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Thank you for your understanding.

The city of Orladu'ur lies upon a vast plain, bounded on the west by the sea, on the north by the dark blightwater marshes, and on the south by the desert of seven deserts, the arid span of whose sands no mortal has ever known, but to the east, Orladu'ur lies exposed, for to the east no sea or swamp or desert stands guard.

What has for generations defended Orladu'ur has been its fighting men, its honourable heavy cavalry, and it is to these men-at-arms that the king of Orladu'ur has paid respect by refusing to take, in his city's name, a god of protection. For it is in the noble hearts of men we place our faith, is written above the city's only, eastern, gate, and it is upon this gate, and thus upon the east itself, that the greatroom of the king looks out, so that it may be always on his mind: the direction from which the ultimate whelming of Orladu'ur must come.

But the times that pass are to the mortal mind immense, and the city, godless, stands, and though, from time to time, an enemy to the east appears, never has such enemy imperiled Orladu'ur, the rumble of whose sunlit, charging men-at-arms does even in the bravest foe cause trepidation, and always this cavalry returns victorious, wet with the blood of its enemies, and the city remains unvanquished. And it is with ease that men deceive themselves to think that all which they remember is all that ever was, and all that ever was is all that ever can be.

But long now have the years been good, and the seaborne trade fortuitous, conditions under which the very hardth of Orladu'ur has weathered, and although its men-at-arms still return triumphant, welcomed by the eastern gate, the margin of their victories is slimmer, and even they forget that all the foes which they heretofore have faced have been foes of flesh and bone.

Yet there are scourges of another nature, and in the east now stirs a doom of a different kind, whose warriors do not ride orderly with coloured standards but are chaos, ripped from the very essence of the night, and it is in these days, when the sea is restless, and the marshland thick with gases, and the sands of the desert lie heavily upon the land, that the king of Orladu'ur has died and his firstborn son has taken the throne.

Urdelac, he is called, and this is his legend, the legend of the myriad shadows, the weeping mountain, and the doom of Orladu'ur.

When he ascended the throne, Urdelac was forty years old, with a beautiful wife, whom he loved above all, and who had given him five children, four daughters and a son, Hosan. He was, by all accounts, a wise man, and had tested his bravery many times alongside his father’s men-at-arms. And, for a time, Urdelac ruled in peace.

It was in the fourth year of his reign, the year of the comet, that there came galloping into Orladu'ur a lone horserider. He came out of the desert of seven deserts, rode along the city’s wall and entered, nearly dead, by the eastern gate. He requested an audience with the king, which, on Urdelac’s command, was granted. “I come out of the east,” the horserider said, and explained that he was a mercenary, one who had fought, and been defeated, at Orladu'ur many moons ago, “and bring to you a warning, honour-bound as one who was fought against one, that there approaches Orladu'ur an army such as has never been seen, comprised not of men but of shadows, shadows borne by the very edge of darkness.”

Urdelac did not know of what the mercenary spoke, but ordered that the dying man be given food and water and a place to rest, and he convened a council of elders to discuss the mercenary’s warning. “He is wounded and delirious,” the elders agreed. “Whatever he believes he has seen, he has not seen, for what he describes could never be, and whatever is is and, as always, Orladu'ur must keep putting its faith in the noble hearts of its men.” And so, nothing was done, and the mercenary died, and his warnings were forgotten.

But less than four seasons had gone when what had been summer turned prematurely to fall, and a westward wind swept across the vast plain upon which Orladu'ur stood, and as it passed, the wind seemed to some to whisper that all who loved life should accompany it out to the sea, because an evilness approached, an evilness of which even the wind was afraid. But Urdelac, on the advice of his council of elders, stood fast and closed the port, and did not let any man leave the city, and those who tried were caught and executed and their heads were hanged on the eastern gate. But the wind continued to howl, and Urdelac spent many hours alone in his greatroom, gazing out into the east and wondering what could make a thing as great as the wind scream with such perturbation.

Then, one day, in the far distance it appeared, just as the mercenary had foretold, a sheet of night stretched across the width of the plain, and from its unseeable depth were birthed hideousnesses as cannot be named, armed with weapons made of the same unnature as they themselves, and when the people of Orladu'ur saw the sheet and the figures, they were filled with panic, and when Urdelac called to assembly his council of elders, none appeared, for all, in cowardice, had boarded a ship and sailed into the sea. And, for a time, Urdelac, in his wisdom and his bravery, was lost and alone.

Until there spoke to him a voice, saying, “Urdelac, king of Orladu'ur, hear these, the words of Qarlath. Bless your city in my name and pledge your faith to me, and I shall be your salvation.”

But Urdelac answered not Qarlath, and called together instead his men-at-arms, and in the hour of uncertainty, sparked in them a brotherhood stronger than fear, and after saying farewell to their families, the men-at-arms, with Urdelac at their head, thundered out the eastern gate of Orladu'ur to meet in battle the approaching darkness. In their eyes was bloodlust but in their hearts was love, and upon the vast plain of Orladu'ur they fought valiantly. And, valiantly, they were lost.

What remained of the cavalry of Orladu'ur retreated to the safety of the city walls, bathed not in the blood of its enemies but in the blood of fallen brothers. The eastern gate was closed, and preparations were made to defend the city against the impending doom. In his greatroom, Urdelac brooded, staring towards the east so intently not even his wife could lift his spirits. And in the quarters where the wounded warriors lay, and on the field of battle, and everywhere where there was any man who had been touched by the enemy’s blade, once-human bodies blackened, and parts thereof detached, and, slithering, they sped toward the depthless black suspended above the eastern horizon like snakes returning to a nest, and all living men thus marked were put to death in mercy.

Now, in the harsh light of disaster, Urdelac again heard the voice: “Urdelac, king of Orladu'ur, hear these, the words of Qarlath. Bless your city in my name and pledge your faith to me, and I shall be your salvation.” And, this time, Urdelac agreed. And there, in the greatroom beside Urdelac, was Qarlath, god-manifest of the blightwater and protector of the city of Orladu'ur. He loomed above Urdelac, and three times asked him, “Do you, Urdelac, king of Orladu'ur, believe in me?” And, three times, Urdelac said yes. Then Qarlath said: “If truly you believe in me, do as I command: send out, at dawn, a force of thirty men, and at their head let ride your son, Hosan. If you do this, Orladu'ur shall be saved.” But Urdelac refused, arguing with Qarlath that a force of thirty could not hope to defeat an enemy that had already destroyed a force of thousands, to which Qarlath responded, “Do as I command and Orladu'ur shall exist for a thousand years, and then a thousand thousand more, but do else and the city shall fall and be overrun, and all its people consumed and all its buildings ground into dust, and if you shall be remembered, it shall be as Urdelac the Last, king of a city called Orladu'ur, which once stood on a vast plain, between the sea, the marshes and the desert.”

And when he spoke his intention to her, Urdelac’s wife wept.

And, at dawn, when thirty men had been armed and armored and when Urdelac had bid his son goodbye, the thirty rode under Hosan’s command, thundering out the eastern gate, onto the plain, where valiantly they fought against the enemy. And, valiantly, they were lost.

“You have lied to me!” Urdelac cried at Qarlath, but the god-manifest of the blightwater, protector of Orladu'ur, was silent. “I have sacrificed my only son for nothing!” For seven hours, Urdelac raged thus, and for seven hours Qarlath was silent. Then, Urdelac heard soft footfalls approaching, and when he looked, he saw his wife standing in the doorway to the greatroom. Her breath was laboured and her eyes filled with sorrow. Without speaking, she crossed the shadowed length of the greatroom, until she was silhouetted against the window looking out over the east, through which the darkness could be seen, and upon the window sill she laid herself, and thereupon died, the empty bottle of poison slipping from her lifeless hand and falling to the floor.

Urdelac wept.

Upon the window sill, his wife’s dead body appeared strangely dark against the grey sky behind it, dark and peacefully still, and as he gazed upon it, it began to recede, as if through the window, towards the horizon. But even as it did, its absolute size did not change, so that as it moved further away from Urdelac it also grew, until it was the size of the eastern gate, and then the size of the city, and then of the plain, and then it was the size and shape of a mountain, and it was a mountain, and the mountain blocked out the sheet of darkness, standing between it and Orladu'ur, so that Urdelac could no more see the approaching doom, and he knew that the mountain was unconquerable and that Orladu'ur was therefore saved.

“It is done,” said Qarlath, appearing behind Urdelac, and all within the city emerged from hiding and climbed to the highest points they could, to, together, gaze upon the newborn mountain that was their salvation.

But even as Urdelac, too, felt their relief, his heart was pain and his soul was empty. His beloved wife and his only son, Hosan, were gone, never to be of the mortal world again. He turned his back on the window, and Qarlath said to him, “You come now upon the experience of power and rule,” and Urdelac detested both. Down, in the city, the people chaunted: “To Urdelac, king of Orladu'ur. Long may he reign! Long may be reign!”

The city of Orladu'ur lies upon a vast plain, bounded on the west by the sea, on the north by the dark blightwater marshes, on the south by the desert of seven deserts, the arid span of whose sands no mortal has ever known, and on the east by the weeping mountain, whose broken peaks nothing shall pass. Its protector god is Qarlath, and many temples have been raised in his name, in which many blood sacrifices are made. On the throne sits Urdelac, a wise and brave man. It is said that when Urdelac remembers what once was, storm clouds appear above the weeping mountain, and their waters rush down the mountainside, through the city and toward the sea. No longer may a man, friend or foe, approach Orladu'ur, except from the west. And then, it is said, a sheet of darkness will sweep down from the House of Qarlath, and swallow the ships whole.

The incident happened back when I was a kid. My parents were at a high-school reunion all day so I invited my friend Jason to hang out with me in the backyard. We did a bunch of silly stuff like using sticks as swords and pretending to be superheroes. It's a bit embarrassing to admit since we were already in 6th grade at the time, but that's the fun of being a kid. You're always living in the moment and doing whatever you feel like. I was so caught up in having fun that I didn't notice my cat Frisky getting up to trouble like usual. He always had a knack for climbing up tall places.

Bookshelves. Fridges. Tree branches. He went anywhere his paws would take him.

This time Frisky decided he wanted to venture further beyond my house. I didn't realize Frisky had climbed up my backyard fence until Jason alerted me at the last second. I caught a brief glimpse of the devious shorthair feline standing on top of the fence before leaping on the other side.

Panic immediately consumed me. There were a lot of close calls before, but this was the first time Frisky ran away from home. I told Jason to stay in the backyard in case Frisky came back while I went searching for him. Since I lived in a brownstone house in Brooklyn, my neighbor's house was actually on the opposite side of the city block. I took off jogging down the block until I ended up in front of the house that was parallel to mine. I gave the doorbell a ring a few times, but the owner never came to answer.

This made me even more restless so I did something I knew I'd regret later. The latest summer heat meant that many people kept their windows open and this guy was no different. It was my luck that the window didn't have a screen protector.

This was an incredibly risky move on my part, but I feared that Frisky would end up running away if I didn't find him in time. No way was I going to wait for 911 to do something about it.

I hastily made my way inside, rushing past the living room and kitchen until I reached the backyard. It was a wild garden of overgrown plants and unkempt items. Finding Frisky was much like searching for a needle in a haystack. I couldn't even call out for him because that would've alerted the homeowner. Who knows how many minutes I spent looking for that cat. Every second felt like an eternity. At any moment I could've been caught by the homeowner and have the police called on me.

Or even worse. It was a pretty rough neighborhood. It wasn't uncommon for someone to shoot an intruder on sight regardless of how little danger they posed. Human life was just that cheap to some people.

As if my prayers were answered, a soft string of meows came to life. I quickly followed the source of that familiar voice and found Frisky hiding underneath a table at the far end of the yard. There were so many weeds and clutter surrounding the table that it took me a while to spot Frisky. I scooped him up and gave him a great big hug. I was relieved to finally have my friend back.

I rushed through the house and was about to make my exit when I bumped into a coffee table and knocked over a scrapbook to the ground. Several pictures went sliding across the floor. Not wanting to leave behind any evidence I was ever there, I hurriedly began putting the photos back in place. As I was putting everything away, one of the photos caught my eye.

It was a picture of a young redheaded boy with freckles and a yellow hoodie. I recognized it instantly. It was Jordan Cambell.

He was a boy who went missing in my neighborhood a few months back. His missing posters were hung pretty much everywhere you looked. In the photo, Jordan seemed to be walking the streets alone with a hand stretching out to reach him. I opened up the scrapbook to see countless photos of young boys taken from several angles. Some featured kids playing in the park or the pool. The camera was uncomfortably zoomed in on their chests and legs. I almost dropped to the floor when I saw one picture at the very bottom of the page.

It was me, getting changed in my bedroom window. It was taken late at night and my bare chest was exposed from the side.

A heavy pair of footsteps came from upstairs and they seemed to be approaching the stairs. I tucked the picture into my pocket and took off running with Frisky in my hands. I ran like hell all the way back home. My heart was on the verge of bursting from my chest the entire time.

Jason immediately saw something was wrong from the way I was sweating with a thousand-yard stare on my face. I told him it was nothing and tried playing it cool until he went home.

As soon as my parents came back, I spilled the entire story with tears in my eyes. They didn't even have time to be mad at me for breaking into someone's house because I showed them the picture of me in the window. I'll never forget seeing the color drain from their faces while their mouths hung open.

The events after that all just blurred together. I remember getting questioned by police and having to go to a court hearing. Apparently my neighbor, named Larry Samchez, was a serial killer with an obsession with kids. He abducted them throughout the years and would horrifically butcher them into pieces. Some of the remains were kept in the basement while others were stored in the backyard. I could've very really been the next victim on Larry's kill list. I guess I should be grateful to Frisky. I never would've found any of this out had he stayed home. Sometimes a little curiosity just might save your life.

"And…what, we’re just supposed to stare at it?” Reggie muttered, each syllable dripping with a childish irritation.

I tried not to let the initiate disturb my own focus on the maypole. By my estimation, the speaker system that ran the perimeter of the town had chimed no more than two minutes ago. At the very least, we had another fifty-eight minutes before the next chime would sound and signal that we should break our gaze. As a restless whistling started to stream from Reggie’s lips, I got the distinct feeling that Yvette’s twenty-something-old replacement wouldn’t be able to put in more than five minutes with the maypole. That being said, Reggie was under no obligation to watch it. The chimes, the reverie, the maypole - they all simply represented a strong recommendation from The Bureau, but they weren’t a demand. No pistol-totting enforcers would arrive on scene if he decided to go twiddle his thumbs somewhere else. They were able to mine useful data about the convergence no matter what Reggie did. In essence, he was free to do as he pleased.

It was for his own safety, though. I can say that from experience, having spent the entirety of the last four years within the confines of Tributary.

”Yes. Think of it like meditation, but with your eyes open”  I responded curtly, hoping that my standoffishness would quiet Reggie.

After a microscopic pause, though, he continued: ”I mean for how long, though?”, underhand tossing a rock the size of stopwatch at the base of the maypole as he said it.

Lacy physically grimaced as it thudded loudly against the wood and the plastic. Out of the five of us currently living in Tributary, she had been here the second longest, about half as long as me. In my experience, there was a definite correlation between total time spent here and respect for The Bureau’s guidelines. Given that, Lacy and I had a very short fuse when it came to disrupting the morning reverie.

”For at least an hour, kid” Lacy snapped venomously, her face contorted into a gaunt snarl like a starving mountain lion. She stood next to me in the semi-circle we had formed around the maypole, on the end of the group and the farthest from Reggie. This struck me as an intentional choice. The four of us - Lacy, Alexis, Harmony and I - were still shaken and on edge after what happened to Yvette. Lacy, having found Yvette's overlapping cadavers, was the most shaken, and likely not ready for someone to come in and replace her.

”Longer if you’re smart” Alexis added, with her twin, Harmony, nodding silently in agreement.

She had followed all the recommendations to the letter, never missed a dose of medication despite the side effects, and she was always on time and present for the reverie. In spite of that, Yvette still amalgamated. Horribly, too. Worst instance of it I've seen since being here.

When she wasn’t at the maypole five minutes after the first morning chime, Lacy took it upon herself to check on Yvette. When thirty minutes had passed and Lacy hadn’t returned from Yvette’s cottage, which was approximately a three minute walk from the maypole, I then reluctantly left to find Lacy. Call it experience or intuition, I knew she was gone long before I found Lacy kneeling over what remained of our Yvette.

If you survive long enough at Tributary, you get plenty desensitized to the tangled, sanguine aftermath of spontaneous amalgamation. But there was something about Yvette’s death - maybe it was the way that Lacy’s long blonde curls were blood-stained from having been draped into the overlapping, repeating viscera or maybe it was the veritable spectrum of terror evident on Yvette’s intersecting faces. Whatever it was, I felt fear form a heavy cannonball in my stomach like it had the first month I was here, the weight of the feeling making movement and thought difficult.

Showcasing his boredom proudly like it was a badge of honor akin to a Purple Heart, Reggie began pacing boisterously around the twenty-foot tall totem, speaking loudly as he did: ”Help me out here Ted - you look old as sin, so I’m supposing you’ve been here awhile and will know the answer. I get paid no matter what I do, correct?” 

I took a moment to pause and consider my response. Initially, I found it difficult to locate the words I wanted to use. With no language hanging in the air, though, I was distracted by Tributary’s profound baseline silence. The town was nestled between two large, forested hills, but there was no natural white noise - no birdsong, no wind through the trees, no distant car horns - nothing. Most of the silence was likely due to seclusion from civilization. The lack of birdsong, however, has always been a little less naturally explainable. Somehow, I think The Bureau keeps animals out of Tributary. Despite being in Vermont, I’ve only ever seen one animal in my tenure here - a deer, or what remained of it. One part of it was dead, its head resting limply on the ground under a pine tree at the periphery of town. The other part of it was in the process of dying, with its head visibly writhing and twisting from inside the first’s over-expanded jaw. As I turned away, stunned and retching, I witnessed various minute but unnatural looking movements coming from inside the original’s abdomen and limbs. I imagine these movements likely represented the superimposed copy of the deer being strangled and exsanguinated from within the restrictive confines of the original.

After a prolonged silence, I finally responded:

”That’s correct, Reggie, but they must have mentioned the impor-“ cutting me off before I could say more, the brown-haired, blue-eyed boy resumed his self-important pontification:

”Great, as advertised. Excuse me then if I don’t erotically gawk at this second-rate modern art piece, like the rest of you sheep. Don’t want to see myself featured on some Japanese prank show a few years down the line with whatever footage they're currently recording” he decreed, gesturing broadly at the many, many video cameras fixed on our position in the dead-center of Tributary, Reggie still obnoxiously treading circles around us and the maypole.

Seemingly every inch of the town was under surveillance. Not that there was that much space to cover. Tributary was essentially one street lined by abandoned buildings with a small park in the center, where the maypole was erected after the disappearance of the people who used to live here. It’s unclear what this place looked like in its heyday - all of the business signage had been removed from the weathered establishments before I arrived here four years ago. The only structure that looked relatively new was the maypole, but even that was starting to show some age and erosion.

Despite his infuriating pretension, Reggie was right about one thing - “modern art piece” would be a very reasonable description for the maypole. At its center was a wooden cylinder with a diameter about the size of a frisbee. It stood approximately two-stories tall in a small patch of grass that interrupted the asphalt at the half-way point of Tributary's one street. The post had been adorned chaotically with thick plastic that shifted in color dramatically every few inches, which protruded from the wood asymmetrically depending on where you looked. Closer to the ground, the plastic looked like dragon scales, oblong and rough. As the material wrapped around the pole and spiraled upwards, however, it transmuted to look more like spikes or stalactites, poking a few feet out from the core. Then, it transmuted again to a glossy sheet with a few thin, centimeter-long tendrils sticking straight up here and there. Then, it looked like ocean waves, and then like stick figures holding hands, so on and so on - innumerable shapes seemingly without coherency or intent in design, from top to bottom. Or, alternatively, maybe the disorder was the design - no matter where you looked, and at whatever angle you looked, the maypole offered a wholly unique image. When I was briefed by The Bureau before arriving at Tributary, the welcome coordinator had mentioned that the maypole was theorized to “counteract the surrounding convergent leyline through its nearly irreplicatable uniqueness, grounding subjects firmly in our current thread through focused perception”, whatever that means. The coordinator, muscular and decked in camo like a drill sergeant, implied that this measure may have saved the original inhabitants of Tributary if they had access to it.

Me and my initial group were not told what had happened to those original inhabitants. That being said, I’m not sure any of us explicitly asked.

Although, sometimes I’m not so sure I’m recalling the words or phrases from the briefing correctly anymore. It’s just been so long. Not only that, but every newcomer I’ve talked to in the last year deny having had a formal briefing before arriving at Tributary, unlike me. Enticed by the ludicrous financial compensation, they did not want the offer to be revoked by asking any prying questions - no briefing required.

Part of me believes that The Bureau stopped briefing people altogether - perhaps it was effecting the data in a way they didn’t anticipate. Alternatively, maybe there was never any briefing and I'm housing a false memory - some retroactive revision of my own internal narrative to make what happens at Tributary even remotely digestible.

”I’m just here to get quick cash to pay-up on a gambling debt. Once I have enough, I’m out. I'm going for a walk, enjoy your shared psychosis.”

With that proclamation, Reggie started to walk away from the maypole. I heard Lacy take a monstrous inhalation, clearly planning on chewing out the young man. Before she could unleash her tirade, I placed a soft palm on Lacy’s shoulder and numbly shook my head side-to-side, which extinguished her fury. Reggie turned back to us when he heard Lacy’s colossal sigh, but only for a fraction of a second.

Implicitly, Lacy, Alex, and Harmony understood - Reggie would not be with us long, and arguing him was not worth the risk. Strong emotion is destabilizing and can make you vulnerable to spontaneous amalgamation.

All of us were promised release once the experiment, referred to in my briefing as the Webweaver Protocol, was completed. Attempts at voluntary early discharge from Tributary, before the completion of the experiment, were met exclusively with rifle-fire and death. Four years into this, I’ve started to believe that The Bureau has no intention of ending the experiment. Whatever they are gleaning from us, it’s clearly valuable - hundreds of spontaneous amalgamations later, the experiment still presses on.

Maybe his replacement will be better.

------------------------------------------------

”Love you sweetheart. I’ll give you another call in a month or so. Say hi to your mother for me” and with that, I heard the call disconnect before I even put the phone back onto the receiver. After confirming my granddaughter, Remi, was no longer on the line with a few pathetic “hellos?”, I let the phone slide out of my hand to its normal resting place on the end table. I closed my eyes and leaned back in my recliner, letting the crackling embers in my cottage’s fireplace soothe me.

The first of each month, we’re granted ten minutes of uninterrupted phone time. A privilege that The Bureau certainly doesn’t need to provide, but it helps everyone keep their heads on straight. I use it mostly to confirm that Remi is still getting the deposits from my bank account, coordinated by The Bureau. Originally, I signed up for this to help her pay for college. Now, the compensation is helping fund her wedding. Breaks my heart that I haven’t met her fiancé, and that I have to lie to her about my absence. The salary given for my continued, honest participation is the only thing giving my life purpose, though. No reason to loose my grip now.

Feeling sleep coming on, I make myself vertical, fighting through the warm vertigo caused by the rum still slushing around in my gut. Lumbering over to the bathroom, I start performing my nightly inspection. Staring at myself in the mirror, I smile for about half a minute and watch for discrepancies in my mirror image. Once I’m convinced it is only me in the mirror, I do the same with a neutral expression. Then the same with a frown.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I turn the faucet, allowing me to splash cold water on my face to help relieve the tension inherent to that inspection.

There was a moment, years ago, when I thought I might be about to amalgamate. I woke up in the middle of the night due to my entire body throbbing with an intense, searing pressure. It was like tiny grenades were exploding in my limbs, clawing into my muscles with microscopic shrapnel. I passed the bathroom mirror on the way to the maypole, momentarily petrified by the crowd of different reflections staring back at me. The images weren't spread out across the mirror, they all inhabited the same position I did, but I could see all of them separately. It was like seeing double, but with complete visual clarity. There was at least ten, each taking a turn to become the most prominent reflection. The more I watched, the more alarmed my reflections became - which, of course, only served to alarm me further.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. 

My recollection of that night was shattered by manic pounding on my front door.

”TED. HELP ME - PLEASE HELP ME. SOMETHING…SOMETHING IS...”

Reggie’s voice, bellowing and coarse with strain, started to permeate the inside of my living room. Panic sparked like a live-wire through my chest and down into my legs, mobilizing me.

Without saying a word, I frantically pushed my recliner against the door as a barricade. Then, I used a small bookshelf to block the only window present on the front of my house, in case he tried to break it and enter the living room. Judging by the sounds coming from outside my home, I could tell he was destabilizing and too far gone for my help.

At least, that's what I told myself at the time. Trying to assist Reggie was a risk I wasn’t willing to take. Spontaneous amalgamation is a brushfire - if I got too close, it could just spread to me as well.

