Introduction-
Hello. Today’s date is 10/17/2016, and my name is Ricky. I am currently 24 years old, and I have no plans to share my experiences with anyone else. I do not wish to have the “What did you just tell me?” look from my Mom, nor do I wish to be medicated by doctors who think all I have done is hallucinate for the past 3 years of my life. This account’s sole purpose is to inform others of something that I cannot find anywhere on the internet. Something that I, along with others, only know about from word of mouth. I have checked every crack I can find, from obscure music posts to new music apps, anything. But no one on the internet seems to know of this band, Mouthflesh. 

So obviously, I do not wish to give my last name or where I live, etc. However, I must share some information before I delve into my run-ins with Mouthflesh. I am a car relocator. I work for a fairly expansive rental car shop in the U.S., and many of our cars need to go to different shops depending on their inventory. I get in one car, drive to one location, get in another car, drive to another location to pick up the original car that needed to be returned, then drive back to home base. Some jobs even span several states. I like this job. It pays well enough for my college, where I major in the musical arts. 

I. 

Am. 

Obsessed. 

With music. 

As a kid, my father was one mean cat on the trumpet, and watching him play in his jazz band was rather entrancing. Enough so I picked up the violin in 3rd grade, and while I am no perfect instrumentalist, music is a grand passion of mine. My only passion, if I am being honest. I was surrounded by strange sounds: fleeting flutes, light jazz drum brushes that occasionally scared you with loud kicks or cymbal crashes, and a bass line you could only describe as “dancing.” I mean, I just couldn’t help but fall in love with music. Which I think is why, when I was handed a supposed “death metal” album CD off the highway at a bar, I was really on a Throbbing Gristle and Necrophagist kick. I couldn’t turn it down.  

“Yeah, it's really atmospheric.” Those were the words I recall Missy saying. 

I met Missy at a bar a few months ago after I noticed her play a Dave Brubeck Quartet song on the jukebox. Class like that should be recognized. The bar sat a few fifty miles from my home station and was a good pit stop on the way back from a job. 

“Not really my style, but I know you enjoy anything weird, so.” 

I smiled as I inspected the CD. Missy wasn’t a traditional metalhead. She enjoyed Sabbath, Dio, and Rainbow, but more for their musical prowess than for any of the anti-culture movements some metal may have been founded on. I also fell into this category. Enjoying metal because of its absurdity in some cases. The more extreme, niche, or weird a band was, the more intrigued I was. So when I laid my eyes on an album cover that looked like gray and black living shadows with small glimpses of bright yellow, it caught my attention like all hell. Then, in all red and capital letters at the bottom left, it spelled out, as if a serial killer sprawled out a message in blood, “MOUTHFLESH”. 
“I’m surprised you listened to something that looks this… hardcore.” Missy gave a shrug, brushing her 80s-styled brown hair out of her face. 

“Never judge a book by its cover, young Jedi.” 

I cringed as she continued.

“Also, the guy that handed me this said it was a “must-listen, ' describing it as the most enlightening piece of media he has ever consumed.” 

“They said the same thing about Free Funk jazz in the seventies.” 

She smiled and took a sip from her beer bottle. “Jazz has been dying since the 60s.” She rebutted. 
I winced at her. “Still the best to do it, though.” She rolled her eyes. 

“Jazz-decline aside. I thought it would be a kind gesture. Get ya to check out the shop, which you have never been to yet,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah. Thank you. I’ll definitely have a go at it.” I paused for a moment, glancing up at her wide-eyed face with a cheeky smile. I remembered her dull brown eyes looked bright in the bar's low light, almost red. 

“I’ll come by in the morning, Missy.” 

“You better, considering that's on the house!” she demanded, then got up and patted me on the shoulder. 

“I better get going, kid; don’t stay out too late.” 

“I-I won’t,” I said, slightly startled by the abrupt manner of leaving. 

“Right-on, have a good one.” She grabbed her purse and beer, then walked out the door. Leaving me to look at the CD. That's another album added to the list, I thought.

Because I am always driving, I am always listening to music. It works out immaculately. I have a dedicated bag with about 20 or so CDs that are all albums I haven’t listened to. I drive and passively expand my musical portfolio into whatever territory I am feeling. As stated before, I am obsessed with music. I treat music like a melting pot of cheese, where each dip is a different genre. Sometimes I may not enjoy it to the fullest extent, but that's just music. I understand it's subjective. Besides jazz. Jazz is awesome. Always. 

I retired to bed that night and felt bad for not asking Missy more about the album. She practically shoved the CD in my face while praising it, but I only remembered the last part of her monologue. I used that as grounds to finally visit her music shop tomorrow before heading back to home base. I’d stopped in the bar probably 7 times before that night, met Missy on my second trip, and had known her for about half a year in total. She always talked about how great her music shop was. Having a little bit of everything for anyone: instruments to play on, and so on and so on. I really wish I had gone to her shop on an earlier trip. When I got there at 9 AM, it was closed. I shot Missy a text, but with no reply after 15 minutes, I had to leave. Still need to fit those time frames the company gives, y’know. Looking back on it all, just another oddity in this madness. I never spoke to Missy again.

Log 1:
Mouthflesh sat in my bag of collected CDs for about a week after that. It had been the anniversary of my father's passing, so I, as well, remained rotting. Bedridden, I used most of my paid time off from my company to mourn. It would be the third year since throat cancer took his life, and ever since then, my time spent at bars had only increased. It would be my last year of school, and I had already given my 2 weeks' notice. After my dad’s passing, an old friend of his offered me an internship at a studio once I graduated. My time was coming to make my father proud; he had always told me he was proud of me, but I never felt like I had done anything to show it. Taking the internship was my way of returning the favor for how supportive he was of me pursuing music. 
The week of red eyes and the feeling like a guitar pick was lodged in my throat ended. I had only two online classes left, so the last two weeks of work were about getting as many hours as possible within the company. The studio required me to move to California, and while I won't share where I live, I feel it's necessary to tell you I do not live in California. I live in Oregon, where the mountains block any internet, and I’m supposed to say “let's go to the coast” instead of the beach. Some of my drives run along these mountains, and after the week I just had, I was ready to get back on the road. 

On October 26th of 2013, I started my last drive for the company. The trees began to match the colors of growing pumpkins, and my job would have me travel southwest to make four stops. Mouthflesh wouldn't have its seven-song album playing during my first drive to the state line. In all honesty, I had forgotten about the album Missy bestowed on me. I was too focused on listening to old CDs of my father's band, reminiscing about times he was still in my life. 

For 8 hours, I listened to his old tracks until arriving at the first stop at midnight. The only light I remember was a rebellious street light that remained on, unlike the others. It illuminated the entrance to the rental shop I had to drive into. The location was in a town with a county highway running through it, with neglected buildings sitting on the sidelines. Fitting, as just by looking at the outside you’d know that if you walked into any shop here, it would be layered with dust. This was my second time here, so I knew where to pull in and park. As I did, I grabbed my belongings and greeted the twilight skies as the dim, piss-colored light of the street lamp shone on the cracked sidewalk. Across the lot was the small concrete hut where people walked in to get their rental car and where I would walk in to get the next car for my second trip. 

I approached.
I unlocked the dirt-stained glass doors with my keys.
I walked into the dark entrance.
I walked into the abandoned manager's office.
I looked at the key holder board on the wall. 
And I grabbed the key to the Miata I had to drive for the next 526 miles. 

While I don't want to describe what I look like, another bit of information is in order. I am 6’6. I did not like driving that Miata. 

This all might seem redundant, but it’s what made me remember the album Missy forced me to have. As I walked out of the shop to look for the Miata, I noticed the street lamp flickering. Its diminishing yellow light met the all-encompassing darkness of night, and I recalled the cover of Mouthflesh’s album. I used the keys to make the Miata honk, then squeezed inside and opened my bag of CDs. Mouthflesh’s album stared up at me, almost like it had summoned me. Almost as if it begged for a listening.

 I looked at it again, turning it over to its back. There, a language I hadn’t recognized, was what I assumed was a list of seven songs, given the normal pattern of a CD layout. Opening the case revealed something even more obscure: no more than a black disc and a small piece of beige parchment paper taped to the left.

“If you have this CD, you are chosen”. Was scripted onto the parchment. 

A concept album? I asked myself, briefly glancing up at the lot's entrance to ponder the album's possible meanings, tone, etc. The Miata faced the driveway where I had seen the street lamp, which had now joined the others in going dark; trace amounts of fear slowly set in as I realized I was surrounded only by shadows. My attention quickly shifted to the dash cam, and it wasn’t long before it was on, along with the Miata. I drove 30 miles out of town and into the next, where I stopped at a hotel I had already paid for before starting the expedition. 

Log 2:
The autumn winds and colors were much more vibrant at the start of the second drive, which began after a much-needed rest. Given the eerie nature of the album, which henceforth I shall call “Chosen”, I decided to listen to the first track at night before stopping to sleep. I figured Missy’s description of “atmospheric” was alluding to it having a creepy tone, and after 7 hours of driving winding mountain roads, I’d be proven right. As I saw the setting sun, I fumbled with my bag, opened the CD case, and popped it into the player. 

My expectations were pretty basic: I expected some good old-fashioned death metal with layers of meaning, given Missy's description. As night skies corrupted clear skies, so did the droning buzz of the first track inside the car. A humming guitar amp with slight distortion swelled up in volume to the point I had to turn it down a few notches. Then, great dissonance erupted as a low minor 2nd chord from a guitar shouted through the car speakers, using its deep tuning and a wall of fuzzed distortion. Heavy bass drums then ran across a high BPM as the chord rang out, all coming to one large halt in the track. The tension was built. 

A minor 2nd chord is something you may recognize as a “tendency chord”. It needs to resolve; it feels unfinished or unstable. Think of a song you know very well and then have it played just a note off. That is the feeling one gets from a minor 2nd. It must be stabilized because our ears are used to the more stable tones of perfect fourths or major/minor 3rds. This wasn’t unusual for more extreme metal, as they want to create that uneasy feeling; however, what followed was unexpected. Diminished notes from a choir slowly mimicked the earlier guitar amp's rise, and that's when I checked how much drive I had left.

56 miles.

The seemingly heavy motifs of distorted guitars and technical drumming gave way to layered vocal ranges holding long notes of a developing tritone chord. If a minor 2nd chord feels unsettling, the tritone chord is that fear you get while in bed looking at the darkness of an open door you’re just too lazy to close. Then, an alto joined the choir as a leading voice. Rapidly repeating a word I couldn’t make out, but it remained the same, with this entire section of the song lasting for a minute. My body clenched for that minute as the never-ending suspension of tense chords held my breath. I tried to focus on the word; it sounded English, almost like an onomatopoeia. 

Yeek. 

The pronunciation was almost hushed as the repeating word blended all together. I began to discern an added syllable after the first half of the word. 

Err.
Yeekerr.

Nonstop, over and over for a full minute, with that awful tritone in the back repeated until it all went silent. The vocals vanished with no valiance or reason, and I slowly eased back into my seat. 
Interesting start. I thought. 

50 miles left.

I paused the album on track 2 and looked up at the road, lit only by my headlights. As I relaxed, I began to digest the first track. It was indeed atmospheric, and the word that repeated itself felt familiar. Though it seemed to insist on itself, I played along with the album's theming at the time. That's when I found out nothing about Mouthflesh on the internet. Using the little service I had, I patiently waited for my Google search to load on the band. No results. I tried redoing my search prompts, and every result copied the first. Nothing. As I held my phone, a loud call blasted through. It was my mother.

“Are you still driving?” She asked worryingly.

“Y-yeah, just heading to my rest stop in the next town over. Getting a head start on tomorrow."

“Oh. Well, alright, please be careful.” 

“I will, mother.”

“Good. When you get back, I’ll help you pack.”

“Oh, you don’t have t-“

“No, no, I don’t wanna hear it. I’m helping you. Since I can’t stop you from growing up, I might as well help.” I knew she had been hinting at my upcoming move.

I smiled. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t want me to really stay at your house forever.”

“You never know; you can always reach the stuff I can’t.”

I felt a strain of melancholy. That small pinch on your heart, veins of sorrow. 

“I’ll visit.”

“I know you will.”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Ricky. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

I put my phone on the passenger seat. Then I violently searched for the CD case as a sudden realization sank in. 

Ricky.

The word in the first track- it had been backwards. I couldn’t have been crazy; there was no other way to put it. I played it over and over in my head now, mimicking how it sounded in the song. Ricky. “YICK-err”. Ricky. No other word could’ve been it. I looked down at the car's interface and slowly brought up the CD, moving my gaze from the “Play” button to the piece of plastic that had now mesmerized me. I inspected the front, glancing for any clues I might have missed, but my initial look showed the same album cover as before. I clicked the case open and viewed the inside. Everything remained the same, note and all. When I closed it and flipped it over, I tossed it back down in the passenger seat. Both hands went back on the wheel as I couldn’t possibly dare to look at it. The backside of the case glared up at me as it had done before; it wanted to be perceived, it thrived on that attention from me. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. But I did. I had to in order to prove to myself I wasn’t crazy. I grabbed the album once more and brought it to eye level, now able to decipher the text on the back. 

Log 2:
It’s now October 19th, midday, when I should’ve written the first part of my story; reliving those memories in the dead night doesn’t do me any favors. I also apologize for any gaps between my logs; I’m writing these down as I can while handling other issues with my mother and moving. Ever since I was bestowed “Chosen,” my life has changed drastically, and I don’t know whether to hate or be thankful to Missy for giving it to me. No other introductions are needed; I’ll resume from where I left off.

