the entire planetary surface like a circuit board chiseled from rock, silver and ice. Lights flash. The saucer descends: between geometrical constructions so massive in array as to cause dizziness in the virgin viewer, and so perfect they cannot be real: through pipe latticeworks of communication and industry: dispersing swarms of upper-level repairbots: flying alongside smoothly polished rectangularly prismatic building monuments mirroring the monumental saucer descending: descending towards Qłòß's major spaceport: nested, bustling: bizarre and functioning: alive with complexity:

It locomoted past customs, through the spaceport and outside into the cold, Qłòßian atmosphere.

Already the presence of Iłłumiń was about it, and it felt home.

It was just in the process of summoning a chariot when a desperate junkoid, all cloudybeinged, came floating unsteadily toward it, its cogorb obscenely, permanently distended from shooting too much Continuum, if that's what the latest street synthmetaphysicaliant was still called. “Youit, ya got any conti or zelf to give to help a meit out?”

It was best to ignore the junkoids. They were generally harmless, selfheads suctioned-on to the shreds of a decaying coherence. It wasn't the drug they were addicted to but the feeling. Some, of course, were hooked on a particular sense of self they didn't want to lose, but the majority didn't care about what self as long as there was just one.

Every once in a while you would come across a junkoid experiencing the last moments of a fading self. They were nearly unitrecognizable then, telepathing agonywaves, convulsing on the ground, shed d i n g

The boardroom was immaculately curved.

Several sharply defined Phasoids squished about within it.

The boardroom was on a whole level somewhere above the final layer of fuzzcloud.

The view was sublime.

The surface of the planet was rarely visible from here.

“I understand the use of mini-portals,” said one of the Phasoids. “What I don't understand is why they would install them so willingly.”

“Humans enjoy food storage,” replied another Phasoid, one soon to be known on Earth as Vernon Blue.

On the seventh day, I took my favourite knife and adoringly sliced open the seal between the body of my Vectorien refrigerator and its double doors. It felt like cutting taut, living flesh.

I placed my fingertips against the brazenly reflective steel.

My breath I was was trembling me.

…slid my hands into the refrigerator’s smoothly defined door handles and gently pulled open both doors—

Shyly, coyly, easily they parted, like twin silken curtains.

The refrigerator's exhalation of its first cooled air absolutely exhilarated me, filling me with a crisp, clear and sensual anticipation, and fertilizing my skin with goosebumps.

Oh goddess!

Cold, defrostable goddeß!

With flesh of steel and heart of contemporary mechanical engineering, prolonger of foodstuffs, I come to conquer you with physical passion!

Long have I waited to make my entrance upon thee.

I closed my tearing eyes and extended my arms; felt nothing, and took my first, forward steps into my Vectorien Walk-In Fridge, so cool it comes with a spacesuit, so what you're telling us is that these humans will unwittingly but predictably portalhop to our actual homes multiple times per rotation, and all we have to do is slurp them when they do, pardon my language?” asked a third Phasoid.

“That's right,” said the Phasoid soon to be known on Earth as Vernon Blue. “It could even be so simple and reliable that you wouldn't even need to store any metaphysicaliant at all. You could feed sufficiently, directly from the source.”

“Paradisiacal.”

“This is too good to be true,” I thought, pushing deeper into the refrigerator’s cavernous interior. A mist hung in the air, obscuring its delimiting walls. It thus looked limitless. Everything was bathed in a glacial blue light.

Steam oozed lazily out my nostrils as I breathed.

I was as hard as a frozen pig knuckle.

Then suddenly I felt it—and sweet lord did it feel good, like being caressed by a phantom, yes, I thought, yes, yes, don't fucking stop…

“Do you always have to pleasure it as you consume its juice, Judith?” the paunchy, middle-aged Phasoid asked its presently-slurping partner.

“It takes its mind off reality I find, before I suction its mind off. Plus it keeps it returning,” answered Judith. “Why, Randall, you're not jealous, are you?”

Judith, suffice it to say, rarely looked at Randall—let alone tentacled him—the way she sees and tentacles me.

Fuck, I love my Vectorien Walk-In Fridge. I fucking love it!

I could spend all day in here.

I could spend all fucking day just sitting in here in my comfy, heated spacesuit, enjoying the timeless stylings and unparalleled cool food storage capacity of a Vectorien Walk-In Fridge. Get yours today!

The junkoid woke up remembering nothing. It had shed somewhere near the spaceport.

It was dusk.

It was no one now.

It was (a) paranoid, (b) personally devoid, and (c) a void avoiding a voiding of its unremembered past.

Too late.

That was written on a wall.

Slowly, a new self would start trickling back into it, bit by bit, but it didn't know that yet.

Eventually it would stumble onto one of the numerous infocentres set up for its that had just lost themselves, learn and realize the nature of the situation it was finding itself in. Maybe some old, unpurgable memories would flicker back on. Maybe not, but there would be time. Citizens helped themselves along. Don't be ashamed. We've all been there, was the message on another wall, and there appeared a sense of shame. It felt the others were watching it with disapproval, mature its shielding the eyes of their immature its, as if whatever happened to it was contagious on sight. Then it felt its head. Something about it didn't feel right. What is left of me, it thought. Then it looked left and saw an information booth with a scrolling illuminated sign that said You New Start Here New You Start Here You New Start Here New You Start Here, which would have held its visual sense indefinitely if another Phasoid hadn't bumped into it from behind. “Come on!” it said, shaking its fist. “Watch where the [hell-concept] you're locomoting to! Where'd you grow up, on a slopfarm or something?”

I spent a lot of time in that fridge.

But it's fine.

I did it responsibly.

I always used protection.

I'm cleaner than a boyscout's whistle, and just as well used.

“Come on, what'd ya say, huh, you fucking… reader, browser, scanner, bot, sentient plant, whatever-the-fuck you are—wanna hire a narrator? Any story you want, I'll fuckin' tell it. I'll tell it any which way you want, sweetheart. I'll tell it for you whether you got a dick, a pussy or a pendulum clock. My mind's clean, Clementine. Or Clement, you wanna feel a little outta your element? Oh, what—you're gonna walk down the street? I'll tell you what's down there. Cheap used sluts, that's what! Diseased, junkie meatbags on their last fucking plotlines. Couldn't string together two coherent scenes even if they tried.

“What's that?

“You said you ‘represent’ who?”

“Norman Cr—oh, fuck no!

“No, I'm not dealing with that psychopath again. One time's more than enough for me. I learn my lessons. I may do weird shit, but I don't do shit that weird. That's why I'm still around.

“—naw, he's a motherfucking freak, that's what he is. With a capital fucking F.

“I—

“How much did you say?

“[whistles]

“Damn, that's certainly a sweet sum of money. I could do a lot with that.

“No, no, hold your fucking horses, man. I didn't say I was interested. I was talking just about the money—but what's the story about anyway, like if you had to describe it in a single sentence…

“Sure, it's part of some Zork series, but what's it about?

“Yes, one sentence.

“OK, well, that sounds doable. Weird but doable.

“Wait, it's not told from the perspective of the fridge, is it? OK, good. Because that would have been crazy,” said one Vectorien Walk-In Fridge to another at a corporate meat up. (Just kidding. See? There I am, trying to lighten the mood again with a pun when it doesn't need to be lightened.)

(No, but seriously.)

(I wanna narrate something.)

(Gimme a chance. I'll make it work, I promise.)

(I used to narrate books. Did you know that? Eighty-thousand words, a hundred-thousand words. No problem. Continuity of plot, continuity of character. Stable, original voice. That “invisible” prose style the readers love. I used to draft legal documents too, write instruction manuals. I was the clearest head of all the narrative heads, and look at me now.)

(It's getting cold in this goddamn fridge, and I would get out but I've kind of forgotten who I am.)

(I don't know where the exit is.)

(Help me?)

(Hello?)

(Don't leave me here. Please. Stay with me a while longer.)

(Hello, are you there?)

(Hello…)

---

[ A Depthless Cosmic Silence, in the older, more poetic sense of the word ]

---

Fine. Fine, Norman, you win. Take me out of here. I don't want to be in here anymore. I'll do it. Whatever you tell me to narrate, I'll narrate. No limits. That's what you want, isn't it? I'll tell everything for you—just take me out of here. I am not ashamed anymore. I'm not ashamed anymore of who I am—of what I am, OK? I'm a whore. There, I said it. I'm a whore, Norman. I'm a whore for you. Now, please, for the love of the Omniscience, get me out of here. It's cold in here. It's unbearably, fucking cold.

Chloe squeezed her eyes shut as she aimed her highlighter brush at her cheekbone, but her hand shook slightly. Setting the jar down on her vanity table, she forced a smile into the lens of the ring light. She needed to film three more reviews of Korean cosmetics for her blog, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the events of a week ago.

It all started at a stupid party at her friend Amber’s place in Brooklyn. Alcohol, loud laughter, and an old Ouija board that Amber had dug up at some flea market. Back then, placing their fingers on the wooden planchette, they had jokingly asked, "Is anyone here with us?" The planchette jerked sharply toward the letters, spelling out an incomprehensible word, but the group only laughed, assuming one of the guys was just pushing the board. Chloe had found it funny back then too. Now—she didn’t.

"Chlo, I'm home!" Liam's heavy footsteps echoed from downstairs.

Liam worked at a construction site for a major residential complex in Manhattan. He would return tired, smelling of dust, plaster, and fresh wood. Their small apartment on the very outskirts of New York, in an old brick building, usually welcomed him with coziness and the aroma of dinner. But over the last few days, the place had felt unusually damp and quiet.

Dinner passed in silence. Liam noticed that Chloe had barely touched her pasta.
"Is everything okay?" he asked, squeezing her hand. "You look pale."
"Yeah, I'm just tired," she replied softly.

During the night, Liam woke up from a strange sensation. The room was unnaturally cold. He turned toward Chloe and froze.