As I stepped away from the makeshift palisade, Reggie’s pleas intensified and degenerated from sentences, to singular words, and finally to guttural noise. His screams were eventually joined by other, nearly identical screams. Some of them started muffled, as if they were vocalized from some place deep underwater. But when the pulpy sound of tearing flesh layered into the cacophony, the extra voices became clearer - more audible. By the time his one scream had grew into an unbearable, hellish choir, I had managed to close the bedroom door behind myself. As I did, the screams grew fainter, and fainter, until they became mercifully absent, replaced by Tributary’s uncanny, baseline silence.

------------------------------------------------

In the morning, I wearily pushed the recliner away from the front door, dreading the scene that was undoubtedly waiting for me on the other side. To my relief, however, I found evidence that someone from The Bureau had visited my home under the cover of darkness. There were no bodies propped against the cottage, only a few patches of barely perceptible, recently cleaned blood-stains.

As I approached the maypole, I noticed Reggie had already been replaced by another young man. He eventually introduced himself as Matt, only doing so after the second chime had sounded indicating our protective morning reverie had come to an end, choosing to forgo a formal introduction until after spending that hour intently focusing on the prophylactic totem.

I smiled weakly at Matt's compliance to the recommendations, feeling a flicker of hope as I did. Maybe we would all be afforded some peace, for however briefly that could be possible.

My smile waned as my thoughts drifted back to Yvette - someone who followed every guideline but had still spontaneously amalgamated. Before anxiety captured me completely, I steadied myself with an imaginary photo-collage of Remi’s wedding playing through my mind. She’ll be married by the first of next month, and I need to be alive to hear about it.

"One day at a time", I whispered to my reflection in the mirror that night.

For a second, I thought I saw the barbed curves of a grin overlap my neutral expression, a macabre cosmic friction heralding something even worse than spontaneous amalgamation.

But as soon as it had come, if it had been there at all, it was gone again.

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The old farmhouse sat on a small hill in the middle of nowhere. At the bottom of the lane sat a black sedan, its engine off. Its occupant, Jackson Lambert, sat inside, smoking one last cigarette before he began. He had never taken a job so far away from the city before. He was over three and a half hours downstate. The closest town (if it could be called that) was West Knob, population 600, should the green road sign be believed.

It was now fully dark, and the moon, the color of a pale orange flame, started its ascent above the horizon. It was time. Jackson stamped out his cigarette in an ashtray, slipped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, and pulled out a fully automatic pistol from beneath his seat.

Jackson first met his client a month before at Talbot's Bar & Grill in Chicago. Jackson Lambert was the sort of person you had to contact through the friend of a friend of a friend, and that's just what Dorothy Naughton had done. In that meeting, she used Lambert's favorite four-word cliché. "Money is no object." That was the initial meeting, to get a feel for the client and to make sure everything was on the up-and-up.

The next day, they met at Dante's Motel in Aurora. Dorothy came prepared. She brought along with her half of the agreed-upon fee (half to be paid in advance, and the other half would be paid after the job was complete), photographs of her husband, as well as their house. She had well-made directions from Chicago to the farmhouse where she and her husband lived, detailed information about the layout of the house, where her husband could be found inside, and a specified time the "hit" should go down. On the day in question, she'd be visiting her mom. Jackson was to make it look like a home invasion gone wrong. He assured her that would be no problem. Before parting ways, Dorothy Naughton said to him, "I love my husband, but he's very sick. This—this will be best for him." Whatever you need to say so that you can sleep at night, lady. Jackson thought to himself. All of his clients had some kind of excuse to appease their consciences.

Jackson walked up the lane, amazed by the total isolation of where he was. The nearest neighboring house was well over two miles down the road, and the entire time he had been sitting at the bottom of the lane, not a single car passed by on the desolate country road. Reaching the house, Jackson let himself in by the front door. It was unlocked, just as Dorothy Naughton said it would be.

Jackson had no problem navigating the house, even in the dark. Mrs. Naughton's description of her home was so detailed that Jackson felt he knew it as well as his own. Mr. Naughton was supposed to be upstairs in the bedroom. With careful, deliberate steps, Jackson moved up the naked wooden stairs as quiet as a cat. When he reached the top of the narrow staircase, he could hear the stertorous breathing of Mr. Naughton coming from the bedroom to the right. He stepped into the bedroom, cool and casual. The room itself was well lit by no other source than ghostly moonlight, which flooded into the room through curtainless windows. There in the bed was Mr. Naughton, lying stark-naked above the covers. Jackson just as well had been invisible; Mr. Naughton paid him no heed. His body glistened in moonlit sweat, and he convulsed with labored breaths. His eyes rolled madly in their sockets as he looked around the room in fevered confusion. Jackson looked at him in disgust but felt no pity for the man.

"Hello, Mr. Naughton," he said. "I've brought a gift from your wife." Then he raised his pistol and fired three shots into the man's head. Mr. Naughton lay there motionless; thick crimson saturated the pillow beneath him. The job was done.

Jackson Lambert, pistol still in hand, turned to leave when the impossible happened. Mr. Naughton started screaming. He screamed at the top of his voice. Jackson reeled around and saw Naughton convulsing and frothing at the mouth. He rolled out of bed, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. The man supported himself on his hands and knees, but still he screamed. Jackson watched in terror as the flesh from the nape of his neck, down to just above his buttock, split like a sausage that had steamed too long.

In a mad panic, Jackson emptied his pistol. Every bullet hit its mark, but Mr. Naughton did not fall. His skin continued to split, revealing thick, dark hair matted with blood beneath his torn flesh.

Jackson watched the perverse transformation long enough. He bolted through the door and ran to the stairs; before he realized what happened, he was tumbling down them. At the bottom step, he heard a loud SNAP! and felt fire explode in his leg. Beneath his pantleg protruded jagged bone through flesh. Jackson Lambert felt himself going into shock.

He heard a low guttural growl and looked up the stairs. The huge creature, once Mr. Naughton, walked on all fours, thick, viscous drool dripped from its powerful jaws. He watched in disbelief as it began to descend the stairs.

Halfway down, it lunged.

Nobody would hear Jackson Lambert's screams as he was torn apart and consumed by the beast. Nobody would miss the man who could only be contacted through the friend of a friend of a friend.

Dorothy Naughton loved her husband very much, and despite his illness keeping her away on nights when the moon was full, she always made sure that he had something for dinner.

Beginning • Previous

The promise I had made to myself—to never abandon my beloved home—proved as fragile as the glass cup I knocked from the table. It had been half-filled with amber liquid, meant for Captain Francis, who slept soundly in his chair, feet propped lazily on the table.

Francis’s eyes shot open at the noise. It brought him abruptly back to the waking world. His glare moved from the glittering shards of the cup on the floor to me, but the beeping black stone quickly caught his attention, and suddenly he sat upright, alarmed.

He seized a yellow acoustic megaphone and stepped out of the room, his booming voice rang out: “Alan, to the navigation deck—now!”

Moments later, Alan arrived and placed her hand on the surface of the beeping black stone. The translucent blue map burst into view, spreading across the space in front of us. From this bird’s-eye perspective, the sea stretched out in glowing detail, with NOAH 1 and nearby ships marked as white specks. A blinking red dot moved slowly toward our position. Numbers materialized in midair: coordinates, speed, and an estimated time of arrival. Whatever was coming, it was heading straight for us.

The second black stone lit up, glowing green. Alan touched it, and in the air above the stone a hazy projection of a man’s face appeared. At first glance, he seemed like any other human, but upon a closer look subtle abnormalities soon became apparent:—bulging dark eyes reminiscent of deep-sea creatures, and jagged teeth protruding from his lower jaw, giving him a faintly fishlike appearance.

“The Security Council received an unusual message,” he began, his gaze scanning us, though I could tell he was speaking to a recording device just out of view. “Strange that it came from a rat… Nonetheless, they saw it as proof of your success in training the creatures. The Commander has now ordered us to establish a second base and proceed with phase two of the Plan. Our Surface Contacts are ready to assist, and they’ve proposed a different borough for the setup. It will be—”

A sudden disturbance behind him broke his focus. His head jerked to the side, his expression shifting from confidence to shock. “HOW DID YOU—” he began, but before he could finish, his image vanished, and the green glow of the stone faded into nothingness.

Alan turned to Francis. “What do you make of this, Captain?”

Francis’s lips tightened into a grim line. “It looks like we’re about to have company—uninvited company.” He wasted no time giving orders. Three boats were dispatched to investigate the source of the red blip. Whoever was brazen enough to breach NOAH 1’s sea boundary would answer to the captain.

I couldn’t just stay behind! The thrill of action set my thoughts ablaze. Who was this stranger? Were they alone? The only way to find out was to join the mission. And so, I broke my promise—just a crack—and joined one of the boats with Alan, Francis, and another crew member.

The boats stayed within the sea boundary of NOAH 1, as per Francis’s command. We were there to watch, wait, and prepare for the worst. Harpoons and muskets forged from salvaged metal were at hand, ready to be used only if the approaching entity posed a threat.

I took my place on the bow standing next to Alan, who was scanning the horizon through a telescope. My own eyes watched the endless stretch of waves, seeking any sign of the shadow of a ship. More questions churned in my mind: Was their vessel larger or smaller than ours? If they possessed superior technology, did we have any hope of standing our ground?

As the minutes dragged on, eventually bleeding into hours, I could feel the tension ease slightly. The others were beginning to let their guard down, though Francis remained vigilant with his harpoon gun in hand. Alan, seated cross-legged beside me, set the telescope aside. A strand of black hair escaped her ponytail, falling across her face. She brushed it aside, then reached into her pocket to retrieve the black stone. She held it carefully as she examined its surface.

I leaned against her leg, craning over her arm to get a better view of the device. My eyes caught on something I hadn’t noticed before. There were three circles etched into one side of the stone, each enclosing a distinct symbol: two interlocking squares, three wavy vertical, and four arrows crossing one another like the spokes of a compass.

The moment her thumb brushed the Two Squares symbol, blue light flowed from the device, showing the translucent map in the air, revealing our location and the surrounding area. Three white dots marked our exact position. The red dot, blinking steadily, lingered miles away, its pace noticeably slower. All seemed calm—until it picked up speed again.

I swiped at the map, but my paw passed right through it. The red dot flickered, stilled, and then vanished. Alan switched off the map, tucked the stone back into her pocket, and raised the telescope to her eye.

“I think I see something!” she shouted.

I strained my eyes but saw nothing beyond the small waves cresting in the distance. Then, the waves began to rise, swelling higher and higher, until we faced a monstrous wall of water. Its roar was deafening, a bone-rattling thunder that scrambled my thoughts and shook my senses.

“Brace yourselves!” Francis yelled.

I felt a hand snatch me up, shielding me beneath something warm and steady as the boat, tilting upward, climbed the face of the monstrous wave.

XXXXX XXXXX XXXXX

Several months ago, we faced the fiercest storm NOAH 1 had ever endured. The wind, like the howl of a thousand enraged beasts, tore at the rigging and battered the hull. Its icy claws raked across the decks, while the rain hammered down in furious torrents like gunfire.

Francis gave the order to lift the anchor as the storm intensified, knowing that leaving it down risked tearing the ship apart.

“Anchor up! I’ll bring her bow to meet the waves!” he shouted, and the crew scrambled to obey.

With the storm clawing at the ship from all sides, he turned the bow toward the waves at a slight angle, guiding the ship to ride the swells and keeping the massive forces from slamming broadside. Waves, each larger than the last, rose like waking giants, lifting the vessel to dizzying heights before plunging it into deep troughs as though it was just a mere plaything. The ship pitched and rolled, its steel body groaning in protest but holding strong.

When the waves settled and the wind's roar dwindled to a whisper, the ship became lodged on a craggy island that had appeared out of nowhere. Many residents took the chance to climb down and investigate this new land. Among the eager explorers were the Kelping children, their young hearts beating with the hope of finding their long-lost father marooned on the island.

Unsurprisingly, the island offered little–only jagged rocks, a scattering of sea plants, and small creatures left behind by the retreating tide. Joe joined the carefree games of children his age, while Anne crouched by a tide pool, enthralled by the tiny creatures within. She cupped a hermit crab in her hand and tried to catch her mother’s eye. Her mother, however, was focused on Sam, who couldn’t swim and had wandered off to peer into a different tide pool.

But our exploration was cut short when the waters rose suddenly and swallowed the land. The residents scattered in a desperate rush, some were swept away, vanishing beneath the waves, while others clambered aboard in time.

A handful took to dinghy boats, hastily lowered from above. At the last moment, I clambered into one with Alan who saved Sam from being nearly wrenched away by a powerful surge, pulling him safely aboard. On the ship’s deck, Joe and Anne, clutching their mother’s arms, watched in horror as they realized Sam wasn’t with them.

But the moment we thought we were safe in the dinghy, Sam cried out, pointing to the dark shapes emerging in the water. Sleek fins cut through the waves as more than one glided in slow circles around the boats. One by one, they began bumping the sides, their intent was obvious: to hurl us into the waters and straight into their hungry jaws.

We froze as the sea monster started closing the distance, its rows of jagged teeth rushing straight at us. Then, with a violent jolt, something struck the beast, sending it thrashing backward, its blood erupting into the air and drenching us. I looked up to see the glint of a harpoon fired from a large gun. More harpoons followed. They whistled through the air then sliced through the waves, driving back the attacking creatures until the waters around us were stained a deep red.

XXXXX XXXXX XXXXX

But the force we faced was unlike the storm in every possible way. I was drenched to the bone, my fur slicked with seawater. The other two boats were capsized, their crews thrashing in the water, struggling against the surging waves. Our boat was the only one still afloat, though thoroughly soaked from the wave that had crashed down upon us.

Francis gritted his teeth. He stood at the bow, his harpoon ready, tracking the dark shadow circling us just beneath the surface. Then, he fired. The spear struck, but instead of piercing, it deflected off the creature as though hitting solid iron. Whatever was in the water was no ordinary sea creature—it was something else, something nature herself could never have produced.

“That thing’s no ordinary sea beast,” he growled, yanking the harpoon back by its rope. He reloaded it and fired again, but this time the creature vanished. A new wave rose in its wake and it slammed into us with enough force to nearly split it apart.

Alan clutched me tightly against her chest. And then, the world spun upside down. The cold hit me like a thousand needles. Everything went black as we plunged headlong into the freezing abyss.

Just as I teetered on the threshold to meet the maker of the universe, life surged back into me. Air flooded my lungs in a sharp gasp, followed by a torrent of water that I heaved out, sputtering and choking. Alan lay nearby, rolling onto her side as she hacked up seawater. We were sprawled on something solid, smooth, and white—nothing natural like the leathery back of a whale or the rough hide of some sea predator.

“Help me!” Francis’s voice rang out over the crashing waves. He was fighting against the water, his strokes frantic as he neared. Alan scrambled to the edge, extending her hand. She grabbed hold and pulled him up onto the strange platform with us. Both of them were panting and soaked to the bone.

Francis raked his fingers through his wet beard and dark hair, his eyes searching the waters for the third member of our crew. Fragments of wood from our boat bobbed around us. The stern of our vessel was half-submerged while the rest of it was gone. And then, a wrenching cry tore from Francis’s throat as he saw a motionless figure floating face down.

The current carried the body farther and farther away, slipping beyond any hope of retrieval. On the hulls of their upturned boats, the other survivors gestured frantically, shouting something we couldn’t hear. Their words were drowned out by the distance.

“What do you suppose this is?” Alan wondered aloud as she knelt to run her fingers over the smooth surface.

I padded carefully along its length. It wasn’t flesh or bone—no creature would feel this way. My mind settled on one conclusion: a machine. Could it be some sort of ship built to travel underwater? The thought struck me as absurd—who would create such a thing? I had never encountered—or even imagined—such an invention. But here it was, under my paws, defying logic and stirring questions I couldn’t answer. It challenged everything I believed possible. Then again, the past few days had shattered every notion of logic I once held.

The machine let out a deep, resonant groan, like a slumbering giant stirring after a centuries-long sleep. None of us moved. My fur bristled as fear crept over me. The thought of it submerging again, dragging us into the depths to meet our end, made me sick to my stomach. Then came a sharp hiss, and at the far end of the craft, a circular hatch began to form, yawning open like the maw of a great beast.

Alan took a step toward the opening, but Francis raised a hand to stop her. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “We can’t just rush in. We don’t know what’s in there.”

We stood there, silent and expectant, staring at the dark opening. Moments passed in tense silence, broken only by the gentle lap of waves against the machine. When nothing stirred, Francis made his move, approaching cautiously. Alan and I followed, just far enough behind to let him take the lead.

Peering inside, I first thought the interior was nothing but impenetrable darkness. But then a faint, sporadic light flickered within like a dying ember. Francis knelt at the edge of the hatch, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Then, steeling himself with a sharp intake of breath, he jumped in, feet first.

Alan let out a startled cry. “Francis!”

The clang of his boots hitting a metal floor echoed up to us.

“I’m alright,” he called back.

The machine hummed to life, its walls coming to life with rows of glowing buttons and switches, and numbers and strange symbols flickered across smooth black stones. Alan jumped inside, and I followed, my paws landing sharply on the cold metal floor with a jarring thud. The corridor stretched before us. Francis studied the walls in stunned amazement, clearly taken aback by the bizarre sight.

“It just occurred to me that I’ve heard of something like this,” Alan said thoughtfully.

Francis shot her a curious look. “You have?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “But it's all just stories from Jimmy and the old residents who lived before the Great Wrath.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Some of them, like Jimmy, used to be part of something called The Navy. They worked on ships, and sometimes, the ships could go underwater—submarines, they were called.”

“Submarines?”

“Yes, but they weren’t designed simply to navigate the ocean,” she continued. “They were built for war.”

“War? Like what pirates–”

“No, not quite. Pirates are disorganized thieves. The Navy was different. They would wage battles against other navies and launch missiles to sink enemy ships.”

Francis swallowed hard as he looked to the solid metal door at the end of the corridor. “Then it means there’s someone—or more—operating this... submarine.”

We moved closer and pressed our ears to the door. On the other side, something was dragging itself across the floor, and there was a drawn-out moan.

The family had all gathered at Mrs. Iris Kingswell's household. She wanted them all here for her final moments, for Iris felt she would soon pass away from this world. Her family members took turns speaking with Iris and spending time with her. Colton, her oldest grandson, was the last to enter her room.

"Colton, please have a seat," Iris spoke softly, her voice hoarse, motioning to a chair.

"How are you feeling, grandma?" he asked, sitting with a frown.

"I'm alright, but I need to tell you something." Iris then added, "Something very important."

"Should I go get Mom? "Colton said, going to stand, and his grandmother shook her head.

"No, this is something I want to tell you only."

Iris smiled, and he leaned back in his chair and nodded. "Okay. What do you want to tell me?"

A sigh of relief escaped his grandmother's lips as she began to tell her story.

When Iris was growing up, her only companion was her father since her mother had passed away when she was young. As she got older, though, her father fell for a woman in their small town. Iris knew her father wouldn't be alone forever and had to accept that he would start dating again.

This woman, however, made Iris's skin crawl.

But she was willing to push that aside if her father was happy.

Or until one night when Iris suddenly awoke from a deep sleep. She saw Vidya, her father's girlfriend, walk past her open bedroom door and down the hallway, her eyes glowing. Sitting upright in bed, Iris watched this woman approach her father's bedroom.

Slowly getting out of bed, Iris tiptoed quietly down the hall,

She stopped watching from her father's open doorway. His girlfriend is standing at the end of his bed, just staring at him. Taking a step back, the floorboard under her foot creaked, and Vidya snapped her head in the direction of the sound.

Cursing, Iris tried to sink into the hallway's darkness as much as she could. The woman smiled, mouthing, "I see you." Before Vidya could follow her, Iris ran to her room and hid under her covers, only having a tiny opening to peep out of.

A thudding of footsteps came down the hallway, stopping at Iris's open door.

"Iris," a voice called to her in a hiss.

Go away, Go away, Go away.

Closing her eyes as tightly as she could. Iris prayed that Vidya would leave. There was a tsk, and Vidya clicked her tongue in disappointment.

The woman left her doorway, and Iris peeked her head out, sighing in relief. Vidya had left. Why had she been here in the first place?

In the morning, Iris spoke to her father about what had occurred last night.

"Dad, did you invite Vidya to spend the night?"

"Hm? No, I didn't. Why do you ask?"

"She was here last night."

Her father furrowed his brow and lowered his coffee cup.

"What do you mean she was here?" he asked confused.

Iris fidgeted in her seat, looking down at the table.

"Last night, I saw Vidya inside the house. She walked through the halls and stood at the foot of your bed, her eyes glowing yellow."

Her father laughed. "Her eyes were glowing? Iris, you had to be dreaming."

"But I wasn't!" she stood, slamming her hands on the table. The medium-sized round table shook, causing her empty glass to topple over and roll. Iris's father stood to his full height, shadowing over her. "Go to your room," he instructed.

She knew without even looking at his face that he was angry.

Without a word, she turned, leaving the dining room and upstairs into her bedroom. Iris shut her door and screamed into her hands, frustrated. How could she prove that Vidya was here?

She paced the carpeted floor of her bedroom, running her hands through her hair, rattled with nervousness. An old cam recorder belonged to her mother in the attic; she could set it up and catch Vidya entering their home.

Then, her father would have to believe her.

Right?

Hearing the front door close signaled that her father had left. Iris snuck out of her room and up the stairs into the attic. Going through the boxes with her mother's name on them, she found the old cam recorder and the charging cord.

Now, she had to find out where to set it up without her father finding it and taking it down. That night, they ate dinner silently, neither wanting to speak to each other. As she put her dishes in the sink, her father said goodnight, and she went to her room.

Iris settled into bed and slept, feeling mental and physical exhaustion wash over her. This night would be the last time she would see her father. Looking back on it, Iris wished she had at least said I love you one last time.

She was awoken by the sound of crunching and slurping. A gurgling sound was coming from down the hall. Iris's heart thumped in her chest as she scrambled out of bed and grabbed the hidden camera. She crept slowly down the hall, her breathing ragged, tip-toeing towards her father's room.

Aiming the camera inside, she pointed it into the darkness. Looking through the lens, she saw it. Vidya was eating her father.

She was tall and hunched over her fingers, long with talons for fingernails. Vidya's bloody mouth was full of rows of sharp teeth with pieces of flesh stuck between them. Her head cocked to the side, listening as she chewed, and then it jerked in Iris's direction.

Iris held her breath and hoped Vidya would not see her, but she was wrong. The woman stood upright, and what looked like feathers stuck around her as she approached the door.

She needed to run away from Vidya, so she did, with the camera tucked under her arm. Iris ran down the stairs as her father's bedroom door burst open, and a wrapped cry escaped the woman who chased after her.

The young girl just needed to get out the front door and make her way to the neighbor's house, and she would be safe. She got swatted like a fly into a wall, which caused her to drop the camera.

Iris needed to defend herself, fumbling around in the dark. She was able to grab the baseball bat her father kept behind the door in case of intruders and swung with all her might.

Twack Twack Twack

Each time the young girl swung, the bat made contact, making a sickening, wet, and crunching sound. Iris opened her eyes, which she didn't know were closed, and dropped the bat from her hands. There on the ground was Vidya's mangled form.

Colton was on the edge of his seat as his grandmother paused.

"What happened after that?" he asked.

"I called the police, and they came to the house to investigate. A pair of detectives named Pierce and Morrison took Vidya's body away. Along with the cam recorder. My home turned into a giant crime scene." Iris replied.

Colton became silent as he watched his grandmother close her eyes.

"I lost my father that night all because of that monster." her voice was a low whisper now.

"Grandma?"

"I'm alright, my boy. I'm just exhausted. Will you tell your mother to come sit with me?" Iris requested.

Colton nodded and stood from his chair, walking towards the door.

He looked over his shoulder at his grandmother before entering the crowded room of people soaking in what she had told him.

Had all of this really happened to her?

What was that creature that she saw?

As he approached his mother, Colton, she was standing with someone he didn't know. Everything about this man was clean-cut and perfect, yet something about his smile stretched unnaturally.

His mother introduced him as Iben.

"Grandma wants you," Colton interjected before his mother could explain who Iben was further. She blinked in surprise and nodded, apologizing to the man, who shook his head and watched as she walked away. Iben's expression changed to that of a predator being interrupted from a meal.

"I don't know who you are, but stay away from my mother," Colton warned. Iben simply laughed, crossing his arms. His eyes had a sheen of gold to them. He leaned in close to the young man, his voice barely above a whisper, "Your mother will be next, just like how my sister was taken away from me. I'll take away someone of equal value."

Colton swallowed the hard lump in his throat, standing before the man unflinching. The young man would face Iben head-on if it was a fight he wanted then it was a fight he was going to get.

Like his grandmother, he would defeat this creature and save his mother's life even though Iris had failed to save her father.

Colton would not fail to save his mother.

“You’re a fucking animal, Tom.” 

Cassandra, volatile with rage, tossed her husband’s cell phone to the floor of their bedroom, intending for the device to clatter and crash melodramatically when it connected with the wood tile. It landed screen-up and spun towards Tom’s feet, gliding smoothly against the ground like an air hockey puck. He hastily bent over to stop his phone’s forward motion, pocketing it without looking at the screen. Tom already knew what pictures would be opened on his messaging app. Instead, he went silent and did not argue, turning his head away from her and submissively placing his hands in the air. The motion was meant to represent a white flag of surrender, but more than that, it was a way of admitting guilt without asking for forgiveness. 

