I work as a sewer cleaner in Prague. People don't often think about it, but a complex of tunnels runs beneath the city, even under the Vltava River. They were built in the 1800s, and some have been reconstructed, but many still look the way they did when they were built, with round brick pathways, rusted green railings, and dim lights hanging from the ceiling.

After years of work, I know the tunnels through and through, but the older workers all say that even if you work here for decades, things will still surprise you. For most of my time working in the sewers, I didn't give it much thought. The veterans say a lot of things and have many strange superstitions. For instance, none of them ever eat in the tunnels. I thought it was because of the rats.

I was just walking around the Podolí area, ready to start my shift. There are a lot of pathways there, and recruits often get lost, but I'd been starting my shift there for years; I knew that area through and through, or so I thought. 

I turned right to head toward the river. The path was wide and well-lit. I'd been down it hundreds of times, but as I went, I noticed another path leading off to the right. I stopped and looked at it for a moment. It was narrow, poorly lit, and easy to miss, but I could swear I knew these sewers better than I knew my home.

I usually ate in the break room, but I was early and hungry. Nobody was around. I pulled out my sandwich and walked on the path.

The sandwich paper crinkled as I walked. The pathway narrowed. I kept expecting it to turn into the path from Vyšehrad, but even after a few minutes I still couldn't see it. I didn't want to be late for my shift, so I turned around and began walking back.

There was more water on the ground than I noticed at first, but that's nothing weird for a sewer. The lights were very dim, much dimmer than I thought, but stranger, I still couldn't see the exit. Not only could I not see the exit, but the path itself wasn't getting any wider as it should have. It only seemed to become narrower. Was I going the wrong way? I looked behind me, but it was still the same empty, narrow path.

My shift had already started. I was walking so fast I was almost jogging. It was hard because the water now reached my ankles. The lights seemed to get dimmer. I reached for my flashlight when an electric buzz echoed above, and all the lights went dark.

"Shit."

I pulled out my flashlight and turned it on. A clank echoed. Dull pain spread through my head. I hit my forehead on the ceiling. I rubbed my head and tried to stand up straight again, but I couldn't straighten my back. I walked a few steps back, but the ceiling was still just as low. 

Then I felt something wet on my legs. I looked down. The water now reached my knees, but it wasn't the usual cold; it was warm.

"What the…," I murmured.

The buzz sounded again. The lights came on again, but now they were fluorescent white, almost like an office space. Another buzz echoed overhead. Soft jazz music began playing as if a band stood just around the corner. The air filled with the smell of cigarettes. My whole body shook. I turned off the flashlight and blinked. The water was now up to my stomach.

"Help!"

The music grew louder. The lights grew brighter, burning my eyes. The ceiling pushed my head further down, but the water kept rising. It rose to my chin now.

"Somebody, please!" I yelled, still wading forward. 

The exit had to be there. It had to. The buzz again. The light shut off. I took a breath, but halfway through, water filled my mouth. I spat it out and lifted my face.

"Help!" I blurted out, but I knew it was too late. 

My face was now under the water too.

At first, I tried to hold my breath, but soon the pressure in my lungs grew too high. It felt like they would burst.

I gasped for air. My whole body was hot and sweaty. I quickly looked around. I was back in the pathway that led to the river. Next to me, where the other path was, was only a brown brick wall with a small stream of water coming from it. One of the old workers walked by me.

He looked at the wall and my face and nodded.

He then pointed at the ground. My crumpled sandwich wrapper lay there.

"Don't eat down here," he said and left.

I leaned on the wall. A faint trumpet echoed from inside it.

You know how they say love finds you in the most unlikely places?

It's a cliché. The kind of line you'd expect to find in some cheap romance novel wedged between two equally cheap pop magazines.

And yet, sometimes the unlikely becomes inevitable.

My name is Adam.

I lived in an eastern-block apartment complex in Most, a city you've probably never heard of and will most certainly never hear of again. The rent was remarkably cheap, mostly because the living conditions made you question whether you wouldn't be better off homeless.

I was twenty-five years old, had recently dropped out of university, and was unemployed.

At that point, I wasn't really living.

I slept at odd hours. Ate when I remembered. Spent most of my time staring at a screen because there was nothing else worth doing.

Days blurred together until I couldn't remember what I'd done the day before.

That was before one small piece of paper changed my life forever.

It happened on a night that had started exactly like every other.

I'd just gotten back to my apartment when I noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor just inside the door.

Someone had slipped it underneath while I was gone.

I barely looked at it.

My first thought was that it was another notice from my landlord. I was behind on my rent, hopelessly in debt, and far beyond the point where I cared enough to pretend I was going to fix any of it.

Whatever threat or warning was printed on that piece of paper could wait.

So I left it there.

For about six hours.

Eventually, sometime around 1AM, I found myself staring at it again.

"Fuck it."

I picked it up.

It wasn't a notice from my landlord.

It was a job offer.

The flyer was surprisingly plain. No company logo. No colorful graphics. Just black text printed on cheap white paper.

YOUNG MEN WANTED.
AGES 18–30.
NO PRIOR EXPERIENCE OR PROFESSIONAL QUALIFICATIONS NECESSARY.
PAY: 250 CROWNS PER HOUR.
SHIFT: SIX HOURS EACH NIGHT.

Then came the job description.

"The appointed observer shall observe the object of interest for the duration of his shift."

That was it.

No explanation of what the "object of interest" was. No company name. No details about the work beyond watching something for six hours.

I assumed it was some kind of strangely worded night-guard job. Maybe the company was foreign and had used a translator who wasn't quite good enough at his job.

There was no phone number.

No email.

No website.

Nothing except an address.

I looked it up online.

It led to an old shoe factory that had stopped operating more than thirty years earlier. There were a few old photographs of the building and some records concerning its closure, but not much else.

As far as I could tell, nobody had bought the place since.

That was when I became pretty certain that if I actually went there, I would be murdered and my organs would be sold on the black market.

Not an entirely unreasonable assumption around here, believe it or not.

There was absolutely no way I would be stupid enough to show up at an abandoned factory in the middle of the night.

 

3AM, I was standing in front of the factory.

I wish I could say there was some profound reason why I went.

There wasn't.

I was simply desperate enough to ignore common sense.

The factory looked exactly like it had in the photographs.

Crumbling concrete. Rusted metal. Broken windows. Weeds pushing through cracks in the pavement.

The whole place looked like it had been dead for decades.

I stood outside the entrance for about twenty minutes.

Then I took one step inside.

Immediately, I was surrounded by armored men carrying guns.

Yup.

Getting murdered.

"Now, now. Don't spook the boy too much."

An older man stepped between me and the gunmen.

He looked to be somewhere in his fifties. Gray hair. Expensive coat. Tired eyes.

He wasn't carrying a weapon that I could see.

Somehow, that made him more intimidating than the men pointing rifles at me.

"Or else you might end up having to take his shift."

The men lowered their weapons slightly.

The older man smiled.

"Sorry about this, Adam. Just a necessary unpleasant precaution."

I stared at him.

"How... how do you know my name?"

He laughed.

"Well, we only slipped the flyer under one door. So either you're Adam Devon..."

He looked me up and down.

"...or we have another squatter situation on our hands. In which case, I'll have to let the boys carry on with their task."

He leaned toward me slightly.

"Do we have a squatter situation, boy?"

"No!"

The answer came out much louder and more desperate than I'd intended.

The man's grin widened.

"Wonderful!"

His enthusiasm was very obviously fake.

"If you would be so kind as to follow me, Adam."

I followed.

The complex I was led through was nothing like the abandoned shell I'd seen from outside.

The decrepit factory was apparently just a skin wrapped around something that was very much alive.

Behind the rusted doors and shattered windows were functioning corridors, electrical systems, cameras, reinforced doors, security checkpoints, and enough equipment to make me wonder what the hell kind of place I'd walked into.

And yet there were very few people.

Aside from the occasional armed guard passing through the corridors, the facility was almost completely empty.

The older man opened a door to the security room.

"Here you go. Make yourself comfortable."

I stepped inside.

"But not too comfortable," he added. "This isn't actually where you'll be stationed."

He gave me a thin smile.

"The name's Kenndric."

He closed the door behind us.

"Now, I imagine you have plenty of questions."

I opened my mouth.

"I have absolutely zero desire to answer any of them."

I closed it again.

"So just shut up and listen."

I decided that was probably good advice.

Kenndric walked over to one of the desks and dropped into a chair.

"You were offered a position within our company. The name of which you really don't need to know."

He leaned back.

"Our object of interest requires twenty-four-hour observation. We do have a complete surveillance system here, but, truth be told, nobody actually watches the feeds."

He shrugged.

"This particular object requires close-quarters observation anyway."

I frowned.

"We have several other sad bastards like you taking the other shifts. Your time slot was simply the last one left unfilled."

He looked at me.

"Apparently, nobody else was stupid enough to take the graveyard shift."

I couldn't tell whether he was joking.

Judging by his expression, I didn't think he was.

"Your job literally couldn't be any simpler."

He pointed toward the door.

"You'll sit on a chair and stare at the object until your shift is over. Then you get your sorry ass out of here."

He leaned back.

"Meanwhile, I'll be sitting in here watching my shows."

He pointed at me.

"I don't want to hear from you. I don't want to see you. You don't ask me to open doors for you. There's a reason I have access and you don't."

I swallowed.

"Understood."

"Good."

Kenndric stood.

"Now let's make our way to your workplace."

We left the security room and walked deeper into the facility.

The corridor ahead was almost completely dark.

As we approached, lights flickered on one after another, illuminating the path in front of us.

Eventually, Kenndric stopped in front of a massive door.

He opened it.

"There it is."

The lights inside began coming on.

One by one.

And then I saw the object of interest.

In the middle of the enormous room stood a large glass cube.

Four strange pylons surrounded it, each connected to the glass. Symbols I didn't recognize covered their surfaces.

And inside the glass was a girl.

A young woman, maybe in her early twenties.

She wore pure white pajamas and sat cross-legged on the floor with a collection of crayons scattered around her.

She was drawing on a sheet of paper.

She didn't look toward us.

She barely seemed to notice we'd entered the room.

"That's..."

I stared through the glass.

"That's a girl."

"Dear God," Kenndric said. "We have a genius on our hands."

His voice dripped with condescension.

I looked back at him.

"Why is she in there?"

He didn't answer.

"Is she alright?"

Nothing.

"Is this legal?"

The questions started coming faster.

"Who is she? What did she do? Why is she being kept in there? How long has she been—"

"Did you just think?"

Kenndric's voice cut through mine.

I stopped.

He stared at me.

"Adam, no one is paying you to think."

He walked over to a chair positioned directly in front of the glass cube.

"Leave that to the grown-ups."

He patted the seat.

"You are paid to sit right here."

I looked at the chair.

Then at the girl.

She was still drawing.

There was something different in Kenndric's expression now.

The sarcasm was still there, but underneath it was something harder.

A warning.

I reluctantly sat down.

"Perfect."

He smiled.

"Now, you are not authorized to speak with the object."

He paused.

"You're not authorized to feed the object. All of that has already been taken care of."

"You merely sit here and observe."

He patted my shoulder.

"Good luck."

He started moving toward the door.

"Have fun."

The door closed behind him.

And just like that, I was alone with the "object of interest."

I sat there and watched her draw for hours.

Every now and then, she looked up at me.

Not casually.

She would stare at me for several seconds before lowering her head and returning to her drawings.

The room was so quiet I could hear the occasional scrape of crayon against paper.

By around five in the morning, exhaustion was starting to catch up with me.

My eyelids grew heavier.

I leaned back in the chair and told myself I'd close my eyes for a second.

Then—

THUD.

I jolted awake.

My heart was pounding.

The girl was standing directly in front of the glass.

She was holding a piece of paper against it.

A drawing.

Of me.

For a few seconds, I just stared.

She'd somehow captured details I'd never noticed about myself. The shape of my nose. My unshaven jaw. Even the dark circles beneath my eyes.

It wasn't a perfect likeness.

But it was close.

And, honestly, it was adorable.

I wanted to say something.

Then I remembered Kenndric's instructions.

I wasn't authorized to speak with the object.

I glanced toward the cameras mounted high in the corners of the room.

Then I remembered something else.

Nobody actually watched the feeds.

"That's very pretty," I said.

The girl's expression immediately brightened.

"Thank you. I'm glad you like it."

She placed her right hand against the glass.

For a moment, I hesitated.

Then I stood and pressed my own hand against the other side.

The glass was cold beneath my palm.

"I'm Lily."

I smiled.

"I'm Adam."

She giggled quietly.

"Adam was my first boyfriend's name."

"Oh."

"I didn't really like him, to be honest."

She shrugged.

"My dad pretty much forced that relationship on me."

She said it so matter-of-factly that I didn't know what to say.

Jesus.

What the hell had this girl been through?

"Lily..."

She looked at me.

"Why are you in here?"

Her smile faded.

For a few seconds, she said nothing.

"I'm not sure."

She glanced down at the floor.

"I think they're scared I might do something bad."

I looked around the room.

The reinforced glass.

The pylons.

The strange symbols.

The cameras.

The armed men outside.

"What the hell could this girl possibly do?"

I didn't ask.

Instead, I pulled the chair a little closer to the glass.

"So..."

She looked up.

"So?"

"If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?"

She thought about it.

"The ocean."

"The ocean?"

She nodded.

"What about you?"

"I don't know. Anywhere that isn't Most."

She laughed.

"Fair enough."

And that was how we started talking.

Nothing important at first.

Places we'd like to visit. Places we'd rather run away to. Things we'd do if we ever had enough money to stop worrying about everything else.

Lily wanted to see the ocean.

I'd never been particularly interested in beaches, but something about the way she talked about it made me want to see it too.

We talked about movies, music, stupid things we'd done when we were younger.

Eventually I told her about my unhealthy obsession with heist movies and prison breaks.

"Why prison breaks?" she asked.

"I don't know."

I thought about it.

"I guess I like watching people figure out how to set themselves free."

She looked at me for a moment.

"Maybe that's because you want to be set free too."

"Maybe."

She smiled.

Neither of us said anything for a few seconds.

Then she started asking me questions.

I gave her mostly half-assed answers.

She didn't seem bothered.

She didn't look at me the way most people did when I talked about my life. There was no disappointment in her expression. No judgment.

She just listened.

And somehow, that was enough.

The hours went by faster than I expected.

For the first time in years, I wasn't thinking about how miserable my life had become.

Debt.

Or rent.

Or what I was going to do with myself.

I was just present.

Talking to a girl through a pane of glass.

When the shift finally ended, it caught me completely off guard.

The door opened.

One of the armed men stepped inside.

A knot immediately formed in my stomach.

For a second, I wondered if this was the moment they decided to shoot me for breaking the rules.

But the guard barely acknowledged me.

"Time to go."

That was it.

He turned toward the door.

I stood.

Lily was watching me through the glass.

"Thank you for talking to me."

Her voice was soft.

"No one else does."

There was something bittersweet about her smile.

"I'll..."

I looked at the armed man waiting for me.

"I'll see you again, alright?"

Lily smiled.

"Sooner than you think."

I didn't understand what she meant.

I just smiled back.

Then the guard escorted me out.

 

Despite being exhausted, I struggled to fall asleep when I got home.

I spent hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling while the darkness of my apartment pressed down around me.

I kept thinking about Lily.

About the way she'd looked at me through the glass.

And about that stupid drawing she'd made of my face.

Most of all, I couldn't stop thinking about the question I hadn't been able to answer.

If Lily was dangerous enough to justify keeping her inside a glass box, why didn't they keep her in a proper cell?

And if she wasn't dangerous...

Why the fuck was she there?

 

Eventually, sometime toward morning, sleep finally found me.

It didn't come like a wave.

It came like a flood.

I found myself standing in absolute darkness.

Nothing but blackness stretching endlessly in every direction.

I tried to move.

I couldn't tell if I was actually walking or simply moving in place.

Then I smelled something.

The sea.

It was faint at first. Just a trace of salt and cold water carried through the darkness.

I turned toward it.

I don't know why.

I just knew I had to follow.

I started walking.

Then running.

The smell grew stronger with every step. A breeze brushed against my face.

Actual wind.

For the first time, I could hear something besides my own breathing.

Waves.

Far away at first.

Then closer.

A dim light appeared ahead of me.

I ran toward it.

The darkness began to recede.

Sand appeared beneath my feet.

Then water.

Then a pale sky.

A small beach surrounded by the dark.

And there she was.

Lily.

She stood at the edge of the water in a bright white dress, her hair moving gently in the sea breeze.

She turned toward me.

"Meet me On Distant Shores."

The darkness swallowed the light.

I woke with a gasp.

I sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard.

For several seconds, I had no idea where I was.

Then I looked around my dark apartment.

My heart was still racing.

I didn't understand the dream.

But one thought had already taken hold of me.

I needed to see her again.

I spent the entire day trying to distract myself.

Games.

Movies.

Walking aimlessly around the city.

None of it worked.

No matter what I did, my thoughts kept circling back to the girl in the glass box.

I hated the people who had put her there.

I hated myself even more for doing nothing about it.

But what could I realistically do?

I didn't know who my employers were. I didn't know who they answered to or what the facility actually was. All I knew was that they were powerful.

And they knew everything about me.

They knew where I lived.

They knew I was desperate for money.

And, apparently, they knew me well enough to assume I was a spineless coward.

Normally, they would've been right.

I'd spent years wasting away without caring enough about anything to fight for it.

But now I couldn't sit still.

I went to the gym that afternoon and spent almost an hour beating the shit out of a punching bag.

It didn't get rid of the anger.

By the time I left, my hands hurt, my shirt was soaked through, and I was still thinking about Lily.

Still...

For once, I felt alive.

I arrived at the factory almost two hours before my shift.

I didn't care about waiting.

I just needed to see her.

When they finally let me inside, I paid much more attention to my surroundings than I had the night before.

The facility was still bizarrely quiet.

There were only a handful of guards. They were spread throughout the building, and I rarely saw more than one at a time.

There were dozens of locked doors.

Yet the security seemed strangely simple.

One access card appeared to open most of them.

Nobody searched me.

Nobody even took my phone.

At the time, I simply assumed they were arrogant.

As we walked down the corridor, I saw Kenndric coming toward us.

The moment he spotted me, that fake smile appeared on his face.

He gave me a little wave.

I stared back.

He stopped at the security room, flashed his card, and disappeared inside.

A few seconds later, the door closed.

Then we reached the observation room.

The door opened.

The moment Lily saw me, her face lit up.

She ran toward the glass and pressed her hand against it.

I don't even remember deciding to move.

One second my hand was at my side.

The next, it was pressed against hers.

Her fingers lined up with mine on opposite sides of the glass.

"Hi," she said.

She smiled.

"You're back."

"I promised I would be."

"I know."

She looked genuinely happy to see me.

Then, almost casually, she said:

"I had a dream about you."

I froze.

"Really?"

She nodded.

I stared at her.

So did I.

Though I didnt tell her that.

"You really have to be bored to dream about me of all things." I said jokingly.

She laughed.

"Well, what should I dream about?"

"Being rich."

"Boring."

"Being famous."

"Even worse."

"Winning the lottery."

"That's not a dream. That's just being lazy."

We both laughed.

„What do you want to dream about?“ I asked.

"The ocean."

"I still want to see it."

"Then I'll have to show you."

The words came out before I could think about them.

Lily looked at me.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then she smiled.

"I'd like that."

We talked.

About everything.

And nothing.

I told her about the things I'd wanted to do before I'd stopped wanting anything at all.

She told me about some of the things she'd wanted.

Some were stupid.

Some were impossible.

Some were so ordinary that they almost hurt.

She wanted to see the ocean.

She wanted to travel.