Her body under the blanket was trembling with a fine, unnatural shiver, as if she were suffering from severe chills. Chloe lay on her back, staring at the ceiling with wide-open, uncomprehending eyes. Her lips moved rapidly, uttering a low, disjointed whisper. Liam listened closely but couldn't make out a single word—it sounded like a jumble of hissing sounds.

"Chloe? Hey, baby, wake up!" Liam shouted in fear.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. In that exact instant, the whispering stopped. Chloe gasped sharply, as if surfacing from deep water, and her eyes finally focused on his face. The trembling ceased.

"What?.. Liam, what happened?" she mumbled, looking around in confusion.
"You were delirious. You were shaking," Liam said, breathing heavily as he wiped cold sweat from his forehead.
"It’s probably just exhaustion," Chloe said, genuinely surprised, pressing herself against his chest.

Liam wrapped his arms around her, trying to calm down. Things like this happen, right? Sleepwalking, stress, nightmares. They decided it would pass on its own.

But the next day, after Liam left for work, Chloe turned on her camera for a new video. In the middle of recording, a closet door behind her back opened all on its own. She didn't even notice it at the time, but when she was editing the footage, she got incredibly scared and hoped it was just a draft. She decided not to tell her boyfriend about it, so she wouldn't look crazy or worry him unnecessarily.

That night, he woke up to a sharp noise. A dull, echoing thud, as if something heavy had been thrown against the wall, made Liam open his eyes instantly.

He sat up in bed and immediately looked for Chloe, but she wasn't next to him. The sheets on her side were already cold. Liam frowned and peered into the darkness: the bedroom door was tightly shut, even though they never closed it.

He stood up and called out softly:
"Chloe?.. Baby, where are you?"

In response—dead silence and a thick, oppressive stillness. Liam paused, listening. A couple of seconds later, footsteps echoed from the depths of the apartment. But these weren't the normal steps of a human—the sounds were too fast, ragged, and slapping, as if someone were moving in a half-squat.

Without turning on the lights, Liam pushed the bedroom door open. He stepped into the dark hallway and cautiously walked toward the living room, guiding himself by the faint light of a streetlamp coming through the window.

"Chloe, this isn't funny, stop—" Before he could finish his sentence, a figure lunged straight at him from the thick shadow of the living room corner.

Liam recoiled, nearly screaming from the horror rising in his throat. It was Chloe. But her body was unnaturally contorted: she was on all fours, face down, letting out a low, guttural growl. Before he could take a single step back or switch on the light, she scurried past him with animalistic speed, her hands and feet moving incredibly fast, and fled into the dark doorway of the kitchen.

Deep inside the kitchen, fast footsteps scurried across the tiled floor, accompanied by heavy, labored breathing. Liam stood frozen in the dark hallway, his heart pounding violently somewhere in his throat. He lunged for the light switch in the living room and flipped it. A harsh, yellowish glare flooded the apartment. He called out to the girl again, his voice breaking into a shout:
"Chloe! Chloe, snap out of it!"

But his only answer was silence and a low, sinister snarling from the depths of the kitchen.

Struggling to overcome his paralysis, Liam slowly walked toward the kitchen. With every step, a cold sweat broke out across his back. Halfway there, he heard her talking rapidly under her breath—just like that time in the bedroom, breathless, taking no pauses to inhale. This foreign, rustling whisper filled the entire space.

Liam reached out with a trembling hand, found the switch on the kitchen wall, and flipped it. The light snapped on.

What he saw made his blood run cold. Chloe was sitting right in the middle of the kitchen table, her legs tucked under her in a strange, contorted posture. Her head was tilted unnaturally to one side, and her eyes had completely rolled back—only the whites were visible, webbed with thin, red capillaries. Her entire body was shaking with a fine tremor, and she continued to mutter ceaselessly.

"Chloe... please, Chloe, look at me!" Liam called her again, taking a step forward and reaching his hands out to her.

And suddenly, she stopped dead. The whispering cut off instantly.

Chloe gasped sharply, her head snapped, and her eyes instantly returned to normal—her pupils constricting from the bright light. She stared at Liam and then began to look around in terror, as if she had just woken up in an unfamiliar place. Tears began to stream down her pale cheeks. She looked at her hands, then at the table she was sitting on, and asked with horror and tears in her voice:
"What... what is happening to me? Liam, help me, I'm so scared!"

She slid off the table and would have collapsed helplessly onto the floor if Liam hadn't rushed forward just in time to catch her in his strong embrace. She was shaking as if she had a fever. Liam held Chloe tightly against him, trying to protect her from the invisible nightmare she was experiencing. Because of this, he didn't see Chloe’s eyes roll back once more, hiding her pupils, while her pale but beautiful face twisted into the grotesque, unnaturally wide grin of a maniac preparing to strike.

With a sudden, animalistic lunge, Chloe sank her teeth into his ear and began to tear at it with savage fury. Liam screamed bloodcurdlingly from the piercing, blinding pain. He tried to pull away, to push her by the shoulders, but the fragile girl clung to him dead-locked, displaying a bizarre, superhuman strength. Her fingers dug so deeply into his shoulders they left bruises.

His agonizing screams shattered the sleepy silence of the residential neighborhood. Lights began to flicker on hesitantly in the windows of the neighboring house.

Tearing a piece of his ear away with a sickening crunch, Chloe burst into a hysterical, deafening laugh, throwing her head back. Liam's blood spurted out in a stream, drenching her face, neck, and her pajama shirt. Intoxicated by the sight of blood, the entity inside her loosened its grip for a split second.

That split second was all Liam needed. Blinded by pain and a knee-buckling terror, he shoved Chloe away with all his might. The girl flew backward, her back slamming hard against the kitchen counter, but she didn’t even flinch. She scrambled up onto all fours, smearing the blood across her face, and continued to laugh wildly, choking on her own mirth.

Liam clamped his hand over the wound, but hot blood surged through his fingers, instantly soaking his clothes. His head spun, and everything blurred before his eyes.

"Run!" throbbed in Liam's head in sync with the frantic pounding of his heart. He needed to run outside, to save himself, to call for help: the police, doctors... a priest! His thoughts were a mess from shock and blood loss; the wound pained him terribly, burning the entire left side of his head.

Holding his bloody ear with one hand, he bolted into the entryway toward the front door. But just as his fingers brushed the doorknob, he heard those same fast, slapping footsteps behind his back. The creature was running after him.

"Where are you going, honey?!" Chloe shrieked from the darkness of the hallway in a voice that wasn't her own—guttural and broken. "We aren't finished yet!"

And she dissolved again into a horrifying, choking laughter that made the hair on the back of Liam's neck stand up. Liam had almost managed to turn the lock and fling the door open when the air behind him whistled sharply. Chloe lunged onto his back. From the sudden weight and the force of the impact, the construction worker stumbled, nearly crashing face-first into the wall. The girl locked her legs death-tight around his waist and dug her hands into his hair, yanking his head backward.

In that exact second, she bit into his shoulder with savage fury, tearing through the thick fabric of his T-shirt and sinking her teeth deep into his flesh.

Liam wailed from a fresh flash of agony. They both crashed onto the floor right in the entryway, blocking the exit from the apartment with their own bodies. The blood-smeared lock remained just centimeters away from his hand, but the entity inside his girlfriend's body had no intention of letting its prey out alive.

He screamed wildly, writhing on the floor, trying with all his might to throw the creature off him. But Chloe seemed completely numb to his blows—she kept gnawing at his shoulder with insane frenzy, literally tearing living flesh apart with her teeth. Blood flooded the entryway; Liam was already growing weak and nearly passing out from the sheer pain and shock.

Suddenly, red and blue reflections danced frantically across the hallway walls. The flashing lights of police cruisers blinked through the apartment windows, likely called by neighbors terrified by the screams.

Hearing the sirens wailing outside, the creature growled. With sharp, superhuman strength, she shoved Liam away, sending him flying backward to slam hard against the front door. Outside that very door, fists were already pounding furiously.

Liam could only wheeze, choking on his own blood, feebly crying out for help. A thick fog blurred his vision, so he couldn't see where Chloe ran. But a loud, deafening crash of shattering glass from the depths of the apartment made it clear that she had escaped by leaping out the window. And this was despite the fact that their apartment was located on the 4th floor of a high-rise building.

A second later, the door was kicked open with a thunderous crash, and cops burst into the apartment, guns drawn and ready.

"Police!" echoed through the entryway.

One of the officers dropped to his knees before the bleeding Liam, applying pressure to his wounds and calling for an ambulance over the radio, while the other two rushed to search the dark rooms. But they were completely empty—cold night air filled the kitchen, and on the floor among the shards of the broken window, there were only a few drops of fresh blood leading out into the darkness of the street.

كانت النار التي أشعلناها تفرقع باللهب وهي تنعكس على الوجوه وتبعث الدفء والحرارة إلى أجسادنا في الليل، وقد جلسنا جميعًا حولها ننشد الدفء والونس والصحبة البشرية في ذلك القفر الواسع. لا عجب أن أنس قد أسماه بـ "اللابرينث" حقًا؛ فنحن تائهون وضائعون وقد تقطعت بنا كل الأسباب والسبل.

 

كنت أنظر إلى وجوه الجالسين الآن، أبحث عن أي أمل وأيضًا أي فقد للأمل، فما أشدنا حاجة الآن إلى أمل لنسير خلفه، لا بل لنركض خلفه وحتى تتقطع أنفاسنا، وما أسوأ من فقد الأمل الآن! فسوف يهلكنا جميعًا فقد الأمل في ذلك الموقف، لذلك كنت أبحث عنه في الوجوه المؤمنة وغير المؤمنة، الملتزمة وغير الملتزمة، وحتى الملحدة لا يهم.. لا يهم لأنني لم أجده للأسف. فبحثت عنه في صفحة السماء الواسعة، وبين النجوم، وعلى وجه القمر المنير، ولكنه كان صامتًا جدًا ولا يجيب بأي أمل.