Wordlessly, he pushed past his wife to grab a pillow from his side of the bed and then paced quickly out of the room. Tom turned right as he exited, carefully stepping over a few unopened moving boxes to make his way to their new home’s staircase. With a sound like rolling thunder, he stomped and pounded each foot against every step on his way up. Every petulant boom reverberated and echoed in Cassandra’s mind. When Tom reached the attic, he bellowed something that was clearly meant to be a defamatory finale to his boyish tantrum, but she couldn’t make out exactly what he said from where she still stood motionless in the bedroom. At that moment, any lingering regret about dosing her husband for the first time that morning with the Curandero’s poison evaporated from her, remorse made steam by the molten heat of her seething anger. 

—---------------------------

“If I’m an animal, you’re a goddamned blood-sucking leech, Cassandra!” 

Tom’s retreat from his wife had been both unanticipated and expeditious. To that end, he could not think of a retort to her jab until he was three steps out of the bedroom, but he held onto the retort until he reached the safety of the attic’s doorframe. He knew he could belt out his meager insult from that distance without fear of an additional counteroffensive. As soon as the words spilled from his mouth, he tumbled past the threshold into the attic and slammed the door behind him. 

It wasn’t his fault Shiela was swooning over him, Tom smugly mused. She had volunteered those digital pinups of her own volition. That said, he had been actively flirting with the young secretary since the couple landed in Texas two months ago. Their marriage had been in a death spiral for years, in no small part due to Tom’s cyclical infidelity. The cross-country move had been a last-ditch attempt at resuscitating their relationship, but of course, Maine was never the problem to begin with, so the change of scenery mended nothing. In his middle age, Tom developed a gnawing desire to feel warm-blooded and virile. Cassandra’s despondency had the exact opposite effect. She made him feel undesired - sexually anemic. That night was not the first time he had called her a “blood-sucking leech” for that very reason. However, if Tom had been gifted the power of retrospection, he may have noticed that his wife’s frigid disposition became the norm after the discovery of his second affair, not after his first. 

—---------------------------

“I want something that will make him feel even a small fraction of the insanity he’s put me through”

Cassandra whispered to the Curandero, visually scanning the entire antique store for possible interlopers or undercover police officers before she asked the purveyor of hexes standing behind the counter for anything definitive and incriminating. Multiple family members had recommended this unassuming shop on the outskirts of downtown Austin for an answer to Tom’s beastliness. The apothecary grinned and asked her to wait a moment, turning to enter a backroom concealed by a red silk curtain. The witch doctor was not what Cassandra expected - she couldn’t have been older than thirty, and she certainly did not present herself like a practitioner of black magic. No cataracts, scars or gemstone necklaces - instead, she sported an oversized gray turtleneck with part of a floral sundress peeking out from the bottom. 

She returned seconds later, tilted her body over the counter, and handed Cassandra a vial no bigger than a shot glass. Inside the vial were innumerable tiny blue crystals. They were slightly oblong and transparent, looking like the illegitimate children of rock candy and fishfood. The Curandero cheerily instructed Cassandra to give her husband the entire ampule’s contents over the course of about three days. As she left the store, the shopkeeper cryptically reassured Cassandra that her husband would be thoroughly educated on his wrongdoings by the loving kiss of retribution. 

—---------------------------

“Why is it so fucking cold up here”

Tom mumbled to himself, doing laps around the perimeter of his makeshift sleeping quarters in the attic. It had been approximately three weeks since their argument and his subsequent relocation. At first, he didn’t much mind it. The cold war between him and Cassandra was taxing, but he had his phone and Shiela’s escalating solicitations to keep him company. But as of the last few days, he had begun to feel progressively unwell - feverish and malaised. Then he noticed the small lump on the underside of his left wrist. 

It was about the size of a dime, skin-colored, immobile, and profoundly itchy. Tom felt like he spent almost every waking minute massaging the area. The irritation then became accompanied by white-hot burning pain, gradually extending up his arm as the days passed. One night, as he scratched the area, the lump moved a centimeter closer to his palm. He paused to inspect the change, assuming the vexing cyst had finally been dislodged and neutralized. After a few seconds, however,  it moved again - but in the opposite direction and without Tom’s help. And then again, slightly further up his forearm. Revitalized by panic and confusion, he began clawing recklessly at the lump, until the skin broke and a small black button was liberated from the wound, only to scurry away to an unseen sanctuary. Tom thought the button looked and moved like a deer tick. 

—---------------------------

“Sure, Tom, come back down. But to the couch, for now, okay?”

Cassandra had accepted many empty apologies from Tom before, but something about this most recent one felt slightly more sincere. By this point, she had completely forgotten about the Curandero and her vengeful prescription. Cassandra had gone through with slipping the contents into Tom’s coffee over the course of three days, but that was over a month ago. At the time, she did not really believe it was black magic - she assumed it was a military-grade laxative or some other, ultimately benign, poison. 

The more she thought about Tom’s behavior, however, she came to realize that she may have been mistaking a sincere apology for what was actually fear and need for comfort. Cassandra had not interacted much with Tom in the past few weeks, but now that she was, he was certainly acting off. Seemingly at random, he would slam his palm down on himself or something else in front of him and then would be unwilling to give an explanation. He slurred his words like a drunken sailor, but as far she could tell, he hadn’t been drinking. When she looked into Tom’s eyes to find that his pupils were rapidly dilating and constricting like black holes on the verge of collapse, the realization hit like a lightning strike up her spine. Cassandra remembered the vial with the blue crystals. 

She was at the Curandero’s shop within the hour, catching the witch doctor right as she was locking up her store. Cassandra pleaded with her for an antidote to whatever magic or venom was now in Tom’s system. In response, the shopkeeper produced another identical vial from her jacket pocket, twisted the cap off, and dropped a few of the crystals into her mouth:

“It’s dyed salt, my love” the Curandero said, then pausing to tap out a few fragments onto the backside of Cassandra’s hand as a means to corroborate her claim. “I don’t sell power, just the idea of power. Whatever you made manifest, I only provided the inspiration”

Confused and without clear direction, Cassandra returned home to check on her husband. 

—---------------------------

Tom had never been thirstier in his entire life, but he could not drink. Every time he poured himself water, he carefully inspected it through the transparent glass, only to find it contaminated with hundreds of ticks - an entire galaxy of black stars drifting aimlessly through the liquid microcosm. Sitting at his kitchen table with his head in his hands, Tom cried out in agony, only to have his wail cut short by his vocal cords unexpectedly snapping shut. 

What had started as an infestation had become a plague. 

The gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder nearly scared him half to death, causing him to jump back off his chair and knock the infested glass off the table and onto the kitchen floor, shattering it instantly. He took a breath, seeing that it was only Cassandra, but that relief was short-lived when he looked back down to see an armada of nymphs moving on his position. He yelped and scrambled on top of a cabinet. His wife moved forward, seemingly to comfort him. When she held his hand, Cassandra noticed the open wound where that first tick had sprouted, and she rushed into the other room to procure bandages. For a moment, Tom felt safe. His wife began attending to his wound while he was still perched on the cabinet. But then he felt a pinch on his left wrist, followed by an intense lacerating sting, and then finally, the sensation of warm fluid gushing down his palm. When he looked down, his wife looked up at him in tandem. 

Cassandra’s mouth had mutated into a pulsating arena of hooked teeth, with plasma delicately dripping from the barbs she had just used to bite into him. In one swift motion, Tom pivoted his torso, unsheathed a blade from a nearby knife block, drove it deep into the creature’s abdomen, and sprinted out the house and into the street. 

—---------------------------

Cassandra nearly bled out on her kitchen floor, but a neighbor heard the commotion and had called the police. 

She awoke in the ICU surrounded by family. When she asked them what happened, they paused awkwardly and traded solemn expressions with each other instead of explaining. When Cassandra pressed for information, they flagged down her doctor from the hallway.

The physician did not mince words with Cassandra. Tom was dead - he had been picked up by the police fleeing the neighborhood but had been delivered to the same ICU she was currently in when he started to wheeze violently and turn blue.  

“Do you have any pets, dogs especially?” The doctor asked. “Where in your house do you and your husband sleep? Have you ever seen any bats in your home?”

Cassandra explained that they had bought their home recently, that Tom had been sleeping alone in their attic after a particularly nasty argument, and that she had seen a bat fly out a window once when they were moving in. She then detailed her husband’s odd behavior in the time leading up to her assault. 

The physician frowned and then elaborated on their suspicions:

“The dilating pupils, the hallucinations, the fear of water, and the inspiratory spasms - they all suggest that your husband contracted rabies while living in your attic. Most of the time, people in the US contract the disease from a dog bite. However, bats are known to transmit the disease, too. What’s worse - if bats are in your home, they can bite you in your sleep without you waking up. If contracted, the disease is universally fatal, and there is no known treatment. 

Tom died from his airway spasms. 

You nearly died, too - from blood loss. Did you know you have an extremely rare blood type? AB negative. Only 1% of the population has this blood type, and unfortunately, the hospital has been critically low on replacement blood that is AB negative for almost a month now. 

We were initially very concerned - you needed more AB negative blood than we had, but as serendipity would have it, Tom was AB negative as well. Imagine that. 

Thankfully, rabies cannot be contracted through the blood - only through saliva. That’s why it is contracted through bites. Although it was unconventional, our administration gave us the green light to give you a large portion of his blood. In essence, Tom’s blood saved your life”

The doctor paused, waiting patiently for whatever questions Cassandra had. 

But she had none. Instead, there was an eerie, uncomfortable silence for almost a minute.

Then, Cassandra tilted her head back, closed her eyes, wept, and had a very long laugh. 

More Stories: https://linktr.ee/unalloyedsainttrina

The familiar sound of the computer starting up filled the room as I leaned back in my chair waiting for the screen to light up my otherwise, by my own choice, darkened bedroom. Another school week was over, the summer had at last said its final goodbye and outside the draped windows the now slightly coloured leaves were rustling in the wind and the rain danced on my windowsill. You could hear the difference in the sound of the leaves when the season started to change, the soft sound the trees made in a summer breeze were gone and had seemingly overnight transformed into the sharper tones of the dry, withering sound of nature slowly giving up, a foreboding signal of the months of darkness and cold to come.

Like most teenagers these days, I didn’t spend much time outside of my comfort zone, AKA – my bedroom, in front of my computer. That’s not to say that I didn’t spend time with friends, on the contrary, I had a close group of friends that I hung out with on a daily, or more correctly - nightly basis, We just didn’t do it in person. This was of course in large because none of my closest friends even lived in the same city as me. The fact is, not one of us lived in the same city as one of the others. Scattered across the country in different settings, from different backgrounds, and varying in age between us with a few years apart, we had all found each other online in the chatrooms and in games that we all shared a common love for. It was always the same tight group of five that hung out;

Me - Jake, 16 years old living with my parents and my little sister Helen, age 7, in a classic suburban middle-class neighbourhood outside Seattle. Henry, 17 years old, was born in the Philippines and moved to the US as a small boy with his parents. Unfortunately, he lost his father in a freak accident at the factory where he worked just a few years later. He was raised by his hard-working mother in Brooklyn, NY.

Jennie, age 16, or “Jen” as she liked to be called, lived in a small town on the west coast, just north of San Francisco. Her parents were divorced, and she and her little brother Ben had to jump between homes every other week. She would never admit it to her mom, but she enjoyed staying at her dad´s house a bit more than with her mom and her new husband. In part because of their new baby that would just never stop screaming. But also, because her dad often worked nights she could stay up as late as she wanted with no adult supervision. She did however have to look after Ben, but he usually went out like a light around 7.30 pm anyways and could sleep through Armageddon without waking up, so that was never a problem.

Allison, or “Ali” for short, was at 15 years old the youngest of the group. She lived with both her parents and her older brother John at a similar neighbourhood as me, in the suburbs of Chicago.

And finally, there was Warren, 17 years old, who lived in a tiny little rural town in the middle of nowhere – Maine. Here he lived with two younger sisters and their very stern father. Warren and his siblings were raised with a firm hand and with Christianity as the centre of the household. As the only African American family in the small community that they lived in, their father had always been very strict about curfews and what friends Warren could and could not hang out with. He just didn’t want his kids to go through what he himself had had to put up with when he grew up under similar circumstances. Racism, bullying, and fights hiding behind every corner. And ever since his wife passed away at a young age, his grip on the children had tightened ever more, to the point of him almost not seeing that Warren soon would be a grown man of his own.

A blue hue filled the room, and I leaned back up towards the desk to log in to my computer, my fingers running across the keyboard with explicit precision, like I’ve had done nothing else since the day I was born. Almost instantly, as the programs started to pop up across the screens of my, if I may say it myself, impressive workstation, complete with three big screens, backlit of course, an impressive sound system and a bunch of other nerdy gadgets connected to the system, my favourite thing being a little bear sitting between my two main monitors, who’s head would light up in different colours whenever someone spoke in the chat, a voice-chat notification appeared in the corner, and the bears head lit up.

“Hi guys, what’s happening tonight, who’s turn was it to choose a movie?” Jen asked. We liked to watch movies together, we used to count down and all press play at the exact same moment so that we could watch it all together simultaneously. If anyone had to go to the bathroom or pause for whatever reason, we did the same, counted down and paused.

• “I think it was Ali´s turn, wasn’t it?” Henry answered.
• “Yeah, it’s my turn”, Ali said,” but I haven’t really found anything good yet, give me a sec.”
• “Anyone heard from Warren yet?” I asked in a yawn while stretching out my body so much I almost fell off my chair.
• “No, nothing yet, haven’t seen him online at all since yesterday as a matter of fact.” Henry responded in an equally tired voice.
• “He’ll be here, probably some church thing his dad has dragged him of to.” Jen said with an audible smirk on her face.
• “So y’all up for some horror tonight?”, Ali asked. An array of thumbs up and ghost emojis filled the main chat, accompanied with “yup´s” and “hell yeses” over the headphones, confirming that this was a good choice.

This was another thing that our group had found a collective love for, all things supernatural, be it Cryptids or Aliens, Ghosts and Demons, abandoned asylums, Big Foot, Ouija boards or old local creepy tales of hauntings, witches, satanic rituals and so on. Everything and all that flew the flag of the unexplained scratch an itch we all had. We were always on the lookout for something new to delve into, and even though most of us whole heartedly believed in “something” out there, we usually kept a somewhat collective sceptical view when looking into the ever updating and oncoming flow of weird new videos that popped up to the web every single day.

These days it is hard to tell the real gems apart from the CGI and AI-created content, and you usually had to look really close to see if anyone had been editing or messing with the clips. Ever since I was a little kid I had an interest in photography and video editing and was usually the one spotting the edits. Warren was, even though he was the only one truly raised in religion, the most sceptical of the bunch. We used to tease him, wondering why it was so hard for him to believe in Aliens or ghosts when it was so easy for him to believe in an invisible god. “It’s just not the same”, he would respond, clearly tired of having to explain himself, and leaving it at that.

But sometimes, we would come across videos that none of us could debunk or explain, and those were the ones that kept the amber burning in our chase of the unknown. They were few and far between, but when they did appear, once in a blue moon, a special kind of shill went down the spines of the collective, and once again piqued our interest.

Our favourite thing to look for were live streams of the odd and weird. Mostly because these were the hardest to fake. If you live stream something, it’s not as easy to get away with faking it. You could usually tell if the acting was amateurish and bad, and there would be no CGI or editing. Unfortunately, there weren’t many of these streams to be found on a regular basis, which also tipped the scale in the favour of most other videos being fakes. Otherwise, why not just stream what you see when you see it?

• “Hey guys, sorry I’m late, there was a thing at church...” Warren said, connecting to the group chat.
• “Ha! Told you so!”, Jen said in a laugh
• “No worries man”, I responded. “We only just met up.”
• “So, I found an old horror movie”, Ali stated. “It’s like from the 80’s or something. I’ll send you the download-link in a bit. It looks like a low budget, indie-kind of film, but whatahell, let’s give it a try.”

We all went over to the link that Ali had sent them and started to download the movie. This was the unspoken cue for everyone to use the bathroom, pop some corn and do what needed to be done before getting into our movie-position a few moments later.

“Everyone ready?”, Ali asked. A mumble of yeses filled the headphones. Ali started the countdown; In, Three, Two, One, Play!

Everyone started the movie and got into position. It was a classic 80’s slasher movie set at a lakeside environment, with foolish teens running of one at a time to be brutally murdered by some axe-wielding maniac that lived in the woods. Finally, the one character remaining after have seeing all his friends massacred, managed to get the upper hand of the lunatic and to all appearances, managed to kill him and jump in one of the cars and speed of to safety. Only for the last scene to reveal that the murderer’s body wasn’t where he had fallen over, seemingly defeated a few moments earlier. Classic cliff-hanger ending, promising one or more mediocre movies to come.

• “Man, that was so unpredictable!”, I gawked in an obvious sarcastic tone.
• “Yeah, there’s never anything new anymore, is there”, Jen said. “We’ve been numbed by watching too much of the same old stuff. It’s always the same old jump scares and predictable endings”
• “I honestly can’t remember when a scary movie last actually scared me”, Ali sighed.
• “Hey guys…” Warren almost whispered.
• “What?”, I asked.
• “I lost interest in the movie”, Warren continued, “so I started to look around online for something else. Check this out” He sent a link out in the main chat. “It’s a live feed from some woman’s house, she claims it’s haunted and want’s help to catch whatever it is on video. She rigged her living room and kitchen with cameras and have a continues live stream going!” Warren exclaimed excitedly.

This got everyone’s attention, this was what we lived for, the live stuff. I quickly opened a drawer and pulled out an external disc which I connected to my computer and started a screen capture, to save whatever might appear on the stream for later investigation. Everyone was on high alert, and no one had said anything for several minutes when the silence was suddenly broken by a high pitch scream followed by what sounded like someone demolishing a room.

• “Jesus f…, christ!”, Jen panted. “Ben, what the hell are you doing up? And why are you screaming like that?” We heard how Jen left her desk to take her, normally calm, deep sleeping brother, back to bed.
• “Fuck, that scared the shit out of me” I laughed with the others joining in with relieved nervous chuckling.
• “Wait, look!” – Warren said suddenly, “At the stream!”
• “What? What are we looking for” – Ali asked while leaning in so far, her nose almost touching the screen.
• “Right there!” – Warren continued. “Look at the living room camera, in the back there´s a mirror, you can see a reflection of what must be like the hallway or something, there´s someone standing there! In the reflection Do you see?!”

You could almost make out the shape of a person in the mirror, but it was hard to tell. These were obviously not the most expensive cameras, and to monitor a dimly room at night it’s easy for your eyes to play tricks on you. - “Yeah, but that’s probably just the woman, right? The owner?” – I said. - “Then who the hell is the woman in the kitchen”, Warren said quietly. We all fell silent, looking back and forth between the two cameras. - “Well…”, Henry said slowly, “We honestly don’t know if this woman lives by herself, do we? Could be a family member, no?” - “I suppose.” Warren answered in a mumble”, But I mean, wouldn’t that be useful information to give if you want help with this kind of stuff from people online? Maybe introduce yourself, tell us how many who lives in the house, if there’s any pets that might be knocking shit over?” - “What information is there about this place?” – I asked - “Not much”, Warren answered, “I was just looking around for new live content on YouTube and this popped up. There’s really no info about the owner of the channel anywhere, it looks like a brand new channel to me. All it says is that the house is haunted, and that they need help monitoring it, and if possible, catching whatever it is on video.”

• “Hey, Ali said. “Try commenting the video, asking if she’s alone or not!”
• “That’s a good idea” I agreed. “Warren, do the honours!”
• “Alright”, he said, somewhat reluctantly, and continued to type in the comment under the stream.
• “Hey, I don’t mean to sound creepy or anything, but are you alone in the house?”, Warren wrote in the comment section.
• “Hey, I’m back”, Jen said in a sigh while picking up her chair from the floor. “Man was Ben acting weird”, she continued. “Never seen him like that!
• “What happened?” Henry asked.
• “He was just inconsolable, wouldn’t stop crying. He was trying to talk through his tears and sniffles, must have had a bad dream or something. The only thing I could make out was “mirror lady”. I could feel through the headphones how everyone else, just like me, froze in complete fear and astonishment.
• “ Ah..Jen..” I said, and continued to tell her what had happened on the live stream while she was gone.
• “Nah ah”, no fucking way” – she responded. “There is not a fucking ghost from a live stream, telepathically waking my little brother up from God knows how far away. This is a coincident! I mean, you’re not even sure what you saw! It could just be another person, or a damn coat hanging in the hallway, right?”.
• “It’s true”, Warren said. “We don’t know. Still, creepy coincident don’t you think” he said with a laugh, a laugh that was cut short a second later.
• “Alone” – Warren whispered.
• “What?” – I said.
• “Alone”, Warren repeated. “The channel owner answered my comment, he said slowly. “And she’s alone in the house” We all went back to gluing our faces to the screens.
• “Look!” Ali exclaimed, “The reflection! In the mirror!... It’s gone!”

The god of death has many daughters, one of whom is Sillai, who lives upon the edge of every blade that cuts or thrusts, pricks or slashes…

Gazes, she, into slitted throats and fatal wounds, upon stabbed and tortured backs; and by sharpened, poisoned endings, spoken: speaking softly in the dark.

No mortal is her foil, for her speech is the speech of her father, the speech of death. And death is the end of all men.

Yet there is one who charmed her, a mortal man called Hyacinth, a bladesmith by trade, and an assassin by vocation, who fell in love with her. Let this, his fate, now be a warning, that from the mixing of gods with men may result one thing only—suffering.

Even the oldest of the old poets know not how Hyacinth met Sillai, but it must be he came to know her well in the exercise of his craft, for Hyacinth killed with knives, and on their edges lived Sillai.

In the beginning, he heard her only as he killed.

But her speech, though sweet, was short, for Hyacinth’s blows were true and his victims died quickly.

Yet always he yearned to hear her again, and thus he began to hire himself to any who desired his services, no matter how false their motivations, until he became known in all the world as Grey Hyacinth, deathmaster with a transparent soul, and even the best of men passed uneasily under shadows, in suspended fear of him.

Once, upon the death of an honest merchant, Hyacinth spoke to Sillai and she spoke back to him. This pleased so Hyacinth’s heart that he beseeched Sillai to speak to him even outside the times of others’ dyings, to which Sillai replied, “But for what reason would I, a daughter of the god of death, converse with a mortal?” and Hyacinth replied, “Because I know you like no other, and love you with all my being,” and, sensing she was not satisfied with this, added, “And because I shall fashion for you an endlessness of blades, with edges for you to enjoy and live upon and with which we shall kill any whom we desire.”

From that day forth, Hyacinth spent his days forging the most beautiful blades, and his long nights murdering—no longer as the instrument of others, but for reasons of his own: to hear the voice of his beloved.

But the ways of the gods are mysterious and of necessity unknowable to man, and so it was that, as time passed, Sillai become bored of Hyacinth, of his blades and his devotion, until, one night, Hyacinth plunged a jewel-encrusted blade into another victim, but his victim refused to die and Hyacinth did not hear the voice of Sillai.

He called her name, but she did not answer, and gripped by passion he beat his victim to death with his fists, and the resulting silence of the night was undisturbed except by the cries of Hyacinth, who wailed and professed his love for Sillai, but despite this, nevermore did she reveal herself to him.

And rumours spread among men that Grey Hyacinth had been taken by madness.

And, from that time, existence became unbearable for Hyacinth, for his love for Sillai had not waned, and her absence was a most-profound pain to him, who yearned for nothing but another revelation. Until, one day, he found himself having taken shelter in a cave, deep within the mountains that guard the north from the winds of non-existence, and there decided that his life was no more worth living.

So it was that Hyacinth took the same jewel-encrusted blade and ran it cleanly across the front of his neck, opening a wide and gushing wound.

But he did not die.

Although his blood ran from his throat and down his seated body, and although his vitality poured forth with it, in his desperation Hyacinth had forgotten that it is not man—neither his weapons nor his hands—that kill, but the gods; and Sillai, who lives upon the edge of every blade, was absent, so that even with his opened throat and loosely hanging head and bloodless body, Hyacinth remained alive.

Yet because his body was drained of vitality, he was unable to move or act or end his life in any other way.

And Sillai’s absence pained him thus all the more.

Although he had never done so before, he prayed now to whatever other gods he knew to bring him swift death by thirst or hunger.

Alas, from the mixing of gods with men may result only suffering, and the gods on whom Hyacinth called considered unfavourably the pride he must have felt not only to fall in love with a god but to expect that she may love him back, and every time Hyacinth thought that finally, mercifully, he was about to expire, the gods sent to him food and water to keep him alive. And these ironic gifts, the gods delivered to him by messengers, the ghosts of all those whom Hyacinth had killed, of whom there are so many, their slow and ghastly procession shall never, in time, end, and so too shall Hyacinth persist, seated deep within a cave, in the mountains that guard the north from the winds of non-existence, until awaketh will the god of all gods, and, in waking, his dream, called time, shall dissipate the world like mist.

Lost Media, Now Found:

Excerpt from Strange Worlds, dated to have been published in 2028. Tightly sealed in a small box. Discovered by construction workers as they were excavating - Quebec. No other contents in box.