I drove the next 50 miles to my resting point in silence. A collage of emotions sat in my stomach, and the rest of my body felt paralyzed. Hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel, eyes on the road, I dared not read the back of the CD, yet I knew I would. My brain was frightened; I couldn’t make sense of it, and in my heart, I felt the intrigue that I knew would take over. That passion for music- I needed to know what was happening. Thoughts swirled in waves, creating a sea of ideas that swirled around my head, before I flushed it all out once I reached the shitty 2-star motel. 

I slowly and steadily removed the CD from its holding cell, put it back in that accursed case, and grabbed my bag of traveling utilities to make my way inside; I couldn’t even be bothered to bring my second bag of CDs. All that had made sense withered without warning, and every step toward room number 212 began to feel heavier. I remember trying to rationalize it then as just a concept album, nothing more. Maybe Mouthflesh created many different albums all saying different names, like a Coca-Cola bottle; you find the one with your name on it. Perhaps Misty found the one with my name, and Ricky really isn’t that uncommon of a name. That would be wrong, and even if it made sense at the time, my past self was still in disbelief that I could read the strange language on the back. 

I kept my head down as I walked to my room for the night, too distracted by the album's numb ideas. I swiped my key card and entered the room's overall beige setting. From the walls to the chairs to the light brown bedsheets, I let my bag of travel items drop to the floor by the door, then let myself sink onto the bed. I stared at that popcorn ceiling for God knows how long. I stared blankly, as if I were in some sort of trance. Abruptly, I shot my arm up and read the back of the case.

“1. Call
2. A World with Two Suns
3. Renewed
4. Commence 
5. Old Knowledge
6. Surrender Soul
7. A New Life”

It was a tracklist. I have recollections of attempting more Google searches after analyzing the track list, but I found nothing of value once again. Good sleep remained elusive that night as I tossed and turned, trying to make sense of anything. I never came to an understanding, and when the early rays shone through the cracks of crumbling window shades, I returned to driving after eating from one of my packs. 

The town I had been in was a rural hotspot for visitors and tourists so it was much more upkept than the last one. Here, I visited another location to trade in that oh-so-small Miata for a much more fitting Chevrolet Suburban. This rental location had a multicolored neon sign and a lot that could eat the previous one. I haven’t been here before, so I was pretty impressed. The manager, Ben, wore a clean smile and an even cleaner suit. When I met him, he gripped my hand as if I was the messiah himself. 

“Ricky?”

“Yes, sir. "

“Pleasure to meet you, kid. What car you taking off our hands?”

I checked my notes app.

“Gray or silver 2010 Chevrolet Suburban?”

“Ah, yeah. That car is probably better off being sent to a bigger city than us. Where are you headed?”

I told him the location.

“Ohh damn, really? Pretty far, think you’ll get back home for Halloween?”

“Heh, hopefully.”

He opened a drawer and rummaged for the key, then handed it to me.

“I hear that, man. Well, enjoy the drive. If I were you I’d put on some podcast and just vibe it out.”

“Actually, I’m a big music enjoyer.” Why did I say that? I thought to myself.

“Oh really? What are you bumping?”

Again, I said something that I don’t know why I did. “Recently, this band Mouthflesh, but I’m a big jazz guy.”

Ben gave a slight, awkward nod, probably wishing I'd leave as quickly as possible, while the man behind me made sure to stop me as I left the building, after I gave Ben an embarrassed laugh.

“R-icky? Is it?”

I turned to him and saw an older gentleman in a punk battle vest and loose-fitting grey jeans. 

“Y-yeah?”

He took off his rounded black sunglasses, revealing more of his time-worn face. He rubbed his mostly bald head and asked.

“Y-you’ve listened to Mouthflesh?”

I gave a slow nod.

“Then I believe it was no coincidence that brought me to this store.”

I clicked my head left, like a clock hand passing twelve.

“H-how do you mean?”

“Mouthflesh is more than music, y'know; it’s an experience. A gathering. It is many things, yet they are not connected, yet somehow they are all the same.”

 “Huh?”

“What album are you on?”

“There are several?”

“I see, so that means you are on their first.”

“What?”

“After the first, the rest will find you.”

My befuddled face could not have been more obvious, which is why I assume he continued to explain.

“You will know every emotion and thought the world knows of. Mouthflesh can be so much more than the music.”

It took me a moment to ask, perhaps a little louder than I should’ve, “Do you know a Missy?”

I then told him about Missy and her shop in the town she lived in, while his graying blue eyes stared in thought. I told him how she gifted me the album and about her absurd disappearance.  

“She is in the album now,” he replied. 

I gave a slight smirk, almost laughing. Perhaps in disbelief, perhaps not. 

“S-so you did know her?”

“I have heard of her. Her musical shop, but never personally.”

I clenched my jaw, thinking about the situation, then quickly asked for his phone number.

“What for?”

“In case I have, uh, any other questions about Mouthflesh.” He obliged, and I thanked him before he took his leave back into the rental shop. I approached the new vehicle, turned on the dash cam, and began my next 6 hours of driving. 

My next drive was southbound for the third stop, where I would then head northwest for a quicker fourth location before heading back. I had almost been halfway done with my trip, and a small weight had been placed on my back. Maybe from the dread that the album instilled into me, maybe from the sadness I would endure moving away from my mother once I got back.

452 miles. 

Once I got onto the highway, dark clouds swarmed the autumn sky, and though it hadn't rained, it was glum enough for it. I figured this would be a good time to listen to the album again, find more clues, and maybe call the old man whose name I never got, and it wasn’t nighttime. I don’t know if I could listen to it at dusk again after last night's unsettling discoveries. Even now, writing this, I shudder, surprisingly. Either way, after unsheathing the CD and not flipping the case over, I skipped track one and started the second. “A World with Two Suns”. 

Most albums follow a format that gives them an overall “flow.” The first track is either the album's single or the “biggest hit,” with the second track similar, then the remaining tracks and any possible bonus ones. Another layout saves the album's single for the very last song to encourage full listenability. Another layout, more common on concept albums, is an “Intro” track followed by the single. This was my theory for how the album was laid out, given the ambiance of the first track and how it felt like I was being invited into a circle of hell. So I expected the second track to be a full metal song. These expectations were upheld when I was, in all honesty, relieved to hear heavy, distorted power chords as soon as the second song started. A tinging of dulled hi-hats set the rhythm before exploding into a fast-paced monster of a song. It was all instrumental, using minor scales with notes spaced far apart to create distant echoes between sections. I was impressed with the guitars, but the technical drumming was something akin to fast-paced heavy jazz that I couldn’t help but love. If I had to compare it to anything, it would be similar to “The Call of Ktulu” by Metallica. As the first two minutes of the song passed, I began to settle in. 

I blinked and did not realize. 

I checked my dash cam to ensure it was on.

Blinked again and did not realize. 

There were 432 more miles left.

I scratched my left eye, then blinked, still not seeing it. 

I looked down at my phone, considering calling my mother, then slowly looked back up at the song. 4 minutes of this impressive instrumental kept going with intense guitar tones and the insanely good drumming.

I blinked and was blinded by the light. 

What!? I thought to myself. I glanced up at the sky; it wasn’t sunny out. I peered at the road, my arms trembling, then glanced back down at the track on the interface, slowly lifting my head back up.

The song crept on for 5 minutes.

I blinked and saw a different world.

Throwing myself back into a tense position, my head began to slowly leak thoughts once more, every blink now flashing a scenery that I couldn’t call Earth. I couldn’t have been going crazy; no, this album has something to it. The man, the reading, I can’t deny or attempt to rationalize anymore, I thought. This had to be supernatural, or perhaps a cruel hallucination set by the music. More blinking, more images, more unknowns added to it; uncertainty chained me, and I feared blinking again. Arms still shaking, I shut my eyes for just a few seconds to perceive a world with two suns. The two suns gleamed as they eclipsed each other, casting bright white light from a blackened center. It illuminated gothic towers raised like daggers, standing miles ahead. I glanced around and saw I was no longer surrounded by mountains or autumn trees, but by a desolate waste of sand, split by the single highway I had been on. I opened my eyes quickly, breathing hard and half-expecting to crash. My right arm shot up and gripped the top of my head, balling a fist around hairs I wanted to yank out. 

No, no, no. Why? How!? I recall thinking. I recall thinking too much, actually. I let the song continue; now it was a slowed-tempo interlude, and I didn’t know whether to throw the accursed thing out. I pondered just tossing it out that window. Never to see it again. I shut my eyes again and saw the other world. Above, the suns would be purple and red nebulas crashing into one another with unknown constellations formatting themselves upon the dark galaxy. It had all been nonsensical. 

I reopened my eyes to see a cop behind me, lights on. Shit. I thought, I knew I had probably been swerving with my eyes closed, and I was too focused on the song to think of any troopers who may have been behind me. He pulled me over, and I turned down the track. The stop lasted about 5 minutes longer because I had to search for my registration; it wasn’t in the glove box or console, but in the back-seat pocket on the passenger side. He was friendly, and it was, in fact, for swerving. I told him my job and that I was just getting used to the new car. Luckily, there wasn’t any traffic, so he didn’t feel the need to call for reckless driving. He drove off, and I waited a few moments so I wouldn’t interact with him again and could calm down. My nerves were shot, so I took 5 more minutes to relax. Then I looked down at the interface to see the now 17-minute-long song still playing. At first, I thought it was a long instrumental, but then I started driving. I slowly turned the volume back up, and as the miles passed, so did the minutes of the song.

408 miles left, 31 minutes. 
396, 42 minutes. 

It just went on and on and on and on. With every blink, I remembered seeing the world too, and eventually I turned it down to let it play. I closed my eyes to rub them, and as I did, I did not see the world. I quickly reopened my eyes at this discovery. At the time, I thought, it IS the music! Somehow, I had managed to lie to myself and chalk the whole thing up to the music messing with my brain. This song didn't sound like any other, so maybe the strewn notes were, in fact,  causing something in my head to swell up, but I still couldn’t be too sure, especially with the added knowledge of being able to read the back of the CD case. I played around with this unearthing for a few minutes. I turned up the track, closed my eyes to see the world, then turned it back down so I could no longer perceive it, before being interrupted by the thought of calling the old gentleman I had met earlier. 

Ring, ring, ring.

“H-hello?” he asked.

“Hey, it’s Ricky from, uhm, the rental shop.”

“Ahh, questioning about Mouthflesh?”

“Yeah, I’m on track 2, uhm, I think it's called “A World with Two Suns-”

“Huh-uh”

“-Yeah, how do they make you see the other world? The band or whatever, every time I close my eyes I see this other world.”

He began to speak in tongues. Dropping his voice to a lower pitch and rambling to no end, he furiously vented all of his strange dialect into my ears. I quickly dropped the phone out of fear, where his voice had joined in the track.

“What? Why!? Why?! How!?” I cried out, overwhelmed with the impossibilities of it all. 

I know I began swerving in the street once more because I looked down at the car's interface, no longer worried about what was around me with the exception of stopping this ensemble of madness. His voice rose in pitch, and the song got louder, faster, louder, faster. Endless tongues of a strange language that sounded like French and Latin overlapping one another in all the confusing ways imaginable. I didn’t even try to turn down the track or skip it; I just remember furiously hitting the interface before finally hitting the mute button. It had all gone quiet. Then a loud honk turned my attention back on the road as I swerved back into my lane, nearly dodging a semi-truck. Wind caught in my throat and a ceaseless cough ensued. Took me a minute to recover. Fuck it! I thought, reaching down to toss the album, but paused when I saw, somehow, track 5 had started. I glared at the blank interface where the song title normally goes, then looked down at the CD. It was already facing backside up like an open book ready to read. 
“Old Knowledge”.

I let loose a hefty sigh, then let my hand slither to the volume knob. First I turned it down, then unmuted the song, and finally, slowly, turned the volume up. I was too hooked. As much as I wanted to- no, as much as I needed to- throw away the album, it had too much intrigue. I waited patiently as the track began, and I was put off by a slow, jazzy drum beat. A light, tinging swing of the top of a cymbal was followed by droning bass notes. Not long after this introduction, the bass began to play faster, jumping notes, and the drums then sped up in tempo, adding more elements. At a steady beat, a sexy trumpet began to enter. One that could only be described as “romantical”. It utilized a sad, meaningful minor scale and was played with so much emotion that I couldn’t help but begin to cry. Then I cried even more once I realized it had been my father playing. Sure, I was fearful, but as the notes seeped into one another all I could do was remember a time as a kid looking up to see him playing the exact same notes the exact same way. What was I witnessing? What was I feeling? All of these notes felt like home and were familiar, especially after just listening to my father's playing a few days ago. I had been bombarded with the memories of him playing, almost being able to envision him in the living room with that silver piece of an instrument and I, looking up to him. I let the solo continue for several minutes as it felt like a hug from an old friend you haven't seen in years. 

Then a burning, searing fear quickly washed through my veins, and I violently punched the car’s interface. It cracked, causing my hand to bleed before I smeared the flowing blood on my CD bag, knuckles and eyes now mimicking the same red color as the maple leaves outside my car. I turned down the volume again, but I couldn’t even begin to process what happened when the first track of “Chosen” suddenly forced itself into my car. It had turned the volume up on its own, and the repeating word, my name, now sounded like it was shouting at me.