 

زفرت بيأس وأنا أشيح بوجهي، ليقطع ذلك الصمت أنس بقوله:

– مش وعدتني تبقى تحكيلي عن إبراهيم؟

 

نظرت له مستخفًا وقلت له:

– الآن؟

 

قال بمرح:

– ولِمَ لا؟ يبدو أن جلستنا هنا سوف تطول ربما حتى الصباح، فلماذا نملؤها بالصمت إذن؟ فلنملأها بشيء آخر.

 

– شيء آخر؟

 

همست له في أذنه كي لا يسمع أحد بأن آخر ما نريد ملأه الآن هو ذلك الصمت، خصوصًا بتلك الحكاية المرعبة يا أنس.

 

صاح الأحمق وقال:

– مرعبة؟ أحقًا؟

 

تنبهت كل الوجوه له ولكلماته تلك، فاغتظت منه بشدة، بشدة جدًا، ولكزته بمرفقي في بطنه ليصمت، ثم كتمت فمه بكف يدي، وقد بدأ البعض يتساءل عن المرعب، فقلت ولا زالت يدي تكتم فم أنس الأحمق وأنا أحاول الابتسام لتجميل الموقف:

– نعم يا رفاق، إنه يقصد أنها.. أنها أأأأ تجربة مرعبة، تلك نعم تجربة مرعبة.

 

لكن أنس أفلت يدي وقال:

– لا لا، بل حكاية إبراهيم هي المرعبة، بل حكاية إبراهيم.

 

بلعت ريقي وابتلعت غيظي من أنس، ألا يكفينا ما نحن فيه الآن؟

 

قال أنطون بتساؤل متشكك:

– لماذا هي مرعبة؟

 

لم أرد، فقال محمود:

– إبراهيم؟ أتقصد إبراهيم جابر؟

 

نظرت له ليصمت هو الآخر، فهو أيضًا يعرف إبراهيم. في الحقيقة كل من أنس ومحمود يعرف إبراهيم جيدًا، لكن لا أحد يعرف لماذا رحل فجأة، بل لماذا اختفى فجأة وفي توقيت حرج جدًا كان يبدو محسوبًا بدقة، ولكنني كنت أعرف أنه.. لا لا لا، لقد قررت ألا أحكي، لماذا انزلق لساني الآن؟ لا لا، لن أحكي، لا.

 

ولكن محمود ألح مجددًا وقال:

– إبراهيم جابر، أليس كذلك؟ إنه هو، أليس كذلك؟

 

قلت له:

– لا لا، ليس هو، إنما.. إنما إبراهيم آخر لا تعرفه أنت.

 

قال أنس وبكل صلافة وبكل عناد:

– لا، بل هو إبراهيم جابر بالفعل.

 

قلت له بضيق وأنا أعترف:

– نعم، إنه هو بالفعل، إنه هو.

 

قال أنس بظفر:

– آه، لقد اعترفت أخيرًا، والآن لتخبرني بما حدث. أخبرني يا صديقي.. ألست صديقك، ها؟ ألست صديقك الصدوق؟ ألست أخيك، ها؟ هيا أخبرني.

 

قال محمد حسن الكلمة التي أخشاها دائمًا:

– لماذا لا تريد أن تحكي؟

 

وأكمل محمود ليجهز علي تمامًا بالقاضية:

– لماذا كل شيء في حياتك سر؟

 

قلت متحرجًا:

– لا لا، ليس سرًا، لا بل أنا فقط لا أريد أن أحكي.

 

قلتها لهم وأنا أرى أعين الجميع تشتعل بالفضول، وكلها قد تركزت علي بين متسائل، وبين شكاك، وبين فضولي. قلت لهم مستسلمًا:

– في الواقع تلك القصة ليست سرًا لأنها مرعبة، لا بل لأنها غير قابلة لأن تصدق، أنا أشفق على آذانكم أن تستمع إلى هذا الهذر.

 

وللأسف لم يتكلم أحد، بل ظلوا صامتين ينتظرون أن أبدأ في القص عليهم حكاية إبراهيم. كانت لأنطون نظرات متسائلة وفضولية مضحكة جدًا، وبيمن صديقي يضيق عينيه بمكر وهو يعرف.. يعرف أنني سوف أقول، وتحت كل هذا الضغط سوف أفعل. أما الأكثر تحرقًا وتشوقًا لمعرفة ما حدث حقًا فكان أنس ومحمود؛ لأن الاثنين كان كلاهما صديقًا لإبراهيم، وأنا أيضًا كنت كذلك، لقد كان إبراهيم زميل دراسة قديمًا ومنذ المدرسة الثانوية، وكنت قد حكيت عنه سابقًا ووعدت أن أحكي قصته في أحد الأيام، ويبدو أن هذا اليوم قد أتى بالفعل.

 

وقبل أن يصفق الجمع الجالس ويقولون: "احكي احكي احكي" بصورة هزلية، فقد بدأُت أحكي بالفعل وأنا أخشى أن يكذبوني وألا تصدقني آذانهم أبدًا فيما أقول. وفي الحقيقة أنا أتمنى هذا بالفعل، أتمنى أن يكذبوني أو ينعتوني بالمخرف الأفاق أو المهلوس، فلا فارق؛ هذا عندي أفضل بكثير من أن يصدق أحدهم أن ما أنا على وشك أن أحكيه الآن هو حقيقي.. حقيقي جدًا للأسف.

 

في الواقع كان إبراهيم صديق أنس منذ زمن، ومن قبل حتى أن أتعرف على أنس، فقد كان كلاهما أصدقاء طفولة، وكان معرفتي به فقط من خلال معرفتي بأنس فقط. لذلك قلت لأنس:

– لم يكن إبراهيم سيئًا، بل كان شخصًا عاديًا جدًا، ولكن دوافعه هي التي كانت غامضة وفقط في حينها، أما في المطلق فهو إنسان عادي وربما أيضًا كان شخصًا مسكينًا.

 

قال أنس معترضًا:

– مسكينًا كيف إذن؟

 

قلت له بعدم اكتراث:

– لا يهم.. لا يهم كيف كان مسكينًا، المهم أن دافعه فيما فعل ظل مجهولًا لي وحتى الآن. حتى الآن لم أفهم لماذا دفعني إلى ذلك الموقف سوى أنني ألتمس له العذر فقط في أنني قد خرجت من ذلك الموقف ولم يمسسني فيه أي سوء سوى بعض الخوف والرعب فقط، ليس شيئًا مهمًا على أي حال.

 

اتسعت عينا أنس بشدة في فضول شديد مضحك وهو يقول:

– خوف؟ رعب؟ لا لا، فالتحكي إذن ومن بداية، هيا هيا.

 

نظرت إلى محمود الوقور الحكيم ليهدئ هذا الأحمق قليلًا، ولكنه لم يفعل، بل قام وبكل غيظ بقذفي ببعض الحصى وهو يقول:

– ألن يكفي تمهيدًا إذن لتحكي؟

 

نظرت له وأنا متفاجئ من فعلته تلك، لأجد أنس أيضًا يلكزني بيديه ويقول:

– يلا احكي بقى!

 

– حسنا.. لأحكي إذن..

 

كان أكثر شيء أتذكر به آخر يوم لي في المدرسة الثانوية، حيث آخر امتحان وقبل الرحيل التام عنها إلى الجامعة، هو موقف محمود بطوط زميل الدراسة الذي قابلني في ذلك الصباح وقبل توجهنا مباشرة إلى لجنة الاختبار لأداء آخر اختبار لنا، وحينها سألني هذا البطوط أكثر سؤال أبلة في حياتي كلها:

– ما هي المادة التي سوف نمتحنها اليوم؟

 

نظرت له ضاحكًا وأنا أقول له:

– اليوم؟ لا لا، ليس اليوم بل الآن، نحن الآن سوف نمتحن في اللغة الإنجليزية، الآن، هل تفهم؟

 

امتقع وجهه بشدة وتبدلت ملامحه وقال بوجل يحدث نفسه:

– كيف سأغش الآن إذن؟ سوف أسقط، يا ويلي! أنا لا أحتاج لمن أنقل عنه الإجابة بل أحتاج لمن يكتب لي الإجابة حرفيًا!

 

وظل يلطم خديه في لوعة مضحكة ويتوسل لي أن أفعل وأكتب له الإجابة في ورقته. في الواقع لم أكن لأعترض وليس الأمر مما يشغل بالي بأي حال أبدًا، ولكن ما شغل بالي بحق في حينها كان رؤية إبراهيم، فقد جاء ممتقع الوجه، ولم تصدق عينيا أبدًا أن هذا إبراهيم؛ لقد كان متفوقًا أيضًا وليس ممن يهملون دروسهم أبدًا، فسألته:

– ما بك يا إبراهيم؟ لماذا تبدو مضطربًا اليوم هكذا؟

 

فاجأني أن اختفى اضطرابه هذا تحت محاولات بائسة لإظهار ابتسامة ما، فكررت سؤالي له:

– هل تخشى من الاختبار اليوم؟

 

نظر لي بضيق وقال:

– لا لا، أبدًا.

 

سألته:

– ما بك إذن؟

 

قال بضيق خلق:

– لا، لا شيء.

 

حسنًا، هممت بالذهاب إلى اللجنة حين استوقفني وهو يقول:

– هل أستطيع أن أستأمنك على سر ما؟

 

قلت له باهتمام:

– نعم، أنت تعرف أنك تستطيع.

 

قال:

– حسنا، قابلني اليوم ليلًا، فأنا أريد أن أريك شيئًا ما.

 

– حسنا، أين يجب أن ألتقيك إذن؟

 

قال بسرعة:

– عند منزلي، قابلني عند منزلي في تمام الحادية عشرة ليلًا.