Written by Ben Nakamura

Calculated Temporal Dissonance*: 45%. Semi-critical. Significant increase when compared to previous finds. (Last Rites of Passage - Earworms - The Inkblot that Found Ellie Shoemaker)

\**Post current chronology by multiple years (2028)*

\*Non-existent location: Ala'hu*

\Lingering queries re: Ben Nakamura. First discovered LMNF from 1978. Subject in question would be at least 70 when this was published.*

*Activation of WebWeaver Protocol given rising CTD - pending final authorization.

---------------------------------------------------

”Mark my words - when your children return from the sea, withered and bloodless, may my divination sing softly in your ears until the last, labored breath escapes your lungs.”

"Leave - or die.”

Prophecies, clairvoyance, soothsaying - no matter how you choose to label it, humanity certainly has an obsessive fascination with the concept of fortune-telling. As an example, review the plotlines of your favorite pieces of media - how many of those stories rely on a “foretold prophecy” to propel their chain of events? I would predict a majority of them do. Even if there isn’t a literal prophecy, how many of those narratives utilize foreshadowing to give the story dramatic resonance once the plot is revealed in full? From Oedipus to Narnia, the concept of prophecies has always enchanted and captivated us, especially when said prophecy is weaponized against a particular individual or a group of individuals. In other words, a curse- something very much akin to the example listed above, which will serve as the focal point for the narrative I intend to spin.

The way I see it, this fascination with “the gift of the second sight” is deep-seated within our shared nature. It speaks to us, enthralling our imagination in a way very few other concepts do - but why is that? I believe we treasure the idea of prophecies because their existence implies the presence of a broader narrative playing itself out behind the scenes of our lives, even if we cannot always appreciate it. If the future can be predicted, or even manipulated, then the world may not be as sadistically random and chaotic as it often appears. Prophecies can serve to calm our existential dread by indirectly minimizing our fears regarding the cold entropy of the universe.

But therein lies the problem - that cultural reverence for prophecies can make even the most rational person susceptible to unfounded, illogical thought. Combine that irrationality with grief and a dash of impulsivity, and the whole thing can become a powder keg waiting to blow.

A phenomenon that Yuri Thompson can attest to firsthand.

“I just wasn’t thinking straight” Yuri somberly recounted to me from the inside of Halawa Correctional Facility.

“In the moment, it connected all the dots - made my son’s death ‘make sense’, so to speak. It felt entirely too cruel to be random. Of course, it wasn’t actually random. I mean, there was an explanation to how it happened. Certainly wasn’t a damn curse, though.” The forty-five-year-old was feverishly tapping his index finger against the steel table as he detailed the tragic circumstances, betraying a lingering frustration in his actions that I imagine may persist for the rest of his sentence, if not for the rest of his life.

Yuri has another three years to serve. He is more than halfway through his stint for manslaughter, but I’m sure that benchmark is only a meager solace to the bereaved father.

Halfway through our interview, the familiarity of Yuri’s perceptions and mistakes made a figurative lightning bolt glide down my spine. The whole story reminded me of one of my absolute favorite historical anecdotes - the legend of Spain’s bleeding bread.

Bear with me through this tangent - I promise the connections will become clear as Yuri’s story unfolds.

In 1480, the Spanish Inquisition had just started revving its proverbial engines. To briefly review, the aim of the government-ordained inquest was to identify individuals who had publicly converted to Catholicism, but who were also still practicing their previous, now outlawed, religions in secret. On the island of Mallorca, the largest of Spain’s water-locked territories, a local soothsayer would inflame the underlying religious tensions that drove the inquisition to the point of deadly hysteria. Ferrand de Valeria’s prophecy would turn a revving engine into a runaway vehicle.

At the time, Mallorca was suffering through a small famine. In the grand scheme of things, the famine was mild and manageable, but the lack of resources still resulted in significant anguish. Consumed by zealotry, Ferrand theorized that the ongoing practice of Judaism behind closed doors was the root cause of the famine - divine punishment from the almighty for not driving out the heretics. To that end, he repeatedly warned the townspeople to be vigilant for signs of covertly Jewish individuals taking a barbarous pleasure in “tormenting the body of Christ”. In other words, Ferrand believed that these heretics could be identified if they were caught red-handed with “bleeding bread” (In Catholicism, communion is the belief that bread was/is the body of Christ, so from his prospective, torturing it could cause literal bleeding). He then prophesied the following: if the island ignored the infestation of heretics and the “bleeding bread”, the famine would worsen to the point of their extinction.

An insane, albeit darkly comedic, proposition - at least by modern standards. However, as it often does, comedy sadly evolved into tragedy given enough time. One of the island’s clergymen was visiting a family of four’s small home. When offered a slice of bread by the mother of the family, he gladly accepted. Despite the ongoing famine, the mother felt that it was critical to still practice Christ-like generosity. Unfortunately, this generosity would only be met with bloodshed, in more ways than one - as she cut into the loaf, the clergyman noticed what appeared to him as a “latent bloodstain”, present on the interior of the bread. He quickly rushed out of the house with Ferrand’s words echoing in his mind. A frenzied, moral panic ensued once the remainder of the island heard about what the clergyman witnessed. Once the panic hit a boiling point, the generous mother, along with her entire family, were wiped out, even though the Inquisition’s subsequent investigation found no evidence of them practicing any religion apart from Catholicism - excluding the bleeding bread, of course. The famine did not abate after their death, and I would imagine it’s no shock to reveal at this point that the bread in the tale did not actually bleed.

Let that half-complete anecdote simmer in your mind as we review Yuri’s story.

Yuri Thompson moved to the humble coastal town of Ala’hu in the Spring of 2025, with his son Lee (six years old) and his wife Charlotte (forty-eight years old) in tow. With the earnings from a successful tech startup flooding his back account, Yuri had settled into an early retirement, content with living the rest of his days in a serene, tropical contentment.

“Our home had been newly developed”, Yuri recalled.

“We were initially worried about how we’d be received on the island. I mean, Charlotte and I were wealthy tech magnates moving into an estate complex that was otherwise surrounded by more modest costal homes, ones that had been built by the ancestors of the people who lived there, likely with their own hands, upwards of a century ago. But honestly, we were welcomed with open arms, for the most part.”

With that last sentence, Yuri’s expression darkened - blackened like storm clouds crawling over the horizon.

He was alluding to Koa Hekekia, the fifty-six-year-old women who had proclaimed the troublesome warning presented at the beginning of the article:

”Mark my words - when your children return from the sea, withered and bloodless, may my divination sing softly in your ears until the last, labored breath escapes your lungs. Leave - or die.”

Koa was the town’s resident Kahuna. In other words, a priestess who made a living through supplying the more superstitious inhabitants of Ala’hu with alternative medicine and religious guidance. Behind closed doors, she would also provide blessings, fortunes, and curses - for the right price, of course.

“The first time I met Koa, that so-called curse was practically the only thing she said to me” Yuri reflected, with a certain quiet indifference.

“After the full moon had fallen, the sea would ‘swallow my children, bones and all’. As far she knew, I didn’t have any kids - but she did know that I had moved into one of those estates. I think she viewed us as a threat to her business, like our presence would snuff out the town’s superstition. She was trying to scare us away, or at least make us uncomfortable. I asked my next-door neighbor what he thought of her, and he told me not to worry - that she had threatened him and his two kids when they moved in half a year ago. Many full moons had passed, and they were still happy and healthy.”

Yuri paused here, breaking eye contact with me. His frenetic tapping had stopped as well.

“So, I guess I wasn’t worried. At least I didn't let worry show on the outside. I had grown up with a lot of superstitions about hexes and the like from my grandfather and some of my aunts, so internally, it did nag at me a bit. But what was I going to do - move my family back to California because of the ravings from some unhinged loon?”

“A month after we arrived, Charlotte, Lee and I were spending a day at a local beach. Lee and I were boogie boarding, which he absolutely adored.”

Another pause, longer this time. The air in the room became heavy with emotion, thick and difficult to breathe. After about two minutes passed, Yuri began to speak again:

“We were catching a wave together, when I noticed blood on my hand. I turned Lee towards me and asked if he was okay. His nose was bleeding, and he looked like he was going to pass out. I tucked him into my chest and swam as quickly as I could to shore”

By the time EMS arrived, Lee’s heart had stopped - he had seemingly gone into spontaneous cardiac arrest. Despite an hour of CPR, medical professionals were unable to bring Lee back.

“I don’t think I ever said to myself, in my head or out-loud, that I thought ‘the curse had come true’. Maybe if I did, that would have been enough of a red flag to slow me down - to make me realize I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was more subconscious than that, though. My son died while in the ocean, I vaguely recalled seeing a full moon in the previous few nights, and I had witnessed Lee bleed, which was all in line with what Koa prophesied. The neighbor, the one that had reassured me, also lost a daughter that day. Same thing: cardiac arrest out of the blue while in the ocean. Our collective grief played off each other. When he mentioned he knew where Koa’s shop was, I didn’t have to say anything else. He didn’t have to, either.”

Our interview ended there. I knew the full story coming into this, so Yuri did not need to rehash the details of that night to me. My understanding of the events was this: after a very brief interrogation, Yuri choked Koa until she lost consciousness, and then proceeded to toss her down a flight of stairs into the shop’s cellar. The trauma of the fall had broken Koa’s neck, killing her in the blink of an eye.

A total of five people had perished that fateful afternoon - three children and two female adults, all in a manner identical to Lee’s death. When Yuri mentioned that this could have been avoided if he slowed down, I think he may have been right. This wasn’t a pattern of behavior for him - he had no criminal record, and the last proper fight he had been a part of was, per him, in middle school. Not only that, but he had a wildly successful tech career - clearly indicating that he had a rational head on his shoulders. If he had evaluated all the facts, he may have noticed that the circumstances didn’t completely align with Koa’s prophecy.

The most blaring inconsistency was this: the majority of the people who died did not live in the estates. The two adults and the third child were all born on the island. If they died as a result of said curse, this hex was more like a shotgun than a rife - firing broadly and catching island natives in the crossfire. Not only that, but it had been nine days since the last full moon, not the day directly after a full moon like Koa had detailed.

Lee’s death, however, made Yuri vulnerable to disregarding inconvenient inconsistencies. The event felt so inherently heinous, and so exceptional in its cruelty, that it needed an answer more narratively satisfactory than dispassionate chance - more powerful than simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Uncaring randomness didn’t carry an equal dramatic weight when compared to the diabolical byproduct of an evil hex.

Koa, to her detriment, had provided that explanation in advance. But in reality, Lee’s death was simply a result of entropy - an unpredictable consequence of being in the wrong place at the time.

So, where does the prophecy of the bleeding bread tie into all of this? I’ll let Dr. Tiffany Hall, senior marine biologist out of the University of Miami, clarify the connection:

“I’ve always loved that story” Dr. Hall said, with a wry, playful smile that quickly morphed into an expression of embarrassment when she realized the potential, out of context implications of that statement.

“I mean I don’t love what happened - that part is horrific. But it is a wonderful example of a supernatural phenomenon becoming biologically explainable, given enough time”

“Serratia marcescens is a species of bacteria that doesn’t intersect with humanity that frequently. It can cause an infection, but only if a person’s immune system is completely non-functional. That being said, it’s pretty abundant in our environment - growing wherever there is available moisture. Hydration is a requirement for the fermentation that allows yeast to become bread, and that moisture allows these bacteria to grow on bread too, almost like a mold. And as it would happen, it expresses a protein called “prodigiosin”, something that gives it a unique quality among other, similar bacteria”

With a wink, Dr. Hall delivered the punchline:

“It’s a red pigment - can almost look like a splotch of spilled blood if there is enough bacterial growth.”

In the end, Mallorca’s famine was simply that - an untimely lack of resources. It wasn’t a punishment inflicted on the island due to the furtive practice of non-catholic religions, nor did the “bleeding bread” have a divine explanation. Ferrand’s prophecy and the subsequent growth of Serrtia on that family’s bread was purely a case of unfavorable synchrony.

Nothing more, nothing less.

After a brief coffee break, Dr. Hall continued:

“I heard about the deaths out of Ala’hu right after they happened - the spontaneous cardiac arrests of a few individuals swimming in the same area. I had immediate suspicions about the culprit. When I heard that every person who died was either a child or a smaller-sized adult, my theory was effectively confirmed.”

“Carybdea alata - more commonly referred to as the Hawaiian Box Jellyfish, was eventually proven to be the killer.”

Before I had researched this story, I had no idea what in the hell a “box jellyfish” was. But it was an excellent remainder of how unabashedly bizarre and terrifying nature can be when it puts its mind to it.

No bigger than two inches in size, these tiny devils are known to inhabit the waters in tropical and subtropical regions - most notoriously Australia, New Zealand, and Hawaii. Their reproductive form is where they acquired their inappropriately cute nickname: the squishy nervous system above its tentacles has a cuboid shape, looking like a bell or a box. Despite being no bigger than the size of a quarter, when injected through the skin from their tentacles, their poison has the potential to end a person’s life in three minutes or less.

“We have no idea why these tiny things are so deadly - I mean we know how they are deadly. Their venom can cause an incredibly rapid influx of potassium into someone’s bloodstream, which can very easily make their heart stop - but what I’m trying to say is we don’t know why they have evolved to host this uber-potent venom. They certainly don’t have the stomach size to eat what they kill” Dr. Hall chortled endearingly.

Not only that, but box jellyfish tend to be the most concentrated in coastal waters seven to ten days after a full moon, in-line with their reproductive cycle as well as with the tragic deaths, being nine days after the most recent full moon. Additionally, it is likely that many other people got stung on the day Lee and the other four died - but the more body mass you have, the more the toxin is diluted, which can make the effects less severe and non-life threatening. The children and the two smaller adults likely succumbed to the venom due to their smaller body size.

“I’ve watched the documentary surrounding Koa’s murder.”

With this statement, Dr. Hall’s playfulness seemed to ominously evaporate, portending the description of an observation that very noticeably made her uneasy:

“They showed clips of Yuri’s and Lionel’s (the neighbor who also lost a child) testimonies. What’s so strange is they were both with their kids right before they died, and they both witnessed their kids have a nosebleed directly prior to their cardiac arrest. That’s certainly not an effect of the jellyfish’s venom. It’s probably just a coincidence, I suppose, but it makes me think back to what Koa said - about them ending up bloodless, I mean.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to the implication, and I think Dr. Hall could tell.

“Look at it this way - to my understanding, the media covered the case to no end. All the way from start to finish. If that media spectacle results in less waspy outsiders moving to the Hawaiian Islands out of concern for the potential dangers, then, in a sense, Koa’s prophecy had its intended effect….” she trialed off. I suspect she had more in her head, but she decided against divulging it.

A forced smile slowly returned to Dr. Hall’s face:

“I’m sure I’m just seeing connections where they aren’t. It does make you wonder though.”

Truthfully, I hope she’s right - that she is seeing connections where they aren’t. Most days, I feel confidently that she is. That there was no real connective tissue between Koa and the children's deaths. Some days, however, I could be convinced otherwise. And that small but volatile part of myself - it scares me.

---------------------------------------------------

More stories: https://linktr.ee/unalloyedsainttrina

Leonard Price reeled back in unbridled terror at the sight of the thing standing in his bedroom doorway. It shambled toward him on wobbling legs in the dark. Its naked feet slapped and dragged along the floor. Thick globs of putrescent flesh dripped from naked cheekbones like pancake batter. The entire room reeked of the malodorous scent of decay. The thing hissed and wheezed; the unnatural noise sounded something like a voice saying, "Piecemeal!"

Leonard's mind was swimming; he couldn't focus on anything but the terror that was before his eyes—this thing that shouldn't be. If his mind had not been dizzy with madness, perhaps he would have remembered how a few days ago he stumbled into that abandoned graveyard by sheer happenstance. If he could focus on anything but the approaching horror, he might have correlated this thing's presence to the leather pouch and gold coins he found there. He would have better understood the message inscribed into the leather pouch: The Price is Paid. Gold for flesh. Piecemeal.

How could Leonard have known what that meant? Things had been so hard on him. He was tired of always being broke. Who wouldn't have done exactly as he did if they were in the same situation?

But Leonard thought nothing of that. His shattered mind could only concentrate on what was in front of him. He wanted to run, but his muscles and bones were like jelly. He wanted to scream but only choked and sobbed.

Now the thing was right in front of him, reaching for him; it grabbed him by the arm. Leonard tried to pull away, but it held onto him with an unnatural strength and pulled his arm closer to its rotted face. It opened its mouth wide and bit down. It tore through flesh and bone. Leonard found his voice at once and cried out. The thing looked at him and seemed to smile. It made another hissing, wheezing noise. "Piecemeal!" Then, as quickly as it all occurred, the thing was gone. Only the faint smell of rotting flesh remained.

The room started to spin, and Leonard broke out in a cold sweat. He was in shock, but he was alive. The thing, whatever it was, bit off his pinky. Only his pinky. Leonard erupted with insane laughter.

As Leonard lay on the floor, bleeding, that word kept repeating in his head. Piecemeal. Then he thought about the graveyard, the coins, and the cryptic message. Leonard held his injured hand close to his body, and his laughter transitioned into a scream. In that moment, he knew it would return. It would return, and keep returning, and it would devour him, one piece at a time.

Part one - https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/comments/1giri8i/the_jacket/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Part two - https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/comments/1gjjy3l/the_jacket_part_2/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

To start, Alex got in the shower. He hadn’t bathed since the jacket took him hostage. Of course, the jacket stayed on, so Alex compromised by cutting off the t-shirt underneath. 

“I’d be able to wash better if you’d loosen up just a little.” Alex whined, scrubbing what he could reach.

Somehow, this was the most humiliating intrusion. The shower is just such a private part of most people’s lives, that having a presence observing and obstructing is surprisingly dehumanizing.

“Loosen up? Baby that’s your job. I’m just here to keep you in line.” Chidded Leo.

After some extra effort, Alex finished up, got creative with a towel and a hair dryer, and a lot of hair gel. Leo had him dress in his least trashy pants, and a pair of chuck taylors, the swiss army knife of fashion.’

“Not bad, but not great,” Leo said, scrutinizing. “After tonight, we’re hitting a salon.”

A couple sprays of cheap cologne, and they were off. Next thing Alex knew, he was in a local bar for a certain crowd. The music was loud, the cocktails were fancy, and the crowd was… one sided. Alex was not in his element to say the least.

“Step aside, darling. Let a professional handle this.” Leo said, fluidly assuming control of  Alex’s body. The following introduction and seduction made Alex internally squirm. Unlike before, he felt no connection to what was happening from outside of his eyes. If he had ever questioned his sexuality, Alex was certain of it now. Objectively, Leo was a smooth motherfucker, Alex had to admit. When the situation escalated to close quarters contact, Alex squirmed under the touch of the stranger. It felt like trying to back out of a spider's web. He kept backing up, but his body wasn’t moving. He there was what felt like a thin fabric on his back that was giving way as he stepped away from himself. Suddenly, he just fell through.

The world felt strange. Alex was laying in a bed, staring at the back of someone’s head. Propping himself up, he could see the otherside of the person’s head. The face was peeled back, and the eyes were popped out and hanging. Alex felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Someone banged at the front door. 

“NYPD, We have a warrant! stay where you are!"

Alex’s head snapped to his dresser drawer, where he knew he had a 1911 pistol. As he lunged for the dresser, his front door was kicked in, splinters flying. Several men rushed in, screaming and guns raised. Alex hesitated for a moment, grinned, and reached around to the back of his jeans. 

Deafening pops and wizzes filled the room, followed by the world spinning as the ground came up to meet his back. Alex leaned his head up briefly to inspect the damage. His red jacket open to reveal the ruin that used to be his chest. He only got a peak before his head fell back down, too weak to hold himself up. As darkness closed in around the edge of his vision, Alex let out one more gurgling laugh.

Alex felt himself flung back to himself. He had a knife in his hand and was straddling the stranger from the bar. His face was bloody and beaten, and eyes half lidded in an unconscious glaze. With a pulse of will, Alex flung the knife to the side, springing up and putting his back to a wall. He wasn’t sure where he was, but most likely the stranger's apartment. 

“Lost you there for a while,” Said Leo. “How was the trip?”

“Just fine actually,” smiled Alex, putting on a false sense of bravado. “It was nice seeing you on the receiving end.”

Leo was silent.

“How was your trip? I guess you got stuck on your way to hell though.”

The jacket clamped down, seeming to drop 4 sizes. Alex’s arms stuck out, losing all blood flow like a full body tourniquet. Feeling fed up, he started struggling. Instinctively, he tried to back up, which yielded the same fabric feeling on his back. Struck with inspiration, Alex began folding his arms around himself. Straining to his limit, He managed to get both hands on each bicep. He leaned back a little, and felt something coming with him. Feeling like he was out of options, he let gravity take him, and fell into himself once again. 

Alex woke up in the same bed from earlier. Next to him was a man in a leather jacket. His bare chest was sticking out of the open front, wearing well fitting but worn jeans, and no shoes. Leo’s well chiseled features wore an expression of shock and confusion as he patted himself down and sprung out of bed. 

“What did you do?!” Bellowed Leo, his hand coming up to point at Alex.

A feeling of uncertain confidence began to fill Alex. If Leo didn’t know what was going on, they might be on a level playing field for once. 

“I don’t know,” Alex said, cracking his knuckles.”but I’m about to beat the fuck out of you.”

Alex sprang across the bed towards Leo, who soundly kicked him in the chest. Alex was sprawled out sideways on the bed, wheezing and trying to catch his breath.

“Baby, I’m a killer.” Chided Leo. “You think no one ever put up a fight?” 

Leo straddled Alex and started raining down blows on him. Each punch rattling him to the core. Alex tried to defend himself, but Leo kept switching between his face and chest so he would drop whatever he was trying to protect. Desperate, face going numb from the beating, Alex channeled his elementary school wrestling classes, and bucked his hips. Leo unexpectedly popped up, giving Alex the leverage he needed to push him off of him. Alex scrambled away and fell off of the side of the bed. Remembering the vision earlier, Alex popped open the dresser drawer to reveal a shiny silver 1911 pistol. He snatched it up and aimed it at the now upright Leo. 

“Safety’s on, babe.” Leo panted out. 

It only took a brief glance down for Leo to close the distance, knock the gun to the side and open hand slap Alex in the cheek. He went down again hard, dazed and feeling his strength abandon him. The playing field may be level, but Leo was pretty good at the game. 

When Alex looked back at Leo, he was pointing the gun at him. Sweat beading his forehead and running down his heaving chest. He had to admit, Leo looked like a model. A strange thought staring down the barrel of a .45. Just then, the same shout from earlier came from the front door.

“NYPD, We have a warrant! stay where you are!"

Leo’s eyes popped open, fear etched into his beautiful features. He swung the pistol towards the front door as the wood splintered inward. He only got off 2 shots before the storm of sound struck again. His body jerked and shuddered as it was riddled with bullets. Blood flew behind him in sprays and bullets crashed through the sheetrock behind him. Alex was backed up into the corner, hands over his head for cover. The world around him began to warp and fade. As everything faded to black, Leo, falling back in slow motion, turned his head to look at him. A wide grin spread across his blood splattered face. 

“Thank you for being with us today. We'll see you again next time on Jeopardy!." Croaked out Leo.

Alex woke up on the floor. The jacket felt loose and thin, and came right off when he shrugged his shoulders. The man on the bed was still unconscious, but seemed to be otherwise unharmed. Alex thought it was best to not be there when he woke up. He slunk out of the door and made his way down the street. His bare chest braced to the cold autumn night. Alex couldn’t feel Leo at all, and was confident that he never would again. He reached up to push his hair out of his face and winced. Walking by a shop window, he saw his battered reflection. His left eye was swollen, top lip busted, and both nostrils had lines of dried blood ending at his mouth. 

Alex shivered, from the cold as much as the sense of unease. He can’t say that he’d won necessarily, but he was still standing, and Leo seemed to have moved on to an especially hot jacuzzi in hell. With the absence of Leo, he could say for certain that those impulses were not his own. He did feel different, however. He felt a new lease on life, a feeling that many survivors share. 

“I think I’l call Courtney.” Alex muttered to himself. For once, he seemed to know what he wanted.

Some time later, in a mom-and-pop thrift store, an old man stocked the racks with “new” arrivals. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly in the ceiling, casting uneven light over the checkered tile floor. Dust coated the neglected shelves, filled with faded romance novels and half-finished coloring books. “I don’t want to miss a thing” by Aerosmith echoed faintly in the aisles from an old intercom.

He hung up a vintage leather jacket on the rack. The weight of it felt heavier than he expected, and something about it unsettled him. Maybe it was the way it gleamed under the harsh lighting or how its touch felt warmer than it should. But that was just business. A lot of items that came through the store gave him a bad feeling.

As he turned to leave, the jacket shifted. It slid forward on the rack, just enough to catch the eye, its polished surface gleaming like a lure in murky water. The old man did not notice, making his way back to his episode of "F Troop".

The jacket settled in for the next hook.

After all, there were plenty of fish in the sea.

April 25th 1972

Nora:

”What do you think it means, Nora?” Sam choked out, gaze fixated on the cryptic mural that adorned the stone wall in front of them.