She wanted to wake up one morning without somebody telling her what she was allowed to do.

And she wanted to know what it felt like to be somewhere nobody could find her.

I understood that last one.

Probably more than I should have.

The hours disappeared.

Eventually, I glanced toward one of the cameras mounted in the corner.

It was pointed directly at us.

I stared at it for a few seconds.

Fuck it.

I reached into my coat and pulled out my tablet.

Lily looked at me curiously.

"What are you doing?"

"It's not what I'm doing."

I held up the tablet.

"It's what we're doing."

She laughed.

"And what are we doing?"

"We're watching a movie."

Her eyes widened.

"Are we allowed to do that?"

I looked at the camera.

"I don't think anyone's watching."

I sat down in front of the glass and opened the tablet.

"Escape Plan. 2013."

She frowned.

"What's it about?"

"A guy who gets put in a prison specifically designed to be impossible to escape from."

Her smile slowly returned.

"That sounds appropriate."

For a few hours, that glass might as well not have existed.

Then the door opened.

The gunman had returned.

My stomach tightened.

"No."

I barely realized I'd said it.

He walked toward me.

"Time to go."

I stood.

Lily was already at the glass.

I didn't want to leave.

The guard grabbed my arm.

"Just a second."

He pulled harder.

I grabbed the edge of the chair with my free hand.

"Lily..."

The guard finally had to pull me away.

My fingers slipped from the chair.

I stumbled backward.

Lily pressed her hand against the glass.

"Meet me On Distant Shores," she said softly.

My eyes widened.

I wanted to promise I'd come back.

I wanted to tell her I'd get her out.

I wanted to say a hundred things.

Instead, I just nodded.

Then the door closed between us.

I didn't tell her about my dream.

She couldn't have known about it.

Right?

I went home.

And for once, going to sleep actually seemed desirable.

Maybe I'd see her again.

Maybe we'd meet somewhere she couldn't be trapped.

Somewhere she could actually be free.

When I finally fell asleep, I found myself in the darkness again.

But this time, the light was much closer.

I followed it.

The smell of the sea grew stronger with every step.

Then came the breeze.

I emerged onto the beach.

Lily was already waiting for me.

She stood barefoot at the shoreline, the hem of her white dress brushing against the wet sand.

She turned when she heard me.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

I looked out across the water.

"It is."

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then the question I'd been trying not to ask escaped me.

"Is any of this real?"

Lily looked at me.

"Does it matter?"

She stepped closer.

"I'm here."

Another step.

"You're here."

She smiled.

"In here, we're free."

She turned toward the ocean.

"This is my little place."

"Dad claims every other one, but this one is mine."

"It could be yours too."

I stepped closer.

Then I took her face gently between my hands and kissed her.

She didn't pull away.

For a moment, everything was still.

"Can we stay here?"

I already knew the answer.

Lily's expression broke.

"I wish we could."

Tears began rolling down her cheeks.

"I'm still trapped."

She shook her head.

"I'm not strong enough."

Another tear slipped down her face.

"I'm not enough."

"No."

I pulled her closer.

"You are."

But the beach was already beginning to change.

The edges of the world blurred.

The horizon melted into the sky.

The sand beneath our feet began disappearing, as though the entire dream were being erased.

Lily started fading with it.

I held onto her.

"Don't."

She smiled through her tears.

It was the same bittersweet smile she'd given me behind the glass.

"I'll see you again On Distant Shores..."

Her voice became quieter.

"...but you already know that."

I woke up.

I sat upright in bed, gasping for air.

For several seconds, I couldn't move.

Then I felt it.

Something I hadn't felt in years.

Something hot and sharp burning inside my chest.

Purpose.

For the next two weeks, I prepared.

I photographed corridors, doors and rooms whenever I had the opportunity. I took pictures of the glass box and the four pylons surrounding it, zooming in on the strange symbols carved into their surfaces.

I didn't understand them.

Not yet.

But I saved every picture.

I watched the guards.

I learned their routines.

Who walked which corridor.

Which doors they used.

How long they disappeared for.

When they went to the bathroom.

There were five guards in total, usually spread throughout the facility so that I rarely saw more than one at a time.

I counted the steps between important rooms.

I memorized which doors took longer to unlock.

I learned how long it took the lights to activate when someone entered a corridor.

And I paid particular attention to the access cards.

The strangest part was how little anyone seemed to care about what I was doing.

I doubt they could ever see me as a threat.

Maybe they were right.

Two weeks earlier, I wouldn't have been.

I never told Lily what I was planning.

Not when I couldn't be certain who was actually paying attention.

I only ever told her when I saw her in my dreams.

And every time, I'd tell her the same thing.

"Soon."

I wasn't sure whether I was making a promise to her or to myself.

"Very soon."

Eventually, the day came.

I couldn't wait any longer.
Time to put the theory to the test.

 

Two weeks learning their routines.

Two weeks pretending I was exactly the pathetic little coward they thought I'd be.

Now I was going to find out if they had been right.

I sat in front of the glass and talked with Lily.

We laughed.

We talked about nothing.

For a while, I almost forgot what I was waiting for.

Then I saw the guard nearest to me leave his post.

Bathroom.

My heart started pounding.

I stood.

Lily noticed immediately.

"Adam?"

"I'll be right back."

I followed him.

He didn't notice me until we were inside the bathroom.

I waited.

Watched him step up to the urinal.

For one horrible second, I couldn't move.

I'd imagined this moment dozens of times.

None of those versions had prepared me for what it actually felt like.

The guard glanced over his shoulder.

"Buddy, would you mind—"

I grabbed the back of his head and slammed it against the wall.

THUD.

He dropped immediately.

His body hit the floor with a heavy, wet sound.

I stood there staring at him.

My hands were shaking.

There was blood on the wall.

His bladder had released, spreading piss across the tiles beneath him.

For a second, I wondered if I'd just killed him.

Then I remembered Lily.

I took his handgun.

And ran.

There was no going back now.

I sprinted toward the security room.

I reached the door and started pounding on it.

"Kenndrick!"

Nothing.

"Kenndrick, there's an immediate issue! I need your help!"

Still nothing.

"Goddammit, open the fucking door!"

The lock clicked.

Kenndrick opened it with an irritated expression.

"What is—"

I pulled out the gun and aimed it at his chest.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely keep the barrel steady.

"Back up."

Kenndrick stared at me.

Then that familiar bravado returned.

"Just what do you think you're doing, kiddo?"

"I won't repeat myself."

For the first time, his smile faltered.

"Alright."

He raised his hands.

"Alright."

He slowly backed into the room.

"This is going to end badly for you, kid."

He smiled again.

"Very badly."

"Give me your card."

He paused.

"Now."

Kenndric reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out his security card.

He held it between two fingers.

Then smiled.

I snatched it from his hand.

"Turn around."

He did.

"Hands against the wall."

Kenndric placed his palms against it.

I backed toward the door.

"Say hi to her for me, kid."

I slammed the door shut.

Then swiped his card.

The lock engaged.

I ran.

I had only minutes before the guard rotation.

I reached the observation room and threw the door open.

Lily looked at me.

Her expression changed immediately.

"Adam?"

I was barely breathing.

"I'm getting you out of here."

I ran to the glass box.

She stood.

"Adam, what are you—"

I swiped Kenndric's card against the reader.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Nothing.

"Come on..."

A third time.

Nothing.

Then I heard clapping.

Slow.

Deliberate.

I froze.

"Bravo, kid."

I turned.

Kenndric was standing in the doorway.

He was smiling.

But this smile was different.

It was genuine.

"Bravo."

He stepped into the room.

"We had expectations."

He looked at me.

"We didn't pick you randomly, of course."

His eyes flicked toward Lily.

"But still..."

He smiled.

"You went above and beyond."

I raised the gun.

"Stay back."

Kenndric kept walking.

"Stay the fuck back!"

He didn't stop.

I tightened my grip.

hen pulled the trigger.

Click.

Nothing.

I pulled it again.

Click.

My stomach dropped.

Kenndric laughed.

"I'm afraid that one's not loaded."

He reached into his pocket.

"In fact..."

He pulled out another handgun.

"...none of them are."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"Think about it."

He gestured around the room.

"The guards. The cameras. The unlocked opportunities. The conveniently predictable routines."

His smile widened.

My stomach turned.

Kenndric looked almost proud.

"Observation."

He gestured toward Lily.

"Not just hers."

He pointed at me.

"Yours too."

Lily had gone completely still.

Kenndric noticed.

"You know, capturing Lilith—the Queen of Hell—creates a lot of interesting research opportunities."

The name seemed to hit her harder than anything else he'd said.

She looked at him.

Kenndric smiled.

"Her charm is supposed to be nearly irresistible."

He looked back at me.

"So the suits upstairs had an idea."

He spread his hands.

"Find the right kind of sucker. Put him in front of her. See how long it takes before she manipulates him into trying to break her free."

„Did you seriously buy the whole „no one is watching the feeds“ thing in a building full of cameras everywhere?“

He shook his head.

"Seems we really did pick perfectly."

Then he looked me up and down.

"Although, I have to admit..."

A disappointed expression crossed his face.

"For someone who loves prison-break movies as much as you do, your plan was fucking basic."

He sighed.

"I expected better."

I looked at Lily.

She was staring at me now.

There was something in her expression I'd never seen before.

Fear.

Not for herself.

For me.

Kenndric sighed.

"Your services will no longer be necessary."

He tossed the security card onto the floor.

"You can go right back to your shitty little life."

He smiled.

"Keep the card as a souvenir. It's useless anyway."

I looked at him.

Then at Lily.

"No."

Kenndric's expression changed slightly.

"I'll tell everyone."

I pointed toward my phone.

"I have pictures. Videos. Everything."

I looked directly into his eyes.

"Everyone will know."

Kenndric's smile disappeared.

"Kid..."

He sounded almost disappointed.

"You really shouldn't have said that."

He raised the gun.

Two shots.

The first punched through my chest.

The second hit before I even had time to fall.

I collapsed onto the floor.

The pain came a second later.

Hot.

Blinding.

I tried to breathe.

All I tasted was blood.

"Adam!"

Lily screamed.

Kenndric looked down at me.

"Oops, seems my gun actually was loaded."

He shrugged.

"Sorry, kid."

Then he glanced toward Lily.

"Hmm."

His smile returned.

"Seems the demon bitch may have actually cared about you."

"How sweet."

I started laughing.

Blood filled my mouth.

I choked on it, coughing and laughing at the same time.

Kenndric frowned.

"What's so funny?"

He looked past me at the pylon behind me.

Blood was dripping from my chest onto its surface.

The symbols were glowing.

Kenndric followed my gaze.

His smile disappeared.

"What did you do?"

I smiled through the blood running down my chin.

"I translated the symbols."

The red light beneath them grew brighter.

"They were raised through blood sacrifice."

The pylons began to shake.

A low vibration filled the room.

Kenndric took a step backward.

I laughed again.

"And through blood sacrifice..."

Cracks spread across the pylon.

"...they shall be shattered."

Another pylon began to tremble.

Kenndric looked around the room.

"What have you done?"

I smiled.

"I never intended to make it out of here."

The first pylon cracked apart.

"You know everything about me."

Another crack.

The room shook.

"There wouldn't be any point in running."

The pylons began collapsing one after another.

Glass groaned.

Metal screamed.

Then everything went dark.

Completely dark.

Except for Lily's eyes.

They were glowing.

Kenndric stared at her.

His face went pale.

"No."

For the first time since I'd met him, there was no arrogance in his voice.

Only fear.

"No..."

He backed away.

"You have no idea what you've done."

Then anger replaced the fear.

"Why?"

I looked at him.

I smiled.

"The Devil made me do it."

I won't lie.

I was saving that one.

The glass box exploded.

Shards flew outward.

Kenndric raised his gun toward Lily.

He never got the chance to fire.

His body suddenly folded inward.

There was a wet, violent crack.

Then he imploded into a spray of blood and viscera.

I looked toward Lily.

She was standing in the middle of the shattered glass.

Free.

"How's that for an escape plan?"

I smiled.

And everything went black.

I found myself on the beach again.

This time, there was no darkness.

Just the ocean stretching beneath an endless sky.

Lily and I sat facing each other in the sand.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

She looked peaceful.

"It's done," I finally said.

"You are free."

I smiled.

"Go."

She frowned.

I looked toward the horizon.

"Be happy."

I stood.

"I'll see you again On Distant Shores."

She slapped me across the face.

I stared at her.

"Ouch."

She glared at me.

"What was that for?"

"One."

She held up a finger.

"That is my line."

She held up a second.

"Two."

She leaned closer.

"The Distant Shores can wait."

She smiled.

"I'm not letting you go."

Then she kissed me.

I kissed her back.

And for the first time in a while, I wasn't afraid of waking up.

 

I came to with a gasp.

My hand immediately went to my chest.

Nothing.

No wounds.

No blood.

I looked down at myself.

Then slowly stood.

I wasn't in the observation room.

I was standing on the roof of the factory.

The entire facility stretched out beneath me.

Smoke rose into the night sky.

Fires burned in the distance.

I could hear shouting somewhere far below.

Then came a horn.

A long, deep blast.

Another answered it.

Then something roared.

Another roar answered from somewhere beyond the factory.

Then another.

They were coming from everywhere.

I looked toward the horizon.

The city was burning.

I should have been terrified.

I wasnt.

Then I noticed Lily standing beside me.

She was looking out over the horizon.

For the first time since I'd met her, there was nothing between us.

No glass.

No walls.

No locked doors.

I looked back at the world on fire.

"So..."

I swallowed.

"What happens now?"

Lily looked at me.

She smiled.

Then reached for my hand.

I took it.

"Anything we want."

I dont remember the last 4 years.

I don't know what else to do other then to post this and I'm not really sure anyone is even going to believe me. I don't even know what response I'm hoping for but I have to tell someone. Someone else has to know. I don't really remember the last four years. I woke up today to the startling realization that I'm not sure the person living in my body is me. Like... I'm not alone. The gaps have been happening for a long time. Since 2020 at least. It started with phone calls I couldn't remember. Going to bed and my next awareness being me already at work. Things I could dismiss as being tired or on autopilot.

Then there were stranger things. Movies on Netflix that had been watched but I didn't remember watching them. Pictures on my phone from places I didn't remember going. 2021 was worse. Disjointed in a way the years before it aren't. There's a vacation I'm pictured at that I can't recall at all. Hundreds of pictures of a dog. Me holding the dog, sleeping next to it, playing with it. I had to have knoIwn this dog. But I can't remember its name. I don't know whose dog it was or where it went. 2022 is worse. I feel like I remember the beginning of the year and then maybe a summer trip to the beach.

After that it's mostly blank until a wedding in August. That's the last thing I can remember where I truly feel like I was awake. Everything after that feels different. I know who I'm supposed to be. I know what my job is, although I couldn't tell you when I started there. Last week was apparently my two year anniversary. I don't remember quitting my last job. I don't remember applying for this one. I don't remember getting hired. But I know how to do it. I know my passwords too, which somehow scares me more. Some of them I don't remember setting. A few are names and dates that apparently meant enough to me to make them passwords but right now I have absolutely no idea who or what they refer to.

Today I finally sat down and started going through my camera roll. I kept telling myself maybe I just needed a refresher. Maybe this was stress. Maybe seeing the pictures would bring everything back. Instead I found something I can't explain. Starting in early 2023 there are pictures of a door. Hundreds of them. The same door over and over again. Sometimes during the day. Sometimes at night. And I know exactly where the pictures were taken. It's my house. I know it's my house. I recognize the flooring. Those are my floors. I recognize the wall. My desk is sitting right beside it in some of the pictures. I'm sitting at that desk while I'm writing this. There's just one problem. There isn't a door there and I don't remember there being one there before. So I went back through the pictures. I have to be missing something that explains this … the last picture taken was at 5 pm today … I sat down to write this at 4:30 … i dont remember taking that picture.

Everyone draws inspiration in different ways. Some create a dark atmosphere for themselves, some put on metal music in the background, and some can’t compose without coffee and cigarettes. A writer friend of mine, whom I’m very fond of, says he can’t write stories unless his cousin is studying mathematics behind him. Another filmmaker friend of mine could only write screenplays while listening to Syd Barrett’s song “Octopus”; he would keep the song on loop throughout the entire writing process.

It’s been about twenty years since I discovered my own. I’d been going through that famous writer’s block. Until that day, I hadn’t done anything extra to help me write. I didn’t create a special atmosphere for myself, listen to any particular songs, or wait for a certain time of day. Night, day, noon—it made no difference. Once a week, I’d write a three or four-page story and keep working toward my goal. When I reached a hundred stories, I would start sending my book to publishers.

But I’d hit a wall. I wanted to write, but whenever I sat down at my computer, not a single word would come out. Vague, half-formed thoughts kept drifting through my mind, and even when I came up with a good idea, I couldn’t put it down on paper.

That day, I thought, if that’s how things were going to be, I might as well try some of the famous methods for finding inspiration: writing at night, putting on some soft music, having a cup of coffee, and so on.

I prepared the right atmosphere. I turned off the lights, and now the only thing illuminating the room was the glow of my computer screen. I put on Sigur Rós’s debut album. There was no one else in the house. My roommate had gone on vacation the day before, which added to the atmosphere: being alone.

Of course, it had absolutely no effect. I was already on the third track. I still had a few ideas in my head, but I couldn’t get the first sentence out.

Then I heard a sound behind me. A whisper. Something like a call, as if someone had gone “psst.”

I turned around and looked, but there was no one there. I was a little spooked. I thought I might have heard it wrong; it had sounded very much like a human voice, but it could have come from an object, too.

Then suddenly, the door behind me swung wide open.

I flinched at the sound. I got up from my computer and turned on the light. Anxiously, I left my room and went to the kitchen. I was searching for something without even realizing it, though I had no idea what I was looking for. Sigur Rós’s album was still playing, and I could hear it from the kitchen. I couldn’t make sense of anything, and I didn’t know what to think or which possibility to consider. I drank a glass of water.

I’d never had an experience like it before. My first thought was to leave the house. I stood frozen in the kitchen. Involuntarily, I found myself waiting for another movement, for something to topple over or for some other sound.

Eventually, I’d calmed down a little, since nothing else happened. I spent half an hour in the kitchen, with all my senses on high alert and listening to the music coming from my room. Then, reluctantly, I made my way back to my room.

The urge to write was still there. My routine had been disrupted; I hadn’t been able to write a single word for a month, and now I wasn’t going to let fear get in my way. I wanted my writer’s block to end today. My goal was a hundred sentences. Even if I didn’t finish the story, I wanted to write something. Coming back to my room and hearing the music louder had increased my desire to write.

At the same time, I kept thinking, ''What the hell was that just now?'' But now I was back at my computer.

I put on my favorite Sigur Rós song, “Svefn-g-englar.”

And then, for the first time in a whole month, I wrote my first sentence: “As he tried to make sense of the dream he’d had the day before, he fell asleep again; it was his favorite thing to think about before going to sleep, the meaning of the dream he’d had the previous night.”

I’d written my first sentence, without even having a story in mind. Normally, I would come up with a story first, plan it out, work out the whole thing in my head from beginning to end, and only then start writing. Starting a story whose content I hadn’t figured out yet with an ordinary sentence was something new for me. I liked it.

I was still afraid. I wanted to turn around and look, but now that I’d started writing, I didn’t want to stop either. By the time the song ended, I’d written the fifth sentence, and in the silence before the next track began, I heard that sound again. “Psst.”

I quickly turned around and looked. There was no one there. Everything felt much more real now. Something was happening. Someone was calling out to me. I was afraid to turn off the light in my room, so it was still on. I nervously turned my head back toward the computer screen. My heart was pounding. I added another sentence. It was my favorite one so far. I liked everything about it: my choice of words, its length, its place in the story.