“YICK! HER! YICK! HER! YICK HER!”

“Fuck!” I remember shouting, being tossed off guard, and then being thrown back into the fray of it all. 

I pressed the skip button to try to play the second track; this only sped up the song. I pressed it again, now faster. I kept trying and trying and trying, but all it could do was get faster with seemingly no end, the track now sounding like an Alvin and the Chipmunks parody. I thought of punching the interface again, but as I readied my fist, it all shut down as a low, raspy, gravely voice took over.

“Turn it off!” the voice demanded. He sounded sick, like a person who smoked all their life. 

“Turn it off, Ricky! P-please! Turn. It. Off!” he continued.  

All I did was hesitate; I could hear the reversal of my name in the background slowly building back up. That scratchy tone became familiar, the rasp as if they had a constant tube lodged in their throat.

“Abandon it, Ricky! Abandon it all! Leave!” 

It was my father. His dying moments, the memories I had of seeing him in his bed at the hospital. Holding his hand as he coughed out any remaining words he had left for me while being restrained with medical gear. Words of comfort, of love. Those memories are now sour, because all I heard and can now remember was a desperate, pleading cry from my father. A strain in a voice I hadn’t heard before but understood and knew. My balled fist started to hit my forehead lightly but firmly, repeatedly, as I thought. 
Then, no more thinking. I pressed “Eject”, grabbed the disc, tossed it out of the window after rolling it down, then the case as well. Finally, I heard only the blissful sounds of silence.

 
380 miles left. 

Rupert was one of the laziest people known to man. This was a fact that he was either too aware of or too ignorant of, because in the 29 years and 11 months anyone had known him, he never changed and never wanted to change. He was content to do as little with his life as he could, and he was proud of it.
Rupert, without a hint of humor or irony, decided his 30th birthday would also be his retirement party. Retirement from any work whatsoever. His plan, in his words, was to “not have to worry about the usual 9-to-5 lifestyle, seek out options, settle down.” Their father, in his late 60s and still working, scoffed.
“Your whole goddamn life has been settling down. What do you think part 2 has to offer? Honestly, Rupert, when are you going to cut the crap?” After hearing that, Dad was uninvited to the birthday party.

In reality, Rupert didn’t have a 9-to-5 lifestyle. It was more of a 10-to-4 lifestyle. None of his jobs ever lasted more than 2 years, provided he chose to go to work at all. See, Rupert suffered from the three Nesses. Laziness, tardiness, deceitfulness. He would often show up late, take an ungodly amount of time in the bathroom, and add 10 minutes to the start and end of his lunch hour, and those were just his greatest hits. His favorite ways of getting out of work made use of his cat-like reflexes and his ninja-style ability to sneak out of something he dreaded doing.
These were just jobs that he got fired from.

The truth is it wasn’t always entirely his fault. You see, his job life was incredibly unlucky. His first job was at a video rental… before it closed down; his second job, an all-you-can-eat buffet, which also closed down. Photography film store, phased out. Bathroom attendant, replaced by a robot. Professional circus freak, no longer exists.
He was so unlucky with employment that he saw it as a sign from God that 30 years old was time enough to spend golfing and enjoying his “twilight years.”

His only viable source of income was sports betting, something he did modestly well in, but not enough to stay afloat as he foolishly idealized. Even the house he lived in was bought and paid for by his parents on his 21st. They foolishly thought that if they got him a house, it would give him enough independence where he could get a career going without the stress of paying rent and causing him to move back in with them. 9 years later, it had the opposite effect. While he didn’t move back in with his parents, he never really garnered a so-called career to speak of; the job he was currently quitting had been paying him high school teenager rates since he started there. So he wanted to retire from all that and, after all those tiny wins on the bets, he finally decided to spend it on his party.

Gerald was a people-pleaser. Gerald had no problems getting up and commuting, helping his fellow man, bending over backwards to get everything he felt like he’d earned in life. He had a job, a girlfriend, a car, his own house, everything he ever wanted, thanks to good old-fashioned hard work. His only flaw was that he was Rupert’s brother, and Rupert was about to turn 30. Gerald didn’t resent Rupert for his laid-back way of life; in fact, it was almost nonexistent in the eyes of Gerald. See, Gerald spent his whole life pleasing their parents, pleasing his bosses, pleasing everyone; he couldn’t possibly object to anything Rupert asked for. Could he? Not sweet Rupert. Sweet, stupid Rupert.
So when his brother’s birthday came up, Gerald had to get him the perfect present.

“Are your eyes still closed?” Gerald beamed as he nudged his brother through the front doorway of Rupert’s house.
“Yes. Of course.” Rupert replied with his hands covering his eyes.
Gerald continued to shepherd Rupert over to the corner left side of his already gigantic porch. Next to the doorway was a huge thing covered in a sheet.
“Ok open them!” Gerald instructed. As Rupert took his hands away, Gerald pulled the sheet off it. It was an old antique rocking chair; nothing like any rocking chair that Rupert had seen before. The wood resembled bone appendages; its color was somewhere between cream and brown, and there was a cushion with little sloths patterned all over it, which added a shred of comfortability to an already tough sell.
“Oh my god! Gerald, I love this!” Rupert cried. “See, you understand what I was talking about. You get this whole thing I’m going for.”
“I got it from some antique store,” Gerald replied. “The second I saw it, I knew it was very… you.”
“Why, I can face it into the street. Watch people walking past! My own personal theater of live performance.”
“You do like to people-watch.” Gerald stated. Rupert approached it and looked underneath.
“It says Belphegor.” He examined. “I wonder what that means.”
“It’s probably one of those wacky names they give it.” Gerald surmised. “Like that Wayfair company with all those human names.”
Rupert was about to sit on it.
“Do you know anything about who owned it before me?”
“Yeah, the guy before you died in it… apparently.” Gerald laughed. Rupert immediately changed his mind and stood back up.
“Oh god. You did… clean it down before you brought it here, right?”
“…Sure.” Gerald lied.
“I don’t know, I still feel weird about it. Do you know if it was a valued… personal item in the family?”
“They said that the guy never had a joyous moment while he was in that chair.” Gerald stated rather bluntly. Rupert looked it up and down.
“Ah, screw it. It’s mine now. Hey Ron! Come outside and look what Gerald got me! In fact! Let’s bring the cake out here.”

After an hour Rupert finally sat on his present. Everyone followed him out onto the porch and sang happy birthday, including their mother, who was the most ecstatic.
As far as Rupert was concerned, this was the greatest gift he’d ever received.

The next day, Gerald got a rather strange call from his brother.
“Gerald! It’s Rupert… your brother.”
“Oh hey, Rupert. How’d you go with cleaning up last night?”
“Yeah. Yeah good. Listen, man, you’re gonna need to come over. I have a bit of an emergency.”
“Emergency? What is it? Did you lock yourself out of your house again?” Gerald laughed. Silence on the other end.
“Yeah… It’s probably best that you come over. I can’t explain over the phone. And if I could, you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

When he got there, he saw Rupert sitting in the rocking chair with a very sour look on his face.
“I see you’re really utilizing that thing, huh?” He laughed. Rupert didn’t seem to share that sentiment. In fact, Rupert looked very afraid.
“It’s the strangest thing!” He stated. “I can’t seem to get out of this chair. I haven’t been able to since yesterday.”
Gerald cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when I sat in it yesterday, for the cake, I just couldn’t get back up. Of course, I thought it might’ve been because I had too many drinks, so I sent everyone home thinking I had dead legs. But now… I don’t know what it is.”
“You’ve been in this chair the whole night?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I haven’t been able to get out of it. It feels like there’s some… thing holding me down and preventing me from getting up. Luckily, I had my phone on me. It was on like 2%, so I called you as soon as I could.”
“Ok, umm… just calm down and we’ll get you out of it… somehow.”
Gerald and Rupert then spent the next 20 minutes looking at Rupert’s predicament as if they were trying to lift a couch through a very narrow doorway. Gerald then attempted to lift Rupert out of this infernal prison.
“Wait, stop. You’re bending my spine. Wait… ARRRHGGGH!!!” Rupert screamed.
“What? What do you want me to do?”
“Just… let me go for a second! Let me go,” Rupert cried. Gerald released him from his grip. “There’s got to be an easy way of doing this.”
“Should I get the saw?”
“And accidentally cut my leg? What are you, out of your mind?”
“I don’t know. I…” Gerald trailed off.
“Just get the saw. Get the saw and maybe like a drill or something. Some kind of drill.”
Gerald then sawed his way into the chair. The saw wouldn’t cut through it. He tried the drill; it short-circuited and broke down. He tried the saw again, but the tool just broke apart under its own force.
“I don’t understand. How is this possible?” Gerald pondered.
“I think right now we need to abandon the question of why this is happening, and focus more on how I get out of it.”

Eventually, every single emergency service was called to Rupert’s house. While the police and firefighters needed a little convincing to get over there (Gerald tried to fight through the obvious laughter coming from the other side), the ambulance people were the only ones who took it seriously. Eventually, they all showed up not because they wanted to help Rupert with his problem, but more out of curiosity. They wanted to see this thing for themselves. The firefighters brought out their very sharp axe, causing Rupert to squirm in his seat over fear that one wrong swing and he could very well lose his manhood. After the axe didn’t take, the police tried ‘shooting’ him out, which also didn’t work for obvious reasons.
“Well, it’s certainly not physical.” An onlooking doctor explained. He was looking at the chair as if it were a rare ancient artifact. “He hasn’t fused here; he certainly hasn’t been nailed. In fact, by all accounts there should be no physical reason that he should be confined to this chair.”
“So what is it?” Gerald asked.
“I’m really not sure. Was it something you ate, Rupert? What have you been eating in the last 24 hours?”
“Party food.” Rupert replied bluntly. He was already fed up with his newfound affliction and Gerald could tell.
“What kind of party food. Any drugs?”
“Just party food.”
“Huh.” The doctor stood up.
“What ‘huh’? What are you saying, Doc?”
“I might need to run a few more tests. You mind if I take a saliva and a blood sample from you?”
“Sure, but if you want a urine sample, everyone will need to turn around.” Rupert said, followed by laughter from the crowd.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday. In fact, I could go for something right now. Anyone want any pizza?”
Suddenly fifteen hands went up.
“Figures. If I’m going to be subjected to humiliation, I might as well be paying for it. Say, Gerald.”
“Yes, Rupert?” Gerald replied, leaning down by his side.
“Be a dear and order about six pizzas. One of everything.”
“Are you sure you can afford that, brother?”
“Yeah, for sure. While I was waiting for you, I bet on the Scavengers game.”
“Scavengers? They haven’t won a game all season.”
“I know. But something in me told me to bet on them. And since the last time I checked, they were up 15 points!”
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. Half a dozen people then checked their phones.
“He’s right!” One of the cops claimed. More murmurs.
“The odds on that must’ve been through the roof.” Another said.
“I stand to win two grand. So yeah, Gerald, if you can get that and some garlic bread. Garlic bread, anybody? Yeah, garlic bread, ok.”
Gerald, feeling like he should’ve been doing more, just nodded and got up.
“Sure, brother. I’ll get right onto it.”
“Love you,” Rupert replied flatly.

Later, after the show was over and everyone went home, Gerald brought a few things out for Rupert onto the porch. A side table, a six-pack of beers, a pack of smokes, and a phone charger plugged into an extension cord that led into the house.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in the house?” Gerald asked, handing him a beer. “I don’t know if I like you being out here all night.”
“I was out here last night and was fine,” Rupert smirked. “Besides, it’s still warm out; I think it would be relaxing. I mean it’s not every day where you can just… not do anything, and get away with it.”
“Well, some people don’t have that luxury.” Gerald shrugged.
“Also, I need to write a grocery list of things I need you to get tomorrow.”
“You think you’ll still be here tomorrow?”
“I was this morning. Why wouldn’t I be again?”

Rupert was there the next day, and the day after that and the day after that. Eventually his parents came by. His mother said she was heartbroken that “My Rupert is in such a horrible state.” His father just laughed his ass off, saying it served him right.