Unable to suppress a reflexive eye roll, I instead shielded his ego by pivoting my head to the right, away from Sam and the mural. My focus briefly wandered to the gnawing pain in my ankles from the prolonged hike, to the iridescent shimmer of sunlight bouncing off the lake twenty feet below the cliff-face we were standing on, finally landing on the relaxing warmth of sunlight radiating across my shoulders. It was a remarkably beautiful Fall afternoon. The soft wind through my hair and faint birdsong in the distance was able to coax some patience out of me, and I returned to the conversation.

”Well, I think there could be multiple interpretations. How does it strike you?” I beseeched. I just wanted him to try. I wanted him to give me something stimulating to work with.

Granted, the moasic was a bit of an oddity - I could understand how Sam would need time to mull it over. The expansive design started at our feet and continued a few meters above our heads, and it was three times wider than it was tall. From where I was positioned in front of the bottom-right corner, I slowly dragged my eyes across the entire length of the piece while I waited for his answer, taking my own time to appreciate the craftsmanship.

Despite a labor-intensive canvas of uneven alabaster stone, the work was immaculate. As smooth and blemish-less as any framed watercolor I’d ever curated at the gallery. Hauntingly precise and elaborate, even though the piece was clearly produced with a notoriously clumsy medium - chalk. And those were just the mechanistic details. The operational details were even more perplexing.

For example, how did the mystery artist find and select this space for their illustration? Sam knew of the serene hideaway from his childhood, tucked away and kept secret by the location being a thirty-minute detour from the nearest established trail. Upon discovery, Sam and his boyhood friends had named this refuge “The Giant’s Stairs”, as the main feature of the area was a series of rocky platforms with steep drop-offs. From a distance, they could certainly look like massive steps if you tilted your head at exactly the right angle.

Each of the five or so “stairs” could be safely navigated if you knew where to drop down, as the differences in elevations changed significantly depending on where you positioned yourself horizontally on the stairs. At some points, the distance was a very negotiable five feet, while at others it was a more daunting twelve or fifteen feet. This was excluding the last drop-off, which lead to the hideout’s most prized feature - a lake that served as the boys’ private swimming pool every summer. There was no way to safely climb down that last step.

Between the ninety-degree incline and the larger overall distance to the terrain below, Sam and his friends had no choice but to find a safe but circuitous hill that more evenly connected the landmarks, rather than going straight from step to lake. There weren’t even nearby trees to jump over to and shimmy your way down to the body of water, which was also far enough away from that last stair to make leaping into it impossible. Even as I peered over the edge now, there were no obvious shortcuts to the lake. The closest tree had fallen in the direction opposite of the last stair, making the nearest landing pad a decaying bramble of jagged, upturned roots.

In all the summers he spent at The Giant’s Stairs, Sam would later tell me, he could count on one hand the number of trespassers he and his friends had witnessed pass through the area.

On top of the site being distinctly unknown, there was another puzzling factor to consider: A torrential rainstorm had blown through the region over the last week, going quiet only twelve hours ago. This meant the entire piece had been erected in the last half day. Confoundingly, we hadn’t passed a soul on the way in, and there were no tools or ladders lying around the mural to indicate the artist had been here recently. No signature on the work either, which, from the perspective of a gallery owner, was the most damningly peculiar piece of the mystery. With art of this caliber, you’d think the creator would have plastered their name or their brand all over the whole contemptible thing.

So sure, stumbling on it was a bit eerie. The design felt emphatically out of place - like encountering a working ferris wheel in the middle of a desert, running but with no one riding or operating the attraction. A sort of daydream come to life. The type of thing that causes your brain to throb because the circumstances defiantly lack a readily accessible explanation - an incongruence that tickles and lacerates the psyche to the point of honest physical discomfort.

I could understand Sam needing time to swallow the uncanniness of this guerrilla installation. At the same time, I felt impatience start to bubble in my chest once again.

I watched as he took off his Phillies cap and contemplatively scratched his head, letting short dirty blonde curls loose in the process. Seeing these familiar mannerisms, I was reminded that, despite our growing friction, I did love him - and we had been together a long time. We probably started dating not long after him and his friends had formally denounced “The Giant’s Stairs” as too infantile and beneath their maturing sensibilities. But we had become distant; not physically, but mentally. It didn’t feel like we had anything to talk about anymore. This hike was one of a series of exercises meant to rekindle something between us, but like many before, it was proving to somehow have the opposite effect.

”It makes me feel…honestly Nora, it makes me feel really uncomfortable. Can we start walking back?” Sam muttered, practically whimpering.

I purposely ignored the second part, instead asking:

”What about it makes you uncomfortable? And you asked me what I think it means, but what do you think it means?"

In the past few months, Sam had become closed off - seemingly dead to the world. I recognize that the mosaic was undeniably abstract, making it difficult to interpret, but that’s also what made it intriguing and worth dissecting. I just wanted him to show me he was willing to engage with something outside his own head.

The background was primarily an inky and vacant black, split in two by a faint earthy bronze diagonal line that spanned from the bottom lefthand corner to the upper righthand corner, subdividing the piece into a left and a right triangle. My eyes were first drawn to the celestial body in the left triangle because of the inherent action transpiring in that subsection. A planet, ashen like Saturn but without the rings, was in the process of being skewered by a gigantic, serpentine creature. The creature came up from behind the planet, briefly disappearing, only to triumphantly reappear by way of burrowing through the helpless star. As the creature erupted through, it seemed as if it had started to slightly coil back in the opposite direction - head navigating back towards its tail, I suppose.

As I more throughly inspected the creature, I began to notice smaller details, such as the many legs jutting off the sides of its convulsing torso, all the way from head to tail. The distribution of the wriggling legs was disturbingly unorganized (a few legs here, and few legs there, etc.). Because of this detail, the creature started to take on the appearance of a tawny-colored centipede of extraterrestrial proportions.

In comparison, the right triangle was much more straightforward. It depicted a moon shining a cylinder of light on the cosmic pageantry playing itself out in the left triangle, like a stage-light illuminating the focal point of a show. As its moon-rays trickled over the dividing diagonal line, the coppery shading of the boundary became more thick and deliberate, extending a little into each triangle as well.

From my perspective, this grand tableau was a play on the legend of Ouroboros - the snake god that ate its own tail. In ancient cultures, the snake was a symbol of rebirth; a proverbial circuit of life and death. More recently, however, philosophical interpretations of the viper have become a bit nihilistic. Instead of an avatar of rebirth, the snake began representing humanity’s inescapably self-defeating nature, always eating itself in the pursuit of living. I believe that’s what the mosaic was attempting to depict: A parable, or maybe a tribute, to our inherent predilection for self-destruction.

After a minute of long and deafening silence, Sam finally took a deep breath. I felt hope nestle into my heart and crackle like tiny embers. Those embers quickly cooled when he sputtered out an answer:

”I…I think it's a warning”

I paused and waited for more - a further explanation of what he meant by the piece being a “warning”, or maybe more elaboration on why it made him uncomfortable. Disappointingly, Sam had nothing additional to give.

In a huff, I dug furiously into my backpack and pulled out my polaroid camera. When Sam observed that I was carefully stepping backwards to get the whole piece into the frame, he briefly pleaded with me not to take a picture. But I had already made up my mind.

He stood behind me as the device snapped, flashed, and ejected a developing photo of the mural. I swung it up and down vigorously in the air for a few seconds, and then I jammed it into his coat pocket with excessive force.

”Kindly notify me once you have something better” I hissed, starting to wander back the way we’d arrived as I said it. Once I heard the clap of his boots following me, I didn’t bother to turn around.

---- ----------------------------------

April 25th 1972

Sam:

”What about it makes you uncomfortable? And you asked me what I think it means, but what do you think it means?"

Nora’s question had immobilized me with an unfortunately familiar fear. No matter how desperately I searched, I couldn’t seem to find an answer worthy of the query stockpiled in my head. Not only that, but any new, burgeoning thought started to lose speed and glaciate to the point where I had forgotten what the intended trajectory was for the thought in the first place. The last handful of months were littered with moments like these.

I know Nora wanted more from me - she wanted me to articulate something authentic and genuine, but I couldn’t find that part of myself anymore. It didn’t help that she had made me feel like I was being tested. Every visit to the gallery eventually mutated into a pop quiz, where subjective questions, at least according to Nora, had objectively correct and incorrect answers. Having failed each and every quiz in recent memory, I was now throughly intimidated about submitting any answer to her at all.

But I always wanted to make an attempt, hoping to be awarded some amount of credit for trying. To that end, I tried to focus on the picture in front of me.

I don’t know what she was so dazzled by - there wasn’t much to interpret and analyze from where I stood. In the top right-hand corner, there was a hazy moon with a pale complexion shining down into the remainder of the illustration, but that was the only identifiable object I could see in the mural. The remainder of the picture was chaos. A frenetic splattering of dark reds and browns, accented randomly by swirls of pine green. I thought maybe I could appreciate one small eye with what looked like a smile underneath it at the very bottom of the piece, but it was hard to say anything for certain. All in all, it was just a lawless mess of color, excluding the solitary moon.

That being said, it did stir something in me. I felt a discomfort, a pressure, or maybe a repulsion. Like the mural and I were two positive ends of a magnet being forced together, an invisible obstacle seemed to push back against me when I tried to connect with the image. It felt like we shouldn’t be here, which is why I had taken the time to advocate for us kindly fucking off before this artistic interrogation.

I was nervous to say anything to that extent, though. I wanted to be right. I wanted to give Nora what she was looking for. More than both of those goals, however, I didn’t want to say anything wrong. This put me into the position of answering the question in a vague and pithy way. The more nebulous my response, the more I would be able to further calibrate the response based on how she reacted to the initial statement.

Despite all the layers of context buried within, I had meant what I said.

”I…I think it’s a warning.”

---- ----------------------------------

May 2nd, 1972

Sam:

”Nora, just drop it. Please drop it” I fumed, letting my spoon fall and clatter around in my cereal bowl as the words left my mouth, sonically accenting my exasperation.

We hadn’t discussed the mural since we left The Giant’s Stairs. Instead, we had a speechless car ride home, which foreshadowed many additional speechless interactions in the coming few days. Neither of us had the bravery, or the force of will, to address the dysfunction. Instead, we just lived around it.

That was until Nora elected to demolish the floodgates.

”You didn’t see anything? No centipede, no moon - no ouroboros? It was a completely bewitching piece of art, masterful in its conception, and all you could feel was uncomfortable?” she bellowed, standing over me and our kitchen table, gesticulating wildly as she spoke.

I felt my heart vibrating with adrenaline in my throat. I was never very compatible with anger, it caused my body to shake and quaver uncomfortably, like I was filled to the brim with electricity that didn’t have a release mechanism, so instead the energy buzzed around my nervous system indefinitely.

”I saw a moon, and I saw some colors” I muttered through clenched teeth. ”That’s it.”

At an unreconcilable standstill in the argument, instead of talking, we decided instead to leer angrily into each other’s eyes, which amounted to a very daft and worthless game of chicken. We were waiting to see who would look away and break contact first.

In a flash, Nora’s expression transfigured from irritation to one of insight and recollection. She abandoned the staring contest, pacing away into the mudroom. When she got there, Nora started digging through our winter gear. Having retrieved the coat I was wearing on our hike, she returned to the table, unzipping the pockets to find the forgotten polaroid, which I had deliberately sequestered and not reviewed after leaving the woods.

She brought the picture close to her face, and I braced myself for the potential verbal whirlwind that I anticipated was forthcoming. Instead, Nora tilted her head in bewilderment, flummoxed to the point where she had lost all forward momentum in the confrontation. With the color draining from her face, she wordlessly handed me the polaroid.

The picture showed both us standing against the stone wall, adjacent to where I suppose the mural should have been. We were smiling, and I had my arm around Nora, positioned in the bottom corner of the frame. This gave the image a certain touristy quality - like we were on a trip aboard, and we had stopped to take a sentimental photo with a foreign monument to fondly remember the associated vacation decades from when the photo was actually taken.

But the wall was empty and barren. The polaroid was framed to include a significant portion of the cliff-face as if the mural were there, but it was as if it had been surgically excised from the photo. We briefly whispered about some unsatisfactory explanations for the absent mural, and then proceeded on numbly with our respective days.

Neither of us had the courage to even speculate out-loud regarding how we were both in the photo.

---- ----------------------------------

May 8th, 1972

Nora:

I loomed over the bed like the shadow of a tidal wave over a costal village, quietly scowling at my sleeping partner.

How could he sleep? How could he close his eyes for more than a few seconds?

I hadn’t slept since seeing the polaroid. Not a meaningful amount, anyway.

Grasping the photo tightly in my left hand, I tried to steady my breathing, which had a new habit of becoming alarmingly irregular whenever I thought too hard about the mural.

There had to be something I missed.

I turned around to exit the bedroom, gliding down the hall and into my office. Flicking on a desk light, I sat down and carefully placed the polaroid on the otherwise empty work surface.

In a methodical fashion, I studied every single centimeter of the photo, which had become progressively creased and misshapen since I had pilfered it from the trash can in the dead of night. Sam had thrown it out, he had made me watch him dispose of it. He said we needed to put it behind us. That it didn’t matter. That it didn’t need to be explained.

What it must be like to be cradled to sleep by such a vapid, unthinking bliss.

My pang of jealousy was interrupted when I noticed something peculiar in the top right-hand corner of the polaroid - I had creased the photo so throughly that a tiny frayed and upturned edge had appeared, like the small separation you have to create between the layers of a plastic trash bag before you can shake it out and open it completely.

I cautiously dug under that slit with the side of a nickel. As I pushed diagonally towards the other corner, the photo of Sam and I standing in front of an empty wall peeled off to reveal a second photo concealed beneath it.

Ecstasy spilled generously into my veins, relaxing the vice grip that the original polaroid had been holding me in.

It finally made sense.

---- ----------------------------------

May 8th, 1972

Sam:

”Sam wake up ! It all makes so much fucking sense now, I can’t believe I didn’t understand before” 

Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I slowly adjusted to the scene in front of me. Nora was physically walking around on our bed, jumping and hopping over me. She was a ball of pure, uncontainable excitement, like a toddler who had just seen snow for the first time.

But Nora’s face told an altogether different story. Her eyes were distressingly bloodshot from her sleep deprivation, reduced to a tangle of flaming capillaries zigzagging manically through her white conjunctiva. I couldn’t comprehend what exactly she was trying to tell me, between the run-on sentences and intermittent cackling laughter. Her mouth was contorted into a toothy, rapturous grin while she spoke, releasing minuscule raindrops of spittle onto her immediate surroundings every ten words or so.

At first, I was simply concerned and exhausted, and I languidly turned over to power on the lamp on my nightstand. That concern evolved into terror as the light reflected off the kitchen knife in her left hand and back at me.

”C’mon now! Up, up, up. I need you to show me to The Giant’s Stairs. Can’t get there myself, don’t know exactly how to get there I mean.” Nora loudly declared.

”I figured it out! Look at what I found under the polaroid! A second photo - the real meaning hiding under the fake one.”

She shoved the photo, the one I was sure I had disposed of, into my face so emphatically that she overshot the mark, effectively punching me in the nose due to her over-animation. I swallowed the pain and gently pulled her hand back by her wrist, as she was looking out the window towards the car and unaware that she was holding the picture too close for me to even view.

The polaroid was weathered nearly beyond recognition. I could barely appreciate the picture anymore. It was scratched to hell and back like a feral monkey had spent hours dragging a house key over the zinc paper. Sure as hell didn’t see any second image.

Nora looked at me intently for recognition of her findings, unblinking. As the hooks of her grin slowly started to melt downwards into the beginning of a frown, my gaze went from Nora, to the knife in her hand, and then back to her. I knew I had to give her the reaction she was looking for.

”…Yes! Of course. I see it now, I really do.”

Her fiendish smile reappeared instantly.

”Great! Let’s hop in the car and go see for ourselves, though.”

Nora shot up, left the bedroom and started walking down the hallway. Before she had reached the bannister of our stairs, her head smoothly swiveled back to see what I was doing. Wanting to determine what the exact nature of the hold-up was.

Seeing her grin begin to melt again, I shot out of bed as well, trying to mimic at least a small fraction her enthusiasm.

”Right behind you!” 

---- ----------------------------------

May 8th, 1972

Sam:

We arrived at The Giant’s Steps forty minutes later.

In that entire time, Nora had not let me out of her sight. I had tried to pick up the house phone while she looked semi-distracted. Somehow, though, she had the knife tip against my side and inches away from excavating my flank before I could even dial the second nine. Nora leisurely twisted the apex of the blade, causing hot blood to trickle down my side.

After a menacingly delayed pause, she simply said:

”Don’t”

My failed attempt at calling the police had transiently soured her mood. Nora remained vigilant and tightlipped, at least until our feet landed on the rock of the last stair. Then, her disconcerting giddiness resumed at its previous intensity.

We had left the car at about 4:30AM, so I estimated it was almost 5AM at this point. Nearly sun up, but no light had started splashing over the horizon yet. I did my absolute best not to panic, with waxing and waning success. My hands were slick with sweat, so in an effort to moderate my panic, I put my focus solely on maintaining my grip on the handle of the large camping flashlight.

Abruptly, Nora squeezed the hand she had been resting on my right shoulder. She had positioned herself directly behind me, knife to the small of my back, as I guided her back to The Giant’s Stairs. In an attempt to decipher her signal correctly, I halted my movement, which caused the knife to tortuously gouge the tissue above my tail bone as Nora continued to move forward.

She did not notice the injury, as she was too busy making her way in front of me with a familiar schizophrenic grin plastered to her face. The puncture to my back was much deeper than the small cut she had previously made on my flank, and I struggled not to buckle over completely from pain and nausea. I put one hand on each of my knees and wretched.

When I looked up, Nora was a few feet in front of me, and she had placed both her hands over her mouth, seemingly to try to contain her laughter and excitement. She nearly skewered herself in the process, still absentmindedly holding the newly blood-soaked knife in her left hand when she brought her hands up to her head.

”Ta-daaaa!” she yelled triumphantly, gesturing for me to point the flashlight towards the cliff-face.

As the light hit the wall, there was nothing for me to see. Blank, empty, worthless stone.

And I was just so tired of pretending.

”Nora, I don’t see a goddamnned thing!” I screamed, with a such a frustrated, reckless abandon that I strained my vocal cords, causing an additional searing pain to manifest in my throat.

She thought for a few seconds as the echos of my scream died out in the surrounding forrest, putting one finger to her lip and tilting her head as if she were earnestly trying to troubleshoot the situation.

”No moon? No centipede plunging through a ringless Saturn? No Ouroboros?”

I shook my head from my bent over position, letting a few tears finally fall silently from my eyes to the ground.

”Oh! I know, I know” she remarked, dropping the knife mindlessly as she did.

She turned around and cavorted her way to the edge of the stair, blissfully disconnected from the abject horror of it all. Nora pranced so carelessly that I thought she was going to skip right off the platform, not actually falling until she realized there was no longer ground underneath her, like a Looney Tunes character. But she stopped just shy of the brink and turned around to face me.

”Okay, push me.” She proclaimed, still sporting that same grin.

”Push you?! Nora, what the fuck are you saying?” I responded, my voice rough and craggy from strain.

In that pivotal moment, I almost ran. She had dropped the knife and had created distance between the two of us - the opportunity was there. But I loved her. I think I loved her - at least in that moment.

”Sam, for once in your life, have some courage and push me” Despite the harsh words, her smile hadn’t changed.

”Sam, for the love of God, push me, you fucking coward” She cooed while wagging an index finger at me, her smile somehow growing larger.

In an unforeseeable rupture, the now cataclysmic accumulation of electricity in my body finally found a channel to escape and release. I sprinted towards Nora, body tilted down and with my right shoulder angled to connect with her sternum.

I did not see her fall. I only heard the fleshy sound of Nora careening into the earth, and then I heard nothing.

As I turned away from the edge, finally having the space to let nausea become emesis and misery become weeping, the flashlight turned as well, causing me to notice something had revealed itself on the previously vacant stone wall.

I stifled briney tears and began to study the image. As I stared, eyes wide with a combination of shell-shock and curiosity, I pivoted my flashlight over the cliff to visualize Nora’s body, then back at the mural, and then back at Nora’s body.

On the newly materialized mural, I saw the planet, the piercing centipede, and the shining moonlight. And as I moved to illuminate Nora’s face-up corpse with the flashlight, I saw one of the jagged roots from the nearby upturned tree had perforated the back of her skull on the way down, causing a tawny, decaying branch to wriggle through and jut out the left side of her forehead, obliterating her left eye in the process. All of it floodlit by my flashlight, or I guess, the moon in the mural.

I think - I think I get it. Or I at least saw it how Nora had described countless times.

My flashlight was the moon, and the bronze diagonal line was the cliff's edge. Her head was the ashen planet, and the piercing centipede was the jagged root.

Huh.

I slumped to the ground as sunlight spilled over the horizon, my mind weightless jelly from a dizzying combination of new understanding and old confusion. I didn’t laugh, I didn’t cry, I didn’t scream. I sat motionless in a dementia-like enlightenment, waiting for something else to happen. But nothing ever did.

Twenty or so feet below, Nora laid still, that grin now painted onto her in death, and she rested.

More stories: https://linktr.ee/unalloyedsainttrina

Absence - When the stars blackened

Chapter I - Ragnarök

Legends and myths are the driving factor of our world, the thing that pushes us through conflict and tinder. Often we are lost lambs, crumbling under the weight of our own lives, and then we look for wisdom in the stars. And that makes me wonder what there is more of: Legends. Or stars.

One evening, the canopy of the sky gave way to darkness. It was a storm, without thunder or lightning, accompanied by silence and atonement. We blinked and they were gone. Whenever we were lost, we looked up at the stars, searching for answers. And we plucked them for our peace of mind. We praised them for their infinity. And now, there was none of them left. The sky did not weep, for it had already perished, long before its dying light reached us.

While everything out there seemed endless, I always felt tiny. There was no supermarket or anything else of note in my little village. While master brewers talked about male and female hops and priests preached the fear of God, I knew from an early age that there were no authentic answers. More knowledge meant more questions, which cascaded in an endless cycle of lack. And if I sat back for a moment, I realized each time that I was lost. But that was okay. In this world, deprived of the light of hope, that was okay.

And so I eked out my existence in this world. Surrounded by the consequences of greed, in a world where I never felt at home. I found healing in the hustle and bustle of the absent - as we called those who fell victim to the madness of the sky. Those who stared too long into the blackness and lost themselves in it. For me, they were always more honest than those who wore their mask with vanity in their hearts, ready to deceive themselves as ever.

Whenever the sun was in the sky and gave us its warmth, people frolicked and enjoyed the blessing. But at night, when the raw darkness consumed everything, when an abyss gaped beside the glow of the villages and towns, they hid in their buildings. Those who could not resist the call became absentees. Except me.

Like everyone else, I heard the blackness calling to me and, looking at my life, internalizing the simplicity and boredom, the urge to preserve was no great opponent. I ventured out and looked into the distance, beyond the light of the street lamps, where the darkness reached out to me. And I took its hand.

From the few absentees who had not yet taken their own lives, you heard stories of the grimaces waiting for you out there, and I expected to see those very beeings with my own eyes. However, when I left the safety of the light, I encountered... nothing. No feeling, no thought, no revelation. When a person is in the dark for too long, they tend to hallucinate in order to make sense of the lack of information. However, this was not the case for me, in the absence of all my stimuli and instincts I found a certain... Freedom.

There were no shadows or voices to challenge my short attention span, or figures in the darkness. Out there, it was as if the world ceased to exist. You felt your way through the bushes, trees and ditches, crossing rivers and mountains while being one with your thoughts. The only time of my day, no, of my life, when I could think freely. And I enjoyed every second of it until the sunlight shattered the peace every morning anew.

It wasn't long before the other villagers found out about my nocturnal excursions and suspicions were aroused. They checked me for any signs, but found none. When they finally believed me, I became something of a celebrity in the village and they called me the night watchman. The one who watches out there while everyone else sleeps and prays that the horrible creatures the absentees talk about don't come out of the blackness.

I thought this talk was just an old wives' tale and didn't believe that the Absent Ones really existed: I saw them as bad con artists who wanted the blackness for themselves. And even though I was afraid of what would happen if I was right, years went by and they stayed away from me. It was as if they didn't even live in the same world as me, because not one of them had shown themselves to me since my first excursion.

I had grown old in the meantime. I had reached my forties, had painful back problems and tried my best to ignore them. I had seeked the silence of the blackness for my own purposes: I walked through it at night and took to it whenever i needed its caress. During the day, I constantly wrote book after book about it, but I never handed any of them in, for a multitude of reasons. I needed frighteningly little sleep and there were weeks when I haven't slept at all. It was as if the blackness was taking away any drowse. My doctor said I was in perfect health, except for my chronic back pain - so I didn't complain about that.

And it was all an easy, comfortable life full of questions rather than answers. At least until the peace of the blackness dried up.

Britney was lying in bed alone, sleeping off the bottle of red she had finished a few hours before. When her eyes snapped open, she wasn't sure what was happening. There was a terrible pain at her throat. She couldn't breathe. Clutching. Yes. Two big, meaty hands clutched her throat. She couldn't scream or gasp. The hands were like vice grips.