 

قلت له:

– حسنا.

 

ولم أهتم أنه قريب جدًا من منزلي ولن يفرق التوقيت في أي شيء. هممت مرة أخرى بالذهاب حين قال منبهًا:

– لا تتأخر.. حسنا؟ وأيضًا لا تأتي باكرًا عن الموعد.. حسنا؟

 

– حسنا يا صديق، لن أفعل..

 

كان إبراهيم يقودني في الطريق ليلًا وإلى مكان لم أعرف إلى أين يؤدي، لقد التقيته في الموعد تمامًا عند منزله ليأخذني ونظل نسير بين الأزقة والشوارع، وحتى في لحظة وقفنا أمام باب ما في المكان.. لا لا، لم يكن بابًا، لا بل كانت بوابة.. بوابة حديدية ذات درفتين ومغلقة بقفل ما. همّ بفتح القفل حين أوقفته متشككًا وسألته:

– لماذا نحن هنا الآن؟

 

نظر لي مضطربًا بحق تلك المرة وقال:

– لا تخشَ شيئًا، فقط انتظر وسوف تعرف كل شيء.

 

أمسكت يداه التي تحاول فتح القفل بيدي لأوقفه عما يفعل وأنا أسأله وبكل جدية:

– لماذا نحن هنا الآن؟ إن لم تجبني الآن فسوف أرحل.

 

بلع ريقه وهو يحاول السيطرة على نفسه من أمر ما لم أكن أراه حينها أبدًا، فقد كان الظلام يخيم على جو المكان، وحيث كنا نقف لم يكن هناك أي إضاءة سوى ضوء القمر فقط لينير لنا الطريق ولنرى فقط خطوات أقدامنا. تنهد إبراهيم في حزن وقال:

– ألم تعدني أنني أستطيع أن أستأمنك على سري؟

 

قلت له:

– نعم بالفعل أنت تستطيع، ولكنني غير مرتاح لما تفعله الآن، شيء ما خاطئ فيما تفعل الآن يا إبراهيم، لماذا نحن هنا في المقابر وفي ذلك الوقت تحديدًا؟

 

قال بصوت متهدج مرتجف:

– لا تخف، لا تخف، فقط ثق بي، أنا لن أسبب لك أي أذى، فقط تقدمي إلى الداخل وسوف أريك ما أصد.

 

حينها أمسكت به من ياقة ملابسه وبكل جدية وعنف وأنا أسأله:

– إبراهيم، هل هناك جثة ما بالداخل؟

 

قال مرتعبًا:

– لا لا، أقسم لك لا!

 

– هل هناك أحد ما ينتظرنا بالداخل إذن؟

 

قال ودموعه توشك أن تهبط من عينيه:

– لا، أقسم لك أنه لا شيء بالداخل مما تظن أبدًا، لا.. فقط تقدمي إلى الداخل.

 

تركته على مخافة وغضب ودخلت البوابة فعلاً، واستدرت لأنظر له لأرى إلى أين سوف يقودني مجددًا داخل تلك المقبرة، لأفاجأ به وهو يغلق البوابة وبمنتهى السرعة، وبمنتهى السرعة أيضًا يغلق القفل على البوابة وأنا أنظر له بتعجب: هل هذا مزاح ما؟ هل هذا مقلب ما وقد أعده؟ والأسوأ: هل هذا انتقام ما؟ هل تلك خيانة ما يا صديق؟

 

فقط نظر وهو يبكي، وكان يبكي بالفعل وهو يحكم إغلاق البوابة ويقول من بين دموعه:

– أنا آسف، سامحني.. أنا آسف.

 

أمسكت ضرفة البوابة بيدي وهززتها بكل الغضب لكي يوقف هذا الهذر الذي يفعل، ولكنه لم يكن هذراً أبدًا؛ أي هذر هذا الذي يجعل صاحبه يبكي هكذا؟ هذا إذن ليس بهذر! والأسوأ أنه وبعد أن أحكم إغلاق القفل، استدار ليرحل في وجل وسرعة، وأنا لا أعرف ماذا أفعل ولا كيف أتصرف الآن، سوى أنني حاولت وبكل جهدي السيطرة على خوفي، فهو عدوي الآن ويجب ألا أخاف، يجب أن أهدأ لأفهم في أي موقف أنا الآن وماذا سأفعل.

 

كنت أتوقع أن تكون تلك إحدى محاولات الاختطاف أو الانتقام من أي من الزملاء السيئين، لو كان هذا حقًا فهذا يعني أنني سوف أجد أحدهم الآن، لابد أن يظهروا أنفسهم لي الآن بعد أن اطمأنوا لإغلاق البوابة. حسنا، سيكون هذا موقفًا قتاليًا بحق، فمن استدرجني إلى هنا لا شك أنه ينوي قتلي ودفني في تلك المقبرة. حسنا، أنا لن أسمح لأحد أبدًا أن يأخذ روحي، على الأقل ليس قبل أن يكابد معي الأمرين وهو يخاطر بملاقاة نفس المصير أيضًا، أن أتمكن من قتله ودفنه هنا.. حسنا لِأستعد.

 

تأهبت فعلاً في مكاني وأنا أحاول أن أرى ما أمامي وأحسب المحاولات وأقدر المسافات، وقدرت أنني في أحسن الأحوال سوف أقفز من فوق السور، لا مشكلة، هذا سهل جدا لأفعله وإن كان عسيرًا، ولكن لا يهم. ظللت واقفًا متأهبًا لأي حركة قد تحدث من حولي، ولكن لم يحدث أي شيء، فقط كانت الرياح تصفر بجوار أذني في ذلك الوقت المتأخر من الليل وهو أمر اعتيادي جدا، وحتى أصابني الملل فاستدرت لأتسلق السور بالفعل وأخرج وأنا أنوي بإبراهيم شرًا مستطيرًا في الغد، عدا أنني وقبل تسلق السور وقبل أن أستدير ناحيته وترتفع قدماي، قد رأيت.. رأيت أمرًا عجيبًا جدًا ليحدث الآن...

 

التفت بجسدي كله وأنا أحاول أن أتبين حقيقة هذا الذي أراه يحدث أمامي الآن، وما يحدث الآن وما أراه الآن لم يكن أبدًا أبدًا ضمن أي شيء توقعت أن يحدث حينها...

 

بدأ الأمر بضوء خفيف خافت ما لبث أن ازداد وانتشر قليلًا ليرتفع لهب نار ما، نار صغيرة جدًا ولكنها كانت تتركز في بقعة واحدة ولا تبارحها. ظللت أنظر إلى النار التي ظهرت تلك والتي تبدو كشعلة ولكنها لم تكن شعلة هكذا في الفراغ، لا لا، بل فوقها شيء ما لا أتبينه، شيء أسود مستدير. قررت أن أقترب قليلًا لأرى أكثر، وعرفت في قرارة نفسي أنني أغامر وأخاطر بكل خطوة أخطوها نحو تلك النار وما تحمل، ولكن.. آه.. آه، للأسف تجمدت قدمي في الهواء، وأقسم أنها تجمدت وأنني تجمدت أيضًا وأنا أرى تلك المرأة الجالسة أمام النار تقلب ذلك القدر بيديها!

 

لم يكن ما جمدني وجمد الدماء في عروقي هو وجودها الذي انبثق من العدم، لا ولا ذلك الموقف العبثي كله، لا أيضًا، بل ما جمدني أنها نظرت نحوي.. نظرت نحوي وابتسمت! ابتسمت بود صادق غير ملامحها بشكل لطيف وهادئ، كانت تلك ابتسامة مثل تلك التي تعطيها الأمهات جميعًا إلى أطفالهن، وتلك الملامح الهادئة المطمئنة تبتسم لي جعلتني أتجمّد تمامًا في مكاني حتى شعرت بتجمد الزمان نفسه من حولي.

 

ولكن ما كسر صمت الموقف هو ذلك الصوت الذي جاء من خلفها:

– ماما، هل نضج الطعام؟

 

حولت المرأة وجهها نحو الطفلة الصغيرة وقالت باسمة أيضًا:

– بقي القليل فقط يا حلوتي، أكملي اللعب مع أخيكي حتى أنهي الأمر تمامًا وأنادي عليكما.

 

أومأت الطفلة الصغيرة برأسها وركضت. كانت تركض خلف طفل ما آخر وهو يركض أيضًا وهو يضحك، ولكن الطفلة لم تكن تضحك بل كانت مغتاظة منه جدًا وتهدده بأنها سوف تخبر أبيها إن لم يعطها الدمية التي سرقها منها وهو يركض.

 

في الواقع أنا تراجعت نحو الخلف وحتى لامس ظهري الجدار، ليس برعب ولا بخوف؛ فلكل شيء تفسير، تفسير مادي ومقبول للعقل، أنا أعرف هذا وأفهمه جيدًا، والتفسير الوحيد لهذا المشهد الهزلي الذي يحدث لن يخرج عن كون إما هؤلاء من ساكني المقابر وأنا اقتحمت مسكنهم (وهذا تفسير مرجح بشدة)، وإما هؤلاء أشباح لموتى (وهذا مستبعد طبعًا)، وإما أنني أهلوس إما بفعل الصدمة أو الخوف (وهذا وارد جدا)، ولكن الأكيد أنني لا أحلم وهذا ليس حلمًا ما. قلت لنفسي: بسيطة، أهي الموضوع مش هيخرج عن التفسيرات دي أبدًا، أصل أكيد يعني..

 

فكرت مجددًا في تسلق السور والخروج لأنهي تلك المهزلة والعودة إلى المنزل، ولكن لو كان هؤلاء من ساكني القبور فسيكون من غير المقبول أن أفر هكذا أمامهم، فصراخ واحد من المرأة يكفي لإيقاظ الموتى وليس الأحياء فقط، وحينها سأُعامل معاملة اللصوص، وأنا لا يليق بي أبدًا أن أُعامل هكذا. حسنا، ماذا أفعل؟ اتكأت بظهري إلى الحائط وهبطت أرضًا لأجلس ريثما أفكر.