Later that week, Gerald went over to Rupert’s with his groceries.
Doctor Johnson, the guy who ran his tests the other day, was there with him.
“Ahh, Gerald, right on time.” Rupert sang.
“I was just talking to the good doctor about this whole… what-have-you. He told me that ‘you might want to sit down for this ’; I was ready to smack him.”
“It’s the strangest thing.” Doctor Johnson shrugged. “His blood work came back fine. He doesn’t appear to have anything broken or dislocated. And he hasn’t been through any traumatic events recently.”
“Other than turning 30.” Rupert joked.
“You think this is all in his mind?” Gerald asked.
“That was my first guess, yes. See, there are certain types of catatonia from trauma. Some people are completely paralyzed; some people only get it from the waist down.”
“Doctor, you don’t understand. Gerald tried lifting me out of that chair, and it physically hurt me. Almost like my legs and spine were being moved in a way they shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, it was like he’s become one with the chair.” Gerald added.
“But that can’t be right. There must be some…” The doctor stroked his chin.
“Doc, I think we need to abandon the question of why this is happening and focus more on how we can get him out of it.” Gerald stated.
“My suggestion? Get a priest, or an exorcist. Have a good day, gentlemen.” Doctor Johnson then left.
“Rupert. What’s going on? I tried calling you about your groceries.”
“I must’ve slept in.”
“It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon.”
“What do you want me to tell ya? I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“Was it too cold? Damn it, Rupert. I knew this would happen.”
“No, no. It wasn’t cold. It’s just… you know. My ass hurts. My back hurts. And those DAMN KIDS ARE PLAYING THEIR LOUD MUSIC UP AND DOWN THE STREET!” Rupert yelled that last part, assuming that the kids in the neighborhood could hear him. “It’s that Donovan boy, I swear.”
“I can put you inside.”
“No, no, and watch television all day? I can do that on my phone. It’s not all bad, though.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know; ever since I got stuck here, I’ve been having nothing but good luck. I’ve won $5000 in betting, I’m having all this fresh air I never thought I’d have, and the mailman hand-delivers my mail.”
“You won 5 grand this week?”
“Every single thing I bet on has won. At first I thought maybe it was just a coincidence. I mean, I’ve had big wins before, but not this consistent. And I used to do it with small stuff, like 1.5-to-1 odds. Now every risk I take pays off huge. I’m not even betting on the safe results anymore. Why do that when I can make more on the long shots?”
“Way to go, Rupert.” Gerald cheered, patting him on the shoulder. “See, if you had put this to good use in high school, you would’ve completed your grade 12.”
“I keep telling you. The school was terrified by my intelligence.”
“Ok buddy.” Gerald laughed. “Then look, I’ll make a few calls to get a priest…”
“Doctors. What do they know?” Rupert scoffed.
“Rupert, if this chair has something to do with this we-“
“The chair is fine. We don’t need some witch doctor-“
“Witch doctor? It’ll be a catholic priest-“
“And we don’t need them coming in and ruining what I have going here.”
Gerald looked at him.
“Oh I see what this is,” Gerald scoffed. “You’re worried that if a priest blesses the chair, then you’re going to lose your winning streak.”
“And so why ruin a good thing?”
“Rupert, you can’t be in a chair forever.”
“If it means winning so much money that I don’t have to work another day in my life, hell yeah I’m gonna stay in this chair.”
“At least let me bring you into the house.”
“Why are you obsessed with me going into the house? I love it out here.”
“You hate it out here.”
“I don’t… mind it out here.” Rupert compromised, trying to save face.
“Have it your way, brother.” Gerald sighed, handing Rupert his grocery bag. “But seriously, keep your phone on at all times. I was worried about you.”
“If I have any issues, I’ll let you know. Thanks for getting my sundries.”
“Anyway, I should really get back; otherwise Nicole is going to be wondering what’s happening.”
“I can’t believe you’re getting married.”
“Yeah, I’m still in awe of it myself.”
“I wonder how you’re going to get me there.” Rupert laughed. Gerald didn’t see the funny side.
“Don’t talk like that; you’ll be fine in no time.”
“No, it’s because I hate weddings. But while we’re on the subject of that. I really don’t see myself getting out of this chair anytime soon.”

Despite his apprehension, Rupert attended Gerald’s wedding, chair and all. Gerald did make one small change, however. He asked Rupert if he was happy to give up being the best man. Rupert agreed, believing that it would be a very odd thing to see, for all those involved, a man in a rocking chair making a toast.
After that, Rupert didn’t see his brother much for the next few weeks; he didn’t need to. He had the fresh air, all the food delivery that he could eat, and more money than he knew what to do with. He even made it on the news.

“We’re standing here live with Rupert Davis!” The female reporter said to her camera. “A man who, up until a few months ago, was able-bodied and penniless. But after sitting in this rocking chair. All that changed for him. Now, he’s a self-made millionaire, and he’s still not getting out of that chair. Now Rupert, tell us. How did this happen?”
“Well, Cynthia,” Rupert said smoothly. “It’s the darnedest thing. Can I say darn?”
“That’s probably the only thing you can say on Channel 6.” She smiled.
“So my brother Gerald. Hi Gerald.” He waved at Gerald in the crowd; Gerald waved back. “My brother, he bought me this rocking chair. And when I sat down, all of a sudden I just won everything. Sporting events, dog races, scratch and wins. I mean, I’d buy a lottery ticket but I feel like that wouldn’t be fair to everyone else.” He laughed; a real natural in front of the camera.
“Do you feel that winning all this money is the reason you haven’t left the chair? Are you worried you’re going to taint your luck should you get out of it?”
“See, I believe the chair is magic. I mean, I literally can’t get out of it, even if I wanted to.”
“Magic, really?” The reporter asked excitedly.
“Oh yeah, Cynthia. Most definitely.”
“So if you could get out of it, would you?”
“Well I talked to Gerald, and we figured that if the chair and the luck are related. If I get out of the chair, I might lose my winning streak. So, not a chance.”
“Fascinating.”
“Would you?” Rupert smiled.
“Probably not. Now I think the big question on everybody’s lips- certainly my lips- is… how do you go to the bathroom?”
Rupert laughed, followed by a moment of blushing.
“Yeah, we have a system for that.”
“Well, there you have it!” The reporter turned back to the camera and beamed. “This is Cynthia Allbright, Channel 6!”

After everyone had left, Gerald cracked open a beer with Rupert.
“You on TV. I never thought I’d see the day.” Gerald laughed.
“It’s exactly how I imagined it.” Rupert smiled. Gerald put the beer down.
“Listen, Rupert. I gotta talk to you. See… now that Nicole and I are married, we gotta figure out what we’re doing.”
“What are you trying to say, brother?” Rupert asked, looking slightly anxious.
“It means it… might not… be that easy to come over as much anymore.”
“What, you’re going to leave me?”
“No, no, I didn’t say that at all. I’m just saying that… perhaps you might want to consider a live-in housekeeper.”
“They’re not gonna understand my needs. They probably won’t even understand why I have the needs that I do.”
“Well, if you pay them enough, I’m sure-”
“I don’t want them; I want you. I want my brother. Tell you what. Why don’t you live here.”
“Yeah right.” Gerald scoffed.
“Why did you scoff? It’s a great idea!”
“No, I couldn’t do that to you.”
“Why not?”
“And use your bedroom? No way.”
“You can use the other bedroom if you like.”
“Ehh, I don’t know.”
“What if I buy you a house? Somewhere close by.”
“I can’t ask that of you.”
“Well, you’re not asking; I’m offering. Look, it’s either you move in here, or I get you a house. God knows I can afford it. Pick one, whatever option that will soothe your poor catholic guilt conscience, because I really don’t care.”
“… How big of a house. And Venetians, can we get Venetians?”
“Of course you pick that one. I’ve always said you were a bastard. But yes, I’m sure we can do that.”

And by late September, Rupert, who had accumulated up to 3 million dollars in bet wins, bought Gerald and Nicole a house that was one street over. He even paid Gerald $10,000 so he didn’t have to worry about making ends meet at work. After all, he had the money for it; so much so that the taxation department began questioning Rupert about how he would correctly file his new windfall. Not to mention the four betting websites accusing him of cheating; their claim was that he must have had some kind of insider information on the teams he bet on. They dropped the accusations when they found out he was a 30-year-old nobody confined to a rocking chair, but they still prohibited him from using their sites anyway. Only one website continued to do business with him and even made him a company sponsor; Rupert didn’t know whether they felt sorry for him or saw it as an excellent marketing strategy. “Luckiest Man on Earth’s official betting site!” As for the dog racing, he simply got his neighbor Harry to go down to the sports bar twice a week.
Things took a dark turn, though, as they so often do.
It was early October when Rupert was enjoying a crisp but not freezing night on his usual spot on the porch. His phone was on 1% battery, and as he reached for his charger, the extension cord snagged on one of the planks of wood on the floor. It jerked out of Rupert’s hand and fell to the ground—a couple of feet out of reach.
“Shit!” He hissed to himself. It wasn’t a great concern, though; he had his dinner and beverages all prepared ahead of time. He figured he could just wait it out until morning and ask the mailman to pass it over.

But then he heard it. A woman screaming her head off down the street. At first, Rupert was curious. Then he saw her limping, in a slow sprint, past his house.
“Come back here bitch!” A male voice, belonging to someone he couldn’t see, came from a distance. Then he saw the perpetrator's face—a dangerous-looking guy holding a hunting knife. Rupert did everything he could not to make a noise. But his stupid automatic porch light came on and shone directly onto the man.
“Who’s that?” He yelled out. Then he walked up to the garden path.
“Is it you, Rocking Chair?!” He screamed.
“No man, I don’t want any trouble. It’s… it’s an automatic light.” Rupert stammered out. The man walked up onto the porch.
“What the hell you looking at? I’ll kill you, close your eyes!” The man roared. Rupert did as he was told. The man leaned down next to Rupert, who, by this point, was shaking.
“What I do… is none of your FUCKING business. You hear me?! I oughta slice your throat right now.” With that, the man brought the blade up to Rupert’s face and lightly held it against his neck.
“Open your eyes.” Rupert didn’t have to; he already knew the blade was there, but he opened them anyway. “Did you hear what I said!”
Rupert nodded vigorously. The man looked at him.
“What are you, some kinda cripple?” He asked. Rupert nodded. The man took his knife away. “Understand something, cripple. Keep the porch light off at night. Because if I see a porch light on and I think you’re trying to incriminate me, I get scared. And if I'm scared, I don’t have to tell you how scared you’ll be.”
He turned and walked away before looking behind him.
“You didn’t see nothing.”

The next day, Gerald got a call from the police who told him about what happened.
“I want you to get me a gun. A big one. Like a shotgun. And security cameras all over the front yard.” Rupert rambled. He was still visibly shaken.
“You really want a gun?” Gerald asked.
“Yes. And we need extension cords longer than this sorry excuse. You know I could’ve died last night!”
“I know I can get a gun; I just… don’t know how I can get one for you specifically.”
“Take me down there; it should be fine. It’s this street, brother. It’s no longer safe outside.”
“So come inside!”
“No! I shouldn’t have to.”
Suddenly, one of the kids passed by the house.
“Hey, Mister Davis!” The kid called out. “You finally giving out candy this Halloween?”
“You go to hell!” Rupert roared.
“Ok so what we’re not going to do is curse at the children,” Gerald said condescendingly. “Especially after you said you wanted a gun.”
“Oh he doesn’t count. That Donovan kid is an asshole; he always says the most annoying things to me, like ‘Oh, how was your day?’ Screw him.”
Eventually, Gerald caved and got Rupert a double-barrel shotgun, right by his side.

Halloween came around. Although Rupert wasn’t prepared to blast away at kids (more so in case that crazy guy came back), he had foolishly assumed that having the shotgun by his side indicated that he was not handing out candy and that he meant it. This did little to deter the kids, since they thought it was part of whatever horror theme he was going for.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” A group of kids said in unison with their father in the background.
“No, I’m not doing Halloween, kids.” Rupert said bluntly. They all looked a little let down. A few of them walked away sadly.
“Yeah, nice going, Davis!” The father scowled.
“Get lost, Grant!” Rupert replied. “What, you think because I’m out here that I’m going to, just, give in? My condition is not your Halloween costume, pal!”
“What?” The dad asked.
“Oh just go away, alright?!”
Once most of the children cleared his porch there was another trick ‘r’ treater still standing on the steps and staring at Rupert intently. This one didn’t look like a kid. In fact, it didn’t look human at all. It was slouching and had what looked like a witch’s mask on: a long pointed nose, an ugly face, and great horns coming from its head.
“Nice costume,” Rupert said, admiring the realism. “Anyway, as I told the others, I’m not doing it.”
The figure just stared at him.
“You heard me! Get out of here! Get!” The figure walked away slowly and silently.

Later, Rupert wrote a sign that said, “No Trick ‘r’ Treaters. Please!” Naturally, a few kids wanted to defy the warning. Rupert learned this when a few 10-year-olds rolled up with no parental supervision.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” The head kid demanded, holding out his bag.
“Can’t you read?” Rupert sighed. “I’m not going to be tricking OR treating!”
“That’s not fair!” The kid stamped his foot.
“Fair? Who said life was fair?! I’ve been in this chair for months! Where’s my fairness?”
“You have to give us candy.” One of the other kids demanded, clearly unmoved by Rupert’s statement.
“I don’t have to give you shitttt. Where are your parents?” As Rupert looked out for any grown-ups that might’ve been standing from a distance behind them - as they usually do - these kids were quickly turning into an angry mob.
“That’s part of the rules!” The head honcho cried. “That’s the rules of Halloween! Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“Rules? Look, some of you aren’t even wearing costumes! There is zero effort here!”
“That’s the rules of Halloween!” The kid repeated. “Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“No trick ‘r’ treat!”
“TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“NO TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“Alright!” The head kid stepped back. “You asked for it, buddy. Men! Take position!”
“What are you doing?” Rupert asked, suddenly alarmed.
“Aim!” The kids pulled out eggs. “Fire!”
Dozens of eggs were catapulted in Rupert’s direction.
“Ah the shell cut me! Ow ow!” Rupert screamed as he was completely covered in broken shells and yolk.
“Trick ‘r’ treat, JERK!” The head kid scowled.
“Why you little…”
Rupert leaped out of his chair and tried to run after them, only for his legs to give out on him. He face-planted his garden path, while the kids laughed, threw him the finger, and ran away. Rupert turned around to look at the empty rocking chair, sitting vacantly on his porch. He was out of his chair. After months, he was no longer confined! He was free.
“How the-“ he began before stopping himself short; there was no time to ponder over the particulars at that moment. He had to go to Gerald’s house. He struggled to get up, legs stiff and back like jelly. As he straightened up, he moved his legs forward, left foot, right foot. He shuffled down the garden path and out into the street. He turned to walk down the busy suburban neighborhood, shifting past passing truck ‘r’ treaters who turned and either murmured to each other in disbelief or pointed and laughed.
“Got to get to Gerald. I’ve got to…” he muttered to himself.
“Cool Frankenstein walk, Mr. Davis.” The Donovan boy called out as he passed.
“Eat shit, Donovan!” Rupert hissed.
Rupert then turned the corner of the street. He was about to walk down it when he saw the crazy man who had attacked him weeks ago. Half a dozen police officers were holding the man down; one of them was tasing him over and over, doing little to deter him and only making him visibly angrier.