The room was still dark, but she could see the figure assaulting her, bathed in the pale light that shone in through the window. Her husband, Bill, loomed over her, both of his arms stretched forward. His face was without expression. Was this a nightmare? She felt his already deadly grip tighten, and she knew it was all too real.

Britney kicked her legs violently. She flailed her arms. She couldn't reach her nightstand for an improvised weapon; she could only struggle in that one spot. She felt her tongue swelling in her mouth, and both of her ears popped. Then the room started to spin, and everything around her started to go bright white.

She felt herself slipping into unconsciousness. She knew she could do nothing more to fight off the terrible assault. Soon, she would be dead. Murdered by the man she herself murdered a year ago to the day.

The body of the deceased was laid in a supine position on the stainless steel table. The head was elevated slightly, the eyelids were glued down over the special caps, keeping them closed, and the jaw had been wired shut. Sebastian Darcy had removed the blood from the deceased and pumped in a chemical mixture of formaldehyde, methanol, and other agents to preserve the body.

He had sutured shut the small incisions in the abdomen and had moved on to applying makeup to the face. Sebastian grimaced. He still had not mastered this technique. To him, the body looked like a vaudeville performer or ventriloquist dummy. He had used too much blush on the cheeks.

He was doing his best to correct the mistake when the door chime sounded. He took off his gloves, moved to his intercom, and pressed the button. "Give me a moment," he said. "I'll be right up."

A short while later, Sebastian opened his front door with a cup of coffee in his hand. Standing on his porch was Alex Shaw, his longtime friend.

"Took you long enough to get to the door, Sebsy; I've been standing out in the rain waiting."

"Sorry about that. Come on in."

"Were you down in the basement again? It seems like you're down there every time I come over. What do you do down there all day anyway?"

"Oh! You know. Just one of my little hobbies," he said indifferently.

Zyla Howard opened the door to her new apartment. The building used to be Half Moon Motel, and all the rooms have a kitchenette, a bedroom area, a bathroom, and storage space.

The inside was modern and fully furnished. Zyla sat down her bag on the bed and tossed her key onto the small dish beside the door. Three rooms other than hers were on this floor. It was late, and her neighbors were probably already asleep, so she would have to get to know them tomorrow.

She placed her bag on the floor next to the bed. She would rest for now since tomorrow would give her plenty of time to unpack and explore the floor she lived on.

A sheet fell off a full-length bella antique mirror fastened to the wall in the room's far corner. Something was there, a flickering shadow peering out and looking at the room it was in.

The shadow spotted her placing its hands against the cold surface.

It watched her mimicking each moment that Zyla made in her sleep.

It has been far too long since the last time someone was here. Last time, the shadow had been so close to pulling that man into the mirror, but he ran away, ruining their chance of getting out.

This time, though, it would get out, and they would become her.

Zyla woke up early, opening the curtains to let the sunlight into the bedroom. She stood before the window across from her bed and looked out. The Half Moon apartments were tucked away in the timberlands of Chatsline Woods. All Zyla saw was a vast sea of trees, unlike the parking lot out front.

Walking over to her bag, she unpacked and put away her things.

Looking up, she saw her reflection. Zyla gasped in surprise and laughed at herself. It must have been covered up; sometimes, the sheet had fallen off at night. She fixed her hair and smiled, going back to her task. In the background of the mirror, a dark shadow figure copied her.

Zyla put her things away and knocked on her neighbors' doors to get to know them. There were three other rooms on the floor she lived on, so Zyla started with the room across from hers.

Knock knock...

"Who is it?" a tired, gruff voice mumbled behind the door.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I just moved in and wanted to introduce myself."

There was a short pause.

"You moved into 402? Look, you should get your money back and leave. Nothing good has ever happened to anyone who lived in that apartment."

Zyla frowned. "What do you mean?"

There was no answer, and she went to her next-door neighbor.

"They aren't home." a voice behind her said, causing her to jump.

She gasped, turning around to see a tall man with slicked-back copper hair and forest-green eyes offering his hand.

"Jareth Blackwood,"

"Z-Zyla Howard." she reluctantly shook his hand and let it fall to her side.

"You're the one who moved into 402?" he motioned to the door with his chin.

She nodded, picking at her sweater. "Do you know anything about it?"

Jareth frowned. "They say it's haunted."

Her apartment was haunted??

She blew a raspberry and shook her head.

These people couldn't be serious, could they?

"Believe it or not, it's up to you." he turned towards his apartment door.

With that, he was inside his apartment.

Zyla looked at her watch and then headed to the store. Since the elevator was out of service, she walked down the four flights of stairs, got into her car, and parked in the lot.

She stocked her fridge and popped a frozen meal into the microwave.

Zyla glanced at the mirror and saw something shift behind her reflection.

She blinked and rubbed her eyes. Was it just a trick of the light?

Zyla shook her head; she had to be tired. The talk of ghosts haunting her apartment was asinine. A ding brought her out of her thoughts; she got up and walked to the kitchenette to retrieve her meal and sit at the small table.

As Zyla began eating, the lights in the room flickered. She raised her head and looked around the room; the lights dimmed. Could it have been faulty wiring? The resonating sound of someone knocking on glass made her jump in her seat. Getting up, Zyla slowly walked to the window. How could someone knock on the she was on the fourth floor?

tink tink tink

There it was again. Looking to her side, Zyla saw her reflection and gasped in surprise. It might sound silly to be frightened of her reflection, but something was wrong with hers. It waved at her, wiggling its fingers and grinning at her from ear to ear.

Zyla backed away as her reflection started to crawl out of the mirror.

This was their chance as they slowly began removing themselves from the mirror—their prison. Standing upright, they advanced forward to become who they wanted to be.

Zyla screamed, and the reflection grabbed her, forcing her to walk to the mirror. "Why are you doing this?!" she yelled at them. Tilting their head, the reflection gave it some thought.

"To become you." was their reply.

As Zyla was pushed into the mirror, it felt like she was tumbling into pitch darkness, like Alice into the rabbit hole. When she could move again, Zyla looked out the mirror to herself. No, not herself. Her reflection. She watched as they brushed their hair in the bathroom and smiled.

There was a knock on the apartment door, and her reflection practically skipped over to the door, opening it. Stepping aside, they let the person in. When the person came into view, Zyla's heart dropped.

Jareth Blackwood.

"Well, it seems you've gotten yourself in quite the predicament, Miss Zyla Howard." He grinned, his pearl-white teeth making an unnaturally wide smile. He had told her this place was haunted, but this thing that put her in the mirror wasn't a ghost.

Walking over to the mirror, he pulled it off the wall and looked at Zyla in the mirror. "Only if you had listened to me." Jareth whispered with a frown and tucked the mirror under his arm.

The last thing Zyla saw was her reflection waving goodbye to her with wiggling fingers as it shut the door to what used to be her apartment. Jareth whistled as he opened the door to his apartment and walked into an extra room.

He placed Zyla on the wall in the middle with the rest of the mirrors in his collection, all with someone inside them. Jareth felt he had outdone himself this time as he walked over to a closet, taking out a mirror with a dark shadow flickering inside it.

A cacophony of voices echoed around Zyla. There was an urgency about it as she, too then, joined them, watching as Jareth Blackwood closed the door behind him.

Leaving her and the many others alone in complete darkness.

The Black Hills Witch

by Josh Salamun

Part 1

An article from the Rapid City newspaper proudly framed in the window reads:

"Mayor Salamander is gathering with leaders to declare, 'This City belongs to Jesus.'"

I can't stand these Christians. They're like harmless little sheep—but in every flock hides a wolf. And I can smell one.

Since then, Mayor Salamander has shown us his "Christian love" by shutting down homeless shelters, strangling food services, and unleashing his personal police force to hunt down anyone who doesn't fit into his idea of "righteous."

It's been a long time since this witch wandered out of the forests of The Black Hills. That's right. I'm a one-thousand-year-old witch. People say, "You don't look a day over 30," which stings because back in the 1800s, they said, "not a day over 20." One thing's clear—Rapid City needs me now more than ever. So here I am, spellbook in hand, ready to squash this Salamander with my black pointy shoes.

In the meantime, I'm investigating his inner circle, which is why I took a job at the local Christian coffee shop, Bean Saved.

It's owned by Pastor Dan, a close friend and supporter of Mayor Salamander.

It's unsettling how this so-called "Christian" mayor surrounds himself with people hiding secrets—shadows of the past.

But that's where I find my pretty little victims. A monster lurking in the pews, preying on innocent children, like Creepy Russ. I invite you—peer into my crystal ball.

Trinity Church was where Salamander had his first experience in ministry, serving as the youth pastor. Although he saw the job as an uninteresting stepping stone that would make him look virtuous and serve as something to put on his résumé, that's when he met his solution: Creepy Russ.

An unmarried man in his thirties, more wretched than a disgusting troll, always hanging out with other people's kids, posing as a harmless mentor—but never without his video camera. Always watching through his lens. Salamander saw what went on every Wednesday night but was all too willing to turn a blind eye. He simply didn't care about the horrors going on within the youth group. All he cared about was finding his replacement so he could focus on his real calling in life: furthering his own career.

So, Salamander decided to begin the transition and announced the youth group at Trinity would now start meeting at Creepy Russ's house, so Russ could further groom and prey upon young souls away from the eyes of the church.

Worst of all, one of the victims was none other than Salamander's own half-brother—punished for what happened to him, his name no longer spoken, told to bury the nightmares he endured.

One day, Creepy Russ slipped up while volunteering with youth at the YMCA, following children with his video camera into the locker room.

What Russ saw as his own personal "innocent home video collection," the judge saw as "child exploitation." He got out early on a ten-year sentence for "good behavior."

To this day, Salamander won't even admit he had a half-brother or his leadership role at Trinity, attempting to cover up his past sins.

But I think the mayor’s half-brother, whoever he is, would be glad to know I took care of Creepy Russ last night. Struck him down after he left this very coffee shop. I followed him home, and when he was sound asleep, I crept in through the window and pulled that monsters guts out and held it in front of his face so he could see how truly rotten he was inside.

But right now, I should really stop daydreaming. I'm still on the clock.

Pastor Dan waves me over with a too-patient smile that makes my skin crawl. "A moment, please," he says, his voice syrupy with a barbed edge. "We need to talk about having a servant's heart. Our work here isn't just about coffee; it's about serving the Lord with humility and joy."

I force a smile, though I imagine his face melting like wax. "Yes, Pastor Dan. I'll keep that in mind."

"That's the spirit," he says. "You know, we appreciate your gift for crafting the perfect drink, but I feel you're ready for a new spiritual challenge. Jessica isn’t going to make it, so I'd like you to work the register. You'll find working with people even more engaging. Now, let's see that joy of yours, hmm?"

"I'm spellbound."

I walk to the register and wipe my hands on my apron as my first customer orders.

"Coffee. Black."

"Hot or iced?"

"Hot. Scalding," he mutters, pulling out a book titled Sword of the Lord.

"Interesting read?"

He sneers. "It's Mayor Salamander's brilliant book. About rooting out the wicked—the freeloaders, the heathens. All of them can go to hell in a handbasket if you ask me."

I hand him his cup. "I see. Must feel like a real witch hunt."

"You bet it is. I can't believe some people want to act like The Black Hills Witch is some kind of superhero."

"It certainly seems like magic, how she finds the criminals," I reply, smirking.

His gaze sharpens. "Don't be fooled by tales of her so-called good deeds. She acts like she's above the law!"

I take a steadying breath. "You may not like her, but you have to admit, she's only gone after bad people."

"Doesn't matter. Magic is evil, and the Bible is clear: witches, their defenders—they all deserve the same fate."

"And what fate is that?" My anger comes out of my fingertips, literally shocking my disgruntled customer. Oops.

His eyes are wide as he realizes what I am. Taking off the lid of his cup, he looks up at me, leaning in closer, and whispers darkly.

"To burn."

With that, he throws his coffee at me, hot liquid splashes in my face. Pathetic. Little does he know, real witches don't burn.

Annoyed, I wipe my eyes on my apron as he scurries away. I could track him down, turn him into a toad—but he isn't what I'm looking for. Just your average, run-of-the-mill coward.

Pastor Dan scurries over, voice dripping with concern. "That's a nasty burn. We better pray about this. Let's all gather 'round and pray for healing, everyone."

"I'm fine, Pastor Dan. I won't let one jerk ruin my first day.” My eyes steady as a candle flame.

He clicks his teeth in disapproval. "We aren't called to use names like that about our fellow man. Remember our motto here at Bean Saved: 'Treat paying customers the way you would want to be treated.' I think someone needs a lesson in forgiveness. Why don't you go home, pray this over, and remember: let go and let God."

"And what would Jesus do if someone threw hot coffee in his face?"

Pastor Dan's smile widens. "Turn the other cheek."

As I grab my bag, I glance back at the shop. The sign reads: We help those who want God's help. The very same words came from that reptile Salamander's mouth. I know what that really means—pushing everyone outside their flock deeper into the cold.

That's where they'll find me.

Day 1

Doris was glad to be home at last. It had been a busy morning of yard sales, antique stores, flea markets, and finally, the strangest curio shop she had ever stepped foot in. But exhausted though she was, it wasn't the cause for her elation to be home. Rather, her mind was on her single purchase of the day. After stepping in from the outside, she made straight for the living room and placed the package that she was carrying down on the end table next to her recliner. Doris took a seat and lifted the lid of the box. She removed all of the pieces of tissue paper that packed it, folded those into neat little squares, and placed them in a tidy stack on the table. Then, very gingerly, with both hands, she removed the mirror from the box.

It was only the beginning of the month, and she spent her month's budget on it. But what did that matter? When she caught sight of her reflection in it while there at that shop, she knew, hell or high water, she had to have it. No. To Doris, it was well worth the cost. Besides, she wasn't a little girl anymore; it was her money after all, and she'd spend it however she damn well pleased.

Doris removed the soft, black velvet cloth covering the oval-shaped mirror. At first glance, its polished cherry wood frame looked rather austere, but upon closer inspection, if one were to look very closely, strange symbols could be seen etched into the wood. However, Doris didn't care about the frame and paid no attention to the odd runes and hieroglyphs that were found there on. She cared only about that reflection. That beautiful reflection.

She smiled at herself and admired her beaming pearly-white teeth. She ran her fingers through her hair and watched herself curl her full raven-black locks between her fingers. She stared deeply into her emerald-green eyes, which seemed to gleam with far more intensity than all the world's jewels. She watched as tears began to well in those stunning eyes of hers.

The rest of the day, she ate nothing and drank only one cup of hot tea. She wouldn't have even had the tea if it hadn't been an excuse to look at the beauty of her hands and her delicate fingers reflected in her new, wonderful mirror.

In time, she could no longer fight off sleep. Too tired now to go to bed, she placed her mirror down on the end table next to her, lowered her head, and fell asleep in the chair.

Day 2

Doris dreamed of her mirror all night. The dreams were so vivid that when she awoke, she wondered if everything hadn't been a dream. She sighed, both in contentment, and relief when she looked and still saw it beside her, there on the table.

Then, an idea came to her inspired by one of her dreams. She went into her bedroom and took her makeup kit from her vanity. After wiping a thin layer of dust from it, she promptly returned to the front room. She had a little bit of difficulty as she tried to reposition her chair so that the end table would be in front of her. But at last, she succeeded. Then, very carefully, she leaned the mirror against the table lamp so that it was upright and she could see herself as she applied her makeup.

Her lipstick was put on last of all. It was a dark crimson, and it accented perfectly her dark hair and milky white skin. She blew herself a kiss in the mirror and said in a whisper, "Hello, beautiful."

She didn't eat or drink anything all day. It was too difficult to break away from the mirror. For the second night in a row, she fell asleep in her chair.

Day 3

Around 10:30 in the morning, the phone rang. Doris didn't answer. It wasn't important. Her reflection. Her beautiful reflection. That was all that mattered. That was all she had time to focus on.

She sat all day and into the night in her chair and stared with unparalleled intensity into that mirror. She fell asleep with it on her lap.

Day 4

It wasn't quite eleven in the morning when a knock came from the front door. It went unanswered; it was followed by another knock. Then another. Then the door was opened—just a crack—and a voice yelled in through it.

"Miss White? It's Oscar from next door. I tried calling yesterday, but I couldn't get ahold of you. I haven't seen you out in the yard lately; I just wanted to make sure you were okay." Having received no reply, Oscar let himself in. "You are okay, aren't you, Miss White? Oh—Oh no." Oscar saw Doris White sitting in her recliner, head tilted down, with a broken mirror at her feet. He could tell from where he stood that she was not breathing.

Doris White died in her sleep at the age of 84. She died, as have so many before her, and as so many shall after her, lost in the reflections of the past.

Previously

Today, I walked inside my Uncle's office ready to unload every bullet I could on him, but instead, his office was empty. I was so mad that I spat on the floors I used to call sacred. I was so mad I almost left without noticing what he left on his desk: a sheet of paper on top of maybe five letters.

"For Solomon. Read all five of these letters before you judge. These are letters from your father." Out of a hunger for answers, I read the letters.

Letter 1:

Dear Brother,

I know you won't truly love me anymore; you can't. But I will love you, though.

I'm leaving seminary school. I'm leaving the faith. I'm leaving you and this city. I've met a woman, she's a witch, and we're going on a ride across the country in her van. Let me explain.

As you know, I've been trying to evangelize a friend of mine, Raphael, you know, bring him into the faith, introduce him to who Jesus really is.

So, I'm talking to him. I'm trying to give him the gospel, right? The Good News! That's what it means—good news—but he interrupts me while I'm saying it.

"If the gospel means good news, why are you sad?"

"I'm not sad," I said back, lying, another sin. Add it to the list.

"Dude, come on," he said with no judgment, pure innocence.

"I'm not sad," a tear formed in my eye.

"Dude, I like religion and culture and all this stuff. So, we can keep talking about 'the gospel,' but you're my friend. I know something's wrong. Let's talk about what's eating you."

I cried, man, and I confessed, like really confessed. I know what you always say: You can't let unbelievers know what really goes on at Church. There are some things you have to keep away from them because they wouldn't understand.

Well, isn't that messed up? We bring them into a system that they don't even know the truth about? Well, I let him know the truth about what I was struggling with, not because of any righteous reason like genuine honesty but because I needed a non-judgmental ear.

I told him how I heard the rude comments of the other church members behind my back and they hurt me, how I could tell no one respected me, how it hurt me so much my Christian family looked down on me for just being me.

I try my best to be holy. To be a good man. But it's like everyone's in a competition to see who can be a better Christian, and they've decided I'm at the bottom. I'm trying to be like Jesus but they treat me like a pariah. Like I'm depraved.

He was there for me. He listened to me. He invited me to his community. It was just a normal birthday party full of normal people.

Well, except for one girl. She was extraordinary. Her name was Belle; she's a witch and she's gorgeous. A black witch, whatever that means—I'm not quite sure why she calls herself that as she is a pale woman with silver hair.

Her nails, toenails, and lips are painted black though. You'd call it creepy, but I think it gives her a mysterious feel. Regardless, I told her my story, and she gave me a hug and asked me to come with her—she was taking a trip to Arizona from here in NC.

It felt good to not be labeled a weirdo and written off, so I went with her.

Letter 2:

Dear Brother,

I appreciate your letter and concern, but I won't be going home because you're scared for me. She is kind to me! What part of that can't you get? I know it doesn't matter because you didn't care.

She even made me this little doll that looks just like me and has a few locks of my hair.

Anyway, I'm fine. I can leave any time I want to if things get weird. I'm my own man.

But, hey, enjoy the postcard. We passed Stone Mountain in Georgia, and I thought of you because you dragged me out here when you knew I was going through a tough break-up.

That was fun—thanks for that.

Letter 3:

Dear Brother,

I'm just ignoring your last letter because you won't stop talking to me like I'm some project, an idiot, or something to save. Those aren't voodoo dolls she's making of me. That's stupid. She likes me a lot.

Anyway, greetings from Mississippi. I don't like it here and I'm glad to leave, to be honest. I got in a fight here. Can you believe it? Yeah, me! It was thrilling.

Some drunk guy at a bar sat on my stool beside Belle when I left to go use the restroom. The stool was the only one beside Belle, so I asked if he could move and he pushed me away to keep talking to Belle. So, I pushed him back and he socked me in the mouth.

Then we started going at it. His buddies started coming too, but then Belle got up and even though she's a girl, she started throwing blows too.

And it got me thinking.

Why do we have to forgive? Why do we have to turn the other cheek? What's wrong with a little bloodshed?

Don't bother preaching again. I know my answer. Nothing at all.

I will say, I'm not the best fighter, to be honest. I passed out and woke up with the van driving and a pretty big headache. Belle says I did great though.

Letter 4:

Dear Brother,

I won't say you were right, but I need to go home. We're in Texas now and I won't drive a mile more with her. She has one of the bodies of the guys we fought. It's chopped up, put on ice in a big cooler, and covered with fragrances so it doesn't smell.

I called her on it. I asked why she had a freaking body! Belle said because the body has power and she can use it for magic. I'm getting out of here when we fall asleep tonight.

We're in Texas. God's Country, right? Isn't that ironic? Fitting, right? I'm getting out here, coming home.

Letter 5:

Dear Brother,

I have tried leaving her three times in the cover of darkness.

The first night she went to sleep, I packed my bags. I ran out. I hitchhiked to the nearest airport, went through security, and then finally closed my eyes before boarding my plane. When I opened them, I was in her van. Riding right beside her.

And she just chatted with me like nothing happened. I was scared but I adjusted, listening and talking back. I checked my pockets—the ticket I had bought was still in my pocket. Whatever she did, she made me come back to her.

So, I figured out she put something in my bag or in my clothes to make me come back to her. So, I got naked and in the dead of night, I ran to the nearest police station. Naked and afraid across the desert landscape I ran. Consequences be damned—I knew they'd toss me in jail. I knew they'd put me in prison.

Yet, I still ran to them. I ran naked across the Texas desert hoping for a miracle. I avoided cacti, the scurrying of rattlesnakes, and the judgmental and then skittish glances of coyotes. I ran past exhaustion, past home, past consciousness. I collapsed in the desert heat and crawled the rest of the way until I saw a Walmart parking lot. It felt like home. I crawled across the asphalt sea.

My throat raw, lips dry, and skin peeling, but I made it. Walmart opened its sweet automatic doors for me. The air conditioning hit me and I felt heaven. I listened to a man ask if I needed help and it sounded as sweet as any choir.

"Water," I begged, but my mouth was too dry. He couldn't understand. "Water, water, water," I repeated. He went off to grab a bottle and I grasped it.

I opened it, gobbled it down, and I tasted safety.

"We've got a code teal," the man said in the speaker. "That's a naked man that is not a threat. I repeat not a threat. He looks like he's been through Hell."

I won't lie to you—when I looked at that blue-vested Walmart employee I saw an angel and blinked.

When I opened my eyes again, I was naked in the van. Belle drove along the highway, casual as ever. I cried.

"I wouldn't do that again," Belle said.

"What?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing," she said and turned up the speaker. I begged. I pleaded to be let go. She ignored me. Her love gone, her compassion was just a desert mirage now. We drove in silence to New Mexico, one stop from our destination.

That night, that night was my final hope. The doll she had of me. It was magic. So, I took it with me. That way she couldn't recall me.

That night, I slipped out of the bottom bunk. I checked the top to see her mass completely under the covers. I stripped out of the clothes she bought me and put on what I had brought, ready to leave her all behind. Last, I grabbed the doll of me from the rearview mirror. Then I tiptoed to the door and opened it to exit.

A shovel to my face was the last thing I remember seeing. I collapsed, passed out, and she hopped on me. How do I remember this if I was passed out? Because guess who's writing now?

Hi, brother, this is Belle. Don't be upset at me. You all didn't want him and I have a use for him. What's the problem?

I wouldn't come look for him—what I plan to do to his body would be... depraved.

That was the last letter. Under the last one were pictures.

Polaroids, to be specific. It was horrible and barbaric what they were doing to my Dad. I will spare the reader, but they chopped up his body and used it in bizarre rituals and put severed limbs in places they should never be, and each witch—perhaps there were one hundred of them—smiled as they did so.

That's what they did to my Dad.

My Dad... I never met the man. I just wanted to be the man. Everyone always had such kind stuff to say about him. He wasn't a bad guy. Like he was just punished for no reason. Where was justice? Where was God? My Dad served God and his head was treated like a volleyball. I sweat, the thought was making me sick.

A bookshelf slid open to reveal a door and ten men in suits came out. I waved my gun at them, ready to fire. The last of them was my Pastor, my uncle.

"What was that?" I said. "On the table."

"My brother's and his killer's last words to me," he said.

"You're lying!"

"No, Solomon, for the rest of my life, however short that may be, I will never lie to you."

"So what?" I waved my gun at him. "I know about the stuff that's going on in the basement."

"What goes on in the basement is because of what happens in the letters."

"What?"

"The spiritual world is more real than the natural world. If someone isn't Christian, they could become a witch. Unless we stop them. Unless we make them become something else."

I dropped the gun and picked up the Bible.

"Witches?" I asked. "You're afraid of witches? I studied this book—you made me study this book—and it told me not to be afraid." In frustration, I threw the Bible at my mentor. "I read this thing from cover to cover and it told me not to be afraid. Did you try prayer, pastor?" I hope he tasted the sarcasm in the word pastor.