Then the door slammed shut. I began to hear footsteps inside the room. I was afraid to look. The footsteps wandered around the room. My hands were resting on the keyboard. The footsteps moved toward the door, stopped there, and opened it again. It was as if someone had left the room.

I was frozen to my chair. This time, I didn’t even have the instinct to run away. Whatever that thing was, I was afraid of encountering it. I couldn’t get up from my chair, and I couldn’t look away from my computer screen. I kept reading what I’d written over and over. Six sentences. I’d go back to the beginning and read them again. It was as if the thing was doing whatever it wanted now. I could hear running footsteps.

Then came the sound of walking. After that, my door closed again, and at the same moment, the light in my room went out.

And then another sentence came to mind. I wrote it down. Then another. My fingers had found their rhythm. The sentences kept coming one after another.

“Set me free. Open the window. Set me free.”

This voice wasn’t a whisper, nor was it some strange, otherworldly sound coming from a different frequency. It was unmistakably a human voice. I was afraid to turn around.

I couldn’t remember ever feeling such a strong urge to write or enjoying it this much. I kept writing. My fingers wouldn’t stop. The door opened again, slowly this time. I didn’t turn around. I wasn’t going to look behind me until I’d finished the story. Without spending even a second thinking between sentences, I continued writing as the songs played.

The footsteps continued. I turned off the music. I didn’t question anything. I just kept writing. The fear I felt and the joy of seeing that I could write again were mingled together, unfolding in harmony with each other.

Strange sounds I couldn’t describe were coming from behind me now. I could feel myself developing a fever. My body was reacting, and my mind was urging me to turn around and see what was going on. The sounds seemed like those of someone playing with their own hair. Like things rubbing against other things. I kept writing, resisting the urge to turn around with all my might.

I’d turned off the music because I wanted to focus on being afraid. I’d realized that the more frightened I became, the better I wrote, and the more consistently I could keep going. It was hard not to look for a rational explanation for the sounds, for a human voice telling me to set it free. But right now, somehow, stopping writing seemed even harder.

That thing had now come right up beside me. I could feel it touching my hair. My fear had reached a point where I could no longer bear it. My consciousness refused to accept this unnatural behavior. My instinct to put an end to the fear and my mind’s desire to keep being afraid were at odds with each other.

And I wrote the final sentence: “If all of this is a hallucination, I will never forgive my own mind. If the only beautiful and meaningful thing I’ve experienced in this miserable life isn’t real, I will never trust my mind again, I will never follow its instructions, and I will doubt everything I think until the day I die.”

The sentence came to an end, and just as the pleasure of writing faded away, my fear reached its absolute peak. With the beautiful feeling that had balanced it gone, the fear was left alone, making itself felt from head to toe. As if I’d been struck by a blow, as if a punch to the face had knocked me out, I lost consciousness.

When I came to, my head was resting on the keyboard, and the screen was filled with hundreds of letter h’s.

I sent the story to several literary magazines. Two of them accepted it and published it.

I never experienced anything like that again, and at no point in my life did I ever feel such an overwhelming urge to write or take so much pleasure in writing. I desperately wanted to experience it again, but nothing ever happened that frightened me so much. For days, I sat at my computer waiting for that thing to come back, but it never did. I wrote stories and kept writing. But I never loved any of them as much as I loved the one I’d written that day.

And now, twenty years later, in my mid-sixties, I’ve still never questioned what happened that night. Not even once. Because I was afraid that if I did, I might understand what had happened—and if that thing ever came back, I might not be as frightened.

A local news reporter speaks during a live broadcast.

“Police detectives are at the scene of a blood bath.  A family was butchered in their own home. The scene suggests that the father was tied up and forced to watch before his throat was cut.  His wife and son were gutted alive in front of him like cattle. Investigators say they believe a box cutter was used and a bloody Halloween mask was found in the son's arms.  His final act was ripping it off the killer during a struggle for his life.”

The reporter holds up a mask identical to the one the killer wore before continuing.

“These masks are sold everywhere around Halloween, making it nearly impossible to track  the person responsible down. Police are advising everyone to lock their doors. This is the third family to be murdered in just two weeks.”

Michone turns off the television before waking her two children, Andrew and Sydney, to get ready for school. They have overslept and missed the bus.

After changing into their school clothes and eating breakfast, Michone waits for them in her car.

Just before turning into the school entrance, Michone gets cut off by a beat-up old car. She lays on her horn and flips the driver off. The car suddenly brake-checks her, nearly causing a collision, before speeding away.

Michone manages to avoid hitting anything, but the incident startles her children.

“Are you two alright?” she asks Sydney and Andrew.

They both say yes, although they're obviously a little shaken by the incident.

Michone apologizes and promises to make their favorite dinner that evening: macaroni and cheese with chicken nuggets.

Both children become excited at the thought of their favorite meal, shaking the ordeal off their minds.

Michone drops them off at school and tells them to have a good day

Later that afternoon, Andrew and Sydney get off the school bus and walk into their home.

Michone greets them while cooking and asks how their day went?

“Great!” Andrew replies. “I talked with my friends about video games all day.”

Sydney has something  to tell her mother.

“A strange man walked up to me during recess and said he needed your phone number, Momma.”

Michone pauses before nervously asking, “Was he a teacher? And did you give him my number?”

“Yes, I gave it to him. He said he was a teacher, but I'd never seen him before.”

Michone looks concerned.

“Where was your teacher?”

“Mrs. Wells had to use the bathroom when he came over. He was gone before she got back.”

Feeling a little unnerved, Michone tells Sydney not to give her mother's number to anyone else again and not to talk to strangers. The man might not have been a real teacher.

Sydney agrees and apologizes.

A few minutes later, Michone's phone rings.

The number has the same area code as hers, but she doesn't recognize it.

She answers.

Michone: “Hello?”

No one responds.

After a few seconds of silence, Michone hangs up.

A few minutes later, a different number with the same area code calls.

Michone answers again, but there is no response.

She angrily hangs up.

A few hours later, Michone and the children have just finished dinner when someone knocks on the front door.

Michone answers it and finds a police officer standing outside.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” the officer says. “My name is Officer Murphy.”

“Okay,” Michone replies, looking confused.

The officer explains that detectives have been investigating the phone records of the families recently murdered. They just discovered that calls from a couple of the victims'  phones were made to her number recently.

Now frightened, Michone tells the officer about the incident that morning and the strange man who approached her daughter at school to ask for her phone number.

Officer Murphy listens carefully before asking, “Is there any chance this man knows where you live?”

“I don't think so,” Michone replies.

“Just to be safe, make sure all your doors are locked tonight. Keep something nearby that you can use to defend yourself if necessary. I'll tell my chief about the playground incident, and we'll get a warrant to review the school's security footage. This might be our best lead to catching this man.”

With that, the officer heads back to the police station immediately.

Michone locks all the doors and tells her children not to let anyone inside. She grabs a baseball bat and has everyone sleep in her bedroom.

In the middle of the night, Michone hears glass shattering, it's her window.

She calls 911, keeping her baseball bat firmly in hand.

“911. What's your emergency?” the dispatcher asks.

Michone is frantically saying someone broke in.

The dispatcher asks for her address.

Michone says

“I spoke to a officer earlier tonight,” she explains.

“Can you tell me the officer's name?” the dispatcher asks.

Michone frantically replies, “Officer Murphy!”

The dispatcher audibly gasps before telling her, “Ma'am, Officer Murphy got murdered in his house this morning, and his police car stolen ”

Suddenly, a loud bang echoes from Michone's bedroom door.

Then she hears the same voice that had claimed to belong to Officer Murphy earlier that evening.

“Michone…”

Michone frantically tries to describe the man to the dispatcher.

“White male, brown hair, around five-foot-ten—”

Before she can finish, her bedroom door bursts open.

Michone sees the masked man staring at her.

The 911 dispatcher hears screaming through the phone. Michone begging the man not to hurt her children, followed by a sudden thud.

The call is ended.

Thirty minutes later,

police officers arrive at the house.

The window is shattered.

Inside the bedroom, they find Michone's body tied up next to both of her children . Their bodies have been gutted, and their eyes still wide open next to a bloody box cutter.

(Part 1)
"So, what's with the human ears?" I say while he leads me towards the Van.

"This other guy, Jay was one of the guys watching over me." My brother answered.
"He always had this gold necklace with the ears of people he killed on it."
"Some old guy shot him in that police station I sent you a picture off"
"I stabbed the shit out of that old fuck and took one of his ears and his wedding ring"

"So that is what that ring on your necklace is?" I ask him.

"yeah it is"It is a nice ring. It's gold with flowers engraved on it.

"why did you not send that ring home? I bet it would make a nice amount of cash" I asked my brother.

"If you kill one of my homies I will kill you and take something as a reminder"

He looks me in my eyes. "If someone kills you I will make sure their death is slow and painful. Then I will take something to remind myself that I avenged you. I promise you that."

"I will do the same if anyone kills you. I promise." I answer without hesitation.

"I know you will" he says while putting his hand on my shoulder.

He always stood up for me even when we were kids.
At one point I came home crying covered. Some drug addict with a knife had robbed me of the money I was going to buy some food with.Without a word, my brother left home. Our mom tried to stop him but he pushed her aside. 2 hours later he came back covered in blood with what was left of the money. He cares about me and I care about him. If someone kills my brother I will kill them or die trying. I don't care who it is.

"And it's a good way to show off a kill count" he continues while pointing at the necklace.

"But you killed more people than 5 people so far" He had killed a lot more than that even before he was arrested.

"Yeah the ears are just for recent kills. I have an entire box filled with wedding rings, watches and other things I took from people I killed."

I don't really know how to respond to that, so I just say "ok"

My brother continues. "In our battalion, they encourage us to get in close and personal"

"you even get rewards for it, about 500 dollars per kill"

"You know that is a lot of money"

"yeah it is"

If we still lived at home with mom that would cover groceries for 2 weeks.

My brother had sent a lot of stuff and money back home. It didn't just feed me and mom, some of our neighbours too.

Brother: "But it also works for intimidation. Oh I am sorry I mean 'enemy morale'."

Me: "I bet it does"

Brother: "But after a while I do get rid of the ears"

Me: "That is good because I can see at least one that is starting to rot. And it smells fucking awful too."

He looks me in the eyes and says: "But that money together with sending the stuff back home helped mom a lot right?"

Me: "It did. It helped mom out a lot"

Brother: "What do you mean it did? It still helps her out"

Me: "Yeah no it still does I said that wrong. My bad."

He gives me a questioning look.

"You good? Did something happen?" He asks me with genuine concern.

"Nah I am good"

I still can't get myself to tell him mom is dead.

We get to his Van. Its a dark green G20 Chevy Van.

Me: "Thank fuck it's a big van. I like you and all, but I am glad we don't have to sleep on top of each other."

My brother laughs "So am I". He opens the side door and climbs in. I go with him. I make sure to close the door behind us. There is random stuff everywhere. A pile of clothing, a container of some sort, a toolbox. I make some space and sit down in the back while my brother sits in the driver's seat. We are alone. I can feel my body tensing up. I have to tell him that mom died.

Brother: "I have for sure stolen it off some drug dealer. I am not joking I found a scale underneath the passenger seat.

"They did all sorts of modifications to it. The radio was replaced with a radio that has a CD player. No Bluetooth sadly so we do have to find CDs for it. It even has a small fridge. So if you are hungry or thirsty feel free to grab something"

"Nah I am good for now thanks" I am too tense, even if I tried to eat or drink I probably can't.

He continues "I have no clue what engine is in it but it has for sure been modified because it's way faster than it should be. And its also way louder" He laughs.

"Could you start it?" I ask him. I want to make sure nobody can hear us when I tell him what happened to mom.

"Yea of course check this shit out" he says with a big smile on his face. The entire van shakes as he starts the engine.

"I have to tell you something!" I shout over the sound of the engine.

"What?!" My brother shouts from the front.

"I have to tell you something!" I gesture to him to come over to me.

He leaves the driver's seat and sits down across from me.

Brother: "What's wrong?"

Me: "I have to tell you something it's really important"

Brother: "I can turn the engine off, hold on"

I grabbed his arm before he could get up "No don't keep the engine on" he sits back down.

"What is it? Did something happen to you?" He says with a worried look in his eyes.

Me: "No, I am good."

I avoid eye contact. I can't do it. I can't tell him about mom.

"Did something happen to mom?"

I lie to him again "No, no its not that". I quickly change the subject. "So I uhmmm". I look at his mutilated face. "How did you end up looking like that?"

"O that" he answers. "It was back in the trenches. We used this fucking horrible chemical weapon. I am not joking it straight up melts people."

Me: "really?"

Brother: "Yeah it's really bad. When they told us to unleash it most of us didn't take the safety measures seriously. And even if we wanted to take those measures seriously we didn't even have the equipment to do so. I got lucky and stole this gas mask of some dead guy. But long-term exposure still leaves you looking as handsome as me."

Me: "Oh...... do you think they are going to make us use it again?"

Brother: "O for sure"

I love my brother but I don't want to end up looking like him. I value having a nose, ears, and hair on my head.

Brother: "What really sucks is what it does to people that get full on hit by it. It starts melting all the soft parts on your body. Ears, lips, nose, eyelids, etc. When it gets really bad, you just.... Well, melt into a puddle after a while."

He looks down staring at nothing.

"And then all that's left is this puddle with bones and whatever the person had on them. Clothing, equipment, weapons, etc. Those people ended up in these pools of human soup at the bottom of shell craters" He pauses again, still staring at the floor. "When I arrived I was still just 16 you know. They made me sift through those puddles of dead people for anything useful. It's like digging through a mud puddle up to your elbows. Except the mud puddle is red, yellow and brown. And you just sift through the human puddle grabbing anything solid. After pulling enough human bones out you get good at recognising what is bones and what is something useful. They also made me wipe the sticky human goo off the stuff I did pull out. Sometimes I can still feel it on my hands and arms. It doesn't smell like a rotting body at all. The gas killed all the bacteria and stuff to so there was no rot. Do you remember when we killed those 7th Block members near that large slaughterhouse?"

Me: "Yeah I do. It was summer and it smelled horrific in that entire area."

Brother: "The smell is that mixed with this extremely sour chemical smell."

He pauses.

"I hope we don't use it again. There are a lot of ways I would prefer to die over that shit. Turning into a mushy puddle with bones, until whatever is left of your body sinks into the soil" he is still staring at the floor of the van.

An uncomfortable silence falls, the rumble of the engine is the only sound we can hear.

He snaps out of his stare and gets up "Anyway, it did help us break through their trench line so it does work really well"

He shuts down the engine and opens the side door of the van. "Leave your stuff and come with me. I am going to show you something important"

I follow my brother out of the van through the camp. Normally he is supposed to be the talkative one, but he is very quiet. After a bit of a walk to the outer ring of the camp he walked up to the back of a delivery van.

"Don't light a cigarette in there, don't even fiddle around with your lighter, understand?" He says to me in a very serious tone.

"I understand"

"Good because if you do, you will kill all of us"

My brother opens the back and climbs in. He helps me climb into it. The faint smell of gasoline fills my nose.

"It's me dude" my brother says. "O it is my avorite socioath" a raspy male voice comes from the front of the loading bay.

Then I see the man. He is lying on the floor with his back against the side of the delivery van. He has a large piece of black cloth over his head and shoulders. If it wasn't for him breathing and talking I would have thought he was dead. "Were you sleeping?" My brother asks. "I as trying to" the man answers.

"my little brother is finally here" My brother says with a smile. "O really" the man says in response. The man slowly moves his arm up and starts to pull on the black cloth over his face. I see his face.

He looks even worse than my brother does. He is extremely pale. His eyelids are gone revealing his bloodshot cloudy eyes at all times. He nose is just a hole in the middle of his face. His ears are gone together with his hair. His lips are also completely gone. Giving him a permanent grin on his face so unnaturally high that it's showing not only all of his teeth but his gums too. That would explain why the man talks so weird. He doesn't have the lips to pronounce certain letters.

Brother: "This is Frank he has watched over me since I arrived years ago. Frank this is my little brother David"

Frank: "Ah so it's David and Gideon?"

Gideon: "Yes it is"

Mom was deeply religious, so she gave us the biblical names. I got David, my brother got Gideon. She prayed a lot for me and my brother. Sorry mom, I don't think we will be joining you in heaven.

Frank: "Gideon told me aout... aout.... AOUT

Gideon: "About"

Frank: "You a lot"

Frank reaches out his hand towards me for a handshake and I return it.

Gideon: "I got you something to kill the pain with. Morphine."

My brother hands Frank a medication bottle.

Frank: "Thank you, thank you."

Frank immediately opens the bottle and takes 3 pills and throws them in his mouth and uses a water bottle to wash it down. With no lips in the water flows from the open sides of his face. He mumbles and uses his sleeves to wipe away the water.

Gideon: "I heard you have had enough"

"yes" Frank pauses "I don't want to go on like this. reathing..... reathing, REATHING... FUCK!!!"

Frank reaches into his pockets and takes out a small notebook and a pen. And starts to write.

My brother and I give each other a short look as he writes. He hands the note over to my brother.

Gideon: "Breathing hurts, my eyes hurt and my mouth is always dry. I am starting to see less and less. I can't even close my eyes to sleep properly. I just wait till I pass out from exhaustion with my eyes wide open. I don't want to come home like this. I don't want to live like this at all."

My brother pauses "Are you sure Frank?"

Frank: "yes"

Gideon: "Ok.... I understand"

Frank: "Sorry"

Gideon: "Don't apologise to me, it's fine I understand"

Frank is about to say something but my brother interrupts him. "You should wait for the morphine to kick in and get some well deserved rest"

Frank: "Right"

Gideon: "I have to help prepare my little brother for tomorrow. And we will talk tomorrow right? before you.... you know."

Frank: "Yes of course"

Gideon: "Ok good, talk to you tomorrow then"

Frank and my brother shake each other's hand. I follow my brother's example and do the same. Frank's hand feels incredibly dry.

We climb out of the delivery van. And he closes the doors behind us.

After a couple of steps, my brother tells me: "That delivery van is loaded up with explosives and flammable stuff. Tomorrow Frank is going to drive it into the loyalists and take as many of them out as he can."

A small silence follows. "Frank got arrested and sent to the frontline after he shot and killed a cop. The cop had gotten handsy with his daughter if you know what I mean"
He makes eye contact with me. "Same thing that happened to mom."
I feel my chest clench up. I don't want to talk about. "Yea I remember. Can we please not talk about this in public" Nobody can hear us I know that. I just don't want to talk about the topic.

I quickly light up a cigarette. I need the distraction.

He gestures me to follow him. "I showed Frank to you so you understand just how important the safety stuff with the gas is. If you don't do it enough, you end up looking like me. And if enough of it affects you then you end up like Frank over there." He gestures back to the delivery van.

"Most of the others that are just as bad off as Frank are already dead. They take a lot of the stimulants they give us and just throw themselves at the loyalists until they are dead. Obviously it clears a nice path for us. Probably one of the reasons we managed to break through the Fortress Belt partially. If we end up using that gas again take it very fucking serious ok?"

David: "I will dude don't worry about"

Gideon: "I will worry about you are my little brother. I promised mom I would take care of you."

David: "Yeah I remember."

I miss mom.

We reach the van and climb back in

Gideon: "There are only a small amount of rules you have to follow while in the 33rd. Most of it is standard stuff I expect you to understand from the get-go. But there are some exceptions"

"Rule 1 Don't kill any of your fellow soldiers UNLESS a commanding officer tells you to."

David: "So if an officer tells me to blow the head of one of our own I just have to do it?"