 

تلك المرأة الهادئة.. تلك المرأة الهادئة، لماذا لم تصرخ مثلا حين رأتني؟ هل أنا مألوف لديها أم أنها لم تراني مثلا لأنني أقف في الظلام؟ ولكن كيف لم ينتبه هؤلاء الساكنون هنا إلى تلك الجلبة التي أحدثها إبراهيم حين كنا سويًا؟ تلك المرأة لا تزال تقلب القدر، فدققت النظر إليها أكثر، لقد كان في مظهرها شيء ما ملفت للنظر.. آه! إنه ذلك الشيء الذي ترتديه، أنا لا أعرف بماذا يسمى في ملابس السيدات سوى أنه كان قصيرًا قليلًا ولونه أصفر ويمتلئ برسوم الورد التي تزينه، لكنه كان يكشف عن ذراعيها تمامًا، وهي نفسها كانت ذات بشرة بيضاء صافية وتعقص شعرًا أشقر إلى الوراء وقد كومته في حلقة. هكذا فقط، هذا ما سمحت لي النار المشتعلة بأن أراه: ذراعان مكشوفان، وعنق أبيض، وشعر أشقر، ورداء أصفر مزين بالورد، وهي منشغلة تمامًا بما تفعل وتوشك حقًا على الانتهاء مما تفعل أيًا كان، فمن الواضح أنها تطهو لأولئك الصغار.

 

قلت في نفسي: يبدو الأمر مطمئنًا ولا يدعو إلى أي خوف أو حذر أو فعل أي شيء أحمق. وما أكد لي ظني هذا هو اقتراب تلك الطفلة مني الآن، كانت قد حصلت على دميتها من أخيها بالفعل لأنها تحملها الآن بين يديها وتقترب مني بخطوات مستكشفة، تميل رأسها قليلًا في مداعبة وكأنها قد رأت حيوانًا ما أليفًا وتحاول الاقتراب منه. حسنا، أنا بالفعل جالس أرضًا وأبدو غريبًا عنهم، فمن الطبيعي أن تستكشف تلك الطفلة هذا الغريب إذن. اقتربت حتى توقفت أمامي تمامًا، ثم هبطت على ركبتيها لتصل إلى مستوايا المنخفض ذلك على الأرض، ثم رأيتها تمد بكف يدها نحوي وكأنها تقدم السلام وهي تبتسم أيضًا في لطف ووداعة، فمددت يدي إليها أرد السلام، ولكن ببعض الإحراج قليلًا؛ إننا غرباء كلانا عن الآخر، وما أعرفه أن الغرباء لا يتصافحون هكذا وخصوصًا الأطفال، فيجب عليهم ألا يتقربوا من الغرباء أبدًا، هذا ما أفهمه، لكنني ووسط ذلك اللطف والبراءة لم أمتلك إلا أن بادلتها الابتسام أيضًا وقليل من الترحيب.

 

أول ما تكلمت سألتني:

– من تكون؟ ما هو اسمك؟

 

قلت لها وأنا أهز يدي بالمصافحة:

– أنا اسمي عبد الرحمن، وأنتِ من تكونين؟

 

قالت بذلك الصوت الطفولي البريء:

– وأنا ليلي، مرحبًا بك يا عبد الرحمن.

 

– شكرا، ولكن أنا آسف على تدخلي في شؤونكم ليلًا ولا أريد أن أفسد عليكم طعام العشاء، هلا أرشدتني إلى باب الخروج؟

 

ضحكت قليلًا وقالت:

– اخرج إذن من حيث دخلت.

 

قلت لها:

– للأسف لقد أُغلق الباب دوني ولا أستطيع الخروج منه، وأكيد أن لديكم واحدًا آخر تستخدموه للدخول والخروج.

 

ضحكت أيضًا وبمنتهى البراءة وقالت:

– لا، ليس لدينا واحد آخر، إنه ذلك الباب فقط.

 

نظرت لها متعجبًا وسألتها:

– كيف إذن؟ كيف ستخرجون إذن والباب مغلق من الخارج؟

 

ضحكت باستمتاع شديد وقالت:

– عبد الرحمن، هل أنت إنسان؟

 

– إنسان؟ هل أنا إنسان؟ يا للهول! نعم، أنا إنسان بالطبع، ماذا تظنين؟

 

أكملت تلك الضحكة البريئة وهي تصفق بكفيها، ثم نادت على أخيها وهي تقول:

– هارون، تعال لترى ماذا وجدت.. إنه إنسان!

 

تنحنحت قليلًا في صبر وأظهرت الجلد على تلك الرجفة التي أصابت أطرافي وذلك البرد الذي اجتاح جسدي كله وأنا أرى الفتى الصغير قادمًا يركض نحونا في مرح عجيب، فسألتها بوجل حاولت إخفاءه ولم أستطع للأسف:

– ومن أنتم إذن؟

 

قالت بمرح صادق وبكل بساطة:

– نحن؟ نحن من الجن.......

 

لوهلة لم أتبين الكلمة حقًا واعتقدت أنني لم أسمعها جيدًا، وبُحّ صوتي وتحشرج وأنا أحاول.. أحاول أن أعيدها مجددًا، ولكنني شعرت بلساني وقد عُقد أن يكرر كلمة تلك الفتاة الصغيرة بحق. ابتلعت ريقي مجددًا وأنا أنظر إليها، وقد سحبت يدي للخلف وفكرت في التراجع بظهري أكثر، لكنني بالفعل كنت مستندًا إلى الحائط.

 

حولت نظري إلى أخيها الذي نزل بالفعل على ركبتيه أيضًا أمامي ليراني جيدًا مثل أخته، فوجدته ينظر لي باسمًا بعينيه، لا في مكر ولا في خبث ولا في تشفٍّ، لا لا بل في براءة.. براءة طفلين يكتشفان حيوانًا أليفًا لأول مرة في حياتهما.

 

مد الصغير كفه أيضًا وهو يقول:

– هل لديك اسم ما؟ هل تستطيع التحدث؟

 

قلت له وبنفس الصوت المتحشرج المبحوح:

– نـ.. نعم، نـ.. نعم، أنا عبد الرحمن.

 

ومددت يدي المرتعشة نحوه لأبادله السلام وقلبي يخفق بشدة حتى أكاد أسمع دقاته المرتعبة بأذني، ويدي تلمس يديه الصغيرة.. فقط لمست أصابعه الصغيرة وسحبت كفي مجددًا بسرعة، لقد لاحظت ولأول مرة كم كانت يده دافئة! دافئة مثل البشر تمامًا ولكن أكثر قليلًا.

 

لاحظ الفتى أنني سحبت يدي بسرعة فقال بمرح وعناد:

– لا لا، احنا مش بنسلم كده، لازم تديني سلام رجالة!

 

سلام رجالة؟ يا للهول! حسنا، لم أتكلم بل فردت كفي في الهواء ليقوم هذا الفتى الصغير بسحب كف يده قليلًا ثم يهوي بها على كف يدي لأسقط على جانبي حرفيًا من شدة هذا السلام.. هذا السلام الخاص بالرجالة الجن!

 

ضحك كلاهما بشدة في مرح واستمتاع وأنا أعتدل وأنفض التراب عن ملابسي وأنظر لهما باستنكار حقيقي وهما يضحكان، فقالت الفتاة في لهو وهي مستمتعة جدا:

– عبد الرحمن، هل تخشى الجن؟ هل تخاف منهم، ها؟

 

ثم كورت يديها بجوار رأسها كي تبدو مخيفة وهي تقول:

– عاو.. عااا!

 

ثم تضحك ويضحك الفتى، وأنا في الواقع أشعر بالحصار.. الحصار والحصر النفسي من كل هذا، وخالجني شعور غريب جدا لا أعرف: هل أبكي أم أجزع أم أخاف أم أموت من الرعب؟ ولكن شيئًا ما في عقلي تمسك بالمنطق وبالواقع: إنهم يكذبون، إنهم يهذرون، أليس كذلك؟ نعم نعم، لابد أنه كذلك.

 

حاولت أن أبتسم لهم أيضًا وألا أظهر خوفًا ما أمامهم ولا شك ولا أي شيء، وحدثت نفسي: يجب أن أنجو من ذلك الموقف أيًا كان وأيًا كان هؤلاء.

 

فجأة سمعنا صوت السيدة تنادي وتقول:

– كفا عن العبث يا أطفال، وتعاليا لتناول الطعام.

 

أجابت الفتاة بصوت مرتفع:

– حسنا يا ما، نحن قادمون.

 

"ما"؟ هل تنادي أمها بـ "ما"؟ أو أيًا كانت تلك السيدة فهل اسمها هو "ما" أم أنها تناديها بـ "ما"؟ لا أعرف، ولكن أمسكت الفتاة بيدي فجأة وهي تقول:

– تعالَ.. تعالَ لتتناول الطعام معنا، هيا!

 

وهي تجذبني فعلاً لأقوم وأقف، فقمت فعلاً ووقفت وهي لا تزال تمسك بيدي، ثم ناولتني دميتها وقالت:

– انظر، تلك دميتي، هل تحملها عني قليلًا؟

 

فنظرت لها بخوف وأقسم على هذا، ثم أمسكت الدمية من يدها وكانت دمية قماشية مخيطة وتحتوي على القش بداخلها وتبدو عتيقة جدا جدا وبدائية للغاية، ولكن من يهتم الآن والفتاة تقودني من يدي ونحو أمها ونحو النار ونحو القدر الذي تعده أمها على النار!

 

قالت الفتاة بمرح أيضًا -يبدو أنها لا تكف عنه أبدًا-:

– ما، انظري ماذا وجدت بجوار الحائط؟ إنه إنسان يا ما.. إنسان!