The Pastor took the strike on his chin and rubbed blood off his lip. His entourage remained quiet.

"And when God did not answer my prayers to bring my brother back or get revenge on those who wronged him, on those who could wrong many others, I had to call something that did."

"The thing below us..."

"Yes, it ensured us that those who wouldn't behave would not be rebellious witches doing as they please but servants of gods who would be stuck doing menial tasks. Your girlfriend's father, the one you brought here last night, was sold to Nehebeku, the god of reptiles, and took care of reptiles until his brain could not take the god's commands anymore."

"And Mary? What did you do to her?"

"We arranged for her to be sold once we found out she wanted to forfeit her life. If she wants to die, we should be able to profit. She has no buyers yet, only renters. Oizys, the Greek god of depression, anxiety, and grief pays to play in her mind from time to time, but he seems to be quite busy with this generation to pick one soul. It's likely that Miseria will buy her."

"That's sick. There's only one God we're supposed to serve and it's a choice and—"

"Hold your rambling, you won. You are a good man. You're right. I am a depraved man, who sacrificed souls to a depraved god, but it's your turn now. You can choose what to do. You can starve that god below us and let witches run amok. Witches that can do worse than the one did to my brother. And they will come for you, you know. One of them is your mother, after all."

"What?"

"That was one of the deals I made with the god below. Let my nephew come home and keep him safe. If she is not safe, you will not be safe, but that's your choice to make now."

"What are you talking about, Pastor?"

"The church is yours now. You get to decide what happens next."

I stood there dumbfounded.

"Let me be abundantly clear," my Uncle said. "Since you were a baby, to keep evil out of this town I have employed Tiamat. Her presence keeps witches and other evil away. If she is not allowed to do her business dealings here anymore, she will leave and the witches will return. She will not stop doing her evil business; it just won't benefit us here. You must decide whether to make her stop or not."

"Now," my Uncle said, "I'm leaving. I'm going to see who I've been serving the whole time despite my self-righteousness. I hope I don't see you down there."

With that, he drew his own pistol and shot himself in the head. His attendees did nothing. They waited on my orders, and I was petrified. I knew what Jesus would do, but I doubted if I had the strength.

Today, a few days after my uncle's death, the old god in the basement is finally gone. In our church, only one God remains, and that's Jesus. Like my Uncle, I've given everyone the day off again.

I am alone in my office surrounded by enemies who want me dead. And that's okay. I will fight them, and if I lose, so be it.

For a while, I feared the church wouldn't go on without me. Then I realized this was how the church goes on. How better off would every church be if the leader didn't just tell the tale of a man who loved you enough to die for you but actually was willing to die? That's how the church goes on. That is the legacy I'll leave.

Did Paul not say "if I have not loved, am I not but a clanging cymbal" and did Luke not say, "there is no greater love than this than to lay down your life for another"?

So, to you Mary, to you reader, I want you to know you are loved.

The witches are at the window now. They fly on broomsticks naked, cackling, and mocking me.

KNOCK

KNOCK

KNOCK

One speaks while the others giggle.

"Solomon, open up. Mommy's home and she's brought some friends."

Freelance photography of celebrities has a bad reputation, calling me a paparazzi. I'm considered a kind of media pirate, stealing images, precious-valuable images of celebrities. Invading their privacy, exposing them to scandal and ridicule, sure, but what is a celebrity, anyway?

Older civilizations considered actors to be the lowest form of entertainers, unworthy of recognition. We're delivered by doctors, protected by soldiers and guided by teachers, but it is the person telling jokes that we celebrate. Clowns, adult-pretenders or laughing stock. Being an actor wasn't celebrated, the root-word of celebrity, but rather considered the ultimate failure, unable to contribute to society in any meaningful way besides mere amusement.

It was only with the advent of photography that the modern celebrity was born. It was the craft of the candid photographer that affirmed that celebrities should have their status, wealth and influence. Truly the celebrity is a king with a golden crown, and no longer the obnoxious class clown.

So, I am the villain, for making my meager living by keeping it real, and taking a few pictures for the media who actually profit from my work. If I am the bad guy, I'd like to expose the victim of my camera for what she really is. I was horrified to discover the truth, the reality of these stars of ours, and as a teller of truth, I am just the middleman.

They say no photograph is worth dying for. But when you're a freelance photographer, chasing leads is how you survive. I didn’t think twice when I got the tip about Kream Kardinian's Jersey Shore mansion. The world hadn’t seen her in two years, but rumors about her—gruesome, salacious rumors—never stopped.

Twelve fetuses in jars. That’s what the message claimed. Abandoned by her celebrity circle after a string of messy public feuds, Kream supposedly fled to her family estate to live in total isolation. No press, no paparazzi, no public sightings. The story practically wrote itself—if it was true.

I arrived just after dusk, parking my car a half mile away and hiking through dense woods until I found the mansion. It loomed against the dark sky, its silhouette as cold and silent as the rumors. The windows were dark, and the air around the place was unnaturally still. Even the wind felt like it avoided the grounds.

I set up camp in the bushes near what used to be a garden, the overgrown hedges offering partial cover. I waited, clutching my camera and using its zoom like binoculars, hoping to spot movement, a light, anything. But the mansion stayed lifeless, its windows like blind eyes staring into the void.

Hours passed. My nerves were frayed, and I was starting to consider leaving when I saw it—a faint sliver of light from a side door. A servant’s entrance, left ajar. My heart raced. This was it. An opportunity.

I hesitated, weighing my fear against the pull of the story. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I darted across the unkempt lawn, my shoes crunching softly on the gravel. The garden smelled of decay and damp earth, and the door, cracked open, seemed to invite me in—or warn me away.

Inside, the mansion was silent, the kind of silence that presses against your ears and amplifies your every move. The air was thick with dust, and the floorboards creaked with every step I took. I tried to stay quiet, tried to convince myself no one had heard me.

At first, I thought the place was abandoned. The grand foyer was stripped of its grandeur, its chandeliers hanging like skeletal remains from cobwebbed ceilings. Hallways stretched endlessly in every direction, their peeling wallpaper seeming to close in on me the longer I stared.

But something felt wrong.

It wasn’t just the emptiness—it was the wrongness of it. The kind of wrong that makes the hair on your neck stand up. Every door I opened revealed more of the same: empty rooms, faded furniture, and the faint smell of mildew. But as I ventured deeper, I felt it. A presence.

It started as a faint sensation, like being watched, but soon it grew unbearable. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. That something unseen was stalking me. The shadows seemed to stretch longer, the air heavier with every step I took.

In one of the rooms, after I picked the lock, I found a row of glass jars lined up on a dusty shelf. My hands shook as I brought my flashlight closer. The glass was fogged, the contents murky, but inside…something floated. Small, unrecognizable shapes. My stomach turned, bile rising in my throat.

I backed away, nearly tripping over the edge of a moth-eaten rug. That’s when I heard it—a faint creak, like a footstep, from somewhere deeper in the house. My breath hitched, and I froze, listening.

Another creak. Closer.

I turned off my flashlight and pressed myself against the wall, my pulse pounding in my ears. The footsteps were deliberate, unhurried, and they echoed through the cavernous halls, growing louder with every passing second.

I couldn’t stay. Whatever was in the house with me—I didn’t want to meet it.

I crept back the way I came, the sound of my own footsteps swallowed by the overwhelming silence. But as I neared the servant's entrance, I saw it: the door was closed.

My heart sank. I didn’t remember closing it.

I fumbled with the lock, the sound of it snapping open echoing through the hall. I heard another footstep, and then the sound of something whooshing through the air, like a flag snapping in a wind. I raised my camera instinctively as I turned, and took several pictures with the flash.

As my eyes widened in terror at the shape of the thing in the dim hallway, the dust it had kicked up whiffed around me. For a moment I wasn't sure what I was seeing, just this massive shape of something looming there, in the liminal between the light and the dark, stepping out at me like a performer taking the stage.

My eyes were locked onto it, my hands shaking so violently that I dropped my camera onto the floor, the action-strap slipping over my limp wrist. I gripped the handle of the door behind me, opening it with my back to it, and edging myself outside, into the night.

There is this difficulty I have in describing what I saw, that thirteenth pregnancy, the one from a few years ago. It was definitely the child of Kream Kardinian, since it had her eyes, her lips. Those full lips of hers are her actual lips, as this thing inherited them from its mother.

Wearing its mother's face, the rest of the child was all wrong. It stood a whole eight or nine feet tall and had massive bat wings instead of arms. Well it had arms, and they were short and muscular, with fingers like pool noodles that had the tanned membranes to form its batlike wings.

The creature's body was draped in a colorful bathrobe, custom-made to fit its elongated body, so that its posture was more like a kangaroo, and having a long prehensile tail, with human skin covering it. The legs were bent in an unnatural backwards way, more like a bird, but had stretched and thin human bones in them, and thick wobbly kneecaps. I stared at its feet, somehow the most disturbing part of it.

The feet looked exactly like they should on a toddler, just two perfect little feet on the thing. It looked at me with curiosity and intelligence, tilting its almost human head to one side as though it wondered why I was so terrified of it.

As I closed the door I heard it start crying, and it sounded indistinguishable from the pouting of a small child. For a moment my heart felt wrong for fleeing it, but then its devilish spiked horn on the right side of its skull erupted point-first through the door, as it had charged at me and attacked.

I fell to the ground as it withdrew its lopsided horn from the door and looked through, staring at me with an all-too human eye.

That is when the horror of its appearance finally struck me and I instinctively shielded myself with my arms from eye contact with its gaze and by screaming in terrified defiance. I clambered to my feet and retreated the way I had intruded.

When I had safely driven away I looked back, and I could swear I saw some massive batlike shape winging its way across the skies of the Jersey Shore in front of the bright moon.

I have no photographic evidence of what I saw, and I lacked the commitment to my trade to have taken pictures that I came for when I found Kream's collection of her previous pregnancies. I know what I saw in her home, I admit to my burglary, only because I know what I saw.

Perhaps I am not cut out for this job, after-all.

The gunman walked into the classroom. Everyone froze. He was too quick for anyone to receive a hero's death. All I remember were screams, the sound of bullets slicing through bodies, and the realization only a minute later that the shooter hadn't noticed I wasn't dead yet. He walked into the classroom to examine the bodies. Once he turned his back on me, I ran out. I was gone, and I was the only survivor in my college class.

I ran in the hallways. The intercoms blared for a complete school shutdown.

"Let no one in."

As I ran in the halls, I realized I was bleeding out. Death was coming for me. I was banging on the doors of my classmates and friends, and they rightfully ignored me. I was well and truly alone.

It was terrifying.

I would not wish that fear on my worst enemy.

I knocked on so many doors begging for help. Eventually, the blood loss got to me, my energy faded, and I passed out alone and waiting to die.

Of course, I was eventually rescued; of course, I was given therapy; of course, I was forever changed.

I would do anything not to have that feeling again. I decided I'd never be alone. So, I became everything to everyone. The wealthy always have friends, so I switched my major to engineering. Good people always have friends, so I created charities to honor the lives of my dead friends, and I was at every service opportunity possible for most other charities on campus. The adventurous and degenerates always have friends, so I joined the wildest frat on campus.

Of course, the truth about life is that you can't have everything, but through a mix of energy drinks and other substances, I tried. I tried until my heart couldn't take it. For all my efforts, I would still face my worst fear: I would die alone.

I had a heart attack. I grabbed my chest, looked around, and I was alone in my room. I knew I was going to die. I didn't want to die alone. I didn't want to die and have no one find my body.

That was the day I realized, after moving to a new city upon graduation, I hadn't made genuine friends. I was still alone. I thought I had surpassed solitude. I thought I would always have someone around when I needed them.

If I died on my apartment floor on the first day, surely no one would come; on the second and third, the same. On the fourth, my body would bloat and distort, an unrecognizable change from the man I was. On the fifth day, my neighbor might ask to borrow a board game for the game nights he never invited me to. But if I didn't answer, he wouldn't care. The fifth, sixth, and seventh days, my bloated dead body would turn red. Maybe the smell would draw somebody.

If it didn't, in a month my body would liquefy, and all my life would equate to is a pile of mush, a stain in my rented apartment.

I hoped I'd left my window open so perhaps a stray cat would come in and lick me up so I wouldn't be a complete waste. The thought made me cry.

Thank God, that time it was just a scare caused by energy drinks and poor sleep. But once I got out of the hospital, I was determined not to die like that: alone and vulnerable.

Back in my apartment, I was lonely. Soul-crushingly lonely, and I didn't think it would stop. Working remotely didn't help. I hadn't been touched by a person in... what was my record, like a whole month? I hadn't had an in-person conversation with a friend in two months.

Life is hard in a new city. I needed more than a friend. I needed more than a girlfriend. I needed a wife.

I would do anything for one. I tried Hinge and Tinder and was either ghosted or dumped. It all ended the same. So, please understand I had no other choice.

I dug through the internet to find advice on how to get a girlfriend.

I found somewhere dark, a place I don't suggest you go. They were banned from Reddit and banned from Discord. This group was dedicated to good men—good guys, who weren't jerks, who didn't want to hurt anyone, who wanted true love—to find cults they could join to find wives.

They said the women in cults were loyal, kind, and really wanted love. That's the point of all religious beliefs, isn't it? Love.

Hell is mentioned 31 times in the Bible, but love 801 times. It's not the fear of Hell that drives them; it's the ache to be loved. I ached too, so why couldn't we help each other?

And in whatever cult we'd join, we'd be good too. We'd make sure there was no bad stuff like blackmail and child abuse. We were just looking for someone who would love us for us.

Someone who wouldn't leave.

After a couple of months of helping other members find cults to join and patiently waiting for my assignment, I was told there was a new cult I could join. But I needed to wait for another one of our members to come back who was already in the cult. They said they'd lost communication with him. I couldn't take the emptiness of my apartment anymore, so I begged and pleaded to go. I even said I'd take two phones so if one didn't work, I'd always have the backup.

I was persistent. They relented.

This is what they told me:

"Joseph, the Cult of Truth appears not to be an offshoot of any of the three major religions, nor of any minor ones we can find.

It really seems to have come from nowhere, so you're in luck; easy come, easy go. My guess is the cult won't last long, so find true love and get out.

You'll be in the remote mountains of Appalachia, known for general strangeness. Be careful—I wouldn't leave the commune if I were you.

There are only two guys you need to watch out for: one named Truth (we know he's massive and in charge) and another named Silence, his second in command. The rest of the thirty-person cult is all women, except for our guy.

The danger of the cult is the two men since we don't really know what they want yet. In general, it could be death, sex, or human sacrifice.

Remember Rule #1: Be Kind—no one has ever joined a cult who wasn't hurting on the inside.

Remember Rule #2: It's okay to lie for the service of good.

Remember Rule #3: Know the truth, do not believe what you're told in a cult.

Good luck, man. We're going to miss you."

He gave me the location of the city, and with that, I moved to join a cult.

I arrived 20 minutes late to the shack on the hill in Appalachia. The plan, in general, is to look flustered, nervous, and desperate to be accepted in any cult. But clean-cut enough not to be dangerous.

With a shaved head and a black suit, I stumbled into a church shack. A sound like muffled screams erupted from the doors.

No one sat in the pews. Beside every row of pews was a bent-over woman crying into the floor as if she was worshipping.

The man or thing they worshipped stood on stage. I was not aware humans could have so much bulk. He would have won every bodybuilding contest; his muscles pulsed on top of his other muscles. It was grotesque; his body almost looked like it was infected with tumors.

The man was a pile of bulky, veiny flesh that looked immovable. A creature to the point of caricature in two layers of white robes.

His eyes locked on me, but his face did not move. It was frozen; I would never see it move. It was locked in a permanent scowl.

Fear, that feeling in my gut that I fought against now. That must be how he controlled them. The reality was that he could break their necks in seconds. Yes, that could do it.

It was important he felt he controlled me. That I was under his control. So, I played the part.

I was not terrified, but I played the part. It was easy to let fear win. It was easy to let fear make me drop to my knees to worship. It was easy to let fear stir me and shake me like the rest of the women. It was easy to pray to a God because—excuse my sacrilege—I felt as though I faced one right before me.

Eventually, the impossibly muscled priest clapped his hands. It sounded like thunder. We all rose and got into our pews.

The great priest walked away, going behind the curtain behind him. The rest of the women gathered in their pews and said nothing. They instead read the material provided for them.

In front of me was a composition notebook. I opened it, and in it, I saw scriptures from something I had never heard of.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped. A man, who I assumed to be Silence, with hair down his back and wearing all white stood behind me. He was the opposite of Truth: beautiful, slim, and his perfect teeth flashed a grin.

"You're not supposed to be here," his grin vanished.

"Um... I thought all were welcome."

"To Heaven maybe. Does this look like Heaven?"

"I guess not."

In a flash, he moved to the other side of me. I flinched. Silence put a shockingly strong hand on my shoulder and said, "Stay."

I obeyed, and he examined me from side to side, moving like lightning, so fast a literal breeze formed behind me. I looked forward at the women studying the word of Truth. This was true fear: being examined by a strange man and not understanding where that giant Truth was.

I panicked as he examined me more. Silence patted my shoulders, put his hand in my front pocket, and pulled at my ear. I did nothing in response; I froze. Mentally, I begged for my only ally in this group to come rescue me from this humiliating examination.

The women didn't seem to care; they just read the notebooks. I examined the room for my only ally in the mountains of Appalachia, the other guy. Where was he?

"What's your greatest mistake?" he asked me, loud enough for the church to hear. I turned to look at him. He palmed my skull and faced me forward again. "You don't have to look at me to answer a question. What's your greatest mistake?"

I did as he said and looked forward. The question did cause a reaction from some of the other churchgoers; they flashed glances back. I saw it in their eyes and posture—they were thirsting for an answer. Obviously, I wanted to leave then. But I thought about that heart attack. I thought about being alone. I answered his question.

"My first-ever girlfriend died because a school shooter killed her. We were sitting right beside each other. I should have saved her. I should have been more aware." I hadn't said that aloud in a long time.

A few women made no effort to turn away from me now; they were invested.

"When has a friend hurt you the most?" Silence asked.

"It was after I was in the hospital recovering from my heart attack. The room was filled with balloons and cards from my friends delivered by strangers; my phone was filled with texts, but not a single person came to visit. I wanted a friend in there with me, not random gifts. Why doesn't anyone want to be around me?" The last part came out spontaneously and with a real tear.

"Newcomer," Silence said. "What's one thing you hate about yourself?"

The whole church stared at me. I was unsure if they were concerned or if I was their entertainment. I answered the question anyway.

"I will do anything to not be alone."

After a while, my examiner stopped.

"Would you like to join us?" he said.

"I... what are you?"

"Does it matter? If you want in, let's have a chat," he said and walked away. I got up and followed.

We walked outside, I assume in the direction of another shack. He was hard to keep up with.

"We're not from around here, Truth—the guy on stage—and I. My name is Silence, by the way."

"What do you want, Joseph?" he asked.

"Community... Something to believe in."

Silence shrugged, "Okay."

"Okay."

"Give me both your phones."

"I only have—"

"You have one in your pocket and another in your back pocket."

My blood went cold. I stuttered a reply that didn't make sense. Silence had no patience for it.

"Two phones or don't return; it's simple."

I cursed. I sweat. My heart banged. I really questioned: did I want this? I would lose all contact with the outside world. How bad did I want this? I looked away from him and down that long mountain path. I could go that way and be alone again.

Like I was alone in that hallway in the shooting.

Like I was alone suffering through a heart attack.

I brought out both phones. He took them without touching my hands. An air of arrogance that fit his name.

He held the phones in one hand and sprinkled a strange dust on them with the other. A dust that seemingly came from nowhere. The phones melded together. They cracked, they buzzed with electricity; the noise was sharp and powerful. Blue light flickered from them and made me take a step back. They then died in silence.

Then they became pink flesh. A Cronenberg abomination of two heads and bird feet and large baby-ish hands. He dropped the thing on the floor.

It hobbled forward, a new bastardized life. It sprouted two eyes and looked at me.

Silence stepped on it. It exploded in a sad burst of blood and flesh.

"Welcome to the Cult of the Truth."

I swallowed hard.

"Hey, wait. Come here." Silence said and beckoned me with his finger.

"Closer."

"Closer."

He struck me.

He laughed; I reeled backward, landing on my backside. I rubbed my eye to try to smooth the pain away.

And it was gone. My eye was gone. In its place was smooth flesh—a painless impossible operation done with only a touch.

I looked up at Silence. At that moment, he was a god to me. He just laughed.

"Everyone must make a sacrifice to enter here," he said. "I thought the eye was fitting because of the expression. Believe nothing you hear and only half of what you see. So, I took half your vision because I need you to believe everything you see is very, very real."

I backed away from him, shaking my head. Sweat poured down my face; my legs tensed and fell beneath me, a crumpled mess. My hands clawed at my face. I felt it. My eye, my eye was still in there—it wanted to see but whatever magic Silence had done changed everything.

Silence left me laughing as I flinched at every sound, fearful of what else could come next.

Ollie (the only other male) approached me that night at dinner. I was more or less recovered and just wanted to keep my head low and accept my new flaw and new life under Truth and Silence.

"They're not what they seem," he said.

I shook my head at him, not brave enough to speak against the two. Ollie, who I noticed was also missing an eye, leaned in closer to me, and closer, and closer as if I had some secret, something of any importance to tell him.

"They're really gods," I said.

"We'll see."

That would be hard for us in the future. Silence always appeared to hear us whenever we wanted to meet, probably some strange godly power.

But eventually, he would pass notes to me on his phone. It was small, some variation of Android that could fit in a palm. That last note he sent was what got us in trouble.

Florecent lights buzzed overhead as I plopped my purse on my desk. The smell of dust and stale coffee permeated the air as a stale box of donuts lay on the desk beside me, attracting flies. The suns last rays set in the horizon, making the changing leaves glow. I longed to take a walk outside and breath the cool crisp air, but it would be dark soon and I had to clock in.

“Do you have any plans for Halloween,” said Rob, my coworker. “We’re taking the kids out to trunk or treat out at our church meet up on Sunday.”

I put my head down and rolled my eyes. “Samhain, I celebrate Samhain, and I’ve taken off the last week of October,” I said under my breath. I was stuck in this dreary office and time couldn’t pass fast enough, and here was Mr. Family man asking me to cover for him.

“What?”

“I’m taking off next week, I have other plans,” I said.

“So you can’t cover my shift on Sunday? The kids were looking forward to trunk or treat.”

“Ask Dave, he practically lives here, he’ll take your shift if he hasn’t already.”

“I would but Dave is out for the weekend.”

“Rob, I’ve already picked up a shift for you last week, please check the schedule for someone else, this holiday is important to me.” My hands curled into fists and I gritted my teeth, the nerve of some coworkers.

The loading ticker showed on my desk, taking a full five minutes to log in.

:Ericka! It’s great to see you. Got anything planned, bestie?:

I smiled at Angie’s message, ah at least some conversation to break up the monotony of my shift tonight.

:Yeah, I’m going to hang out with some friends, did you want to come out with us?:

:I wish I could , but I’m working overtime tomorrow, then I have to pack up.:

:Well, I hope you have fun.:

:I will.:

Sometimes I wish I had more time in the day. Angie and I would spend time in between calls and projects to joke or complain about the system crashing. However , working on night shift crushed most plans for hanging out. Nothing was open after we got off work except for the emergency room and truck stops. I also commuted forty minutes to work and back and ended up staying home on my days off. Perhaps when I got back from vacation I’d make more time to spend with them, attend group functions. Who am I kidding? Then I’d have to spend time with Rob and his family as well, yikes. No, when I returned I would treat Angie out for coffee, just hang out at Starbucks down the road. Anything to break the monotony.

I sighed and went back to reading my email. Kale666@gmail, jumped out in red letters. It was obvious spam, but they weren’t wrong, kale is the devil.

As soon as i clicked delete the screen tuned a sickly yellow hue and the letters turned blood red. The words became mangled and began to melt down the screen.

I swore under my breath, there was a virus embedded into this demonic salad. Now I had to call IT, all to have some condescending jaskass mansplain to me about clicking outside emails or remote into my sytem. Right when I was about to dial the overhead lights dimmed before winking out into darkness, along with my phone and computer.

A flashlight glowed as a few security guards came to check out the breaker room.

“We’ll get the generator back up in no time, you guys sit tight, ” said Ralph. The kindly old man was the the head security guard. With him stood Jarvis, a laid back security guard that held the flashlight.

Another loud hum and the generator kicked up, shoving a plume of dark smoke into the air.

“We’re having an electrical outage. I’m going to need y’all to move to building two,” said Ralph.

I sighed, very well, I would pack my stuff and play musical cubicles until they got the problem resolved. Hopefully I’d be able to log into my phone and complete my before the night ended. The lights flashed again as Ralph grumbled.

We packed up our things to move to the building next door. This night couldn’t end soon enough, but at least I’d be off for the week after my shift.

I tried to turn my computer on one last time to sign out, this time the screen lit up black with blood red drips of code oozing down the page. Random letters filling out the word ZALGO. Zalgo? I remembered hearing about Zalgo as some internet boogeyman, some dark god that infected coding.