Rupert turned around and decided to go to the other corner of the street to get to Gerald’s house. Every nerve in his body gave him that fuzzy, electrical feeling inside him. Full-body pins and needles screamed out in every direction. He passed his house again before reaching the other corner. Everything in him told him to sit down and take it easy, but he had spent months sitting down and taking it easy. The time was now to move before whatever demonic thing in the world changed its mind. He moved down a couple houses, all the while thinking, “just another block, just another block.”

“Hey, look. He’s finally out of his chair. The guy who didn’t want to trick ‘r’ treat.” A voice came from one of the alleys. Out came the head trick ‘r’ treater that launched an egg attack on him. Only he didn’t have just four or five friends with him. Now there were almost a dozen kids behind him, all dressed in various Halloween costumes.
“He’s gonna tell on us.” One of them called out. Another one had a foam bat that, to a regular adult, wouldn’t pack a great wallop; but with Rupert’s condition, it could probably do more damage.
“Get him!” The ringleader ordered with a smirk. Suddenly, the kids ran after him, causing Rupert to turn back the way he came. His limping and shuffling turned into a kind of quick-paced hobble as he made his way back to his house. Angry children started gaining on him as the gap between them began closing. Then he tripped and fell, and they pounced on him; witches, vampires, ghosts and pirates all started kicking him and bringing the foam bat down onto his shaking body. He was only two houses away from his porch, so he began crawling away.
“Pick him up!” One of them cried. Four or five of them did their best to lift him like he was some unmanned island’s sacrificial animal ready to be put onto a spit roast. They brought him to his porch.
“Tie him to the chair!” The ringleader commanded with venom.
“No! No! Stop!!” Rupert cried out but was too exhausted to fight it. One of the kids dealt him a surprisingly powerful slug to the face.
“This will teach you.” Scowled the one who dealt the hit.
Suddenly, ropes surrounded him, wrapping around him and the rocking chair.
“Next time, be prepared.” The ringleader hissed. They all then ran off, leaving only the trace of a couple of distant giggles to signify they were there.
Luckily, these kids were no Boy Scouts, and their rope didn’t affect his ability to get his phone from his pocket. He found Gerald’s number and put it on speaker. It reached his voicemail.
“Gerald, they tied me up—these little shits in the neighborhood. But the most incredible thing happened. Come quick!”

Gerald had an early night, so he couldn’t get to his phone until the next day. When he heard the message, he rushed over to Rupert’s house.
“I smell like egg.” Rupert sulked.
“Jesus, what happened?” Gerald exclaimed, loosening the rope from Rupert’s chair.
“I got beat up by school children. I don’t want to talk about it. Listen, something happened last night. I got out!”
Gerald stopped untying the rope and leaned down beside Rupert.
“What are you saying, Rupert?”
“I got out!” He repeated, excitedly. “I actually got out of the chair! I… I don’t know how, I don’t know why. But I got up! I tried walking to your house, but I ran into the kids, and they brought me back and tied me up.”
“Rupert, that doesn’t make any sense. Why last night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was because it was Halloween.”
“Oh yeah, I heard about something like this.” Gerald replied. He pulled out his phone and searched for a video. He pulled up the video.
“All Hallow’s Eve, or Halloween as it’s known these days, grants any trapped spirit to freely roam the earth for just one night,” The narrator explained, followed by an animated graphic. “Not for long, though. Once the night is over, the spirit must return to its place of confinement.”
“That’s it!” Gerald exclaimed. “Obviously whatever is holding you captive just… left its post, and freed you from it.”
“I saw a funny-looking guy staring at me last night. Didn’t look human. Maybe that was it.” He tried moving out of the chair to no avail.
“Guess it came back.”
“Does that mean I’m going to have to wait a year to get out again?”
“You’re actually going to try to get out? What about all the money?”
“Gerald, what good is money when I can’t enjoy it because I’m stuck here? I miss doing things. Anything. I miss going out and seeing people. I miss sleeping in a bed. You see that soccer field there?”
Rupert pointed at the one directly across the street from his house.
“Yeah?”
“As long as I’ve been living here, I’ve never been on that field. I've seen a game or two. Since being in this chair, I’ve watched every game, just hoping one day I could walk across the street and enjoy it. Enjoy… life… I guess. I need to get out of this chair. Even if it takes a year.”
“We’re going to make this work, ok?” Gerald patted him on the shoulder.
“Take me inside. I’m going to be spending a lot more time there, I think.”
So Gerald got Harry, the neighbor, to help him lift the chair in. They put Rupert in the bath, hosed him down, dried him off, and placed him next to the window inside.

The months went by. Rupert started getting fat, lethargic, and slow. When he wasn’t watching the television from his window, he was getting Gerald to turn him around to look out the window… at the soccer field. It took Rupert a while to find a delivery driver willing to enter his house to deliver his food. Many were understandably worried for their safety, since it was a very unusual request. Gerald’s wife made him food until he finally found a regular delivery driver he could rely on. He even had a small birthday celebration with their parents, Gerald and Nicole. But he urged them to celebrate only his birthday, not the one-year anniversary of the incident.

8 months had passed since the last time Rupert had been out on the porch; he stayed in for Spring, but when it hit Summer, he knew he couldn’t spend those three months inside. It felt odd to be back in his usual spot after such a long absence.

Finally, Halloween approached, and Rupert was prepared. So much so that he would even casually point his shotgun at the punks who harassed him last year, with intent to fire, all the while he waited for Gerald, who promised he’d be there. He waited, and waited, and waited. Hours went by and still no sign of him. Eventually, Rupert decided he couldn’t wait any longer, so he held onto the arms of the chair and rocked it back so hard that it launched him out of the chair and onto the garden path. Because he’d been seated longer than the last Halloween, he couldn’t stand at all. This didn’t deter Rupert; even though he landed on the concrete pretty hard, he dead-crawled down the garden path anyway.
“Nice zombie crawl, Mister Davis!”
“Donovan, I swear to god.” He snapped.
Finally, he got out onto the curb. If he had waited for a passerby, then maybe someone could’ve called an ambulance. But he kept on crawling until he was in the middle of the road, ready to flag down an oncoming car. Suddenly, a car came out of nowhere and hit the brakes to a screech. A man got out.
“My God, what happened to you?” The man leaned down.
“Get an ambulance.” Rupert croaked as he attempted to get up
“Hold on there, let’s get you sitting down. Is this your house? It’s probably safer to get you in there, I think
The man then lifted him and brought him to the front porch.
“It’s locked.” The man said. “Do you have a key?”
“Pocket.”
“Hold on, let’s put you down on this chair.”
“Nooo!” Rupert cried out. It was too late. The ambulance arrived, and so did Gerald. But too much time had passed, and once again Rupert was trapped.

“Where were you?!” Rupert yelled.
“I’m sorry, brother. I had to finish work,” Gerald explained, shrugging. “What with the baby and all. It’s hard to juggle everything.”
“Then what good are you.” Rupert waved his hand.
“What did you just say?” Gerald demanded.
“You heard me!”
“Ok, that’s it!” Gerald yelled. “For the last year I’ve been running around, tending to your every whim, and this is the thanks I get?”
“I got you a house, Gerald.”
“You got me a house, not out of the kindness of your heart, but because you needed me. Out of your own selfishness.”
“How dare you say that to me, ‘this is the thanks I get.’ You live comfortably, don’t you? You’re not like me. Some kinda circus freak to marvel at on the news.”
“Well, why should I devote my life to taking care of my brother every second of the day? It was like this before the chair, and it’s definitely like it now.”
“BECAUSE IT’S YOUR FAULT I’M IN THIS CHAIR!”
“… No. You don’t-”
“It’s true. You got me this gift. You insisted that I sit in it. It was your idea.”
“That’s not fair,” Gerald said softly, shaking his head. “You can’t possibly blame me for this. You told me you liked it! Neither of us knew this was going to happen!“
“And yet, it did. And now I’m stuck here for another year. Thanks to you!”
“Well, if that’s the way you want to be, then fine, I’ll go.”
“Good, go!”
“Goodbye, Rupert.” Gerald walked away.
“Fine! See if I care. Matter fact! I hope I never get out of this chair! I hope I stay in this chair till the day I die! How about that!” The only response Rupert got was the sound of the cicadas.

And that’s exactly what he did. Seasons went by. Halloween had been and gone. Rupert’s spite had outgrown his muscle strength, so he got a live-in housekeeper to get him up and around every Halloween before eventually getting tired of it. Year after passing year, he remained seated. Rupert sat in his chair for Christmases, family holidays, his 35th birthday, his father’s funeral. Gerald decided that, to stop this friction, he would be the first to talk. He was flat-out ignored. The last time Rupert saw him was at his mother’s funeral. By then, Gerald had two kids going into kindergarten and a third on the way, but Rupert still ignored him. That was the last time they saw each other.

Years turned into decades, decades turned into forgotten memories. And by that point Rupert had forgotten what his life was like before the rocking chair. He watched all the kids in the neighborhood move out and start their own families. He watched houses change, and the soccer field he once revered was bulldozed, with an apartment building built on top of it. He didn’t live life; he existed in one. Now, in his early eighties, he was still sitting there… with a blanket wrapped around him. A couple of kids on bikes rode past his house and heard him shouting something.
“Gerald.” He bellowed out. “Gerald?! Where’s Gerald!”

Gerald had been dead for the last ten years.

V.

She found the photograph at a quarter to one, in the last place she looked.

It was in the 1974 folder, which was one of the thin ones, one of the small years. 1974. BELL REUNION / JULY 4. Inside there was nothing but a single photograph in a clear plastic sleeve, and a yellow legal sheet with one line on it in her father’s cursive, not shaky. The young hand. The 2001 hand.

Got this from S.B.’s housekeeper (retired), who got it from the photographer’s estate sale. Don’t know what it means. Can’t stop looking at it.

She slid the photograph out of the sleeve.

A color print, five-by-seven, with a white border and rounded corners. The colors had gone as seventies prints went, warm and soft, the greens going yellow and the blues going green. A picnic. A big lawn with oak trees, and long tables under the oaks covered with checked cloths, and red-white-and-blue bunting hung from a porch rail in the background. A crowd of people in summer clothes, mid-motion, holding paper plates.

In the foreground, a little to the left of center, two people stood side by side, looking at the camera. The only two in the whole picture who were.

A man. Fifty, maybe. Dark hair going gray at the sides. A white short-sleeved shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up past the elbow. A square jaw. He had one hand in his pocket and he was looking straight into the lens with an expression she knew, because she’d seen it on a little girl’s bottom step through a den doorway twenty-five years ago. Something she hadn’t had a word for yet.

Beside him, a woman. Early thirties. Dark hair pulled back hard. A blue cotton dress that didn’t fit her quite right, a borrowed dress, she’d have said, if she’d seen it on somebody else. Her hand was on the man’s arm. Just resting there, light.

And through her left eyebrow, pale against her skin, splitting it in two, ran a thin white scar.

Lena didn’t move.

She didn’t move for so long that Daniel, at the far end of the table with the Evan folder, looked up, and then got up, and came and stood behind her, and looked down at what she was holding.

He didn’t say anything either.

“That’s my father,” Lena said finally. Her voice was steady. “He’s older than he was. He was fifty-one when he left. That’s what he’d have looked like. That’s…” She stopped. “That’s my father.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s my mother.”

Daniel didn’t answer.

“That’s my mother,” Lena said. “When she was young. Before I was born. She looks like me. Everybody always said I looked like her.” She put the photograph down on the butcher paper very carefully. “It’s my mother.”

She took out her phone. It was ten to one in the morning. She called her mother.

Joanne answered on the fourth ring, thick with sleep and then not. “Lena? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Mom. Did you ever go to Blackwater County with Dad? Before I was born?”

“What? No. Honey, it’s one in the…”

“Did you ever go to a Fourth of July picnic? With him? Anywhere? In the seventies?”

“Lena, I didn’t know your father in the seventies. I was in high school in the seventies. In Gastonia.” Her mother’s voice sharpened. “I met him in 1993. At a cookout at the Lake Norman marina. You know that. You know that story. What is this?”

Lena looked at the photograph. At the woman’s hand on the man’s arm.

“Mom. Did you ever have a scar? On your eyebrow?”

There was a silence on the line.

“No,” Joanne said. “Honey, that’s yours. You got that the summer after he left. You went over the handlebars of your bike on Tenth Street. Eleven stitches. You cried for him the whole time they were sewing it.” A pause. “Lena, are you all right? Where are you?”

“I’m fine,” Lena said. “I’m working. Go back to sleep, Mom. I’m sorry.”

She hung up before her mother could say anything else.

She sat looking at the photograph.

Daniel reached past her and picked it up, by the edges, as you hold a photograph that’s evidence. He turned it over.