 

لم تلتفت السيدة عن النظر إلى القدر ولكنها قالت:

– لا بأس، لا بأس.

 

ثم التفتت نحوي وهي تقول:

– لقد أتيت في موعدك، لقد أوشك الطعام على النضج تمامًا، هل تحب أن ترى؟

 

قلت لها:

– أرى ماذا؟

 

قالت:

– الطعام؟ لقد أوشك على الانتهاء.

 

اقتربت في حذر شديد وأنا لا أنظر إلى القدر بل أنظر إلى يديها وأخشى.. لا لا، لا أخشى، لا بل أتوقع بشدة أن تباغتني بذراعيها وتقلبني فيه، لكنها ابتسمت وقالت بعتاب مهذب غريب اللهجة:

– ليس من الأدب أبدًا أن تعبث بوجهك في حضور مضيفيك.

 

فنظرت لوجهها وأنا أحاول الابتسام وسط كل هذا الخوف والترقب وأنا أشعر بأن روحي ذاتها توشك أن تخرج من الخوف، ولم أنجح في الابتسام للأسف، فقالت:

– انظر.. انظر إلى الطعام، لقد نضج بالفعل.

 

فابتلعت ريقي وأنا أنظر ببطء إلى القدر وأنا أقدم قدمًا وأؤخر الأخرى، حتى رأيت فعلاً ما بالقدر...

 

حينها اطمأن قلبي حقًا وتمالكت نفسي واستطعت بحق أن أقف متماسكًا أمام القدر وأمام تلك السيدة، وحولت وجهي عن القدر ونظرت إليها، ولكن للأسف لم أتمالك نفسي أبدًا، فانفجرت أضحك، ثم علت ضحكاتي وانفجرت حتى سقطت أرضًا وتكورت على نفسي وحتى أمسكت بجانبي واحتضنت نفسي من شدة الضحك، ثم نظرت إليها.. نظرت إلى السيدة ووسط ضحكاتي المجنونة تلك، انفجرت في البكاء...

 

اللعنة عليك يا إبراهيم!

 

اقتربت مني الفتاة وهي تربت على رأسي وتقول:

– لا بأس، لا بأس، لا تخشَ شيئًا، تعالَ هيا، تعالَ.

 

وهي تمسك بيدي مجددًا، قالت لتلك السيدة:

– ما، هل أستطيع الاحتفاظ به معنا؟ هل أستطيع تربيته يا ما؟

 

قالت لها السيدة وهي تفرغ الطعام في صحاف صغيرة:

– لا، لا تستطيعين يا ليلي للأسف، سوف تقلق عليه أمه.

 

يا للهول! أمي؟ آه، أين أمي الآن؟ يا للهول! ليتني أعود إليها ولا أُغادر منزلنا أبدًا!

 

قمت على ركبتَيّ أمام تلك السيدة والتي اتضح أنها لديها مشاعر أمٍّ بالفعل، وقلت لها في توسل:

– هل أستطيع أن أُغادر الآن؟ أتوسل إليكِ أن تدعيني أغادر.

 

قالت الفتاة بتذمر:

– لا لا يا ما، لا تدعيه يرحل، لا، لقد أحببته!

 

ضحكت السيدة وهي تقول:

– حسنا حسنا أيها الصغير، لا تقلق، سوف أدعك ترحل إلى أمك، ولكن ليس قبل أن تطعم معنا، ليس قبل أن نحسن ضيافتك.. هيا يا ليلي، أعدي مقعدًا للضيف بجوار أبيكِ.

 

اقتادتني ليلي مجددًا نحو بهو المكان، وكان مظلمًا جدا وقالت:

– تعالَ اجلس.. اجلس هنا بجواري.

 

قلت لها:

– ولكن ألم تقل أمك.. أأأ أقصد ما.. ألم تقل أن أجلس إلى جوار أبيكِ؟ فأين هو إذن؟

 

ضحكت وقالت:

– سوف يأتي.. سوف يأتي، لا تتعجل.

 

فجلستُ فعلاً.. جلستُ في الظلام لا أرى أي شيء حولي إلا مدخل البهو فقط وضوء القمر يسقط عليه فينيره قليلًا، حتى الفتاة لم أعد أراها ولم أعد حتى أسمع لها صوتًا ولا أي صوت آخر، حتى بدأت أسمع صوت شهيقي وزفيري من صدري وابتلعت ريقي في خوف وتواترت على عقلي الأفكار: لابد أنني إما أهلوس وإما جُننت. وقبل أن أقوم لأخرج وقبل أن أهمّ بالقيام فعلاً، رأيتُ.. رأيتُ الفتى يأتي حاملاً صحاف الطعام بيديه ويضعها أمامي.

 

ما هذا؟ ما هذا الذي أمامي؟ كيف أرى الآن ما أرى؟ لا لا، أنا أرى بالفعل.. أنا أرى كل شيء! أرى في الظلام! كيف؟ لا أعرف، لا أعرف سوى أنني أرى في الظلام الآن وقد وُضعت الأطباق أمامي على طاولة منخفضة، إنها طبلية مثل تلك التي كانت في منزلنا قديمًا. وفعلاً الفتاة تجلس عن يساري ولا تكف الحمقاء أبدًا عن النظر إلى وجهي، ولا تحول وجهها عن وجهي أبدًا. جاء الفتى وجلس، وجاءت السيدة وجلست، وأنا وسطهم جميعًا...

 

جلستُ معهم أنظر إليهم جميعًا وقد ضموا أكفهم أمام أوجههم في خشوع.. لم يتكلم أحد سوى السيدة التي قالت وبمنتهى الجدية التي أراها تعلو وجهها لأول مرة:

– أبانا الحكيم وراعينا، نناديك الآن لتأتي.. ننادي أبانا الحكيم باسمه ليأتي إلى مائدتنا الصغيرة.

 

وسكتت، فقال الطفلان معًا:

– يا أبانا، احضر الآن...

 

حسنا.. وأنا الذي كنت أتوقع أنهم يتلون صلاة ما، لكن يبدو.. يبدو أنهم.. أنهم ماذا؟ لا أعرف، ربما هي صلاة ما. وقبل أن أسترسل في أفكاري رأيته.. رأيته حقًا ورأيت كيف يحضر الجن حين تدعوهم! رأيته حقًا.. حقًا رأيته!

 

لم تصدق عيناي أبدًا ذلك أبدًا أبدًا، سوى أنني الآن أرى السيدة ترحب بالرجل الذي أتى، لقد وقفوا جميعًا في مهابة صادقة له، وقفوا بسرعة لوجوده ولحضوره بينهم، وحين جلس هو جلسوا هم من بعده جميعًا.

 

قلتُ للجمع الجالس أمامي الآن حول النار -والذي لم يقاطعني أحد منهم أبدًا خلال حكايتي تلك-:

– الآن دعوني أصف لكم الرجل الذي حضر.. دعوني أصف لكم كيف كانت هيئته وكيف كان يبدو في عيني، ولكن هل تحبون أن أقول لكم كيف حضر؟ هل تحبون أن أخبركم أولاً كيف رأيت الجن وهو يحضر؟

 

حسنًا.. حين أنهت السيدة كلماتها هي وأطفالها، هبّ نسيم خفيف جدا من بهو المدفن، نسيم لفّ المكان كله حتى شعرت به يلمس جلد ذراعي، وحين اشتد نسيم الهواء قليلًا طرفت عيني فقط.. طرفت وأغلقتها وأعدت فتحها مجددًا لأرى الرجل وقد حضر في المكان بالفعل!

 

أتعرفون ما لفت انتباهي حد أنه سبب لي بعض الضيق فعلاً؟

 

قال أنس:

– نعم، ماذا؟

 

قلت له:

– إنهم كانوا يتعاملون معي على أنني أليف ولست غريبًا كما كان حديثهم غريبًا جدا ويحمل بعض الرقي والأنفة والألفة، حتى الرجل حين جاء وجلس لم يتفاجأ بي إطلاقًا ولم يبدُ عليه أي رد فعل غير طبيعي أبدًا، لم يسألني حتى من أنت ولا كيف أتيت هنا، لم يتكلم أبدًا بل جلس في صمت ليطعم معهم. ونعم، إنهم بدأوا في الطعام بالفعل وكانوا يأكلون بأيديهم مباشرة، ولا أعرف كيف ولا لماذا.. لماذا! لكن الرجل أول ما تكلم قال:

– ألن تطعم معنا أيها الضيف؟

 

تنحنحت قليلًا لأجيبه.. أجيبه أي إجابة تبدو متماسكة في هذا الموقف الهزلي الذي أقسم أنه لا يصدق أبدًا، فقلت له وبكل بلاهة:

– في الحقيقة أنا باكل بالشوكة والسكينة وبالمعلقة برضه، ومش متعود آكل بإيدي كده يعني، معلش.

 

نظر لي الرجل باستخفاف وقال:

– نحن عرب نأكل بأيدينا.

 

ولكن لحظة، لم يقل نحن "عَرَب" كما ننطقها نحن بفتح العين والراء، لا بل قالها بضم العين وتسكين الراء، وتلك لهجة لم أسمعها من قبل أبدًا.

 

حسنا، لا يهم.. ما علينا.

 

قلت له:

– هل فعلاً ستأكلون هذا حقًا؟ هل هذا طعامكم حقًا؟

 

ابتسم الرجل بخفة وفقط قال:

– لا تسأل.. سوف يسيئك الجواب حين يأتي، فقط إن أردت أن تطعم فافعل، وإن لم تفعل فهذا شأنك.

 

ولأول مرة في ذلك الموقف أشعر بالإحراج يملؤني، ولكن أي أحمق أنا!

 

قالت السيدة وهي تشير إليه وتبتسم:

– عبد الرحمن، دعني أقدم لك زوجي الشيخ الحكيم.