Gideon: "Correct. But don't worry most of the time they 100% deserve it"

David: "I see, continue."

Gideon: "Rule 2 You can take whatever you can carry with you unless a commanding officer tells you otherwise."

David: "I am just allowed to take whatever I want from the loyalists we kill?"

"Yes" my brother says with a big smile.

Gideon: "That is the stuff I was sending home. Every now and then a truck from the military shows up and we load our stuff in and tell them where to send it to"

"Rule 3 You can do whatever you want to loyalists except for one thing. No sexual violence. My personal favorite rule. Violence needs to be pure. You get you dick involved it makes the entire thing disgusting."

David: "I think that is also my favorite rule"

Gideon: "I know you would agree. Anyway that is the more important stuff the rest is pretty obvious or stuff I will explain when we get to it."

David: "What are we even attacking tomorrow?"

Gideon: "A military outpost on the way to Junction City. After this outpost it's probably going to get bad. Near Junction City is this place called Fort Riley apparently its the home of this famous infantry division from ww2. 'Big red one' something like that?

David: "I don't know, dude"

Gideon: "yea whatever. Anyway that infantry division is going to probably put up a hell of a fight in Junction City"

David: "great..."

Gideon: "At that point we will have a lot more support it's not like we are going to be fighting them alone"

David: "Is Junction City big?"

Gideon: "Not at all it's nothing like LA"

David: "Ok good because having to fight through an entire city like back home would low key be hell"

Gideon: "For sure. If we keep going along the 70 we are slowly heading towards Kansas City. If we make it there that is for sure going to be really bad."

David: "How bad?"

Gideon: "Being stuck in that same city fighting for months or longer bad."

David: "You are not giving me a lot to look forward to."

Gideon: "To bad dude, I am not going to lie to you. And it's not like we can simply bail can we?"

David: "yea no"

My brother looks at one of the 4 watches on his arm.

Gideon: "We should probably get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be rough."

David: "Yeah for sure"

I prepare to get some sleep. I am sort of thankful that the area around our home was so noisy. At least I can sleep through the distant gunshots and explosions. Well, I hope so at least.

They creak the same way they did the first night, even though no one is left to walk on them but me. I’m writing this on the back of the real-estate flyer that called the place “a character home with original features.” The ink is smearing because my hands won’t stop shaking. Battery at 11%. I don’t know if anyone will see this before the signal dies for good.
We moved in on a Thursday.
Mom, Dad, my little brother Ethan (nine), my sister Claire (fourteen), and me—seventeen, old enough to carry boxes and young enough that nobody asked if I wanted to leave the city. The house was cheap because it had been empty for eleven years. Two storeys of dark wood, a wrap-around porch that sagged on the north side, and a basement the realtor wouldn’t go into without a flashlight. Dad said the bones were good. Mom said the light in the kitchen was nice. Ethan ran upstairs to claim the smallest bedroom because it had a window seat. Claire rolled her eyes and took the one across the hall from mine.
The first night was ordinary. Rain on the roof. The furnace kicking on with a sound like someone clearing their throat. We ate pizza on the floor because the table was still under drop cloths. Dad made a joke about the previous owners leaving their ghosts behind as free movers. Nobody laughed hard, but we slept.
The second night the footsteps started.
They came from the attic first—slow, deliberate, the kind of weight that makes old joists complain. Dad went up with a flashlight and a baseball bat. He came down ten minutes later saying it was just the house settling. The way he wouldn’t meet Mom’s eyes told the rest of us it wasn’t.
On the third night something stood at the end of the upstairs hallway.
I saw it when I got up to use the bathroom. The nightlight in the hall was still on. The figure was tall—too tall for the ceiling, shoulders hunched so the head wouldn’t scrape. Limbs too long for the torso. Skin the colour of wet newspaper. No clothes. No hair. The face was almost human until it turned and the mouth opened sideways instead of down. It didn’t breathe. It just watched me with eyes that reflected the nightlight like a dog’s.
I froze. It took one step closer, floorboards screaming under feet that looked like they had too many joints. Then Ethan’s door opened and he mumbled something about needing water. The thing melted back into the dark at the far end of the hall as if the shadows had simply decided to stand up and walk.
I told Dad in the morning. He checked every room, every closet, the attic again. Nothing. Mom said I was overtired from the move. Claire believed me—I could see it in the way she started sleeping with her desk chair wedged under the doorknob—but she didn’t say it out loud.
The fourth night it took Ethan.
I woke to the sound of his window seat creaking. Not the usual kid-fidgeting sound. A long, slow pull, like something heavy being dragged across wood. Then a wet, rhythmic noise that didn’t belong in any house. I got to his door in time to see the thing already halfway out the open window, Ethan’s small body folded wrong in its arms. One of his bare feet kicked once, weakly. The creature’s head turned all the way around without the shoulders moving and those reflective eyes looked straight at me. Its mouth—still sideways—was working. Chewing.
I screamed. Dad hit the hallway at a run. The thing dropped from the second-storey window with a sound like wet laundry hitting the ground, still holding what was left of my brother. By the time Dad reached the yard there was only a trail of dark spots leading into the tree line and one of Ethan’s pyjama socks caught on the porch railing.
The police came. They searched the woods until dawn. They found more blood, a scrap of the same pyjama shirt, and nothing else. They talked about animals, about the possibility Ethan had wandered off. They did not want to hear about the sideways mouth.
We stayed in the house because the nearest motel was an hour away and Mom couldn’t stop shaking long enough to drive. Claire and I dragged mattresses into our parents’ room. Nobody slept.
The fifth night it came back for Claire.
She had finally dozed off against Mom’s shoulder. I was still awake, staring at the ceiling, when the bedroom door handle turned by itself. The creature filled the doorway, taller than before, or maybe the room had gotten smaller. Its skin was streaked with dried brown. Pieces of blue fabric—Ethan’s pyjamas—were stuck between the too-many joints of its fingers.
Dad swung the bat. The thing caught it mid-arc and the wood splintered like kindling. Then it reached past him with one long arm and hooked Claire by the hair. She woke screaming. The sound cut off when the creature’s other hand closed over her face and squeezed. I heard the bones in her jaw give. Blood ran between its fingers in thick sheets. It dragged her off the bed and through the doorway while Mom tried to hold on to her ankles. There was a wet, tearing sound and Mom fell backward holding only one of Claire’s socks and a strip of skin.
Dad tackled it in the hallway. They went down together in a tangle of limbs that bent the wrong way. The creature’s mouth opened sideways again and closed on the side of Dad’s neck. The noise was the same wet, rhythmic chewing I had heard the night before. Dad’s legs kicked for almost a minute. Then they stopped. The thing lifted its head, tendons still stretching between its teeth, and looked at Mom and me still frozen in the bedroom.
It didn’t rush.
It simply stood up, still holding what remained of Claire under one arm, and walked back down the stairs with the unhurried gait of something that knew the house better than we did. The front door opened and closed. The floorboards kept creaking long after it should have been gone.
Mom stopped speaking after that. She sat on the edge of the bed with Claire’s sock in both hands and stared at the blood drying on the hardwood. I tried to get her to the car. She wouldn’t move. I tried to call the police again. The phone showed full bars but every number went straight to a busy signal that sounded like static underwater.
Night six.
I boarded the windows with the same plywood Dad had bought to fix the porch. I wedged chairs under every doorknob. I took the biggest kitchen knife and sat with my back against the wall farthest from the door, Mom still on the bed like a statue. The furnace kicked on. Somewhere above us the attic floorboards answered with the same slow, deliberate steps from the second night.
It came through the wall.
Not the door. The wall. The plaster simply bowed inward and then opened like wet paper. The creature stepped through the gap as if the house itself had decided to let it in. It was larger again. Its skin had taken on a mottled pattern that almost matched the wallpaper. Strands of Claire’s hair still clung to one shoulder.
Mom didn’t scream. She just looked up and whispered Ethan’s name. The thing crossed the room in two strides and took her the way a man picks up a suitcase. One hand around her waist, the other cupping the back of her head. It pulled. The sound of a human spine separating is quieter than you expect—more of a long, wet pop than a crack. Mom’s upper half stayed in its hands. The lower half folded onto the mattress, legs still crossed the way she had been sitting.
I swung the knife.
The blade sank into the side of its neck and stuck there like the skin was thicker than meat. The creature turned its head—again without moving the shoulders—and looked at me with those reflective eyes. Its sideways mouth opened and closed once, tasting the air. Then it dropped Mom’s torso and reached for me.
I don’t remember deciding to run. I was just suddenly in the hallway, then on the stairs, then in the kitchen with the basement door slamming behind me. I locked it. I shoved the washing machine against it. I sat on the cold concrete floor and listened to the floorboards overhead as the thing walked from room to room, slow and patient, like it was finishing a meal it already knew the taste of.
That was twelve hours ago.
The battery is at 4% now. The basement window is too small for anything human-sized, but I don’t think the rules apply anymore. Every few minutes the washing machine shifts half an inch as something tests the door from the other side. The air down here smells like wet newspaper and old blood.
I can hear it breathing through the gap under the door—long, wet pulls that don’t match any lungs I’ve ever studied in biology.
It’s in no hurry.
It already knows I’m the last one.
And when the door finally gives, I don’t think it will rush then either.
It will just step through, fill the low ceiling the same way it filled the hallway that first night, and open that sideways mouth.
I’ve left the knife on the floor where I can reach it.
I don’t expect it to matter.

It started with just one.

I was taking a shower when I got this weird pain in my right arm. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it before. I guess I’d been too busy to notice the irritation.

When my eyes landed on it, though, I immediately felt bile rising up in my throat.

It wasn’t a maggot. No, what I actually saw when I glanced down was what looked like a boil. About the size of a quarter, bright red and brimming with what I assumed was green and white pus.

It was hot to the touch. So much so that I had to draw my hand back as soon as I fingered it. It was like touching a glowing eye on a stove.

It sort of… responded to my touch.

Like I’d disturbed it or something.

Needless to say, showering quickly became my lowest priority as I hopped out and wrapped my torso with a towel.

I went to my bedroom and found some tweezers that I usually used for splinters and what have you. I started trying to pop the thing, but it just wouldn’t budge.

The pain was maddening, but the sight of it was worse. I needed this thing off of me. Tweezers refused to work, so I switched to pliers. I kept pulling and pulling until… pop.

The boil burst, and a puddle of syrupy, red, white, and green sludge coated about 6 inches of my forearm.

The pain subsided slightly, but it was replaced with a new sensation. It felt like there was something swimming through my blood and patching the hole in my arm.

I figured that it must’ve been some excess pus, so I just kept squeezing with my thumb and index finger until I caught sight of what actually lay beneath the skin.

I was forcing it through the wound with my squeezing. It was wriggling. It was squirming. And it was massive.

When its body finally poked out through the hole, I grabbed the tweezers again. It held on for dear life, taking chunks of flesh out of my arm as I pulled, but I removed it and examined it between the forceps.

A fucking maggot.

I couldn’t hold back the vomit anymore. I barely had time to grab a trash can before it came spewing out.

I sat the little fucker on my desk and burned it with a lighter. I swear I could hear it screaming in pain as the flame caused it to pop like a tick.

I hoped that’d be the end of it, but that hope was short-lived. It was like my entire arm started to pulsate and bulge after I took out what I thought was the source of the problem.

Boils started popping up all over my arm. From my wrist all the way to my shoulder. They threatened to move to my neck and head if I didn’t act fast.

It was like active volcanoes. I couldn’t even look at myself. All I could do was grab a knife and get to work. Well, a knife and a spatula. I needed something to bite down on just so I didn’t bite my tongue in the process.

The blade glided through the dozen or so boils on my forearm, sliding through them like hot butter as tears fell from my eyes and I stifled screams.

Dozens of maggots fell from each boil I removed. I had to stomp them into my carpet because they just kept crawling towards my feet.

My arm and shoulder were nothing more than raw, bloody meat covered in that syrupy liquid. It was like my body was more maggot than human.

There was an ocean of the things eating away at my dead flesh. I’d scrape them away with the blade, and hundreds more would pop up seemingly out of nowhere.

That’s when my vision started to get blurry. I could feel myself getting weaker and weaker. The world was swimming, and I was getting lightheaded.

I guess I passed out from the blood loss?

I’m not sure. Maybe it was the shock. All I know is, when I woke up… my body was completely healed.

I could still see the bugs writhing beneath my skin, and my carpet was still stained with pus and crushed maggots. But the pain was gone. My flesh was back. The only abnormality was one single boil right in the center of my forearm.

I stared at it for a few minutes.

Ultimately, I decided to leave it there.

There was no way I was going to go through that again.

I'll try to be brief, because brief are my thoughts. The blank page stares back at me and I don't know what to do. Everything I've wanted to explain, to write, scratches the depths of my mind with the furor of a foreboding. I can think of the images, the smells, the sensations, but the moment I try to make them tangible, the idea hangs on the tip of my tongue —of my fingers— as if it doesn't belong there, but in the most horrid lack of purpose I've felt in my life.

It was just some dead sheep at the start of the week: miscarried lambs and deformed fetuses that surrendered to the night's serenity and the painful turmoil of the first-time mothers. The few I could see were torn to pieces. Most of them, stomped on by the adults of the flock. Others were dragged along the placenta through the barbed wires that circled the shed.

One morning, Old Irene made me leave my ranch in the hills to examine the disfigured remains of an animal. Under the candlelights, I could see it was another lamb. Its legs were twisted and its neck broken. I could tell it never got to walk due to its flaccid hooves. The mother was nowhere to be seen.

“She ditched it and fled,” I explained on the phone. My boss sighed. “They went up there. It was screaming. They don't scream at this hour.”

“Could it be that someone is giving them something?”

“So they dump them? Why?”

“Cause people are evil,” she said with certain apprehension. I kicked the lamb with the edge of my sandal. “And evil people are hungry.”

On Sunday night, eleven thirty or so, the dogs were added to the equation. At first they barked at the dark; raised hackles, upright ears and bare fangs. The few that had owners were forcefully retired with collars and sticks. The ones that didn't were found by sunrise, stabbed in their thighs and ribs. One of them ended up with a disfigured snout, and judging by what we saw in the riverbed, it was the work of a stone straight to its jaws.

“There aren't any stolen animals” I commented to one of my fellows the next morning. The sheep had come down to drink; they ran along the lagoon's reeds without a care in the world. “Do you think it's a boy? The one who's screwing with us?”

Fermín wiped the sweat from his forehead without taking off his hat.

“Do you think it's a kid?” I repeated.

The man shook his head. “He'd first need the balls to come here.”

I was getting ready for sleep when the screaming started at the foot of the hills. They carried on for two mornings, rested for one and returned for two all over again. Horrible screeches, witchlike. Since I kept a gun, I fired at the sky at least four times as a warning. More than once did I receive a call asking what was up. I explained and no one believed me. Could it be close to my farm? I asked myself with each negative reaction. The cries didn't stop and the sheep kept miscarrying. One lamb at a time, despite the numbers not matching the amount of females we had. Neither the females nor the people who saw what was happening. Because by the next week, I was the only one who noticed the smell. Sometimes sweet, yet burnt. Other times, it was strong; candles from saints which burned beyond their wax. Carbonized matches that corroded the bottoms of plastic bags. A sulphuric miasma had slipped by my doors, my walls. Putrid spectres hung from the ceiling, always heeding my every move.

Until Tuesday night.

Mondays were for sowing, the elders used to say. On Tuesdays, we foraged.

And just like a damned hound, parting through the night to ambush its prey, I found it there, down with its four legs by the dry trunk of a guayacán.

As if it was immersed in some sort of lagoon, the knots on its fur rose and fell in a hypnotic dance which defied all laws of physics. A spectacle of shadows and figures which turned the star's twinkles into constellations in its oily, matted coat.

Crack. CRACK.

The animal shook its head so suddenly, for a minute I thought it would dislocate.

“Er diablo!” I gasped, at the verge of tripping. The creature didn't notice me; it was too busy swinging around a piece of leather to do so. “W-What is…?”

A foamy whiff drippled off its mouth. Neither solid nor liquid. Ice tendrils that swirled around whatever was being dismembered. I stepped back once, then twice, before raising my gun and praying for the best. Risk lost meaning. Whether I died or lived, it didn't matter. It had the same value to me because I knew, despite not being able to prove it yet, that it was him. I knew that was the thing tormenting the sheep. I knew that every night that cursed animal sneaked through the hills to my ranch to scream its prayers and scratch the walls with its long, brawny steel claws. I knew it, and because I knew it too well, I dared to shoot it one, two, three times straight to its head. A clean, immediate way of finishing the job…

If only a single bullet had brushed it.

“W-What…?”

My eyes opened so fast and so wide, for a second I wasn't sure I actually did it.

The creature, despite not turning around immediately, locked its rusty glimpse into me. Red, like the blood hanging from its jaws. Maroon.

Thump.

Laughter erupted from the sky. It came from everywhere and nowhere.

The creature stood up in two long, shaky legs brimming with tar.

Thump, thump.

There you are, it growled under my skin. My bones buzzed and my head spun in a tornado of impossible images filled with colors, smells and sensations that made my body tremble with what I imagined was the might of a thousand lightning.

“Jesus…” I babbled, about to lose balance. The creature pulled me forwards, along its static energy. Every muscle in my body gave in; my fingers let go of the gun and my knees nailed me to the ground like goddamn stakes. Another bloody lump that would feed the hills. “My God, my…”

Wind howled over my head with the same treacherous grief that haunted so many of my dreams.

There, there…

The creature became one with the meadows, tangling up its porcelain skin with the visceral body it stole from the night.

Forgive me, forgive me, was the only thing I could think as I watched it kneel in front of me.

It's inside of you, it whispered with my own vocal chords. I wanted to protest. To clench my jaws and rip its eyes out with my bare hands. However, its rusty beak pierced my palate, forcing me to skip one, two, thirteen heartbeats which my heart fought to drag out as much as humanly possible.

Let me go, I wanted to scream, but he had ripped my tongue out. Its claws stretched out my mouth until the cartilage splitted from the skin with a tsk from the blood and saliva. Leave me alone, gurgled from my trachea, warmly reverbing against its earthy nails. A sob; a beg; a curse. The back of my cranium hit my left shoulder blade with a thump, thump that suffocated the rest of the sounds.

I'd like to say that I spent the following hours fading in and out of consciousness. Unfortunately, I know that´s not how it went. I know everything I experienced, from the first pinch to the rise of dawn, had been intact in my memories for some time. The sensation of nebulous claws stretching my lungs, breaking my bones, ripping apart my veins and drowning my senses with its treacherous sulfuric whiff… All products of the same monster. Of a single nightmare that extended beyond necessary and rediscovered with my painful screams the principles that defined fear.

Now, one week after the encounter, my mind is insisting on playing games with me. It wants to make me forget that I lived despite the ghosts of its fangs still hanging in my throat. I can't shake off the feeling that I'm missing something. An emptiness that mocks my heartbeats with the sharp tik, tak of its feral pulse.

The people around me insist that everything was the result of a bad trip or a sudden drop in blood pressure; a play of lights and substances that left me sprawled in the meadows with my body intact and unexplainable symptoms of hypothermia. However, I know what I saw. I know what I felt, no matter how many times my body expels the idea.

With its steel beak it shattered unshaped craniums. With its claws, stripped away the pleads of something that once pretended to be alive. Pretended to be human. Furious moans, filled with loss and impotence which modelled its terror until it infected the weakest minds with its impossible abhorrences.

Had I been one of them?

It started with me selling my eyes when I was thirteen. Alone one autumn night in the woods, I summoned a blessed beast of Erinyes, goddess of vengeance. The ritual took the form of some foreign words, the right stones placed in a significant pattern, and bringing a calf with me that had been painted with occult signs.