On the back, a rubber stamp, blue ink, a little smeared:

BELL FAMILY PORTRAITS · BLACKWATER, N.C.

And under that, written in pencil in a neat old-fashioned hand:

July 4, 1974.

Daniel turned it face up again and set it down in front of her on the butcher paper, between the 1863 folder and the cards in the shoebox. He didn’t say anything about the date. He didn’t have to. She’d been born in 1995.

Lena touched the scar over her left eye. She didn’t know she’d done it until she felt it under her finger.

At two in the morning Daniel unfolded the hand-drawn map.

It had been at the bottom of the box, under the topographic quads, folded in eighths. A sheet of drafting vellum, the semi-transparent kind engineers used, gone the color of weak coffee. Her father had drawn on it in pencil and then gone over the lines in fine black ink, and the ink had bled a little into the vellum so every line had a soft gray shadow, like a road seen through fog.

It wasn’t a map of anything Lena recognized. There was no county line. No highways. No town. Just contour lines, carefully copied, the tight brown whorls of mountains and the long loose ones of valleys, and through the middle of them, winding, a single dashed line.

“A road,” Daniel said.

“There’s no road there.”

“There’s no road on any map made since 1870.” He took the 1951 county map off the wall of the conference room, where it had hung behind glass since before he was sheriff, and laid it on the butcher paper, and slid the vellum over it.

The contour lines matched. Not perfectly. Her father had drawn by hand. But the ridges lined up and the hollows lined up, and the dashed line of the road lay across the printed county like a vein under skin.

It started high, at the head of a hollow above Hale Gap. It wound down along the side of the mountain, under Laurel Knob, across the upper Bell lease. It crossed Shoal Creek. It went on south and east, down through the Raines bottom, and ran off the edge of the vellum at the river.

Lena picked up a pencil.

She went down the line of folders on the butcher paper, one at a time. She read the location from each one. She found it on the county map under the vellum and made a small dot on the vellum in pencil.

1. Laurel Hollow. The head of the road.

2. The timber camp on the upper Bell lease. A dot, an inch down the line.

3. The Caldwell mill. That one was off the line, on the river at the edge of town, and she paused over it. Then she found the note in her father’s hand in the folder: *Workers’ houses (mill village) along Upper Shoal Cr. Rd. 4 of 11 lived within 200 yds of route.* She put the dot on the village.

4. The washed-out access road above Hale Gap. On the line.

5. The Voss landing. On the line.

6. Shoal Creek. The Pritchard bend. On the line.

7. Raines ground. On the line.

8. The end of a logging spur on Bell land below Laurel Knob, where a blue Toyota had sat with the keys in it. Daniel watched her make that dot. He didn’t say anything.

When she was done there were nineteen dots on the vellum. Seventeen of them sat on the dashed line, or so close to it the pencil point touched.

She put the pencil down.

They stood and looked at it. A line of small gray dots strung along a road that wasn’t there, like beads on a string, from the head of a hollow where thirteen men and boys had walked into a snowstorm in 1863 down to a family cemetery in the Raines bottom.

In the lower corner of the vellum, below the legend, her father had written something. She hadn’t noticed it before. It was small and it was in the young hand, the 2001 hand, firm, and he’d underlined it twice.

They aren’t disappearing.

They’re going somewhere.

Daniel read it over her shoulder.

“He didn’t write where,” he said.

“No.”

“He didn’t know.”

“Or he didn’t want to put it on paper.” Lena looked at the underline. Two lines, the second darker than the first, like he’d come back and pressed harder. “He put his doubts in the margins. He put the things he was sure of in the middle of the page.” She touched the corner of the vellum. “This is in the middle.”

They ate breakfast at the Blackwater Grill on Depot Street at seven, because neither of them had slept and there was nothing else to do with the morning until the morning started.

The Grill had eight booths and a counter and a waitress named Pauline who had poured Daniel’s coffee before he sat down. It smelled of bacon grease and bleach. Three men in feed caps at the counter turned on their stools to look at Lena when she came in, and turned back, and one of them said something to the others too low to hear.

She ordered eggs and didn’t eat them.

Her phone had buzzed at 6:52 with a message from the motel front desk, forwarded to her cell by a clerk who had clearly read it first. Mr. Silas Bell would be pleased if Agent Mercer would join him for coffee at the house at eleven. She’d shown it to Daniel across the table without a word.

He read it. He handed the phone back.

“You’re going,” he said.

“I’m going.”

“I figured.”

He drank his coffee. Pauline came and topped it off without asking and went away again. He watched her go.

“Lena,” he said. “When you go up there.”

“Don’t tell me to be careful.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He turned his cup on the saucer. “There’s an old thing they say in this county. My granny said it. Eli says it. Half the old women in Laurel Fork Church would say it to you if you asked. You won’t find it written down anywhere.” He looked out the window at Depot Street, at a woman unlocking the door of the florist across the way. “Don’t give your full name to something that ought not to have it.”

She looked at him.

“That’s a superstition,” she said.

“I know what it is.”

“You’re telling me not to tell Silas Bell my name.”

“He knows your name. Everybody knows your name.” He kept his eyes on the florist. “I’m telling you not to give it to him.”

She thought about a woman on a creek bank in a yellow dress. Lena, honey. She thought about Eli Voss in his doorway. How’s your daddy resting? She thought about how many people in this county had said her name to her in four weeks who she had never once told it to.

“That’s the stupidest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Lena said.

“Probably.”

“I’m a sworn officer of the State of North Carolina.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She picked up her fork and ate a bite of cold eggs, to have something to do with her hands.

“Agent Mercer,” she said. “That’s all he gets.”

Daniel nodded, and picked up the check.

VI.

By nine-fifteen, everyone in Blackwater County who mattered knew that Silas Bell had asked the state girl up to the house.

The house was on Bellwood Ridge, at the end of a private road that ran three miles up from the Bell Road bridge through land that had been in the family since 1871. The road was paved the whole way. Nothing else that long in the county was. The trees on either side had been thinned so you could see out over the valley in glimpses, and at the top the road came out onto a broad lawn with oak trees on it, and long views, and a white house with a deep porch running all the way across the front.

Lena stopped the Charger at the edge of the lawn and sat there.

The oaks, and the porch rail where somebody had hung bunting in 1974.

She had the photograph in an evidence sleeve in her jacket pocket. She’d slept with it on the nightstand at the motel. She’d lain awake looking at the ceiling and thinking about her father at fifty-one, with gray in his hair, standing on this lawn twenty-one years before she was born, with a woman who had her scar.

She got out of the car.

Silas Bell met her on the porch. He was early sixties, trim, in a pale blue oxford shirt with the cuffs turned back once and khakis with a sharp crease. Silver hair, cut close. Reading glasses on a cord. He had a long, intelligent, weathered face, a face that had been handsome and was now something better than handsome, and when he smiled at her the smile went all the way up.

“Agent Mercer,” he said. “Thank you for coming up. I know it’s a long drive.”

“It’s a nice road.”

“My grandfather built it. He was a vain man.” He held the screen door. “Come in. Please.”

They had coffee in a room at the back of the house with windows on three sides and a view of the whole valley, the Blackwater River winding through it silver and far away. The coffee came in a silver pot on a tray, carried in by a woman in her fifties who didn’t say anything. There were cream and sugar in silver too, and a plate of thin lemon cookies nobody ate.

Silas Bell poured. He did it himself.

“I won’t take up your morning,” he said. “I know you’re busy. I wanted to say, first, how glad I am about the Pritchard girl. That was good work. I know June Pritchard a little. Our families go back a long way.” He handed her the cup. “And I wanted to say that if there’s anything I can do for you, while you’re here, I hope you’ll ask.”

“That’s kind.”

“It’s selfish. I like to be useful.” He sat back in his chair with his own cup. “I understand you’re with the Raleigh office.”

“Yes.”

“I have a friend there. In the director’s office. We were at Chapel Hill together, a hundred years ago.” He smiled. “He’s mentioned that they’re building out a new unit. Analytical. Pattern work. Cold cases across jurisdictions. He’s been looking for someone with field experience to help stand it up. Someone who’s methodical.” He sipped his coffee. “Someone who likes paper.”

Lena held her cup.

“That’s two,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Judge Hargrove offered to call the director for me too. Two weeks ago. At lunch.” She set the cup down on its saucer without a sound. “Something with a desk and a window, he said.”

Silas Bell looked at her for a moment. Then he laughed. It was a good laugh, surprised and real.

“Well,” he said. “Lyle and I don’t agree on much. I’m pleased we agree on you.”

“Why does everyone in this county want me behind a desk in Raleigh, Mr. Bell?”

He put his cup down. He looked out the window at the valley. The river. A hawk turning slow circles over the far ridge.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he said, “because I think you’d know if I wasn’t.” He turned back to her. “Blackwater is an old place. A careful place. It has survived a great deal, Agent Mercer, a war and a flood and a fire and the end of everything that ever paid for it, and it has survived by being careful about what it disturbs. There are things in this county that have lain where they were put for a very long time. Some of them are better left there.” He said it gently. “I think your father came to believe that, in the end. I think if he were here, he’d tell you so.”

“You knew my father.”

“I met him.” Silas picked up his cup again. “Once or twice. In 2000. He came up here, as you have, and sat in that chair, and asked a great many questions.” He drank. “He was a good man. I liked him very much.”

“What did you tell him?”

“About the same as I’m telling you.”

“Did he listen?”

Silas Bell looked at her over the rim of the cup.

“No,” he said. “He didn’t.”

They sat there. The hawk over the far ridge had found something and dropped out of sight.

Lena could feel the photograph in her jacket pocket. She could feel the edges of the sleeve through the lining against her ribs. She thought about taking it out and laying it on this table between the silver pot and the lemon cookies. She thought about what his face would do. She had built a career on knowing what faces did.

She didn’t take it out.

She stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Bell.”

“Thank you for coming.” He stood too, and walked her to the front of the house, down a long hall hung with paintings of horses and old Bells in dark coats.

Near the front door, between a hunting scene and a stern man with side whiskers, there was a smaller portrait. A young woman in a green dress with a narrow waist and a white collar, painted in the slick bright style of the 1950s. Dark hair in soft waves. A pale, composed face, and eyes that looked straight out of the canvas at whoever was passing, like she’d been expecting them.

A brass plate on the frame. MARGARET ELLEN BELL. 1931 –

That was all. The dash, and then nothing. No second date. On every other portrait in the hall the plate had two.

Lena slowed. Silas Bell, a step ahead of her, didn’t. He walked past the portrait without turning his head, like a man passing a door he’d decided not to open, and Lena understood that he’d been walking past it like that his whole life.

On the porch he stopped. The lawn spread out in front of them, green and wide under the oaks.

He was looking at her. Not at the lawn. At her face.

He looked a beat too long. Then another. It was not the look men gave her. She knew that look and this wasn’t it. This was the look Eli Voss had given her on his porch, and Mrs. Hensley from the bottom of her steps. Except it wasn’t quite that either. They had all been looking at her and seeing her father.

Silas Bell was looking at her and seeing her.

“Mr. Bell,” Lena said. “Have we met?”

He smiled. It was a kind smile, and a sad one, and it held a long time.

“I’d remember,” he said.

She didn’t start the car right away.

She sat in the Charger at the edge of the lawn with the engine off and took the photograph out of her pocket in its sleeve and held it up against the windshield.

The oaks were the same oaks. Bigger now, by fifty years, but the same. The third one from the porch had a low limb that went out sideways and then turned up, like an elbow, and in the photograph that limb was there over the picnic tables, thinner, and here it was in front of her, over an empty lawn. The porch rail. The same white posts. She found the spot where she and her father had been standing, eight or ten steps off the porch steps on the left, near where a flagstone path ran out to the drive. She was parked forty yards from it.

She looked at the photograph again. At the left edge, where the frame cut off a dessert table with a striped cloth, there was something she hadn’t seen at one in the morning in the conference room. Half a small arm, cut off by the white border at the shoulder. A boy’s arm, thin and tan, in a striped T-shirt sleeve. And in the hand at the end of it, held up and blurred with motion, a sparkler, throwing a smear of white light across the corner of the picture like a comet.

She looked up at the porch.

Silas Bell was still standing there, at the top of the steps, with one hand on the white post. Watching her car.

She put the photograph back in her pocket and started the engine, and didn’t look at the porch again all the way down the drive.

VII.

When the gray Charger had gone down the drive and out of sight among the trees, Silas Bell went back through the house to his study.

It was a dark room, paneled, at the north corner, with one window that looked out on the side lawn and the oaks. His grandfather’s desk. His grandfather’s chair. Books nobody had read in sixty years, and the smell of them.

He closed the door. He sat down at the desk.

He took a small brass key from his watch pocket, where he had carried it every day since he was nineteen, and unlocked the center drawer.

The drawer was nearly empty. A fountain pen that had been his father’s. And a photograph, lying face up, alone, in the middle of the drawer, where he could see it every time he opened it.

A color print, five-by-seven. White border. Rounded corners. The colors gone warm.

The lawn. The oaks. The bunting on the porch rail. A crowd of people holding paper plates. And in the foreground, a little to the left of center, a man in a white shirt with gray at his temples, and a woman beside him in a borrowed blue dress, with her hand on his arm.

Around the woman’s face, someone had drawn a circle in ink. It had been blue ink once. It had gone brown, the color of tea, the color ink goes after fifty years in a dark drawer.

Silas Bell looked at it a long time.