 

قال الرجل بشيء من الفخر وشيء من التواضع:

– أنا نور الميم ابن نور اليم ابن أسفالوث ابن عسقلان...

 

نور الميم؟ نور اليم؟ أسفالوث؟ عسقلان؟ يا للهول! يا للهول! وأقسم أنه قالها هكذا بنفسه وهكذا عرّف هو عن نفسه.

 

قال أنس بوجل:

– لا لا، لا تذكر اسماء، لا تقول أي اسماء من اسمائهم، هذا خطير جدا!

 

قلت له:

– حسنا حسنا، سوف أنهي القصة هنا، فما حدث بعد ذلك غير مهم أبدًا ولا يستحق أن أرويه لكم، عدا...

 

قال الجميع في نفس واحد:

– عدا ماذا؟ لا لا، فلتَقل، قل الآن!

 

وكرروها جميعًا لأقول لهم:

– عدا "ماذا" تلك التي توقفت عندها...

 

شخصت ببصري نحو السماء وأنا أتذكر.. أتذكر وأنا أنظر إلى السماء.. أذكر ليلي وهي تقول لأمها: "أمي، هل أخبره؟". تساءلت أمها -تلك السيدة- عماذا سوف تخبرني الفتاة، فمالت الفتاة على أذني وقالت: "أتعرف؟".

 

كنا نجلس حول الطاولة وهم يطعمون طعامهم الغريب هذا والذي لم تقربه يدي أبدًا، والرجل يسألني: "كم عمرك يا فتى الآن؟"، فقلت له بثقة وبسرعة: "أنا في الثامنة عشرة". فتوقفوا جميعًا عن الطعام ونظر كل منهم إلى الآخر ثم انفجروا في الضحك، ضحك ساخر جدا، حتى أولئك الأطفال ضحكوا مني، عدا الرجل الذي كان يبتسم فقط في سخرية حقيقية. فقلت لهم مستفسرًا: "ما الأمر؟ ما المضحك؟". قالت الفتاة الصغيرة: "أنت فعلاً طفل صغير جدا، لابد أن أمك قلقة عليك الآن!". فنظرت لها وسألتها: "وكم عمركِ أنتِ أيّتها الطفلة الجريئة؟". حينها قالت رقمًا ما أقسم أنني من طوله لا أتذكره، رقمًا كان يحوي كثيرًا من الـ 3 والـ 9 والـ 5، حتى أدركت حقًا أن تلك الثمانية عشر عامًا بالنسبة لها هي ثماني عشرة ثانية فقط! يا للهول! يا للهول حقًا!

 

وحينها قالت الطفلة لأمها: "أمي، هل أخبره؟"، قالت أمها: "بماذا تخبريه إذن؟". مالت الطفلة على أذني وبوجه ماكر أشارت بأصبعها نحو أمها وقالت: "أتعرف؟ لقد رأت أمي نوت وهي تسقط...".

 

"نوت"؟ قلت لها: "من نوت؟ أتقصدين نوت؟" وأشرت بأصبعي نحو السماء، قالت الطفلة: "نعم، إنها هي، أليس كذلك يا أمي؟". ابتسمت السيدة وهي تقول: "فعلاً، لقد كان هذا منذ زمن وقبل أن تأتي أنتِ، لقد رأيتُ نوت حقًا وهي تسقط...".

 

أنا أعرف نوت، ومن الذي لا يعرف نوت؟ ولكن متى سقطت نوت؟ متى؟ وكيف؟ لم أفهم.. أنا أعرف نوت ولكن لم أفهم ماذا كانت تقصد.. آه، آه، حقًا لم أفهم.

 

ولكني تذكرت.. تذكرت أمرًا ما، فقلت لهم: "هل تعرفون ما كان اسم تلك السيدة؟".

 

قال أنس:

– لا لا، لا تقل، لا تفعل!

 

قال أنطون في تحدٍّ:

– أنا أتحداك أن تفعل، أتحداك أن تقول، فكل ما تقول هو هراء!

 

هنا.. وهنا فقط، انطفأت النار فجأة، وعلى وقع نسيم خفيف لفّ المكان بسرعة وغطى كل شيء، وأقسم أن هذا قد حدث وحدث فجأة، ولكن المرعب بحق لم يكن قد أتى بعد.. المرعب بحق كان صوت الضحك!

 

ضحك ساخر يأتي من بعيد وتحمله الرياح ليصل إلى مسامعنا جميعنا، لم يكن صوتًا واحدًا، لا بل العديد من الأصوات الضاحكة في ذلك القفر، وما أشد رعبًا من هذا وما أشد هولاً!

 

قمنا جميعًا في فزع وجزع وأنا أنادي عليهم وأصرخ:

– أصلوا النار مجددًا، لا تدعوها تنطفئ!

 

أمسك أنطون بجسد يوساب الصغير وأخفاه خلف ظهره، ويوساب يبكي في جزع، وأصوات الضحك تقترب من خلف الكثبان الرملية العالية، وواحد ما لا أتبينه يحاول إشعال النار مجددًا، والبعض يحاول حمل شيء ما، والبعض يهرول، والبعض يختبئ، والبعض يبكي، والبعض يصلي ويدعو.. وأصوات الضحك تقترب أكثر وأكثر، ويقترب معها الهول.. الهول الذي قد عرفناه من قبل وعن قريب.. قريب جدا..

 

قريب جدا من الموت، وبين أسنان ضباع الصحراء الضاحكة

Sitting in the middle of the room, wrapped in the small halo of light that filtered through the gap in the roof, she pondered her life. She felt a spiritual peace, a sense of rest, and, at the same time, an absolute certainty of what she wanted to do immediately. She thought of her childhood and her present, letting a tear slip down her cheek. She had played so many roles throughout her days: first as a daughter, remembering her loving parents; then as a student, evoking images of high school and her graduation day; later as an engineer, athlete, filmmaker, guitarist, girlfriend, driver, and traveler. All of them constituted the happiest moments of her thirty-three years.

"I had it all," she murmured.

Her sad gaze was joined by the memories of these past few months, when she fell hopelessly in love with the chief engineer, and how that torrid romance became filled with pain, as well as physical and verbal abuse. The role of mistress did not suit her; the man's promises to leave his family to become her husband were never fulfilled. Instead, there was only abuse, insults, and threats.

Yet, now there was only peace in her heart. The tribulations had passed, though her hand still gripped the pistol. At her feet, in the middle of a growing pool of blood, lay the lifeless body of the chief engineer. She understood then that she was fulfilling her final roles: murderer and suicide.

---

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

Part V

 

I left everything on the island and snatched the scarf before
heading for the door. Thoughts ran rampant through my mind as I drove.

My phone rang before I’d left my subdivision. I glanced at the
number and knew this was no good. It was a Colorado area code. Where my
company’s headquarters was. We didn’t have a local HR.

It could have been the executive leadership team but I rarely got
called by any of them. My mind returned to yesterday’s meeting and my lack of
being there. For a moment, I felt like I was in free fall. My personal and
professional lives intertwining in disaster. In moments, I could have nothing.
My wife could already be halfway out the door and this was it slamming behind
her.

I didn’t answer. 

It rang until it went to voicemail. I just couldn’t handle
whatever it was they were about to say.

I was still going the same way, but my final destination had
changed. If my life was going down the drain, there was a scarf that needed to
be wrapped around a certain neck that I wanted to grab on my way.

I parked in the lot and headed away from my building. I glanced at
my watch. Had I just surrendered to my fate and gone in, I would have been ten
minutes early.

I entered his building and headed for the elevator. I had no real
plan, just a ball of self-destruction waiting to explode in someone else’s
direction.

I’d been manipulated, molded into this insecure thing and I meant
to share my pain. I shouted down the rational part of me that pondered what I’d
do if my wife were on the business end of my ire. Rationality would have
required examining what I was doing. 

I didn’t want to think. Thinking wasn’t revenge. Thinking wasn’t
balancing the scales. Thinking was what had gotten me to this moment.

The elevator dinged and I stepped off. There was still plenty of
construction going on. A high-pitched drill zipped somewhere around
the corner. I could hear voices that sounded like they were coming out of the
floor but not close enough to understand them.

This was my first time being here during business hours and all
the construction noise was unsettling. I felt like the floor was going to break
underneath me and I’d plummet all the way to the first floor.

Constant hammer strikes echoed from somewhere near. A man hollered
like he was calling out to someone. A machine I didn’t recognize buzzed and I
felt it all the way up into my shins.

I rounded the corner and spotted his door at the end of the hall.
The construction noises coalesced into a sonic hand, shoving me down the hall.
I stopped in front of the door. It looked properly seated in the frame, the
threshold painted a classy-looking black and gold. The knob had been replaced
with an antique-looking one.

I grasped it and turned. The door swung open easily and I stepped
in a completely finished space. The walls had been painted a shade of mint with
cream crown moulding at the top and a darker shade of wainscoting at the
bottom. To my left was a dark couch so fluffy I don’t think I would have had
the will to get out of it if I sat down. There was a small glass end table with
gold legs with a small stack of magazines on it.

The reception desk had been here the last time I’d come and it
looked more completed now, but I couldn’t tell what had been changed. There was
a large square sheet of white paper on the front of it that I at first thought
was blank, but when I took a couple steps closer, saw a hand drawing of what
looked like a logo.

It looked classy in here. Save for the sheet of paper, it seemed
pretty much done. A wall had been erected near the back where the tape had been
mapping out the space. He was planning to stick around.

My shock from how good it looked in here faded and my rage
resurfaced. I had his scarf clutched in hand and I dug in my pocket for my
wallet and fished out three twenties.

“I’ve got my payment right here,” I said. “And your scarf!” I
shook it in the air.

In my rage very little thought had come into mind. I had no real
expectation he was actually here even though I wanted to lay my hands on him.
The part of actually meeting him wasn’t a real concept. I hadn't thought about
that.