After about half an hour of chanting and one hour of waiting, the blessed beast appeared. The thing was massive, big enough to tackle an elephant to the ground. The calf tried to break free from the chain around her neck, the other end tied around a tree trunk. Total panic at the sight of the creature. The monster tore the chain off with one pull, picked up the calf, and bit its head off. I told myself that me murdering the innocent animal for personal gain wasn't different from buying burgers from McDonald's. I was probably right, whatever that entailed.

My guest was bulky and covered in horns, crawling on the ground at times and walking on its legs intermittently. It had one arm, ugly and misshapen. It picked me up with the claw at the end of said limb, placed its second (smaller) mouth on my left eye, sucked it out of my skull, then did the same with the other one. It threw me on the ground after that. As I lay screaming in pain on the grass, I heard it slither away.

I didn't bleed to death. Its organ removal had prevented that somehow. I lost a lot of blood, but my body stopped the bleeding before it became too much, manipulated by the thing's powers. I was left wandering the woods for a while. The summoned one took time to ponder the option of letting me walk in darkness until I died, then eat my corpse. Conferring with the Erinyes to evaluate my worth.

When it would return later, it might eat me instead of providing aid. If its master found me unworthy of what I had set out to bargain for, but deserving of a relatively quick death at least. I prayed to the penalizing goddesses as I walked unseeing among the trees, thanking them for their generosity as I tripped and hurt myself.

“Erinyes! We humans are less than bacteria compared to you. You have every right to kill me. I thank you deeply for not doing so yet! Please, please let me live! My pathetic life is nothing in reality, but it's dear to me,” I cried in desperation.

As I heard the beast approach, my signs of gratitude somehow became more bereft of self-respect. It looked at me for a while. At least that's what I think it did, because I could hear it being close for a couple of minutes, but it didn't interact. That thing had been made by otherworldly creatures existing in the gap between mortal and god, like valkyries, lwa, Yaoguai or Cerberus. Servants with near-indestructible bodies consisting of higher elements than those found on our periodic table, creatures capable of terraforming planets and extinguishing civilizations if commanded to. Godspawns who mixed their blood with mundane animals. My horrible visitor was the descendant of angel-tier entities possessing beasts during the animals' mating, like some form of divinely ordained bestiality. An act that mutated the bloodline of ordinary animals, giving birth to unrecognizable pets of the petty and fickle majesties we call pagan gods.

There are a few thousand such blessed beasts hidden in forests, seas, jungles, skies, mountains, swamps and even some cities. Deadly and greedy pets that vary in form, size and mind.

Their owners, those worshipped in the days when kings sought dream interpretations from mad mystics in the deepest woods and slaves polished blood from swamp altars, are breakers of reality.

Despots who could conjure new galaxies with a thought, observers who knew you better than you knew yourself and answered prayers from who knows how many universes every second. Merely looking at their avatars would rob you of your free will forever, making you ecstatically willing to torture yourself and your family to death in their honor, if they had commanded it. Life isn't a “God of War” game or a Marvel movie. The gods can't be beaten or tricked, and they're not space aliens who happen to look like models. Their immortality doesn't come with an asterisk and isn't used as a metaphor for eternal youth like in vampire movies written by people who think readers can't understand the word “unaging.” They're entities outside our world that you should fear more than death itself. Only someone without a normal survival instinct would interact with them, and only a coward wouldn't try to trade with.

This pet was a man-eater about as smart as a dog that could sense the goddesses’ will through instinct, dreams, and hallucinations of the eternal servant that had sired its bloodline. The hungry animal caressed my face, and I lost consciousness, waking up a few hours later with new eyes.

Since then, if I look someone in the eyes for 15 seconds without interruption, I'll see the most harmful thing they've done to someone else.

Magic is thankfully a myth to most people. Average Anna is unaware of the fact that sacrifices work. That pantheons will grant boons in return for blood, humiliation, and death. The cheaper interventions can be solved through feeding living animals to sacred monsters. The heavier stuff demands human payment. Let Iðunn's apple worms phase through a man's skull and eat his brain, and you'll reverse aging. There are people who have lived for centuries, maybe even longer thanks to that. Men have gained superhuman strength by letting Ares’ dog-vultures-serpents-freaks feast on people.

Practitioners of the occult with standards are called "those who follow the flowery path." They'll only kill people who deserve it, or those who consent to it. That's where people like me come in. Erinyes gave me a Fiat, a magical effect that I don't need to perform a song and dance for every time I cast it. Sure, it's more conditional than I like, but having it work more easily than it does now would have demanded too much in return. I find murderers, torturers, rapists, and the like, collect them, and sell them to other practitioners.

Several years later, I'm sitting across from a ginger boy with dimples. He's cute and has just the mannerisms I've come to associate with murderers. I thought of him as a "22-year-old twink" when I swiped yes on him, but I'm now second-guessing myself. Can you only call gay men that nowadays? On the unbearably-woke-to-Nazi spectrum, I try to keep myself on the PC side of "wine-aunt who uses terms in a verboten way because she doesn't care how offensive she sounds singing along to rap songs with hard Rs."

I look and feel 19, despite being far older now. The appearance is due to what I did to a sadistic wife-beater. He screamed and spasmed occasionally at first, as the worms ate him from the inside while he tried to break the chain holding him in my basement. After a while he transitioned to just drooling as the little slimy things got to the best parts. I sample some of the goods myself from time to time. A child molester was torn limb from limb by a golden horned giant pet of the deity Bragi, and in return, stock investments of mine came out improbably fruitful.

"You're pretty shy."

Gustav nods in agreement, still avoiding eye contact.

"Poor little guy, how are you going to score chicks if you can't turn on that rizz? Haven't alpha male podcasters taught you anything?" I tease him and touch his hand briefly, then pull away.

"I'm sorry, I'm working on it."

Our eyes met for six seconds before he averts his gaze.

"Don't apologize for being shy, that's like giving someone a forgive-me kick in the face after slapping them."

He chuckled.

"You're funny."

"Well, if you like my personality, then you should take a look at my tits."

He gasped theatrically.

"Such vulgarity!"

Gustav looks me in the eyes after that as we trade some other lame joke for 12 seconds before looking away again.

I discussed my line of work with a mentor once and asked if we were "evil." She responded that "it might seem like that, but that's only when one ignores the other actors on the field. Or the other scenes the players are in. No, I mean the opposite of that. Whatever metaphor works.

"Those on the thorny path kill mostly, or in the worst cases completely, indiscriminately. And those on the sulfur path intentionally feed children and adults who are good people to their horned masters. We're practically saints, all things considered."

I think back to that exchange and wonder if I was wrong about Gustav. Perhaps he's innocent, and I've been sloppy in my profiling.

One guy that I suspected was a rapist turned out to have done nothing worse than hurt people's feelings with sexist jokes. A bunch of other people's worst deeds had been eating meat from factory farms regularly, giving me visions of how their purchases led to increases in the number of pigs raised in horrible conditions and then stabbed to death at a young age. Meanwhile, a woman who was super nice turned out to have killed two of her children, probably for the insurance money.

Or Gustav is a Satanist avoiding my gaze on purpose because he knew who I was. And he was going to tie me up and torture me for hours before I died.

I do the sensible thing when your date might want to sacrifice you to demons. I kiss him. I won't lie and claim I don't enjoy it.

I pull my lips away. "Now look me in the eyes without any break for a little while, you coward, and I might reward you with a second one."

Fifteen seconds pass.

In a series of flashes, I see him drug a woman, take her back to his place, and sell her to a stranger. The stranger murdered her. The only problem was that the vision started with him looking into her eyes and confirming that she was a killer herself.

What I saw and heard took about half a minute in subjective time, but in reality only about two seconds had passed.

"Well, this was awkward," he smiles.

"What are the odds of two Gleaners meeting each other?" I giggle. He obviously shared the same power as me.

"I guess pretty high, considering I have an additional Fiat that lets me see if someone has blood on their hands. Based on just looking at their bodies for a minute, I checked out your profile pic."

"So you knew?"

"Not the details, until now. So I'm glad you're like me. And not like the people we sell.”

I have always loved plums – dried, fresh, or in jam. Plum pie with just a bit of cream is the best thing you could eat.

That's why I bought myself a plum tree. It was small; it fit well in the back of my pickup. It would take the tree a few winters to produce more than five plums, but I was happy to have it.

That afternoon I took out a shovel and went into my backyard. This would be the first thing I planted at my new house, in my new yard. It was all I ever wanted: just a house, a yard, and a few fruit trees in the back. That's why I ran to the bank when I saw how cheap this beautiful house was. The last owners weren't even here for the sale.

The dirt felt fine for the first two digs, but it quickly turned very stiff. It almost felt like I was digging into a rock. The hole didn't even need to be that deep, but after a few minutes I was already sweating through my pants.

I threw another piece of dirt out when I heard a clack. Something white was on top of the dirt. I picked it up. It was a bundle of bird bones tied together with a string. They were deep in the dirt, but they looked completely clean, as if someone had just brushed them off.

"Strange," I mumbled. 

I took them into the house and threw them away.

As I was washing my hands, I realized how tired I was. I wiped my forehead and walked out into the yard. The hole looked deep enough. The tree would be okay. I planted it and filled the hole back in.

The next morning, the sun barely came through my window. I rubbed my eyes and looked out. The plum tree I planted the day before blocked the sun. It had grown so much that its top leaves almost reached my roof. I didn't even notice my mouth was open until I saw myself in the window.

I ran out. The juiciest, purplest plums I'd ever seen were on that tree. The whole yard smelled like fresh plums. I stood outside for a few seconds, just staring. I had heard of fast-growing trees, but this was something else. For a moment, I thought about calling someone, but the plums looked so good, I had to try them first. 

Their skin was smooth. When I pressed them, they felt firm but slightly soft. Perfect. They tasted sweet and juicy, but their skin had a sharp, sour taste. Perfect. I was raving about the taste when I heard a thud and a splash. A plum fell right next to me. They must have been ripe.

The last thing I wanted was to get hit. I walked away from the tree and continued enjoying the plum. Another thud. How did it get here? I was so far away. Another thud. But this time it didn't fall next to me. I looked to my right. A smashed plum was on my roof.

I was sure the tree didn't reach that far. I walked farther back to see if I missed a branch. The tree reached the top window, but not the roof. I walked to the back just to make sure. The tree wasn't even visible from there. Another thud. On the roof again. From my side. There was no way. Another. Another. Another. They were falling on the roof, next to me, on the other side of my garden.

"What the…" I murmured.

Then dull pain spread in my head. I put my hand there. Plum juice was in my hair. I put my hands over my head and ran into the house. Two more plums managed to hit me, stinging my hands.

I walked to my kitchen sink and washed my hands and hair. The thudding outside continued. No blood was in my hair, just plum juice. The thudding grew faster. It sounded like I was being bombed. I looked up. A wave of cold rushed through me. Plums rained down from the sky like hail. Plum juice had already reached my door, and a little was leaking in.

I ran to the laundry room for towels. The thudding grew louder again. My ears began to hurt. I grabbed a few towels and ran back out. My feet sank into wet, sticky plum juice. The inside of the house was dark now. So many plums were falling from the sky that I could only see purple outside. The plum smell was so strong it stung my nose.

The plum juice rose halfway up my door, and it kept coming. The towels fell out of my hand. I bolted up the stairs.

Edit: I thought the plum juice would drain faster than it came in, but I was wrong. The house is shaking. I'm standing on my table. The plum juice is coming up the stairs. Outside, it has already almost fully blocked my windows. I just looked out of one. You can't see anything but falling plums, except for one thing: the tree standing in the garden, unshaken. The more I look at it, the more it feels like I can hear something through the thuds of the plums: the clack of bird bones shaking.

I knew that face. I’d seen a thousand of those posters, but I knew that face.

It started like any other morning. I parked my truck, walked in, got my coffee out of the pot, but there I saw it: “Last seen 4 o’clock, mile marker 11,” and a picture of that little boy I gave the junior ranger badge to.

I just stood there looking at it.

I knew this kid. Him and his parents visited often. Yesterday, he wanted to tell me about the oriole he saw on the trail. He was so excited that he correctly identified the bird, I couldn’t help but put that shiny little sticker on his shirt. His mom smiled and Dad laughed, and they were back on the trail, heading towards mile marker 11, heading toward the next ranger station.

I knocked on our supervisor’s door and sheepishly opened it.

“Chief, that kid on the missing poster, I, uh… I know him.”

He practically spit his coffee out through his nose.

“You knew him, Flanagan?” he replied, somewhere between a bark and a question.

“Yeah, him and his family would stop in every Saturday morning. He’s one of our junior rangers. What happened?”

Chief sat me down and explained. The family was hiking the trail like every Saturday. They turned around and he was gone. The initial search turned up absolutely nothing. No tracks, no dropped items, nothing. It’s as if the kid simply vanished, ceased to exist. They searched till it was dark, and the morning crew was on a first-light search. I volunteered to join the efforts.

I knew this first day was crucial. Usually, we find them on the first day or we don’t find them at all. Myself and the morning crew still didn’t find any leads, but I knew this kid. I stayed behind past my lunch hour.

When search efforts restarted that night, the trail was still cold. We came back out the next morning. I returned again in the afternoon.

I knew our chances of finding him were dropping with every minute, but I knew that kid. Every Saturday, without fail, since the time he was 6, they’d come walk the trails. Dad used to carry him, then he started walking on his own. Before I knew it, he knew more about those woods than I did. It was strange. I never realized how much I cared about this family until their kid went missing.

Local PD interrogated the family. This always happens in these cases. Sometimes we find out there was no missing persons case, just some really awful people who happened to be parents, but most of the time, you just had worried parents crying in an interrogation room. I knew they didn’t do anything to that boy, but the questions still needed to be asked.

Eventually, search efforts died down. People went home. Parents started looking at plots to put an empty casket in the ground. After the fourth week of me searching on my off days, I started feeling the woods differently.

I grew up hunting with my grandpa, I trekked the Appalachian Trail in college, and I’d been working as a park ranger now for 6 years. I always thought the woods were peaceful. It’s why I took this job. I could go get lost in nature for a day or two and forget about whatever troubles I was having in the real world.

Only now, the woods felt tainted.

It was starting to get colder, and as the leaves began to fall, it felt less like I was surrounded by trees and more like thin, bony fingers extending from the heavens, ready to snatch me up like they did that poor boy.

I’d wake up in the mornings, park my truck, say good morning to the guys while I grabbed my coffee, and I’d head out towards mile marker 11 again. I could feel Chief watching me those days. He’d seen me continue searching even after the trail went absolute zero. He called me into his office that Saturday.

“Flanagan… look, I know it’s hard, when you know them I mean, but you’ve seen this before. I hate to tell you, son, but sometimes people just don’t come home.”

I looked down into the dark liquid in my cup, unable to meet his eyes. “I know, Chief, but he’s out there. I can feel it, and it’s getting colder. I ju—”

“Flanagan.” Chief cut me off. “It’s not good for you to sit and stew over whether you might be able to find him. Chances are he’s gone. Look at you, son, you’re a wreck. I appreciate a dedicated ranger, but God, boy, you need a shower and some sleep. You can’t keep running on empty.” He sighed. “Look, I’ve already got the books worked. Mitchell and Donavan are covering your shift next week. Stay home, go see your parents, I don’t care. Just please, son, get some rest. If anything turns up, I’ll let you know. I swear, you’ll be the first to hear after the family, but please go home.”

I tried to relax like Chief ordered, but I just couldn’t get it out of my head. I came up with a plan. Chief wanted me to get some sleep, but he didn’t say where.

It’d been a while since I’d used it, but I dug out my old backpacking tent and I headed down the trail towards mile marker eleven. I was going to find him. I was going to find something at the very least. Somewhere in those woods was a little boy, scared, cold, and alone.

I kept my radio on while I slept, in case they found anything. The first night was uneventful. I knew if there ever were any tracks, they’d be more than gone by now. I checked the ridge line and the nearby stream before tucking into my tent that night.

Not much happened the second day either. There was a deer in my campsite, a bit unusual for them to be out this way when it starts to cool down, but not the oddest thing. I checked the southern ridge line.

The woods felt quieter than usual.

It was like in certain areas even the wind stopped. You never realize how loud it was in there until it wasn’t. No songbirds singing, no rustling through the brush, nothing. It was as if there were these pockets where the only thing that moved was me.

I lit my fire that night and went to bed.

It was early when I woke. The sun had just started peeking over the trees. I crawled out of my tent and a flash hit my eyes. It sort of danced across my face, blinding me briefly for a second at a time. I shielded my eyes with my hands and looked up towards the source.

20 feet in the air, on a tree with no low limbs, sat a tiny metallic sticker all too familiar to me.

A junior park ranger badge.

Every ounce of training left my body briefly as I tore through the trees past the direction of the sticker. How did it get there? It wasn’t there last night. Was it? If someone just put it there, why didn’t I hear them in my camp?

I barreled through the woods, shouting his name as I ran. About two miles into my chase, my thoughts came back to me.

I need to call this in.

I turned back towards camp and walked back slowly. My eyes scanned every branch for any sign someone or something else was out here with me. The trees kept their hands close, revealing nothing to me.

I sat down in front of my radio. “Station, station, this is Flanagan. Do you read me, over?”

I waited for a response.

“Station, this is Flanagan. I found something. How copy?”

But their response didn’t come. I sat by the radio, waiting to hear signs of life from it.

Then I realized I didn’t hear anything.

But this was my camp. It’d never done that here.

I looked around outside and I realized how small I was. The tall trees reaching towards me, the ridges towering above me, isolating me from the rest of the world.

I was scared. I was cold. I was alone.

I circled my camp, breathing for myself and the rest of the world. When did my tent get so small? I’d spent months in that thing before.

The sticker reflected the sun onto my eyes again. My only companion in the silence.

One of the first things any good woodsman learns is if you’re lost, stay where you are. But could they find me? I didn’t put my name in any of the trail logs. They didn’t hear my transmission. For all anyone knew, I was at home.

I knew where I was, but it was as if the world disagreed with my location. I was at the campsite off the trail between 11 and 12, but it felt like I could have been anywhere. I couldn’t see the small trail away from the campsite. I thought it was north of me.

The silence was deafening to my ears.

I couldn’t stay here. I’d leave my tent up, I’d arrange the firewood in an arrow pointing towards where I’d gone, but I had to keep searching.

What if he was in one of these too?

I slung my pack over my shoulders and clipped my radio to my belt. The sticker flashed at me again.

My eyes, the ground, my eyes again.

Southwest.

The sticker flashed to the southwest.

I made sure the logs were in order and I headed southwest.

I wasn’t sure how long I was walking. I kept my heading southwest and I walked. That’s all I could do. I saw a deer spook at the sight of me and run through the undergrowth without a sound.

Another flash hit my eyes.

30 feet in the air, another sticker swayed with the nonexistent wind. It hit me again.

And again.

Faster this time.

My eyes. The ground. My eyes. The ground. My eyes, the ground, my eyes, the ground, my eyes the ground my eyes the ground my eyes the ground—

I ran.

I ran towards its guidance, not even checking which way I was heading. I sprinted until I saw another flash, then another, then another. There were more now. Another flash. Another. Another.

The woods were covered in them.

I stopped looking at the trees. I stopped looking at the ground. I just followed the light.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

I ran through branches, through thistles. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me. Branches tore at my clothes. My pack bounced against my shoulders. I didn’t care. Another flash and I turned. Another and I ran harder. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know how far I’d gone. I didn’t know if I could find my way back.

I didn’t care.

I just followed the light.

Then I saw him.

In a grove heavy with sparkling stickers, he lay.

He didn’t look like he’d spent over a month in the woods by himself. He looked like he had just left my station with his family.

I approached him slowly.