He had been eleven years old. He had been standing at the very edge of the frame, to the left, by the dessert table, with a sparkler in his hand that he wasn’t supposed to have. And the woman in the blue dress had turned and looked at him, just after the flash went off, and smiled, and asked him his name.

He had told her. He hadn’t known yet that you shouldn’t.

He touched the brown circle with one finger. Then he closed the drawer, and locked it, and put the key back in his watch pocket, and sat in his grandfather’s chair with his hands folded on the desk, looking at the window, where the oak leaves had just begun to turn.

I.

The tape made a sound like something tearing, and Lena liked it.

She was supposed to be asleep. She was six, and it was a school night, and Mama had put her down at eight with the nightlight and the door open a crack. But Daddy had been in the den since supper with the boxes, and the tape kept making the sound, and she’d gotten up and come down the hall in her socks and sat on the bottom stair where she could see through the den door without being in the den.

Daddy was on his knees on the carpet. There was a box in front of him, a white one with a lid, the kind he brought home from work with folders in them. He’d put the lid on. Now he was going around it with the tape gun, around and around, so many times the tape went shiny and thick like a scar on a knee.

He stopped. He sat back on his heels and looked at it.

Then he took a black marker out of his shirt pocket and uncapped it with his teeth, and wrote on the lid, in big square letters, slow, like he wrote on her lunch sack.

THE BLACKWATER PATTERN

He looked at it a while. Then he moved the marker down and wrote again, smaller.

Lena, don’t open until

The marker stopped. He shook it. He tried again, and it made a gray scratch with no ink in it. He shook it harder and pressed down and it squeaked on the cardboard and left nothing at all.

“Shoot,” Daddy said, very quietly.

In the kitchen, the phone rang.

He looked at the kitchen door. He looked at the box. He put the cap back on the dead marker and put it in his pocket and got up, his knees cracking, and went to answer the phone, and on the way past the den door he saw her on the bottom step.

He didn’t fuss. He came over and crouched down so his face was level with hers. He smelled like coffee and the cardboard.

“Hey, bug,” he said. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“What’s in the box?”

“Work stuff.”

“What’s Blackwater?”

The phone rang again in the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder at it. When he looked back his face had something in it she didn’t have a word for yet. She would have one, later. She’d have a lot of words for it.

“It’s a place,” Daddy said. “In the mountains. I have to go there for a while.”

“How long?”

“Not long.” He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Go on up. I’ll come kiss you.”

She went up. He came and kissed her. He left in the morning, before she was awake, and the box stayed on the den floor for six days with *Lena, don’t open until* on it, and on the seventh day her mother carried it up the pull-down ladder into the attic and didn’t bring it down.

Twenty-five years later Lena Mercer climbed the same pull-down ladder in the same house in Hickory with a flashlight in her teeth, and the box was right where it had always been, under the eave by the chimney, behind a Christmas tree in a bag and a crib that had been hers.

She knelt in the insulation dust and put the flashlight on it.

The tape had gone yellow and stiff. It had pulled away from the cardboard at one corner and curled. But it was all still there, all the way around, every layer of it, shiny and thick.

THE BLACKWATER PATTERN.

Lena, don’t open until

Nobody had ever cut it.

II.

“You’re not taking that out of this house,” her mother said.

Joanne Mercer Kimball was sixty-one and had been married to an orthodontist named Dennis for nineteen years, and she had the kitchen of a woman who’d waited a long time for nice things and gotten them. White cabinets and a marble island, and a wall of photographs in matching frames: Lena’s graduation, Lena at the academy, Joanne and Dennis on a cruise ship, Joanne and Dennis with Dennis’s grandchildren at the beach. In none of them was there any man who was not Dennis.

The box sat on the marble between them. Lena had carried it down the ladder without asking.

“It’s mine,” Lena said. “It’s got my name on it.”

“It’s got half a sentence on it.”

“It’s still my name.”

Her mother had a dish towel in her hands. She’d been drying the same glass since Lena came down the ladder. She put the glass in the cabinet and kept holding the towel.

“Is this about the case?” Joanne asked. “The girl. Dennis saw it on the news. She came home.”

“She came home.”

“Then you’re done.”

“I’ve got two weeks.”

“Two weeks for what?” Her mother put the towel down. Picked it up again. “Lena. Honey. Two weeks for what?”

Lena didn’t answer that. She put her hand flat on the lid of the box.

“You kept it,” she said. “Twenty-five years. You moved Dennis into this house and you redid the kitchen and the deck, and you never once threw this out.”

“It wasn’t mine to throw out.”

“You never opened it.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Her mother looked at the box. At the yellow tape. At the square black letters.

“Because I knew what was in it,” Joanne said. “That county. That’s what’s in it. He went up there in 2000 for a case, a few weeks he said, and he came back a different man. He’d sit at that table right there and he wouldn’t hear a word I said to him. He’d sit up till two in the den with his maps. He’d go back up for a weekend and stay a week. And I’d say Frank, what is it, what’s up there, and he’d say I don’t know yet, Jo. I don’t know yet.” She twisted the towel. “He chose it. Over us. Over you. He chose that county over his family, and it took him, and I wasn’t going to let it have you too.”

“Mom.”

“You were six. You’d sit on that bottom step every night waiting for him to come down the hall and kiss you. For a year. Every single night.” Her mother’s voice didn’t break. Lena had never once in her life heard it break. “So no. I didn’t open it. And I’m asking you not to.”

Lena looked at her mother across the marble island. At her good haircut and her reading glasses pushed up on her head and the dish towel twisted around her hand so tight the fingers had gone white at the tips.

“He wrote my name on it,” Lena said. “Not yours.”

Her mother flinched. It was small. Lena saw it and wished she hadn’t said it and knew she’d say it again.

“Fine,” Joanne said. She put the towel down on the counter and smoothed it flat. “Fine. Take it.”

Lena picked up the box. It was heavier than it looked. At the kitchen door she stopped.

“Do you ever think about it?” she asked. “What happened to him?”

Her mother was looking at the wall of photographs. At Lena in her academy uniform.

“Every day,” Joanne said. “I think about it every day. And every day I decide not to.”

She made it to the end of her mother’s street. She made it to the stop sign at the corner of Fourth Avenue, by the Lutheran church with the sign out front that said FALL FESTIVAL OCT 3 ALL WELCOME. She sat at the stop sign with the box in the passenger seat beside her, belted in like a child, and nobody behind her, and the turn signal ticking.

Then she put her forehead on the steering wheel and cried.

It went on a while. She didn’t fight it. She had fought it in her mother’s kitchen and on the ladder and in the attic in the insulation dust, and she was out of fight. She cried like being sick, with her whole body, in the front seat of a state car at a stop sign in Hickory with the turn signal going.

When it was done she sat up. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand. She looked at herself in the rearview mirror and didn’t look long.

The box sat in the passenger seat with the seatbelt across it.

She took her phone out of the cupholder and called Daniel Rusk.

He picked up on the second ring. “Mercer.”

“I’ve got it,” she said. “My father’s file. I’m two hours out.”

He didn’t ask what file. He didn’t ask anything.

“Clear a table,” Lena said, and turned left onto Highway 70, west.

III.

He’d cleared the conference table at the sheriff’s office. He’d done more than clear it. He’d covered it in white butcher paper from the roll they used for homecoming, taped down at the corners, and set out a box of nitrile gloves and two legal pads and a pack of Post-its and four sharpened pencils in a row. He’d put on a pot of coffee. Real coffee, from a bag, not the machine.

Lena stood in the doorway with the box in her arms and looked at it.

“You’ve done this before,” she said.

“Not with this one.”

She set the box down in the middle of the paper. They stood looking at it. Lena, don’t open until. Daniel read the half-sentence and looked at her and didn’t say anything about it. She was grateful.

She took out her pocketknife and cut the tape.

It went slowly. Twenty-five years of tape, around and around. It came away in yellow strips that curled on the butcher paper like peeled bark. When she lifted the lid there was a smell of dust and old paper, and under it a faint sharp chemical smell she couldn’t place until Daniel said, “Mimeograph,” and then she could.

The box was full.

Folders. Dozens of them. Manila and green and red, the old pressboard kind with the metal fasteners, each one labeled on the tab in the same square capitals her father had used on her lunch sack. They were packed in tight, upright, in order. Under them, flat on the bottom, were maps. Topographic quads, folded. A county road map from the 1950s. And a shoebox, a real shoebox, Buster Brown, with the lid held on by a rubber band that had melted into the cardboard.

She put on gloves. She started taking folders out and laying them on the butcher paper in a line, in the order they’d come out of the box.

1863. HOME GUARD / LAUREL HOLLOW.

1891. VOSS-BELL TIMBER CAMP / SPLASH DAM.

1927. CALDWELL MILLS / FIRE.

1959. SEARCH PARTY (7).

1976. W. HALE.

1978. D. PRITCHARD.

1990. M. RAINES.

1996. E. RUSK.

Daniel had stopped moving beside her.

She looked at the last label a while. Then she went on taking out folders, because that was the job, and laid them down, more of them, smaller dates, years she didn’t recognize, 1884, 1902, 1934, 1971, and when the box was empty she counted them and there were thirty-one.

She opened the first one.

REPORT OF CAPT. J. W. RUSK, BLACKWATER COUNTY HOME GUARD, TO THE ADJUTANT, ASHEVILLE. JANUARY 1863. A photostat of a handwritten letter, the ink gone brown and the writing slanting hard. Thirteen prisoners taken in Laurel Hollow, suspected of Union sympathies and of harboring deserters. Prisoners being marched to Asheville under guard. Prisoners escaped in a snowstorm at the head of the hollow. Pursuit made. No prisoners recovered.

Behind it, on a sheet of yellow legal paper, in her father’s hand:

13 men & boys. Youngest 13, oldest 61. “Escaped” in snow. No bodies ever recovered. No graves. Families never heard from them again.

Laurel Hollow appears on county maps 1849, 1855, 1861.

Does not appear on any county map after 1868.

Location on 1861 map corresponds to head of old Bell skid road above present Hale Gap. See topo.

Daniel was reading over her shoulder. She could hear him breathing.

“J. W. Rusk,” Lena said.

“Josiah,” Daniel said. “My great-great-great-granddaddy. He was sheriff after the war.” He didn’t say anything else.

She turned to the next folder. 1891. A newspaper clipping from the *Asheville Citizen*, photostatted gray. A splash dam on a fork of the Blackwater had given way in a June flood and swept away a timber camp. Twenty-two loggers, the cook, and the cook’s daughter. A list of names. Vosses, Hales, Shooks. A Pritchard.

Camp site searched for 3 wks. No bodies. Camp site itself not located after flood. Survivors (2) disagree on where it was.

Survivor 1 (L. Voss, age 16) told family: “We was in the wrong year. I seen my granny that died.”

1. A Caldwell Mills press release, typed. A fire in the carding room on the night of March 9. Prompt action by the night watchman. No loss of life. Production resumed in three weeks.

Payroll records (Caldwell Mills, obtained from Baker family, see letter): 11 card room workers paid through week ending Mar. 5, 1927. None of the 11 paid after. None appear in county death records. None appear in 1930 census.

Mae Baker (b. 1932) says her aunt Nell Baker “went to work and never come home.” Family told she ran off.

Lena laid each folder down open and went to the next. She didn’t stop. She was aware of Daniel beside her, and then not beside her, pouring two cups of coffee, and then beside her again setting one by her elbow where she wouldn’t knock it over, and she didn’t stop to drink it.

1. A carbon copy of a county search report. Seven names she knew now from Daniel. A long typed paragraph about the storm and the washed-out road. Search suspended due to conditions.

2. A Xerox of a three-page sheriff’s report. Juvenile located. No name.

3. A photostat of the Della Pritchard file. Thinner than Daniel’s copy.

She stopped.

RAINES, MARTHA ANN. W/F. 34. A woman who’d walked out to check on a heifer in a storm in April 1990 and never come back to the house. The Raines farm. The folder had a photograph of a field with a fence line and, at the top of the field, a grove of cedars around a little cemetery.

“I don’t know this one,” Lena said.

“Hollis Raines’s mama,” Daniel said. “Hollis was ten.” He looked at the photograph of the cemetery. “That’s Raines ground. The family plot.”

She laid it down. She picked up the next one.

1996. E. RUSK.

She didn’t open it. She held it out to him.

He looked at it a long time. Then he took off his reading glasses and folded them and put them in his shirt pocket, and took the folder from her, and sat down in a chair at the far end of the table with it, alone, and opened it.

She left him there. She went back to her end of the table and opened the next folder in the line and didn’t look at him again for a long time.

IV.

By eleven o’clock the butcher paper was covered.

Thirty-one folders laid open. Maps unfolded and weighted at the corners with coffee cups. Post-its in her handwriting and in Daniel’s. Lines drawn in pencil on the paper itself, between folders, connecting dates.

And her father’s handwriting everywhere.

It was in every folder. On the yellow legal sheets clipped inside each cover. In the margins of the photostats. On index cards rubber-banded together and tucked into the pockets. The square capitals for labels and the slanted cursive for notes, and Lena, who had not seen her father’s handwriting since she was six years old except on the backs of three birthday cards her mother had kept in a drawer, found that she knew it. She knew it as well as her own. She would have known it anywhere.

It was methodical. It was dry. It was a good investigator’s notes, the kind she’d been trained to keep, the kind she did keep: the facts on the page, in order, sourced, and the doubts in the margins.

The doubts were always in the margins.