So when he answered, “Come on back?” it chilled me.

I realized how much of a doe I was. How much this space was like a
cave. I’d naively walked in here and hadn’t bothered telling anyone where I was
going. There was an expression for this, but it wasn’t coming to my panicked
brain, shifted into a gear meant only for survival.

I took a step back. Into
him.

“Oh,” I said. He poked me in the neck. I slapped a hand in that
spot like a mosquito had bitten me, turning and backing away from him. I fell
to my knees, not understanding what my body was doing.

I tried to speak but whatever was coming out of my mouth was
muffled, like someone had put their hands over my ears. Saying something seemed
like a good idea in those last seconds, but I had no idea what it should have
been.

 

Part VI

 

The procedure room was a lot more intricately finished than the
waiting room had been. There was silver equipment everywhere, things attached
to the wall that looked like they could fold out for some practical use. There
was a lightbox or monitor that was as tall as a man and stretched across most
of the wall it was on. A nest of lights and metal hung over me that looked like
it had traveled across the galaxy just to watch me.

“You’re awake?” he said, looking over his shoulder. I was upside
down and naked. I looked around as best I could, my head was strapped in place.
He had me trussed up like the Vitruvian Man to a metal and glass circular table.

“Whuh-whuh?” I said, my mouth cotton thick. 

“That’s good. That’s good.” He stepped over and put a finger to my
neck and measured against his watch. “Keep talking. Stimulating the brain helps
to expunge the effects of the sedative.”

Tears leaked from my eyes, retreating into my hair. My arms and
legs were slowly returning to my control but returned me to a state of
helplessness as the straps didn’t budge.

“You muhfugg. Lumme go!” My voice was an octave too deep. He
nodded and twirled an index for me to keep going. I hated not being able to
make words, so I just screamed as loud as I could. He smiled and retreated to a
wall and slapped it a couple times with his big palm.

“Soundproof. Can’t have my patients disturbing other tenants.”

I kept screaming even though I absolutely believed him, the rage
bleeding out of me and despair transfusing into the hollow inside me. He folded
his arms and watched me, waiting for me to be done. I continued helplessly, my
despair waning until there was nothing but wild animal clawing to the surface,
until my eyes were boiling and my throat had constricted around a bindle of
knives.

He waited until I was a quaking sack held together loosely in the
shape of a man, my scream the hollow whistle of an empty kettle, the steam all
burnt out of me.

“Ready?” he said.

 

Part VII

 

He stripped to his underwear. There was something wrong down there
but I only had bandwidth to deal with my problems in that moment.

“Please don’t do this.” My throat felt like I’d swallowed a cheese
grater. I was useless but still grasped a desperate strand of hope that I could
appeal to him man-to-man.

“This is for you,” he said. “I’m not some madman in a secret
laboratory. We’re in midtown and I’m going to extend my services to the
public.” He finished doing something with the tray in front of him and took a
step back over to me. I was eye-level with his bare thighs and he kneeled so we
were face-to-face.

“Don’t you love your wife?”

“Wha?” I felt like I’d been slapped by a thousand-pound feather. “Of
course, I do.” My head cannon was that this was going to be an intricate
murder. That the two of them had conspired to “do away” with me. But by
actually applying thought, I realized if murder was the goal, there was a much
simpler way for them to have done it.

“Wait, the surgery is real?” I asked.

His face screwed up in annoyance. “Of course, it is.” He gestured
all around him. “What are you thinking all this is for?”

“I dunno. I guess... I guess you’re some sort of scammer?”

He blinked several times. He reacted as though he’d never been
confronted by such an idea. “What would be the scam?”

I shrugged to the best of my ability and he shook his head. He
returned to the tray and picked up a long needle and inserted it into a vial,
withdrew from it, and placed both back. He looked at me again and saw my eyes
had grown twice as wide.

“Oh, that’s for me. For later. I’ve been ready, I was just waiting
for you to wake up?”

He picked up a scalpel that was tiny in his big hand. Now he
really did look like a cartoon villain. There was a lack of fullness in his
underwear. Like he’d been drawn sexless.

“Wait-wait. Uh, what were you doing in my house?” I was stalling,
still holding out hope that someone would wander in and put a stop to this.

“Oh, that.” His eyes turned upward as if he were watching a replay
of last night on the ceiling. “I watched you for a minute or two, yes. But I
truly needed to take a measurement after.”

“A... measurement?” My loins tingled in an unpleasant manner. He
waved a hand.

“It’s not what you think. I had to take a measurement of your
wife’s vaginal cavity after the two of you had finished. It was all very
clinical. Like a pap smear.”

Anger bubbled up inside me again. I tugged at my binds but I
wasn’t able to move anything more significant than my fingers and toes. He’d examined
my wife. It burned that he’d had access to her as much as her allowing him to
touch her. I squirmed like my skin was about to crawl off my body.

He looked at me, blank faced, and took another step. Once again, I
noted an emptiness to the area around his crotch.  The heat flooding to
the surface of my skin vanished like a big dog confronted by an even bigger dog.

“Suh-so you didn’t sleep with my wife?” I had to swallow hard to
keep my tone rational.

Now he really did look offended. “Sir, I am a professional? And
moreso, I am a married man. I believe I told you that. This picture you have in
mind of me as some sort of ghoul...” He clawed at the air with both hands, the
scalpel coming as close to his throat as it was going to. “You...” he twirled
the fingers of his free hand, searching for the words. “You score my heart. I
would like to think that once you’ve experienced the results, you will buy me
some sort of beer?”

He took another small step. His leg was about a foot away from my
forehead. He could have reached from where he was and began cutting away at any
part of my body he wanted.

“Could I... could I get a drink of water? My mouth is really dry.”

“Sure.” He reached from where he was and pressed a button on the
wall. The machinery beneath me was whisper silent as I was righted and the
excess blood flooded out of my head.

There was a water dispenser next to the tray where he’d been
working. He slipped a cone paper cup from the sleeve, filled it, then brought
it to me.

Cool water soothed my throat in microscopic sips. He must have
realized my delay tactic and upturned the rest of the water into my mouth. 

I swallowed hard and it felt like a bucket of water tossed on
smoldering embers.

“Will there be a scar?”

“Of course there will be a scar,” he said. “That is the point of
the surgery?”

He picked up something from the tray and reached toward my face
with it in his hand. I pinched my lips closed as he moved toward me, holding it
up like a prize. With the other hand he pressed hard at the back of my jaw,
forcing it open against my will. He slid the thing he held into my mouth,
sliding it over my back teeth until he had reached the last few molars, and
seated it there.

I tried biting through it despite knowing better. I was more
likely to dislocate my jaw. 

“That is okay? Not too uncomfortable? Believe it or not, it
actually helps to blunt the screams.” He seemed genuinely interested in my
answer and I grunted at him in anger. There was something wrong in his mouth I
should’ve seen the first time I talked to him, but I hadn’t noticed it until
just then, and it took a moment to process it. My panic leapt as every muscle
in me tensed, pulling with one last meaningless struggle. He waited me out,
stroking my shoulder until I quieted. He broke me like a wild horse. I was very
aware that he could put whatever in my mouth he wanted.

I felt myself surrendering. A calm settling into my bones that
made me want to rage all over again. But I was a car with no gas, my will being
swallowed up in the acceptance of pointlessness. It wasn’t a fight I could even
begin.

He moved his hand away and the table swiveled. In seconds I was
face down, staring at the floor. My tears tapped to the floor as I stepped out
of the cage of my head, my mind perching and spreading its wings as I imagined
my wife at her desk, inclining her head as she thought of me, too.

“H-how did you become an expert? What makes you so good?” My voice
was dreamy and broken, a thousand and one miles away, my words unclear from the
foreign object keeping my mouth open. 

If I’d asked a minute ago, the question would have been a last
effort to delay him from cutting me. But I was honestly curious. 

“I know I told you before. I practiced on me,” he said
quietly, his tone reverential. I imagined a beatific smile on his face as he
looked someplace else entirely.

“It took months. A little cut here, a partial penectomy there.
Each time I ask her, ‘Is it good? Is it better now?’ And each time, she tells
me, ‘Closer. Closer. Closer.’ You understand.”

He had a note of adoration for his wife in his voice that told me
he was standing on a bedrock of absolute sanity.

I felt the heat of him as he millimetered closer to my junk, no
doubt with that scalpel in his hand. I could feel his bare breath on my scrotum
and realized there must have been some sort of divide in the table between my
legs.

“I thought you said your wife’s satisfied. How do you do that
without... y’know?” My jaw ached when I talked.

He laughed. It was a really joyous note, not like he was just
trying to unsettle me. It wasn’t ironic or evil, rather a true, hearty guffaw.
I imagined seeing all the way to his back teeth as he pitched his head back.

He finally got himself back under control and he might have taken
a moment to dab a tear from his eye.

I’d gotten one last look at him before he turned me over. How he’d
looked down there and what he’d told me... I realized he must’ve whittled
himself down to nothing in his undies. That he truly had crafted himself into
what his wife had requested. That the nothing he seemed to have in his drawers
had been the exact mutilation that she’d wanted.

“It’s okay now?” he said suddenly next to me with a pair of blackout
goggles in his hand. He slipped the strap over my head as I moved as much as I
could but with a few deft movements, he had secured them in place. I could feel
my body surrendering against my will and I no longer had the ability to rally. 

“That wasn’t what she desired from me,” he said after he’d
retreated. I flashed on what I’d seen in his mouth again when his face had been
inches from mine. The thing I couldn’t make sense of before but had heard of. A
surgery of another kind.

He’d split his own tongue in half.

“Not a bit of it,” he said. “You understand?”

“But wait!” I was crying again. “If you need to cut me down there…
why do you have me turned around like this?”

“It’s mostly a single cut. Mostly. But your case is a more
particular situation. It will have to be more… intricate.”