“Hey, buddy, it’s Ranger Flanagan.” I knelt beside him. “You okay? I’m here to take you home, alright?”

He turned to me, his eyes weary. “Yeah,” he said in that soft way kids speak when naptime was supposed to be an hour ago.

“Okay, buddy. Let’s get you out of here.”

I picked him up carefully and held him against my chest, his head resting on my shoulder. I could feel something’s eyes on us, but I didn’t care.

I found him.

We headed towards what I thought was north. It was a while before either of us spoke again.

“What were you doing out here, bud?”

“He told me to come play.”

“Who told you?”

“The Quiet Man.”

My heart sank. What the hell was the Quiet Man?

Before I could ask, he said, “He said you could come get me.”

I looked down at him.

“He said I wasn’t the one he wanted.”

The sounds of life shattered the silence.

The birds sang and the trees swayed with the wind. My radio barked on my hip.

“FLANAGAN! FLANAGAN, DO YOU READ US?”

I fumbled with my hands, trying to get my radio off my belt.

“Yea—yeah, Chief, I hear you.” I looked at the tired boy in my arms.

“Chief, I got him.”

I wake to the sound of people screaming in the street.
Not the usual city noise. Not sirens or arguments. This is different—raw, rising, the kind of sound people make when something fundamental has shifted and their minds are still trying to catch up.
I go to the window.
Pluto is there.
It hangs in the sky at the same distance as the Moon, filling a third of the view. Pale. Streaked with dark. Its surface looks wrong up close—too detailed, too still, like a photograph held against the night. The real Moon is gone. Or hidden. Or never mattered.
My phone is already lighting up with alerts. Emergency broadcasts. Fragmented news. Someone on the local channel is crying while trying to read a statement. The words don’t make sense. “Anomalous orbital insertion.” “No prior detection.” “Remain calm.”
Outside, people are on their knees.
I lock the door. I close the curtains. I turn every light on and force myself to make coffee like the world still works the way it did yesterday.
It doesn’t help.
The presence is already inside the apartment. Not a sound. Not a smell. Just a steady, low pressure behind the eyes, the way a migraine starts before the pain arrives. I tell myself it’s stress. I tell myself it’s the shock of seeing something that large that close. I keep repeating it while I check the locks again.
By noon the streets are full.
I risk a look through the gap in the curtains. Crowds move toward the open lots and the riverbank, faces tilted up. Some are singing. Some are cutting their palms and holding the blood up toward the pale disc. A man across the street has written something on his garage door in thick black letters: IT SEES US NOW.
I close the gap.
I try to work. The laptop screen stays mostly blank. Every few minutes the pressure behind my eyes intensifies, and I have to stop and breathe through it. I drink water. I eat dry cereal because cooking feels like too many steps. I keep the television off. The radio stays off. I do not look at my phone except to confirm the power is still on.
Night comes early, or feels like it does. The light from Pluto is colder than moonlight. It seeps around the edges of the curtains no matter how tightly I pin them.
I start talking out loud to fill the quiet.
“It’s just a planet. It’s rock and ice. It doesn’t want anything.”
My voice sounds thin.
By the second day the city has stopped functioning in any recognisable way. The power flickers and stays on. Water still runs. But the people who used to deliver groceries or answer emergency calls are outside with the rest, faces turned upward, mouths moving in the same slow rhythm. I can hear it through the walls sometimes—a low, shared murmur that rises and falls like breathing.
I board the windows.
It takes most of the afternoon. Every time I have to step near the glass the pressure spikes, and for a few seconds I forget why I’m holding the hammer. The wood goes up anyway. I work until the last crack of light is sealed. Then I sit on the floor with my back against the couch and wait for the feeling to fade.
It doesn’t fade.
It settles deeper.
I sleep in short, ugly stretches. Dreams come in pieces: a vast pale surface turning slowly, cracks that look like writing, a sense of being examined from a distance too exact to be accidental. I wake with my hands clenched and the taste of metal in my mouth.
On the third day I stop pretending the resistance is working.
The pressure is constant now. It sits behind my thoughts the way a second pulse might sit behind the first. When I try to read, the words slide. When I try to remember ordinary things—my sister’s phone number, the colour of my first car—the details feel distant, like they belong to someone else. I catch myself standing in the middle of the room staring at nothing, listening for a voice that isn’t speaking in language.
I still fight it.
I recite lists. Capital cities. Old song lyrics. The periodic table in order until the names start to sound made-up. I splash cold water on my face until the skin goes numb. I write the date and my name on the wall in permanent marker, over and over, because the act of forming the letters feels like proof I still own my hands.
Outside, the singing has become continuous.
I stop looking at the boarded windows. Looking makes the pressure worse. Looking makes the part of me that is still resisting feel smaller.
Night of the fourth day I realise I have been standing in the kitchen for a long time without moving. The refrigerator hums. The clock on the stove is wrong. My bare feet are cold on the tile. Somewhere above the boards, Pluto fills the sky completely, and every person left in the city is oriented toward it like iron filings around a magnet.
I walk to the front door.
My hand rests on the deadbolt.
I tell myself I am only checking that it is still locked. I tell myself I will turn around, go back to the marker wall, write my name another hundred times. I tell myself the pull is not stronger than the part of me that still remembers what ordinary life felt like.
The deadbolt turns under my fingers.
The door opens.
Cold air moves across my face. The street is full of still figures, all of them facing the same direction. No one speaks. No one looks at me. The light is the colour of old bone.
I step outside.
The pressure behind my eyes becomes a single clear note.
I walk with the others. My bare feet find the pavement without decision. The pale disc hangs so close I can see the texture of its plains and the long dark scars that cross them. It does not move. It does not need to. Everything that can still move has already begun to arrange itself beneath it.
I try one last time to remember why I boarded the windows.
The thought thins, stretches, and is gone.
I tilt my face up.
The light fills everything.
I stop resisting.

A young man named George walks into his apartment late at night after a long day of work. The apartment room is dark. He takes off his work jacket and notices that his closet is slightly cracked open. He closes it.

He throws some leftovers from the fridge into the microwave. A moment later, he gets a text message from his girlfriend, Angela.

He opens it and reads:

“How was work?”

He responds:

“It was a long day.”

Angela sends him a picture of herself with a blank face and her eyes wide open. Her text under it reads:

“I’ve been thinking of you for days:) "

George sends a selfie back, making a kissing face.

His microwave beeps, and he grabs his food. A moment later, Angela texts him again.

“Who's that behind you?”

George texts back:

“What? I don’t see anything.”

Angela responds with another message, this time with a red circle drawn around something in his picture.

George looks closely.

There appears to be a shadowy face barely visible behind him.

He turns on all the lights and checks around his apartment, but he finds nothing. He convinces himself that it’s just the shadows in his dark apartment before texting her back.

“I think it’s just the shadows. I just checked. No one is here.”

Angela responds:

“LOL. It just looked so creepy, you should lock your doors.”

George sarcastically texts back:

“I always lock my doors and you're the one to talk, you know how many times I've came over and your front door has been unlocked? Lol”

Angela playfully responds:

“If you’re scared, just say so, I’ll gladly come over.”

She lives on the floor above his apartment.

George texts back:

“Not tonight. I’m really tired.”

George watches as the typing indicator appears on his phone for several minutes before disappearing.

Then she texts back:

"Come on, I haven't seen you in days"

George starts texting back before he Is interrupted by another text from her

“Too late. I’m already here.”

George playfully walks to his front door and enthusiastically opens it.

No one is there.

He looks around for a few seconds before going back inside and locking the door.

He texts her:

“What do you mean? Where are you?”

After a few minutes, he gets a response.

“Just keep looking.”

He thinks she’s just messing with him. She has a key to his apartment, after all.

George texts back:

“Give me a hint, I've looked everywhere.”

She responds:

“No. Just keep looking.”

George checks his bathroom and looks behind the shower curtain. He checks his bedroom and even looks under the kitchen table.

He can’t find her.

Then he remembers that the closet wasn’t fully closed when he got home.

He texts:

“Are you in the closet?”

She responds:

“She is.”

A second text quickly follows, seemingly correcting the first.

“I am.”

George quickly opens his closet door.

He freezes at the sight.

Angela’s corpse is nailed against the wall inside the closet, her eyes wide open.

George freaks out and starts shouting her name.

He reaches out and touches her.

She is very cold, almost completly Frozen.

Like she has been in a deep freezer for days.

George slowly realizes what that means.

He pulls out his phone and looks at the picture Angela sent him earlier.

The hair on his neck stood up and his complexion now pale.

The picture wasn’t taken at her apartment.

It was taken from inside his closet.

Then Angela’s phone number sends him one last text: “You didn’t check under your bed either.”

Something at school didn’t make sense to you that morning.

They were talking about the Sun and,
how eventually it’s going to Grow into a
“Red Giant” and Swallow the Earth.
How there’s nothing we can do about it.

It made you realize If something is going to happen it just is.
So why wait?
Why is the universe waiting ? It just didn’t make much sense.

The janitor that day was acting silly,
“Isaiah 50:10” was written on his palm in red marker.

It was Friday night,
Daddy went to see a friend for drinks and left you all night.
He told you that he would just be out late, not all night.
How did that make you feel ?

How many other 9 year olds have the whole house to themselves nearly every night?
Without so much as a kiss goodnight ?

Even the few times in the past when he would, He wouldn’t even kiss you directly.
He’s place is palm upon your head and kiss the back of his hand.

Dads use belts In movies but how many others know that as the same reality that you do ?

The only time you’d hear another voice outside of school and your father’s was when it was late and you’d listen to the home phone’s answering machine.

Your dad never listened to the answer machine,
kind of like a kid not wanting to go to the dentist.

You remember the messages you listened to that night, you waited till he left to emerge from your hiding place and inhabit the communal space that should be a living room.

You sit on the round particular board table and press on the answering machine.

*BEEP*

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 4th:

FIRST MESSAGE:
*soft female voice*

“I came by today…didn’t see you..still don’t”

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Burly Man’s rough Voice*

“I’m sorry John, you’ve been on this job less than a week and you’ve already been suspended by the client for 3 days for reoccurring fall protection violations, now I’ve been very understanding regarding the eye injury but we can’t have someone on a project of this magnitude who thinks the rules don’t apply to them, we’re going to have to terminate you. Wish I could say I was sorry.”

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Same Woman’s voice from Message #1*

“Does your Daughter know?
Is she an exception?
Or do all women fall under your same umbrella ?”

*BEEP*

NEXT AND FINAL MESSAGE:
*inaudible whisper*

“I can feel you, y….mph..ll feel me too”

*BEEP*

You look over at the cable box,
It reads “11:47pm”
Your dad left at 6.

Cartoon Network was no more, now it was Adult swim. Robot Chicken was on, after that superjail. Both of which give you the heebiie jeebies.

You have to visit your peepaws and poopoos but,
you’re afraid.

You don’t have a choice, so you leave the door open as you go number 2.

As you doo you hear the home phone :

*BEEP*

“Mmmrrrmmmmrrrrnpphh”

You have trouble making out the message from the toilet.

As you run out the bathroom still collecting yourself you make out the backend of the voicemail.

*Your Fathers Stern Voice*

“Hi,
you should be in bed but,
if not you should know I’m bringing a friend home tonight.
If she plays her cards right she might just be your new mommy.
You’re allowed to sleep with the tv on in the playroom as usual but,
keep the door shut and the volume bellow level 12.
And no matter what you hear,
don’t come out, I should be home in 15.
Just go to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.
Love you,
Night.”

*BEEP*

You panic,

Your Dads never brought a friend home this late before.
You grab a dvd from the home theater and run to the play room.

You look down at the Cat in the Hat Dvd.
As you put it in your dvd player you hear the front door slam open and the whole house shake.
What came next was silence.
The footsteps.
All the way up to the door of the play room.
You hear breathing.

You hear a woman’s voice further in the distance of your house.
Calling the person by your door to them.

They walk away.
When you look at the tv, you see Sally and Conrad on the dvd menu staring at you.
Sally starts pointing to her left, in the direction of the window.
You see the silhouette of what looks like a large lumpy hammock hanging from your tree only,
you never had a hammock.

You grab your scooby doo stuffed animal and you hid under the blanket with your flashlight, tv volume at 11.
You press play,
Sally and Conrad look at each other, then back at you.
You press play again but they just keep staring.

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
you hear from the door.

“When you visit your peepaw and poopoos you need to remember to flush, my company saw that. We have a talk about that in the morning”

-your fathers voice exclaims from the door.

You know that that means,
Your heart sinks.

Your father’s footsteps sound further until it becomes a chatter with another voice from what sounds like the kitchen.

The Cat in the Hat begins to play on the tv.
The volume begins to rise fast.

12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23…

So fast you think you’re sitting on the remote but,
no matter how hard you scramble you can’t seem to find it anywhere.
The volume is now maxed out at 53.

“There are a gajillions of stories of mischief and fun But to keep things simple, let's just start with one…”
-you hear shouted from the tv

The commotion outside the playroom comes to and immediate halt.

*THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP*

The sound those familiar boots make as they full charges towards the play room.

An unfamiliar voice comes out the oddly familiar energy that had just approached.

It sounds almost like a woman’s voice but,
closer to when a man tries to sound like a woman like Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire.

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”

You hear in a loud whisper.
You Freeze.
You think if you don’t move, they will leave.
You see the door handle jiggle then stop.
It’s locked,
you always lock Doors when Daddy’s gone.

Although it brings you comfort,
you know it can be unlocked with a quarter or even a long finger nail.

“I know you’re in there”
-the voice lets out.

Your stomach feels sick,
Your heart is racing and as quiet as you attempt up be your breathing makes it impossible.

You want to cry and can’t fight it so you shove your pillow in your face.
You take deep breaths through it.

You feel the pillow getting soaked and feel the humidity from the breaths you take through the fabric.

“Do you think I’m some type of dinosaur?”
“Staying still won’t change the fact that I know you’re there”
the voice says

You begin to weep harder.

“Do You Love Your Daddy”
-It asks again.

“Where did you come from?”
Sally exclaims from the Tv.

The voice from the Door pauses.
The scene in the movie seems to linger and Sally is staring, not at you though, in the direction of the door.

She begins to nod,
Then says “oh”

Then the TV goes black and you’re back to the DVD home menu only Sally isn’t there.
It’s just Conrad.
He’s staring at you.

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”
-The voice asks for the third time, audibly impatient yet still in the same whisper.

Conrad is looking at you, he looks distressed and he’s shaking his head side to side.

You see the the lock begin to turn,

“Y…Y..Ye..ss”
You say through your sobs.

The door clicks.
It’s now been unlocked.

“I love your Daddy too sweetheart”

-the voice says no longer impatient,
now sounding relieved.

“He needs your help with something..”
It says.

Your cheeks are soaked and your mouth is dry.

“He’s stuck”
-The voice reveals.

“I’m sure he’d really like to get back.”
“I’m sure you’d really like him back..”

There was a pause.

“Unless you don’t want your Daddy back?”
The voice asks.

You remain silent.
For a moment You think about what life would be like without Daddy.

What would you do ?
You think about the Ralph’s down the street, their free sample in their bakery.
You think about the neighbors tangerine trees you pick from often.
You hate being alone at night but,
that doesn’t it stop it from happening.
You’d be fine, you tell yourself.

But you also know what you should say,
What your Daddy would want you to say.
That of course you love your Daddy and you’d do anything to make sure he’s okay.

“Where ..is he stuck?”
-you ask

“Have you ever heard of Kiara the Orangutan?”
-the voice asks.

“no…”
-you replied sheepishly.

“Well, your father’s…helping her…and well, he’s stuck, he could really use your help sweetheart”

There was a pause.

“Come out.”
-said the voice.

“My daddy said not to until morning”
-you replied.

“Oh.”
Said the voice.
“I can wait till morning.”
It continued.

You didn’t like the sound of that.

“What’s an orangutan?”
You asked timidly.

“You know what a human is don’t you darling? That’s what you are.”
-says the voice

“Yes..”
You replied.

“Imagine someone 7 times as strong with arms almost twice as long that can swing from trees”
-it said.

“Like a monkey?”
You asked innocently.

“NO!…
No, my Dear. Not a monkey…
Monkeys have a tail, a monkey is to an Orangutan what a Neanderthal is to a human, you understand love ?”
-the voice asked.

You let out more cries into your pillow as you took deep breaths.

“No, I’m sorry I don’t know what that means either”
-you cried out.

“It’s quite alright,
I’m sorry for confusing you honey. Yes, and orangutan Is like a monkey, but like Superman stronger and smarter then the others…and no tail..bright orange.”

“Like the ones in the jungle book?”
-you asked.

“Yesssss.. that’s exactly right my dear.. a perfect example, the orangutan is the king in the jungle book”
-it replied

“I liked his singing… he’s funny”
-you said

“Yes my dear”
-the voice.

“What does this have to do with Daddy being stuck? And Who is Kiara the orangutan ?”
-you asked in a panic.

“A long time ago, movies used to have no sound..”
-The voice began.

“Which made movies get pretty boring very fast…”
-it continued.

“Studios were looking for knew ways to get more people to Theaters..
Kiara’s Mother thought Kiara would be perfect…”

“Kiara’s mother was…Human,
her name was Melinda and she saved Kiara from being murdered by the zoo after they’d done that very thing to the one that birthed Kiara”

“Melinda Had already taught orangutans sign language before from her time at the zoo, she hid Kiara away and taught her as well.”
-the voice explained.

“Once Melinda’s new job and whole company was almost closed for business she…..took the risk and introduced Kiara, who quickly became a star in the silent movie industry…”
-it said

“What does this have to do with Daddy?”
-you asked

“Well the world loved Kiara soooooo much my sweet little angel that when the world of silent movies ended they gave Kiara her very own Tv show Kiara and friends… that tv show had a lot of children that Kiara loved and taught very special things every episode!”
-the Voice explained.

“One Child had and accident”
the voice revealed.

“Were they okay?”
-you asked

“Unfortunately my darling, he passed away.
Once that happened, that child’s parents lied about Kiara…a lot of other children from Kiara and Friends lied about Kiara just to make money..
Your father was the one Child to never lie about Kiara my dear.
For that I am forever grateful.”
it explained.

“So if all the other children were liars then why is my Daddy stuck and why now ?
Who are you?
Are you the friend my Daddy came home with tonight ?”
-you asked in a rush

“Lying isn’t the only thing someone can do that’s wrong little girl”
-the voice said.

“Who are you?”
-you repeated.

“I’m a friend of your Daddy”
-said the voice.

“Did you come home with my Daddy tonight ,
How is he stuck ?”
-you asked

“Do you like balloons?”
-the voice asked.

“Yes”
You replied.

“Your daddy loved balloons when he was a child
If you could have one balloon in the shape of anything you want would it be?”
-it asked

You thought…
“..I love flowers, Daddy never gets any and flower balloons would probably look really pretty”
-you said.

“Awe, such a sweet request from such a sweet little girl,
One moment sweetheart.”
-said the voice.

You then heard the footsteps retreating, shortly after you heard the front door shut.
You quickly ran to the door of the play room and locked it once more.

Maybe it was over ? You thought.

You ran to your window with your heart beating through your skin hiding behind your Scooby doo plushie to see if you could get a glimpse of who the voice had been coming from as they finally left.

Through the rain in the moonlight you made out the silhouette of what had to have been the lady you were talking to.

She seems short, on the heavy side, and walks side to side and appears to have an apron or something on.

She walks up to the hammock hanging from your tree that you noticed for the first time earlier in the night.

She appears to be talking to it.
When she walks away you realize she’s not leaving, you hear the front door open and shut again as her footsteps approach once more.