She noticed that around nine o’clock and stopped and sat back in her chair.

Every time her father didn’t believe a witness, every time a number didn’t add up, every time an official report said one thing and the payroll records said another, his pen went to the margin. A small notation in the left margin, beside the line. Sometimes a question mark. Sometimes a single word. No. Or Why? Or, once, beside the typed sentence No loss of life in the Caldwell press release, Liar.

Lena did that. She had done that her whole career. Her training officer in Raleigh had teased her about it. Mercer’s marginalia, he called it. She had always thought she’d picked it up at the academy.

She looked at her father’s small square *No* in the margin of a hundred-year-old press release, and sat there with it.

“Lena.”

Daniel had come back up the table. He was holding a sheet of yellow legal paper from the Evan folder. His face had nothing on it that she could read.

“He knew me,” Daniel said.

“What?”

He laid the sheet down in front of her. Her father’s slanted cursive. A list, dated across the top. Nov. 2000.

E. Rusk case. Spoke w/ brother, Dep. D. Rusk, age 24. Kid’s been working it on his own 4 yrs. Has the boy’s files. Better notes than the original investigators. Good instincts. Stubborn as a mule.

And in the margin, beside it, small:

Tell him about the road?

Then, under that, a second time, in different ink, pressed harder:

Not yet. He’s not ready. Neither am I.

Lena read it twice.

“He never told me,” Daniel said. “About any road. We worked together six months. He’d come in and sit at my desk and we’d go through Evan’s boxes, and he’d ask me questions, and he never…” He stopped. He looked at the sheet. “Not yet.”

“He didn’t get to,” Lena said.

“No.”

They stood there with it between them.

“He said I had good instincts,” Daniel said. He laughed, short. “He told me I was a pain in the ass. To my face. More than once.”

“He wrote ‘stubborn.’”

“He did write stubborn.”

She almost smiled. She looked down at the page, at Good instincts, in her father’s hand, about a twenty-four-year-old deputy who’d grown into the man standing next to her, and she felt something she couldn’t name and didn’t try to.

It was in the shoebox that she found the cards.

The Buster Brown box. The rubber band broke when she touched it, all at once, like it had been waiting. Inside were index cards. Hundreds of them, three-by-five, white and ruled, stacked on edge and divided by tabs into years.

She took out the first stack and fanned it.

It was her father’s handwriting. And it wasn’t.

The letters were the same. The square capitals, the slant of the cursive, the way he crossed his sevens and made his g with an open loop. She knew them. But the hand was older. Shakier. The lines wavered. The pressure was uneven, heavy and then light, like the hand of a man with arthritis, or a tremor, or both. The ink on some cards had gone brown.

And the dates were wrong.

Oct. 1979. Mar. 1982. Jun. 1984. Jan. 1987.

Her father had first come to Blackwater County in the fall of 2000. Her mother had said so in the kitchen that morning. Hal Brookshire had said so, in the file Daniel had shown her. Frank Mercer had been twenty-nine in 1979, a patrol trooper in Mecklenburg County. He’d never been west of Morganton.

She looked at the cards.

Jun. 1984. Spoke w/ L. Baker (nurse). Confirms W.H. intake. Has copy of chart. Will hold.

Jan. 1987. E.V. will keep it. He’s the only one I trust. He doesn’t want to.

She stopped on that one. E.V. She had seen those initials in pencil, in the margin of Della Pritchard’s file, beside cf. 1959. She set the card to one side, by itself, and went on.

Mar. 1988. Can’t stop him coming. Tried. Every version I try, he comes anyway.

She put the cards down. She picked them up again. She went through them one at a time, slowly, and the hand got older as she went, the tremor worse, the ink heavier, until by the last tab, 1989, some of the letters were barely letters at all.

The last card in the box had no date. It was in the oldest, worst hand of all. Just a few words in the middle of the card, written large, like a man who couldn’t see well anymore.

Rusk boy. 1996?

Lena sat very still.

“Daniel,” she said.

He came and looked. He read the card. He read it again. She watched him do the arithmetic, the same arithmetic she’d done, and land where she’d landed.

“That’s 1989 or before,” he said. “That card.”

“It’s in the 1989 section.”

“Evan was eleven in 1989.”

“I know.”

“Your father wasn’t here in 1989.”

“I know,” Lena said.

Neither of them said anything for a while. The coffeemaker on the side table clicked and hissed, finishing a pot nobody had asked it for.

“Somebody’s forging his hand,” Lena said. “Somebody who had access to his notes. Made these up to look old. Planted them.”

“In a box taped shut in your mama’s attic since 2001.”

“I know where the box was, Daniel.”

“Then who?”

She didn’t have an answer. She put the card back in the shoebox. She put the shoebox lid on. She put her hands flat on the butcher paper on either side of it and looked at them.

* * *

Continued in Part 2.

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.

Everyone in the house was asleep. I'd taken the batteries out of the wall clock in my room to get rid of the ticking. Now there was complete silence, and I could try again to do something I'd already managed to do successfully.

A week ago, I'd turned over a piece of paper lying on my desk, with a poem I'd written in primary school on it. It was my first success after years of practice. Six days ago, I'd unscrewed the cap of a juice bottle that hadn't been closed all the way. Five days ago, I'd moved one of the cigarettes in an open pack slightly outward, out of the pack. Three days ago, I'd peeled off one of the pieces of tape holding up poster on my wall.

And tonight, my target was a much larger object. I was confident in my abilities now, and after this final attempt, I would be able to reveal my talent to my family and those around me. I had made exactly four attempts in the past week, and I'd succeeded every single time. I had complete faith in myself.

For years, I'd tried countless times and gone through a lot along the way; I'd lost hope, taken a long break from my attempts, then started believing I could do it again and after trying over and over, I'd come to think telekinesis was nothing but a lie and taken another break but then one day, I happened to see a pack of wet wipes fall to the floor all by itself, which rekindled my interest and got me started on my attempts again, and so on.

And now, finally, in the middle of the night, when complete silence had been achieved, I went to the kitchen. I took a steak knife from the drawer where we kept the cutlery and returned to my room.

I gently pulled my desk chair back and sat down. I didn't want to lose my focus, so I was being quiet. The faint sound of the knife touching the desk as I set it down, the soft sounds of my footsteps as I walked, the barely audible scraping of the chair as I pulled it back had an ASMR effect on me. These little sounds, too quiet to disturb the silence, made me feel thoroughly prepared.

Without wasting any time, I focused on the knife. I positioned my hands around it and gathered all my concentration. I slowed my breathing. The only thing in my mind was a knife slowly and calmly spinning around its own axis. I focused, and focused... I concentrated as if someone were hypnotizing me, as though I were following a pocket watch swinging from side to side without ever taking my eyes off it.

Minutes passed. Seconds, minutes, maybe an hour... There wasn't the slightest movement. The knife couldn't care less about me; it was ignoring my efforts, stubbornly refusing to budge.

Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and gave up. I was getting more and more bored, and as time went by, I lost my focus. I had to go to work at noon the next day, and earlier that day, before I left work, my boss had pointed out that I'd left my fly undone. I'd started thinking about that. Who says something like that in front of everyone? You pull someone aside and tell them in private. Anyway, I took the knife back to the kitchen.

After I lay down in bed, I thought about the knife until I fell asleep. I'd lost my confidence in my abilities. If I told someone I could move objects through telekinesis, they might ask me to prove it, and I might fail and make a fool of myself.

I couldn't get the knife out of my mind. I felt as though it were a person who had shattered all my trust in them, betrayed me by revealing a secret I'd shared with it to anyone who would listen. I was angry. The image of the knife standing perfectly still in that spot, like a tree that had sunk its roots deep into the ground, wouldn't leave my mind. I fell asleep in a fit of anger.

I woke up to the sound of my phone alarm. I turned it off, tossed the duvet to my left, and rolled onto my right side to get up. Just as I was about to stretch, I saw it and jolted in place: the knife was suspended in midair beside my bed, standing upright.

I clapped a hand over my mouth. I was about to scream; every instinct in my body was telling me to. I bit my tongue to suppress it.

I took a deep breath. I tried to calm myself down. Then I took another deep breath. My heart was racing.

I reached out toward the knife, but immediately changed my mind. I didn't know what to do. I'd never experienced my thoughts speeding up and getting tangled together so intensely in a moment of panic. Within a few seconds, I'd made and abandoned a dozen decisions, gone back and forth between asking for help and not asking for help, imagined the knife stabbing itself into my body, then dismissed the thought as irrational. My thoughts were racing back and forth at lightning speed. I needed to calm down.

I got out of bed, poured half a glass of water from the pitcher on my desk, and drank it.

I turned around to check if the knife was still there. It was closer to me now. I no longer cared about staying quiet. I yanked the door open and rushed out of the room.

I started walking briskly toward the kitchen. I wanted to grab any drink I could find and gulp it down. I needed to interact with something somehow, to calm myself down. I opened the fridge, took out the milk, and chugged it. I put the milk back, closed the fridge, and turned around to go back to my room.

And the knife was right behind me.

It was a meter away from me, just standing there. It was as if it were staring at me, judging me. It didn't move at all. It always maintained the same position and stayed at the same height above the floor, level with my bed, right around the height of my shinbones.

I started walking backward toward the kitchen doorway, wanting to see how it was following me, how it was coming after me. Without changing its position, it glided toward me as if it were moving across a perfectly smooth surface. It always maintained the same distance. When I stopped, it stopped a metre away from me. When I walked, it followed.

I cautiously made my way back to my room, walking backward. I sat on my bed. The knife and I were facing each other. I tried to think of what I could do. I was afraid to touch it. I was worried things might get out of hand. I'd done this. That much was obvious. Now that I'd calmed down a little, my panic had shifted in a different direction. Someone might see us. I had to sever my connection with the knife before I got caught. I might be able to accept this as normal, but I didn't think my mother and father would be able to handle a knife following me around.

Yes, it was probably because I'd concentrated so intensely on the knife all this time that the bond between us had grown stronger. I'd probably never concentrated on a knife so intensely in my entire life. I needed to reverse the process. I relaxed a little. I tried to think about other things, to take my mind off the knife.

I thought about the wristwatch my father had bought me for my birthday last year. It was a terrible watch, but I hadn't let on because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Then one day, while wearing it, I'd deliberately gone swimming in a pool. The watch had stopped working, and that was how I'd gotten rid of it.

The knife was still in the same place.

I thought about the eggplant soup my mother had made yesterday. It was my favorite soup. I'd tipped the bowl back and gulped down the last few mouthfuls, and my father had given me a stern look.

The knife hadn't moved at all. It was standing there, a meter away.

My mother knocked on the door and called out.

"Breakfast is ready, Albert."

I had no other choice. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I reached out toward the knife. My arm couldn't reach it, though. I walked toward it. As I moved closer, it moved farther away, until it had backed all the way up against the wall. It had nowhere left to go. It was pressed against the wall, stuck there. I approached it and grabbed the handle.

My heart was pounding at full speed. I closed my eyes. As a final attempt, I thought about the baseball bat I'd lost before I became interested in telekinesis. I'd searched everywhere for it. Such a large object, yet it was nowhere to be found. I'd checked the baseball field, my grandmother's house, the streets I'd walked along, and I'd even contacted the lost property office in case I'd somehow left it on a bus. It was gone.

Yes, good. I could feel a long chain of thoughts forming and my focus weakening considerably.

The knife was loosening, letting go. I could feel it. But I still didn't have complete control over it.

I needed to think about something else. But I couldn't think of anything. I heard my mother's footsteps approaching my room. She was getting closer to the door.

"Come on, son. Are we supposed to wait for you?" she said from outside, then opened the door and walked in.

I pulled the knife with all my might, and just like when you yank something hard that's stuck somewhere and it suddenly comes loose, I went flying toward my bed.

With the knife still in my hand, I hit my head against the bed frame. And passed out.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed with an IV drip in my arm. My father was sitting beside me. I felt exhausted. I'd received three stitches in my head, and it ached a little.

"Son, why were you holding a knife? What were you doing with it?"

"What knife, Dad?"

"You were clutching a knife in your hand. What do you mean, what knife? What are you up to?"

I couldn't remember anything. That was good. I hoped it wasn't temporary memory loss, because I didn't want to attempt telekinesis again.

Damn, it's hot this summer. I can't keep the house cool on the sunny side. The skeeters are bad, too. I have so many bites that I feel like a big, walking bug bite.

I haven't seen my cat, Hades, in three days since she went walking into the woods behind the house. She usually comes back before long, purring and pleased with herself for whatever she was doing out there.

I have decided that I'm going to go into the woods and look for her after it cools down some this evening. I taught her to come when she's called when she was a kitten by giving her treats when she came to me.

Hades is hard to see in the shadows with that black fur, but it's just too damn hot to look for her right now. I would risk having heat stroke if I tried.

There's a rumor that people who go too far into the woods will not come back out. I wonder if that goes for cats as well. I miss that bratty cat. I've had her since she was born. I spoiled her too much when she was a kitten, but I couldn't help myself.

Hang on. What's that messed up critter walking out of the woods? "Hades, is that you?" I have to go see. If it's her, she didn't react like she normally does.

"You crazy furball. What happened to you? I'm going to have to see if you're hurt." I reach down to pick her up, but stop short. It's definitely Hades, but something feels wrong.

"Ouch! What the heck? You scratched my face! No, young lady. Do not scratch me again. Get the fuck off! Aaaarrgggg..."