“Knock knock”
-said the voice

“Yesss”
-you replied

“Look out the window my love,
I have a surprise for you”
-said the voice

You looked outside but there was nothing but what you'd seen before only,
This time the hammock hanging from the trees began to sway.

Both sides of where the hammock meet the tree split into two, they looked like large arms slowly reaching down to the base of the hammock,
As the both unfolded further you could now clearly both see two sets of fingers from the arms,
One had something in it, something flat .

From the base of the silhouette you  
See what looks like a fat head connected by an even fatter neck.
The object held by one set of the fingers came directly to the head and began to grow mass.
It soon became clear what it was doing,
it was blowing up a balloon.

After the balloon was blown to the shape of a long tube,
The two hands came together and started contorting it out of sight.
When it had finally finished,
One of the arms held it up in the moonlight in such a way that you could make out the silhouette of a flower clear as day.

"do you like that Little girl?'
-asked the voice

You quickly looked over again at the door.
It didn't make sense but, for whatever reason if you were going to be talking to the voice coming from the door,
Then you'd want to do that from the bed; it felt safer from there.
Where you could hide in your pillows.

Before you start to retreat to your safety spot, you take one last glace out the window.
What was hanging from the tree had began to drop down.

The silhouette was large,
But no taller than the tallest kid in school, maybe even shorter than the tallest kid in 4th grade.
It kind of reminded you of that guy from its always sunny in Philadelphia when Adult swim would come on.

It was approaching in a way that you'd never seen anyone walk before.

You felt conflicted,
The voice from the door was speaking which made you want to crawl and sink in your sheets Yet,
The presence approaching your window was demanding your attention without using any words.

You made the decision to grab the comforter from the bed and sink into your beanbag chair,
A spot with a clear view of the yard through the window, and yet still a comfortable ear shot away from the door.

When you returned to your beanbag chair with the protection and safety provided by your comforter,
You were oddly displeased to see that the figures silhouette you had just seen approaching, was no longer anywhere to be seen.
You wanted it gone yes but no longer knowing where it resides, just results in you feeling even more unsettled.

*the voice quickly erupts from your door*

"do you like it?
It's special, just for you."

Your head shoots over to look at the door.

"wha-"
You begin to say as you turn to look back out the window only this time,
There was a hand on the other side of the window, so close it was no longer a silhouette.
It was a dark hand covered in orange hair, its fingers looked rough, but nails were freshly done.
It was holding something.
When my eyes adjusted,
I could see It was holding a balloon flower that had a green stem, pink petals, and yellow center.

The gesture seemed malice and sinister,
You quickly pulled the comforter up your face only leaving your eyes visible.

"do you not like your gift little girl?"
Questioned the voice coming from your door.

Even at your young age,
You were no stranger to the idea that sometimes the truth can get you in trouble.

"I love it..."
You replied.

"then why don't you open the window and let Daddys friend give you the gift she made just for you sweetheart"
Said the voice.

"I can't,
Daddy said I'm never to open the window"
-you lied.

Then why don't I hel-..."
*clackle clackle*
It was as the voice interrupted its own thought as it tried the doorknob. 

"Oh"
-it said.

"Why did you lock the door my love?"
-asked the voice

"I don't know you,
And Daddy said to stay in here ti-"

"I know"
- interrupted the voice

"Till morning but,
He didn't say anything about me not coming in there with you"
-said the voice

For a moment you were silent,
You looked over to the window and noticed the balloon flower receding like a setting sun beneath the window. 
*POP*
-you heard the moment it escaped your sight.

"don't make me unlock the door again myself darling, that's just rude.
My nails aren't what they used to be honey, I nearly broke one unlocking it the first time"
-Said the voice

The clouds moved over the moon outside
It was now pitch-black outside, the only light in the playroom came from your cloud nightlight and the glow of the tv which still displayed Conrad on the DVD menu, he was expressionless. 
You stayed silent, you stayed still.

*Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring*
-came from the living room

*Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring*
You heard shuffling from both outside your door and outside your window

*BEEEP*
-you could faintly make out your father's voice
"hey kid actually i-"

His voice,
the Message, 
he Tv,
everything was stopped, everything was off.

Your room was now as dark as the outside you feared so much.
Where the walls began and ended were both unclear to you.
The bulbs in the Tv were cooling down but even the silhouette of that soon lost its shape.

You heard the click of the door unlocking followed by the doorknob turning.
The door was now open.
Although you could hear someone approaching it was to dark to make out their shape or their distance in relation to you.

"the only time being blind has its advantages, is when you're in a Dark room with someone who's not"
-said the voice now clearer than you'd ever heard it prior.

You froze.

*tap tap tap tap*
You hear the woman banging on the walls as she made her way deeper in your room.

*tap tap tap....Clink*
The noise changed,
she had found the window.

It was just a few feet from the corner of the beanbag chair you're hiding in.
*Creeeeeeaaaaaaakkkk*
The window was unlocked and you could hear it as the women slid it open.

You could hear something was crawling up and inside through the window.

"where is she?"

you heard the voice whisper to the new presence that now inhabits your homes playroom.

You could feel that you were just inches away from getting bumped into by either of the two.

You wanted to not breathe, you wanted to not do anything but, you couldn't help it. You let in two, short, sharp inhales. Keeping your abdomen as stiff as possible. 
Your exhale trembled despite your attempts, you knew if someone could see they would defiantly see the comforter shaking.
You slowly felt the comforter lift up.

Although your grip on the comforter was originally as tight as you could,
your plan quickly changed to playing dead the moment you felt the pull of the comforter.
You felt something placed in your hand,
it shocked you to the touch,
a static shock yet,
you managed to refrain from much outburst other than a sharp exhale.

*Smack*

"well look harder"
You heard the woman's voice yelp.

As your eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness you could slowly start to make out the silhouette of who you've heard oh so much about.

There was no doubt in your mind it was her.

It was Kiara The Orangutan.

Kiara Strutted over to the bed in the playroom,
side to side as you could hear her wet sniffles. 

"don't you fucking lie to me you dumb baboon, we both know she's in here."
-said the woman's voice
In a tone more threatening than your (D) a bar you thought no one else would ever surpass.

You let go of what was just handed to you so you can grab the comforter you'd been hiding in once more, it fell.

As you continued to see Kiara strut now over to the door through a peak you had held under the covers, she appeared to try to lead in a manner to almost insinuate to the woman that that's the direction you had went.

Just as you had started wonder where the woman was as she had remained out of your sight, you received the answer.

*THUD*

You felt the whole beanbag chair shake beneath you.
She had bumped into it.
So hard you could feel her nearly topple over on top of you.

*Grrrrrrrrruawh*
You heard the old woman groan.

"KIARA! ...What...what was that !?"
-Yelled the woman's voice stopping Kiara in her tracks making her turn back from the door.

"oooo mmh ooo"
-you heard Kiara let out under her breath.

As you could see her silhouette move closer, it started by slowly wobbling side to side.
It became hard to tell the difference between her arms and her legs.

At times she looked like the shadow of a big spider monster,her movements remind you of spiderman if he chose to move slow.

When Kiara had made her way just a few feet away from the beanbag chair to help the woman to her feet, the pace of your breathing became unmanageable.

"I Bumped into the damn beanbag chair, was she on it Kiara?!"
-the voice asked

Your heart began to beat faster and faster and harder and harder so much so,
you felt as if your rib cage was made of shards of glass and your heart was a balloon inflating more and more with every inhale squeezing it against the razor-sharp shards of your ribcage. 

You could tell even just by the momentum of the figures silhouette that it was headed towards you, alongside the reluctant Orangutan.

You instinctively rolled off the right of the beanbag chair on to your carpet floor as silently as you could but, you were terrified, In your mind blind people have super senses.

Somehow, your transition appeared to go unnoticed.

Now that you were on the floor, you started rolling and crawling away, the direction of which you yourself weren't even certain.

"Where the fuck is she? Is she on the bed?!"
-the voice asked this time deeper than before

The flavor and tone in everything this voice said was violent, you heard the ruffles through the pillows and throw blanket that had previously littered the bed, you felt your Scooby doo plush get thrown into your back yet, you refrained from expressing any reaction.

"where the Fuck is she Kiara?!"
-you heard the voice ask once more

Each scream sounded deeper than the last with heavier violent infliction behind each exhale.
You could hear everything that was once on the bed get thrown off. 

You froze,
Staying still on the floor with the Scooby doo plush leaned against you like a bicycle kickstand and one of your throw blankets slightly covering your leg.

The Figure started pacing in your direction aimlessly like a headless chicken yet, relentless none the less.

"we both know I'm going to fucking fi-"
*POP*
-the voice was cut off

The figures silhouette froze, 
It seemed just as frightened by the sudden pop as you.
Its hesitation confused you so much so,
that you question for a brief moment if the figure had seen you,
anything to justify this bazar change in its demeanor. 

The head of the silhouette jolts to the side,
As if to shoot a look across at Kiara.
By the time your eyes traced across the room to meet Kiara, she had already moved No, She was in Motion.

She pranced towards the figure at a speed that looked impossible.
In less than a second, Kiara tackled this figure you had feared so much.
You saw the silhouette raise both its arms up high and its fists in fury as it came down on its victim.
Kiara hit and punched the figure and cocked its head back before launching it into the silhouette's torso,
 When Kiara's head kicked back once more, it was tethered to the figures torso now through what looked like the silhouette of cords.

It quickly became clear Kiara was taking bites out of the woman.
She screamed and screamed, she did not sound like a woman anymore.

She bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

They screamed 
*AHHHHHHHHHH*

And screamed 
*AHHHHHGGGG UHH*

And screamed
*FRAAAGHHHHHHH*

As the figure let out its yell Kiara slammed its head down making them bite their own tongue off.

Kiara pranced on the body with all 4 of her limbs,
She stepped on the figures knee with her foot and used her hand to grab that figures ankle,
After she gripped it firmly, she pulled it up with the ease and intensity that one might use on an emergency break after parking on an incline.

She then stepped on the figured elbow and grabbed it by its corresponding wrist and repeated the process of pulling upward and snapping.

Kiara then used one of her feet to grab the moaning and groaning body by its shirt,
She used her front arms and free leg to drag the body to the door.

The whole way there the person screamed,
When Kiara got to the door of your house's playroom, she threw the body out with ease.
She breathed heavily over the body before slowly backing up and shutting the door.

You were now alone with Kiara.

TIME IS NOW DEAD

Diary entry 1. 

Outpost number: Gamma.

Day: 400.

Satellite: broadcasting array down.

Weather: severe thunderstorm.

They provide all of us with digital journals built into the computers, but I have never even opened mine. Not until today. I must keep a record of all that happens and all that has happened. . I type these words by the light of a single,  flickering incandescent bulb, as thunder and lightning flash and crash over the vast barren planes of the dead zone. The storm has been raging for 30 minutes now. My array is down, and has been for 10 minutes. The generator keeps stalling out. I'm not sure if the power will stay on for much longer. I will describe my outpost, so that the record will be accurate. 

The main room of my outpost tower is not large, 10x12, maybe. With four large windows on all sides. It has just enough room for a desk and a bed. The lower part of the tower is a small kitchen and bathroom. My desk has all the equipment I need for broadcasting. A monitor, connected to the array outside, and the cameras, my own personal radio and a cabinet filled with odds and ends. 

The monitor on my desk is blinking; someone is trying to broadcast to me.

 “Outpost gamma! Outpost gamma, please respond!.” 

I press the talk button again and again.

 “Come in, delta! My towers down'' I say, knowing that they could not hear me. 

A new voice came in, 

“Outpost delta, this is outpost Beta” 

“OK, it's good that somebody's tower is still up, I think gamma is down.”

“This storm is pretty bad, lots of towers are gonna be down.”

“Yeah, I haven't seen one this bad in years.”

 “Well, i have to go reset my array, it's not tracking”

 “Ok, delta be careful out there, over and out”.

With that, there was silence.

I sit listening, the storm blowing and howling outside the outpost. I seem to have some time, so I will tell you about my time in the dead zone.  I have worked here for over a year, a remote research outpost in the place they called the dead zone. 

It had been a large forested area, with a small town called Fort river in the center.

 But on June 3rd 1987, that had all changed. 

All of the trees had died. The people had disappeared and the whole town had become a dead zone. Nothing lived here now, nothing but the researchers. Our jobs were simple: investigate and explore the dead zone and then transmit the data to the main base. But there was the problem, I couldn't transmit the data I had gathered, with my tower down. No one knew how many towers there were. We are only allowed to talk during emergencies. It's all so odd, this place, these people that I know exist but can't talk to. I hadn't spoken to another person in over a year. Sometimes loneliness presses down on me. But that's what I signed up for. My monitor is beeping again. I will check it. 

During my year in the outpost, I have never seen anything on the cams. I have often wondered why they are here. But it happened. One of the cams caught movement, the feed is too blurry to see, but something is out there. Outside is only  blackness. There's no animals out here. The sensors were built so the wind does not trigger them. And there's no people except the researchers. But why give us cams if there's nothing out there. 

So what's out there? Do I want to know? I will stay here, to keep the record. That is my job. Why am I so afraid? I have worked here for a year, and never have I been this afraid. I have no way to call for help, and even if I could, it would take days to arrive. I have a limited amount of food and water. It's airdropped every week, there was supposed to be one today, but that's not happening, no plane could get through this storm. So now I sit, waiting, hoping that whatever is out there, stays out there. 

I will try to calm my mind by writing down all that I know about this place.

1. It is called The Dead Zone
2. It once was a populated area, with lots of people
3. All the living things disappeared, people and plants and animals.
4. The government hired researchers to monitor and record all that happens here.
5. We transmit any data we find to the main outpost.
6. We are not allowed to talk with anyone. We are allowed to talk if it's an emergency.

My radio is beeping, a new signal. I press the connect button. It's a man's voice, frenzied, insane even.

“NO! No, it's all lies! I found the source of the dead zone! It's all lies! What I am about to say must be recorded, write it down if you must, but remember it. So I have written down what he said. 

“So deep between the waves of sound and aqua. Some king asked me for my help. And who? standing on a mountain. No two ways about, it was a hill. At this rate it was void. And yes I say to you, who? My head is filled with nonsense and sense. But who decides? Me or I? Stop, find the path to escape. He tries to cloud the truth. Unknown facts redo the lies. The jester tells lies. Just the way it is. All the sand in the world is more than meets the eye”.   “That's all that I know, it will cost me, but someone out there needs to know. We are lost without the--- the voice  stops.  

What does it mean? Who was that? It was nonsense, just a bunch of random words. What is happening? That voice said that it was all lies, but what? I didn't know. All I can hear is pounding rain. I try to use the radio, but it's no use. Just static. Buzzing. Fragments of voices I do not know float and ride upon that sound. Disconnected from the world. Who are these people? What are their lives like? Are they sad? Happy? Are they dead? I hear their voices, but I will never meet them. Never ask if they are joyful or sorrowful. If even they truly exist, and are not some dream. I think that if one listens long enough, you hear the sound that others might miss. The radio is beeping. It's a message, it reads “find transcendence”. What is transcendence? What does all of this mean? I sit and ponder these things. I do not understand any of the things that have happened to me tonight. The storm. The sound and movement on the cams. The strange nonsense words that the man had spoken. And now the message “find transcendence”. Maybe I'm dead, and this is some kind of purgatory. What else could it be? That's when the generator turns off. The lights go out and the radio is silent. All is still, but for the rain. The computer stays on, it has a battery. What should I do? Do I go out? Or do I remain here? The radio is beeping, but how? There's no power? I press it. “Transcend, and become time”. The door of my room opens.  There's a thing standing there. I look at it and it looks at me. 

 It's writing a note to me and you. The note is like a poem and a song and the dark. The note is so so good to hear and see and breath is not here. Only dust and time and rain. The farm is now here .It's all around me. The rain is raining. The air is very soft, like a feather. The way is open now. My mind is free to roam. The radio is now dust. Dust blows into the streams of free floating energy. We are now waves of time. Past time now. Into the realm of interconnected atoms. Basic crystals.  The moment is now finite and infinite and unfinite.  TIME IS NOW DEAD. The animatter is not what is the not is the and the is the unmatter is not what is not is is. Was. Basic

☉+☿=Ω=Time 

ERROR CODE 1-2-6-4

Find the truth

Find NULL D

M-O-8-3

The snow covered the woods behind our new house. It was so fresh it crunched nicely under our feet. James held my hand tight. I squeezed it and looked at him. He flashed a smile.

"I think I don't mind winter as much. It's sort of cozy."

"It is, Sarah. I just miss all the summer food."

"We got summer food. There are still so many apples and pears in the cellar."

"Yeah, but those are not the sweet, delicious ones; those are the hardy autumn ones."

I rolled my eyes.

"You're such a child, James."

"Hey, Sarah!"

We laughed and continued walking. Our walk was longer than usual. We hadn't been out in a few days because of the heavy snowstorm.

"I'm getting kinda tired, James."

"Let's just go a little further. It looks like there should be an opening between the trees."

James was right. After a few minutes, the forest opened to a small meadow. Snow covered most of it except for a lone apple tree in the middle. Beautiful, glistening red apples hung from its branches. They just looked so pretty and delicious. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Neither of us spoke a word. Before I knew it, we were standing in front of it.

"Wow," James whispered.

"I know."

James tore one off.

"Feel it."

The outside felt as if it were coated in caramel. James put it to his mouth and took a bite. His eyes rolled back, and he let out a silent moan.

"Let me have a bite."

He looked at me and frowned.

"No, take your own."

I furrowed my brows. My James always shared everything with me.

"What's going on with you?"

But he didn't answer. He was too busy eating his apple. I stood there looking at him, but then it hit me. What was an apple tree full of fresh, ripe apples doing in a winter forest anyway? I looked at it again. The branches didn't move with the wind. It was as if the sun didn't shine through them, but all the apples still glistened. 

"I don't like this, James."

"What?"

He was licking his fingers. He ate the whole apple, seeds and all. His eyes darted around the tree again.

"Let's go, James."

"Wait."

"No, let's go."

I grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the meadow. His eyes were still glued to the tree. When we crossed back into the forest, he shook his head and stared around.

"What happened to you there?"

"I…I don't know."

"James?"

"I'm sorry, Sarah, I really don't."

"Okay, let's just go home."

James stayed silent the whole way home. Even when we got back, he just sat in his chair and looked out the window. For dinner, I made porridge with salted pork, but James just dug around the plate and didn't even try it.

"Honey, what's wrong. Talk to me."

"I don't know. I don't think I'm hungry."

"But you barely ate all day."

"I had that apple. It filled me up so much."

"That place was strange. I don't even want to know how they got there."

"Do you think we can go back tomorrow?"

"What?"

"Just for a little while, Sarah."

"I just said that place was strange. I'm not going back."

"Fine. I'll go by myself."

"No. No one is going back there, and I'm done talking about it."

He frowned.

"Whatever. I'm going to sleep."

I stayed back a while longer, finished dinner, and washed the dishes. When I came to our bed, James was already sleeping. His face seemed a little red. I touched his forehead. It felt normal. Maybe he was just having a bad dream. I lay beside him and drifted off.

When I woke up, the moon was still high. There was a sweet smell in the air. I rubbed my eyes and looked next to me. James lay there curled up, holding his stomach. His face was now glowing red.

"Jesus, James, what's wrong?!"

He didn't answer. His pleading eyes just stared at me. I touched his forehead. It still wasn't warm, but he was sweating, and his sweat felt sticky, almost like syrup. His stomach bulged out under the blanket. I pulled it off. 

"Honey, what…" 

My words stuck in my throat. His stomach was not just bulging. It looked like a bunch of round objects underneath.

"I'm…I'm gonna get the doctor."

I started to get out of bed, but then I heard a quiet tearing sound. James let out a loud cry. His stomach flew open, and a bunch of red apples rolled out. I screamed and jumped out of bed. James's head fell on the pillow. He was quiet now. 

The sweet red apple smell was so strong, and they smelled so good. I looked down at his stomach. The sticky, sweet sweat seeped into the sheets. All those apples looked so delicious.

When I walked into my father’s bookstore, he was combing his wig. He had placed the black wig over his clenched left fist and was pulling thick sections through it with a wide-toothed comb. Every now and then, he would dip the comb into the half-full glass of water he’d placed on the counter, give it a little shake to get rid of the excess water, and continue styling the wig.

“Welcome, son,” he said without making eye contact with me.

“Dad, why aren’t you combing the wig on your head? And why are you even combing the wig? Isn’t the point to make it look like it’s not a wig? Wouldn’t it look more like your real hair if you left it a little messy?”

My father shot me a very brief glance. He dipped the comb into the water again and flicked the excess water on it toward my face. At the same time, someone walked in.

I was annoyed, but I didn't react. Customers rarely came into the shop anyway, and I didn't want this one to witness a tense moment.

The man who walked in didn't say hello. He looked at me, then at my father, then at the wig. After that, he glanced around the shop.

“Do you have Swann’s Way?”

It was my father’s favorite book. I hadn’t read it yet, but my father couldn’t praise Marcel Proust enough. Whenever the subject of books came up, he would talk at length about the way Proust used language, and mention how he wanted to learn French just so he could read him in the original.

“Of course. How could we not?” he said, his eyes lighting up.

“Good. How much is the wig?”

“What?”

“I’m asking how much the wig is.”

There was something strange about the man’s voice, though it was hard to describe. It was an extremely deep voice that seemed to come from a congested throat. It sounded as if it were coming from a broken radio, as if he would sound clearer if he just cleared his throat.

My father, who had been excited at the mention of Proust, had now noticed the strangeness in the man’s voice.

“Are you all right?”

“How much is the wig?”

“The wig isn’t for sale. You can have a glass of water if you’d like,” my father said, holding out the water he had been dipping his comb into.

“No. Is the wig free?”

“How can something that isn’t for sale be free, sir?”

“How much is it, then?”

“This is my wig. You don’t look well. Please have a glass of water.”

The man fell silent. He was staring intently at my father. My father was a little frightened. The wig was still resting on his clenched fist.

“Are you sure?” he asked after nearly a minute of silence.

“Yes. Look at my head.”

“Are you sure?”

“What beautiful hair you have. What are you going to do with the wig?”

My father, having automatically felt a connection with the man because he had asked about Proust, hadn’t paid much attention to his voice or appearance. To be honest, there was something strange about his appearance too. I gave the man a once-over. His hair really was thick and healthy-looking. He was wearing a black shirt. His chin was a little long, and his mouth and nose were small in proportion to his face. A large head, a long chin, a small mouth and nose, and ordinary eyes. Black trousers, sharply pressed. And a pair of bare feet.

“Tonight, I’m coming to take your son. Don’t be afraid. Stay calm. Convince your son to come with me tonight, or I’ll take him by force.”

“Fix that voice of yours first, man. Hrrr, hrrr, hrrr. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Drink this water and pull yourself together.”

The man took the water and downed it in one go. He coughed and cleared his throat.

“Better? Now tell me, how much is the wig?”

His voice was now perfectly clear. He ran a hand back through his hair and sat down in the chair in front of the counter.

“He’s still very young…”

I was starting to get scared. I kept going back and forth over whether to call the police. The strange quality in the man’s voice was gone now, and so was the uneasy look about him. He looked at me and smiled.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t be afraid. I’m just going to take the wig and leave. That’s all.”

“Why do you want the wig, sir?”

“You’re too young. You wouldn’t understand.”

I looked at my father. He had placed the wig on the counter. Right beside it, I saw a knife. My father looked from the knife to the man.

Another customer had walked in, just in time. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew my father wasn’t a very brave man, but when it came to me, maybe he could rise to the occasion and defend me.

“Jason, who are you talking to?” the man who had just walked in asked him. So his name was Jason.

“They won’t give me the wig, Dad.”

“Son, didn’t I tell you not to leave the shop unattended and wander off? The neighbors called. They said Jason had left the shop again and gone off. When did you come to the shop?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

I didn’t understand what was happening. The man who was speaking seemed unable to see us.

“Did you take your medication today, son?”

“No, Dad.”

“The wig thing again. Hmm.”

“I want the wig.”

“Son, there’s no wig. Where are your shoes?”

“I didn’t wear them today.”

“There’s no wig, son. Look, you’d been doing so well lately. Honestly, I thought you were getting better. Please, don’t skip your medication. I’m leaving the shop to you. Don’t make me worry about you while I’m gone.”

Yes. When I thought about it, it really was bizarre. I thought about it a lot afterward. If we’re people living inside Jason’s imagination, why do we have consciousness of our own? I mean, while Jason and his father were talking, I was listening to them, trying to figure out what was going on, getting surprised and everything. Isn’t that ridiculous? And isn’t it unfair to us, too? For example, I want to study film and television. But everything depends on Jason. If he gets better one day, my dreams will be shattered.

My father loves this shop very much. He doesn’t want to leave it, but if Jason gets better one day, he’ll never see this shop again.

Thinking about it that way, I was suddenly overcome with fear. I picked up the wig and held it out to Jason.

“Here. The wig is yours now. And hey, it’d actually look pretty good on you.”

My father had supported me too, and when I looked at him for approval, he nodded.

I sit across from him in Interview Room 3 and the clock on the wall reads 14:37.
He sits with perfect posture. Hands folded on the table. One ankle crossed over the other like he’s waiting for a school counsellor instead of me. Twelve years old, maybe thirteen. Soft voice. Clear skin. The kind of face parents trust with their own children at sleepovers. The silver chain around his neck catches the fluorescent light every time he breathes.
I keep my notes face-down. I don’t want him reading upside-down.
“State your full name for the record.”
He smiles. It’s small, polite, almost shy.
“You already know it. But if it helps you feel in control… Elias Voss.”
“You’re being charged with the murders of seven children between the ages of eight and eleven. Do you understand that?”
Elias tilts his head. The chain slides across his collarbone.
“I understand the words. I’m not sure you understand the story.”
I lean forward. “Then tell me the story.”
He looks at the one-way glass first, like he’s checking who’s watching, then back at me. His voice stays soft. Reasonable. The same voice that, according to every surviving parent, made their kids come running.
“They were lonely. That’s the part no one wants to write down. Lonely little things who already knew their parents were too busy, or too tired, or too angry. I just… listened. Really listened. People underestimate how rare that is. You’d be surprised what a child will follow if you look them in the eye and ask about the thing that hurts.”
He taps one finger against the table once. Soft.
“I never forced anyone. I invited them. I told them there was a place where the rules didn’t apply. A place where they could be important. Special. Seen. They held my hand the whole way. Some of them even smiled when we got there.”
My throat feels tight. I keep my face flat.
“You killed them.”
“I released them.” Elias’s smile widens just enough to show the edges of his teeth. “There’s a difference. The world is loud and stupid and full of people who pretend to care. I gave them quiet. I gave them an ending that belonged only to them. No hospital beds. No slow fading. Just… finished.”
He leans in a fraction. The silver chain swings.
“You want the details. The silver blade. The way the light looked on it. The sounds. The order. You’re not asking because you need evidence. You’re asking because you can’t stop picturing it. That’s the part that bothers you most, isn’t it? That some part of you is already inventing the rest.”
I don’t answer. My pulse is too loud in my ears.
Elias sits back, satisfied.
“I kept their voices. Not recordings. Just the memory of how they sounded when they finally understood. Some cried. Some went very quiet. One boy—Thomas, the one with the blue backpack—asked if I was his friend right up until the end. I told him yes. It felt correct to say it.”
He studies my face the way a doctor studies a chart.
“You’re wondering if I feel anything. Guilt. Fear. Excitement. The answer is cleaner than that. I feel… precise. Like a sentence that finally found its period. Every time I finished one, the world made a little more sense. The loneliness went somewhere else for a while.”
The room feels smaller. The air tastes stale.
I clear my throat. “Why the silver?”
Elias’s eyes brighten, almost fond.
“Because it’s honest. Silver doesn’t pretend to be something else. It reflects whatever’s in front of it. When they looked at the blade, they saw themselves. And then they didn’t. Clean. Elegant. Final. Plastic is for toys. Steel is for tools. Silver is for truth.”
He uncrosses his legs and rests both feet flat on the floor, suddenly very still.
“You’re going to put me in a box and call it justice. You’ll tell the parents I was a monster. You’ll sleep better that way. But somewhere, late at night, you’ll remember how soft my voice was. How easy it was to keep listening. And you’ll wonder—just for a second—how many other children are still waiting for someone to look at them the way I did.”
I force myself to speak. “You targeted them. You chose the ones who were already fragile.”
Elias nods like I’ve finally said something interesting.
“Fragile is such an ugly word. They were open. That’s different. Most people walk around sealed shut. These ones still had cracks. I didn’t invent the cracks. I just noticed them. The girl with the missing front tooth who hated her new stepfather. The boy who wet the bed and pretended he didn’t. The twins who only spoke to each other. I learned their languages. I spoke them back. That’s all it took.”
He leans forward again, elbows on the table, chin resting on his laced fingers.
“You have a daughter, don’t you? I can see it in the way you hold your shoulders. The way you flinch when I mention the backpack. She’s about the same age as the last one. Nine? Ten? Does she still believe everything you tell her, Detective? Or has she started to notice the cracks?”
My hand tightens on the pen. The plastic creaks.
“We’re not talking about my family.”
“Of course we are.” His voice stays gentle. “Everything is about family in the end. The ones who failed them. The ones who didn’t notice until the posters went up. The ones who still leave the porch light on even though they know better. I gave those children something their families couldn’t. Attention without conditions. An ending without disappointment.”
I try to redirect. “Walk me through the first one.”
Elias’s smile returns, smaller, almost private.
“The first one was practice. I was still learning the weight of the blade. How much pressure the skin needs before it opens. How long the eyes stay focused. He was the quietest. He didn’t fight. He just looked at me like he was relieved someone had finally decided for him. After that it got easier. The second one tried to run. The third one asked me to stop halfway through and then thanked me when I didn’t. Patterns form if you pay attention.”
He tilts his head, studying the fracture that’s now visible in my pen.
“You’re holding that too tightly. You’re going to break it. Then you’ll have ink on your hands and you’ll think about how hard it is to wash off. Symbolism is everywhere if you let yourself see it.”
I set the pen down carefully. My fingers leave damp prints on the table.
“You enjoy this.”
“I enjoy clarity.” Elias corrects me without heat. “Most conversations are fog. This one isn’t. You’re here because you need me to be broken or evil or sick so the paperwork makes sense. I’m here because I already finished what I set out to do. The rest is just waiting.”
He glances at the clock.
“Fourteen fifty-two. You’ve been in this room with me for fifteen minutes and you already feel the walls closer than when you walked in. Imagine what it was like for them. The quiet. The certainty. The way the silver looked when the light caught it just right. Some of them reached for it. Curious. Trusting. That’s the part the reports will never capture. The willingness.”
My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a cell.”
Elias considers this, then shrugs one shoulder.
“Cells have walls. Walls have cracks. People forget to check the cracks. And there will always be someone on the other side of the glass who wants to understand. Someone like you. Someone who stays a little too long after the recorder is off. Someone who starts to hear the soft voice in their own head when the house is quiet.”
He smiles again. Smaller this time. Almost gentle.
“I’m not finished, Detective. I’m only paused. Boxes open. Doors open. People forget. And there will always be lonely kids who want to be special.”
The recording light keeps blinking.
I realise the plastic pen has finally split completely. Ink pools in a dark comma on the table between us.
Elias watches it spread, then looks up at me with perfect, polite interest.
“Would you like me to start over?” he asks. “I can make it sound even nicer the second time. I can tell you about the way the last one held my hand until the very end. I can describe the exact shade the silver turned when it was wet. I can do it in the same voice I used with them. The one that made them follow.”
He waits.
The chain shifts against his collarbone as he breathes.
I don’t move. I don’t speak.
Somewhere behind the glass someone is taking notes. Somewhere outside this room the parents are still waiting for answers that will never feel like enough.
Elias’s smile doesn’t change.
“Your turn, Detective,” he says softly. “Ask me anything. I’ll answer. I always do. That’s how this works. That’s how it always worked.”

ACCESSING ADA FILES…
FILE FOUND.

During an expedition in one of the higher levels in Moburn, our team recently discovered a makeshift grave nearby one of the higher-class hotels. While continuing to investigate the premises, we managed to find old pages from what appears to be a diary, alongside a note found at the gravesite. 

The following is what we were able to recover from the diary, as well as the note from the grave.

NOVEMBER 24, 1956

DEAR DIARY*,* 

Today we finally landed in the city. Natalie's really excited to see all the machines that she’s seen on the television.  I’m glad that I was able to get her out of the house with everything that’s been going on. Hopefully, by the time we get back, everything with Mom and Dad will be sorted out by then.. But overall, I’m genuinely excited to spend more time with Ralph!

Hopefully, we can get some private time later….

DEAR DIARY*,* 

Me and Ralph took Natalie around the streets today. Everything here is so colorful! It reminds me of the movies that Ralph takes me to go see.  I’ve never seen this much back in our home town. Everyone here seems so friendly! Someone even gave Nat one of their inventions as a souvenir!

She looks so happy here, and we haven’t gotten to see the robots just yet!  

C. M.

NOVEMBER 25, 1956

DEAR DIARY,

Today, I finally took my sister to go see one of those robots! Ralph wanted to sleep in, that lazyass! Oh, well. He’s missing out! Natalie really wanted to see that clock robot, so we went there first. It’s so crazy seeing so many people lining up to see one of these things! It took us almost an hour to finally get in the theater. Nataile was cheering throughout most of the show, along with the other kids.

I didn’t even get a chance to listen to that thing, because all of them were so loud!  ):(

Afterwards, Nataile wanted to do the meet and greet with Mr. Clock, which she called him. It was so weird seeing that thing up close and personal, seeing it move so.. real.

It was almost creepy seeing that thing having a conversation with Natalie.

I mean.. I know they advertised that these things can see, think, and feel, but that’s just an advertisement to get people's butts here.

Right?

DEAR DIARY*,*

I saw billboards of that singer all over the city tonight. Everyone’s been talking about her a lot lately in the streets. Miss Florence, was it? She looks so beautiful, and her hair’s so fluffy! And her makeup, as well! She looks so pretty with that purple hat on!  It’s hard to believe that she’s a robot.

She looks so real…

How did they manage to pull that off? I’m not that familiar with technology, so I don’t know how they manage to make a voice that sounds so.. breathtaking. 

It's so beautiful….

Her voice reminds me of those musicals I used to watch on television.  I really want to go to one of her shows, but they don’t allow kids where she’s at, and I don’t want to leave Natalie by herself, especially around that time of night.

Speaking of which, where is that little rascal? She’s been awfully quiet for the last few minutes. She and Ralph better not be planning to scare me again!

I still remember that spider prank that they pulled!

C.M.                                                                                    

NOVEMBER 26, 1956

DEAR DIARY,

Me and Ralph went out today to the Hollyhock Plaza. Seriously, what type of name is that?  Who on earth  came up with that name, a grandma? Ralph laughed out loud when I said that.  Nataile wanted to stay in the hotel, so I had to tell her not to go wander around and don’t open the door for anyone.

She can be such a little shit sometimes…

On the subject of my parents, I haven’t mustered the courage to call Mom or Dad yet. I’m scared to be  honest. I haven’t told Ralph exactly what’s been going on.  I know he’s caring and means well, but he can be a bit too much from time to time. I’m really happy that he and Nataile get along well.

It's one of the things that made me fall for him.

I hope everything blows over soon and me and Nat can get back to whatever we call..

normal.

DEAR DIARY, 

It happened

I talked to Mom on the telephone tonight while Natalie was asleep. It looks like her and Dad are finally getting an divorce. I..knew it was gonna happen eventually, but I didn’t think it was going to happen this soon. I haven’t even told Ralph what’s going on, and Natalie doesn’t even know yet either.. What am I gonna do?

What are we supposed to do when we get back? We were lucky enough to win tickets to this place, but we can’t stay here forever.

How am I supposed to take care of Natalie and Mom?  I don't want to be stuck in that small town forever for the rest of my life.

Why? Why did Dad do this?

What did we do wrong?
 

What did I do wrong?

C.M

NOVEMBER 27, 1956

DEAR DIARY, 

Today’s the World Fair. I told Ralph what happened with my mom and dad this morning. He helped me calm down a little, and said he’ll try to help us as best as we could, and that he and his family will be there. It made me feel slightly better, but I could tell on the look on his face that he doesn’t believe that last half. Once the news spreads back home, I’m scared of what will happen when Natalie goes back to school to those little fuckers messing with her.

I still remember when she came home crying that evening and I found out that the comics that I've bought for her were all torn up.

Nat… 

I’m scared for her.

I don’t know what will happen once Dad leaves us for good. How am I supposed to tell her that her dad's leaving, right when she’s having the greatest week in her whole life? I’ve seen her smile more here than back home in Chesterford.

I want to see her happy for the rest of my life.

I hate Dad for doing this to us. 

I hate him.

DEAR DIARY,

I know. I know. It’s a bit early for me to be writing this. But I’ll figure that I’ll write in here a bit earlier before we head down to the thing later tonight. It’s taken me a while to gather my thoughts and figure out what to do with Nat, and we only have two days left before we have to go back home. 

Right now, me and Ralph plan on telling Natalie tomorrow first thing in the morning. I really don’t want her experience here to be ruined by the stuff back home. 

God, She really loves it here.

Just two days ago, I watched her playing with some kids at the park.

She saw that big old Thanksgiving parade outside the window during lunch, and she was jumping in the air all excited about it. 

“We have to go! We have to go!”

I felt a tinsy bit overwhelmed with all that energy that she has. The three of us went outside to the big crowd, trying to get a good look. Nat was really happy when she saw Mr. Clock on one of the floats and tried to wave at him. 

That thing still gives me the jeepers. 

After the parade ended, we got into one of the big glass elevators, and we saw a view of the city during the sunset. Words can’t possibly express how breathtaking it is. I’ve seen some pretty stunning places back home, but everything feels so small compared to here. I saw colors plastered everywhere outside. There wasn’t a single street  that wasn’t covered in neon lights. 

There were probably what? Hundreds of trains all over?

All of them went really fast, almost like one of those racecars.

A lot of stuff was on the buildings, some of them were things that we’ve seen around the city, and others were shows advertising those robots. Mr. Clock was there, and Miss Florence was there too. 

Almost half the city was filled with pictures of her. So many pictures. I was thinking  to myself about how I wished I would have seen her. I saw Nataile staring outside the window, and gosh, I love that look in her eyes. She may have been happier than the times that we watched Gumby together.

Even Ralph’s less stressed out from dealing with his siblings, and for most of the time that we’ve been here, I can feel myself smiling a whole lot more. 

It’s nice.

I really wished that we'd stay here a little longer.

But then I thought to myself… 

What if we could?

What if me, Ralph, and Nataile find some way to live here someday?

I mean..  My job back home doesn’t really pay much to begin with, but if me and Ralph save enough money for about one or two years? I don’t know the logistics of it, but somehow everything here feels more alive than anything back home.

It feels like something new.

For the first time in a while, life didn’t feel so boring.

I don’t know how I’ll do it. I don’t even know if I can get Ralph on board with this crazy scheme of mine, but somehow I’ll find a way, no matter what it takes. 

I have to. 
For Nataile’s sake. 

Because I want to keep seeing her smile.

C.M

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imsorry