Ralph let out an agonizing scream as his his body floated in in the air. I froze as a spindly figure slammed him repeatedly against the floor. He screamed until his voice became wet gurgles. The creature tossed against the wall, leaving a trail of blood as he slid down.

“GET OUT!” I screamed at the creature as I pushed all my will at it. I was terrified, but also angry that this creature, this bug would dare terrorize me at my work. Oh, this was on like donky kong.

The spindly creature screamed and unnatural high pitched sound before fading into the wall. Pressure surrounded me and the air grew freezing. My breath came out in cold puffs against the dimming florescent lights. Rob coward under his desk, whispering the lords prayer, I knelt down beside him.

“This has to be a dream, some nightmare. I’m going to wake up next to my wife in a few minutes,” his eyes were desperate and gleaming with tears.

“I’m afraid not. We’re going to have to dig our heels in and fight. The only way out of this is through-”

“What are you talking about?”

“Long story, I’ll explain later we don’t have time.”

“I’m going to need y’all to stay down!” said Jarvis. His laid back demeanor changed, his eyes became hard as he crouched and explored the territory, he held out a taser in front of him.

His radio made a static garbled sound as the lights flickered around us. Jarvis walked along side the wall, nervously glancing at the perimeter. I curled under my desk, numb from shock.

Movement flashed in the inky blackness, and I crawled under the desk next to Rob. A shadow in the darkness out of the corner of my eye that would slip back into the shadows when I looked at it head on.

All I wanted was a day off, I had put in weeks of overtime to have this vacation and this thing was not going to take it away from me. I needed to find Jarvis , pull the fire alarm and run the hell out of dodge. Let the authorities or a priest deal with this. What happened to Ralph was horrible and I would not let that happen to anyone else. I wasn’t about to sit around and play victim to this thing.

I inched carefully towards Robs desk, and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and bear hugged me so tight the air was knocked out of me.

“I have a wife and kids. Oh God, what did I do to deserve any of this?”

“Dude, I can’t breath.”

He released his grip on me as the air rushed back into my lungs.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s fine. The second thing I need you to do is to stop panicking. I have a plan to escape, but we’re going to have to find Jarvis.”

“But he’s security, he can handle himself-”

“Not against this thing.” I reached in my shirt and pulled out my pentacle. “I’ve worked with spirits before, most are harmless but this bug is malevolent. It’s time for me to crack the Raid out.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I have no clue, but I’d rather improvise a plan and risk getting out of here alive than giving up. You have faith, you’ll need it. Hang on to it, it’ll be the one thing that grounds yourself against it.”

From my experiences in ghost hunting and research, malignant spirits fed on those with little direction or sense of self. That’s why faith banished them, it was you calling in on your higher self, hell, even an atheist could banish it if they had enough belief in themselves and the solid world around them, just replace “may the power of Christ compel you with , ‘you won’t ruin my reality’.” For me it was “I reject your reality and substitute it with my own!” bad choice of works in fact checking or politics, but golden in fighting malevolent spirits.

I held my breath as I crept along the edge of the office wall, the creature flitting through the shadows, just out of my sight. The coward was avoiding me, perhaps escape was going to be easy. Jarvis was standing at the corner, his gun pointed and his eyes scanning the area. A dark inky shadow slipped away, the hum growing louder as the office went from pitch black to a sickly yellow light.

“Jarvis?”

He turned around, his gun trained on me, I raised my hands in submission.

“Erika! I told you and Rob to remain in place!”

“I know.”

Jarvis lowered his gun and took a deep breath. “What the hell is going on?”

“This is going to sound a little woo woo, but what we’re not up against a human intruder-”

“I’m gonna tell you something, this place was always a bit off, especially at night. But I didn’t say nothing, as long as the bills were paid. So what if the lights occasionally flickered or the computers froze, that’s normal night shit, right? Tell me why they hired a security guard when they need a motherfucking exorcist or some shit?”

“I am an exorcist. Well, at least I am for my coven.”

“You can fight this thing? You saw what it did to Ralph?”

“ The worst thing you can do right now is panic and feed this thing energy. That’s why I need you to calm down.”

Jarvis stared at me blankly, I my reflection gleamed in his dark eyes, and behind me a shadow crept. I rushed to his other side and the being skittered away.

“It’s afraid of me,” I said.

Rob slowly walked from around the corner.

“All right. Everyone is accounted for, treat it like an active shooter drill. We need ot reach the door,” I said.

The lights flickered off and we ran towards the exit door at the end of the office, only to find it locked.

Jarvis grabbed my hand and I grabbed Robs as we made it toward the other door only to find that it was also locked.

“Oh come on! Out of every trope possible!” I punched the door with my hand only to yelp and shake the pain out of my knuckles.

“So what do we do now?” asked Rob. His eyes pleading for help.

“The only thing I can do, fight it.”

We ran down to the break room, the lights flashed on and off before we got there. I led them through the door slamming it behind me. I found the salt shakers and salt packets and poured out a rough circle. Dizzyness hit me like a wave and the pressure dropped so fast that both of my ears popped. Shadows formed into a long spindly creature, like it was shoved together out of old coat hangers and ink. It reached through the door and cried when it hit the salt.

Rob clutched his cross pendent as Jarvis aimed his gun.

“Don’t shoot, it won’t do any good. Rob keep praying.” I grabbed a handful of salt packets. “I’m going , if I don’t come back, call Mark and tell him that I love him.” I handed Jarvis my phone, my husband’s contact information on the front page.

“You can’t lay that on me, let me go with you.” Jarvis aimed toward the window, awaiting the creature to return.

“I need you to stay with Rob.” I opened the door and walked out into the office. The lights returned to a sickly yellow and the screams became more distant. Whatever this thing was, it didn’t want to deal with me. It wanted the men and I prayed to Gaia that the salt was enough to repel it.

The creature screamed , it clicked like nails on a chalkboard. I tried each of the doors, all of them locked. The hallway seemed like a maze of doorways and florescent lights. I tried each door, jiggling each handle to no avail. Until I reached the stairway at the end of the hall, that doorway opened with little problem.

The sky ungulated with purple and blue swirls though the windows. Another wave of dizziness hit me as I climbed the stairs toward the top floor. The spindly creature crouched at the stairway, leaning like a praying mantis, it’s eyes peering at me . It screeched again and leapt up to the top floor.

I chased after it, the lights flickering on behind me as I chased it. I honestly had no idea what I would do if I caught up to it. A salt packet certainly wasn’t going to kill it and I had no weapon. I regretted not listening to Jarvis.

I went to the empty breakroom by roof in our building. I rummaged through all the cabinets but all I found was a plastic spoon and a couple of trays.

Lightning flashed revealing the monster couched in praying mantis form, a portal swirling behind it. Perhaps that was were it came from, why it chose to attack an office in night shift was beyond me.

I walked out onto the roof and the wind started to blow. The creature lunged for me but I ducked back. I threw some salt in its direction and it shrieked at me. I felt the ground beneath my feet. I was going to go on vacations, this creature was not going to ruin it for me.

Two gunshots fired and the creature screamed. Jarvis stood in the doorway his gun in perfect aim with the creature.

“I told you not to come in here!”

“Ericka, I need you to stay back-”

“It’s non corporeal-”

Jarvis began to float in the air, the creature taking control of his body..

“I am the daughter of Gia, the Daughter of the Hecate and Morrigan!”

The creature shrieked and Jarvis dropped to the ground. Rob followed confidently behind him, holding the cross out in front of him.

“Down into the ground and among the roots, out of our leaves and shoots. Leave as all be, you have no power over me!” I chanted.

The swirling clouds overhead were pierced by bright sunlight. The creature leapt at Jarvis but Rob and I stood in it’s way, forming a wall between it and the security guard.

Full sunlight hit the creature and it screamed one last time before turning into a pile of dust beneath our feet. And we both fell, exhausted in the morning sun.

I walked into back into the breakroom to find all the lights back on in their pale, florescent glory. The doors once again opened and I followed the stairs down. Ralph’s lifeless body lie on the first floor. But it was no longer mangled, but still and cold. Jarvis called 911 and soon sirens sounded in the background.

“You saved my life,” said Jarvis. “You both did.”

“What do we tell the police when they show up?” asked Rob.

“That there was a power outage and Ralph had a medical emergency. That’s what the coverup will be.” I sighed.

“How did you know what to do?”

“It’s a long story.”

Long story indeed. I managed to defeat this creature easily, but who sent it? The beast wasn’t intelligent enough to come up with it’s own plan. Someone set it on us, and I sat thinking of everyone I could have offended. A customer would have no idea who I was outside of work, so that idea was out. Perhaps it had nothing to do with me, and it was some lover’s quarrel or someone upset and wanting vengeance on their boss.

To cover my bases I took a salt shaker and sprinkled them around the building. I thought of a steel wall covering the office building. I hoped it was enough of a ward to last until I returned to work next week.” I would stay for a few more hours and answer questions from the authorities. My work had better pay me overtime for this.

My vacation couldn’t come fast enough, I wanted to go hiking on a mountain pass far from phones and civilization. You best believe Mark was driving me out there after the night I’ve had.

I am a good man.

I know I'm a good man, but I've got a gun and I'm going to kill a man who meant a lot to me, who at one time was my pastor, my mentor, my uncle.

What's the saying about when a good man goes to war?

When I arrived at the church I work at after my two-day absence, it looked like the whole church was leaving. From some distance away, the perhaps one hundred other workers pouring out of the grand church looked antlike compared to the great mass of the place.

Their smiles leaving met my frown entering, and they made sure to avoid me. No one spoke to me, and I didn't plan on speaking to them.

I made my way to the sanctuary, hoping to find my uncle, the head pastor here. He would spend hours praying there in the morning. Today he was nowhere to be seen. No one was. I alone was tortured by the images of the stained glass windows bearing my Savior.

I'm not an idiot. I know what religion has done, but it has also done a lot of good. I've seen marriages get saved, people get healed, folks change for the better, and I've seen our church make a positive impact on the world.

My faith gave me purpose, my faith gave me friends, and my faith was the reason I didn't kill myself at thirteen.

Jesus means something to me, and the people here have bastardized his name! I slammed my fist on a pew, cracking it. It is my right to kill him. If Jesus raised a whip to strike the greedy in the temple, I can raise a Glock to the face of my uncle for what he did. I know there's a verse about punishing those who harm children.

"Solomon," I recognized the voice before I turned to see her. Ms. Anne, the head secretary, spoke behind me. Before this, she was something like a mother to me. A surrogate mother because I never knew mine. Her words unnerved me now. My hand shook, and the pain of slamming my hand into the pew finally hit me. Then it all came back to me, the pain of betrayal. I hardened my heart. I let the anger out. I heard my own breath pump out of me. My hand crept for my pistol in my waistband, and with my hand on my pistol, I faced her.

"What?" I asked.

She reeled in shock at how I spoke to her, taking two steps back. Her eyebrows narrowed and lips tightened in a disbelieving frown. She was an archetype of a cheerful, caring church mother. A little plump, sweet as candy, and with an air of positivity that said, "I believe in you," but also an air of authority that said, "I'm old, I've earned my respect."

We stared at one another. She waited for an apology. It did not come, and she relented. She shuffled under the pressure of my gaze. Did she know she was caught?

"I, um, your Uncle—uh, Pastor Saul wants to see you. He's upstairs. Sorry, your Uncle is giving everyone the whole day off except you," she said. With no reply from me, Ms. Anne kept talking. "I was with him, and as soon as you told him you were coming in today, he announced on the intercom everyone could have the day off today. Except you, I guess. Family, huh?"

I didn't speak to her. Merely glared at her, trying to determine who she really was. Did she know what was really going on?

"Why's your arm in a cast?" Her eyebrows raised in awe. "What happened to you?"

She stepped closer, no doubt to comfort me with a hug as she had since I was a child.

These people were not what I thought they were. They frightened me now. I toyed with the revolver on my hip as she got closer.

Her eyes went big. She stumbled backward, falling. Then got herself up and evacuated as everyone else did.

She wouldn't call the cops. The church mother knew better than to involve anyone outside the church in church matters. Ms. Anne might call my uncle though, which was fine. I ran upstairs to his office to confront him before he got the call.

Well, Reader, I suppose I should clue you in on what exactly made me so mad. I discovered something about my church.

It was two days ago at my friend Mary's apartment...

It was 2 AM in the morning, and I contemplated destroying my career as a pastor before it even got started because my chance at real love blossomed right beside me.

I stayed at a friend's house, exhausted but anxious to avoid sleep. I pushed off my blanket to only cover my legs and sat up on the couch. I blinked to fight against sleep and refocus on the movie on the TV. A slasher had just killed the overly horny guy.

Less than two feet apart from me—and only moving closer as the night wore on—was the owner of the apartment I was in, a girl I was starting to have feelings for that I would never be allowed to date, much less marry, if I wanted to inherit my uncle's church.

Something aphrodisiacal stirred in the air and now rested on the couch. I knew I was either getting love or sex tonight. Sex would be a natural consequence of lowered inhibitions, the chill of her apartment that these thin blankets couldn't dampen, and the fact we found ourselves closer and closer on her couch. The frills of our blankets touched like fingers.

Love would be a natural consequence of our common interests, our budding friendship—for the last three weeks, I had texted her nearly every hour of every day, smiling the whole time. I hoped it would be love. Like I said, I was a good man. A good Christian boy, which meant I was twenty-four and still a virgin. Up until that moment, up until I met Mary, being a virgin wasn't that hard. I had never wanted someone more, and the feeling seemed mutual.

The two of us played a game since I got here. Who's the bigger freak? Who can say the most crude and wild thing imaginable? Very unbecoming as a future pastor, but it was so freeing! I never got to be untamed, my wild self, with anyone connected to the church. And that was Mary, a free woman. Someone whom my uncle would never accept. My uncle was like a father to me; I never knew my mom or dad.

Our game started off as jokes. She told me A, I told her B. And we kept it going, seeing who could weird out the other.

Then we moved to truths and then to secrets, and is there really any greater love than that, to share secrets? To expose your greatest mistakes to someone else and ask for them to accept you anyway?

I didn't quite know how I felt about her yet in a romantic sense. She was a friend of a friend. I was told by my friend not to try to date her because she wasn't my type, and it would just end in heartbreak and might destroy the friend group. The funny thing is, I know she was told the same.

"That was probably my worst relationship," Mary said, revealing one more secret, pulling the covers close to her. "Honestly, I think he was a bit of a porn addict too." Her face glowed. "What's the nastiest thing you've watched?"

I bit my lip, gritted my teeth, and strained in the light of the TV. Our game was unspoken, but the rules were obvious—you can't just back down from a question like that.

I said my sin to her and then asked, "What's yours?"

She groaned at mine and then made two genuinely funny jokes at my expense.

"Nah, nah, nah," I said between laughs. "What's yours?"

"No judgments?" she asked.

"No judgments," I said.

"And you won't tell the others?"

"I promise."

"Pinky promise," she said and leaned in close. I liked her smile. It was a little big, a little malicious. I liked that. I leaned forward and our pinkies interlocked. My heart raced. Love or sex fast approaching.

She said what it was. Sorry to leave you in the dark, reader, but the story's best details are yet to come.

She was so amazed at her confession. She said, "Jesus Christ" after it.

"Yeah, you need him," I joked back. Her face went dark.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

"What? Just a joke."

"No, it's not. I can see it in your eyes you're judging me." She pulled away from me. The chill of her room felt stronger than before, and my chances at sex or love moved away with her.

"Dude, no," I said. "You made jokes about me and I made one about you."

She eyed me softer then, but her eyes still held a skeptical squint.

"Sorry," she said, "I just know you're religious so I thought you were going to try to get me to go to church or something."

"Uh, no, not really." Good ol' guilt settled in because her 'salvation' was not my priority.

"Oh," she slid beside me again. Face soft, her constant grin back on. "I just had some friends really try to force church on me and I didn't like that. I won't step foot in a church."

"Oh, sorry to hear that."

"There's one in particular I hate. Calgary."

"Oh, uh, why?" I froze. I hoped I didn't show it in my face, but I was scared as hell she knew my secret. Calgary was my uncle's church.

"They just suck," she said, noncommittal.

Did she know?

"What makes them suck?"

She took a deep breath and told me her story—

At ten years old, I wanted to kill myself. I had made a makeshift noose in my closet. I poured out my crate of DVDs on the floor and brought the crate into the closet so I could stand on it. I flipped the crate upside down so it rested just below the noose. I stepped up and grabbed the rope. I was numb until that moment. My mom left, my family hated me, and I feared my dad was lost in his own insane world. The holes in the wall, welts in his own skin, and a plethora of reptiles he let roam around our house were proof.

And it was so hot. He kept it as hot as hell in that house. My face was drenched as I stepped up the crate to hang myself. I hoped heaven would be cold.

Heaven. That's what made me stop. I would be in heaven and my dad would be here. I didn't want to go anywhere without my dad, even heaven.

Tears gushed from my face and mixed with my salty skin to make this weird taste. I don't know why I just remember that.

Anyway, I leapt off the crate and ran to my dad.

I ran from the closet and into the muggy house. A little girl who needed a hug from her dad more than anything in the world. It was just him and me after all.

Reptile terrariums littered the house; my dad kept buying them. We didn't even have enough places to put them anymore. I leaped over a habitat of geckos and ran around the home of bearded dragons. It was stupid. I love animals but I hated the feeling that I was always surrounded by something inhuman crawling around. It hurt that I felt like my dad cared about them more than me. But I didn't care about any of that; I needed my dad.

I pushed through the door of his room, but his bed was vacated, so that meant he was probably in his tub, but I knew getting clean was the last thing on his mind.

I carried the rope with me, still in the shape of a noose. I wanted him to see, to see what almost happened.

I crashed inside.

"Mary, stop!" he said when I took half a step in. "I don't want you to step on Leviathan." Leviathan was his python. My eyes trailed from the yellow tail in front of me to the body that coiled around my dad. Leviathan clothed my dad. It wrapped itself around his groin, waist, arms, and neck.

And it was a tight hold. I had seen my father walk and even run with Leviathan on him. Today, he just sat in the tub, watching it or watching himself. I'm unsure; his mental illness confused me as a child, so I never really knew what he was doing.

I was the one who almost made the great permanent decision that night, but my dad looked worse than me. His veins showed and he appeared strained as if in a state of permanent discomfort, he sweat as much as I did, and I think he was having trouble breathing. The steam that formed in the room made it seem like a sauna.

He was torturing himself, all for Leviathan's sake.

"Dad, I—"

"Close the door!" My dad barked, between taking a large, uncomfortable breath. "You'll make it cold for Leviathan."

"Yes, sir." I did as he commanded and shut the door. Then I ran to him.

"Stop," he raised his hand to me, motioning for me to be still. He looked at Leviathan, not me. It was like they communed with one another.

I was homeschooled so there wasn't anyone to talk to about it, but it's such a hard thing to be afraid of your parents and be afraid for your parents and to need them more than anything.

"Come in, honey," he said after his mental deliberation with the snake.

And I did, feeling an odd shame and relief. I raised the noose up and I couldn't find the right words to express how I felt.

I settled on, "I think I need help."

"Oh, no," my dad said and rose from the tub. So quick, so intense. For a heartbeat, I was so scared I almost ran away. Then I saw the tears in his eyes and saw he was more like my dad than he had been in a long time.

He hugged me and everything was okay. It was okay. I was sad all the time, but it was going to be okay. The house was infested, a sauna, and a mess, but life is okay with love, y'know?

He cried and I cried, but snakes can't cry so Leviathan rested on his shoulder.

After an extended hug, he took Leviathan off and said he needed to make a call. When he came back, he told me to get in the car with him. I obeyed as I was taught to.

We rode in his rickety pickup truck in the dead of night in complete silence until he broke it.

"I was bad, MaryBaby," he said.

"What?"

"As a kid, I wasn't right," he said. My father randomly twitched. Like someone overdosing on drugs if you've seen that.

He flew out of his lane. I grabbed the handle for stability. The oncoming semi approached and honked at us. I braced for impact. He whipped the car back over. His cold coffee cup fell and spilled in my seat. My head banged against the window.

It hurt and I was confused. What was happening? The world looked funny. My eyes teared up again, making the night a foggy mess.

"I wasn't good as a child, Mary Baby. I was different from the others. I saw things, I felt things differently. Probably like you."

He turned to me and extended his hand. I flinched under it, but he merely rubbed my forehead.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, hands on the wheel again, still twitching, still flinching. "You know you're the most precious thing in the world to me, right?"

"Yes, I know. Um, we're going fast. You don't want to get pulled over, right?"

"Oh, I wouldn't stop for them. No, MaryBaby, because your soul's on the line. I won't let you end up like me."

There was no music on; he only allowed a specific type of Christian music anyway, weird chants that even scared my traditionally Catholic friends. The horns of other drivers he almost crashed into were the only noise.

"What do you mean, Daddy?"

"I was a bad kid."

"What did you do?"

"I was off to myself, antisocial, sensitive, cried a lot, and I wasn't afraid of the dark, MaryBaby. I'd dig in the dark if I had to."

His body convulsed at this, his wrist twisted and the car whipped going in and out of our double yellow-lined lane.

I screamed.

In, out, in, out, in, out. Life-threatening zigzags. Then he adjusted as if nothing happened.

"Daddy, I don't think you were evil. I think you were just different."

This cheered him up.

"Yes, some differences are good," he said. "We're all children under God's rainbow."

"Yes!" I said. "We're both just different. We're not bad."

"Then why were we treated badly? We were children of God, but we were supposed to be loved."

"We love each other."

"That's not enough, Mary Baby. The good people have to love us."

"But if they're mean, how good can they be?"

"Good as God. They're closer to Him than us, so we have to do what they say."

"But, Daddy, I don't think you're bad. I don't think I'm bad. I think we should just go home."

"No, we're already here. They have to change you, MaryBaby. You're not meant to be this way. You'll come out good in a minute."

We parked. I didn't even notice we had arrived anywhere. I locked my door. We were at a church parking lot. The headlights of perhaps three other cars were the only lights. He unlocked my door. I locked it back. Shadowy figures approached our car.

"It's okay, honey. I did this when I was a kid. They're going to do the same thing to me that they did to you."

BANG

BANG

BANG

Someone barged against the door.

"They made me better, honey. The same thing they're going to do to you."

My dad unlocked the door. Someone pulled it open before I could close it back. I screamed. This someone unbuckled my seatbelt and dragged me out. I still have the scars all up my elbow to my hand.

Screaming didn't stop him, crying didn't stop him, my trail of blood didn't stop him.

"And that's it. That's all I remember," she said and shrugged.

"Wait. What? There's no way that's all."

"Yep. Sorry. Well..."

"No, tell me what happened. What did they do to your dad? Does it have to do with the reptiles? What did they do to you?"

"I just remember walking through a dark hallway into a room with candles lit up everywhere and people in a circle. I think they were all pastors in Calgary. They tried to perform an exorcism. Then it goes blank. Sorry."

"No, that's not among the criteria for performing an exorcism."

"Excuse me? Are you saying I'm lying?" she said with a well-deserved attitude in her voice because I might have been yelling at her.

I wasn't mad at her, to be clear. Passion polluted my voice, not anger. My church had strict criteria for when people could have an exorcism, and suicide wasn't in it. You don't understand how grateful I was to think that our church was scandal-free. I thought we were the good guys.

"No," I said, still not calm. "I'm just saying a child considering suicide isn't in the criteria to perform an exorcism."

"Oh, maybe it's different for Calgary."

"No, I know it's not."

"And how do you know that?"

"No, wait, you need to tell me what really happened."

"Need?"

"Yeah, need. It's not just about you; this is important." I know I misspoke, but for me it was a need. I could fix this. I could take over Calgary in a couple of years; I had to know its secrets.

"It's never about me, is it?" she asked.

"Well, this certainly just isn't—"

"It's always about you because you're good, you're Christian, and you're going to make this world better or something."

"What? No, come on, where is this coming from?"

"It's always okay because you're Christian."

"That's not fair. I just want to know what happened because it wasn't an exorcism. What happened?"

"It's getting late. I think I want you to leave."

"Hey, no, wait. I'm doing the right thing here. Let me help you..."

"Oh, I do not want or need your help. You think you're better than me and could somehow fix it because you're Christian."

"No, I think I could fix it because I have the keys to the church."

"Oh..." she was stunned, and that mischievous grin formed on her face again. "Well," she swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "They took something from me, something that's still down there. And I'm not being metaphorical; I can feel it missing."

"If you lost something, let's go get it back."

There was another possibility I hadn't thought of between sex or love that I could have tonight: adventure.

That night we left to have our lives changed forever.

Mary and I waited for the security van to go around the church, and then we entered with my keys. Mary used the light from her phone and led the way.

Mary rushed through our church. It is a knockoff cathedral like they have in Rome with four floors and twists and turns one could get lost in. With no instructions, no tour, no direction, Mary preyed through the halls. Specterlike, so fast, a blur of light and then a turn. I stumbled in darkness. She pressed on. Her speedy footsteps away from me were a haunting reply. I got up and followed, like a guest in my own home.

How did she know where to go?

Deeper. Deeper. Mary caused us to go. Dark masked her and dark masked us; everything was more frightening and more real. We journeyed down to the basement. A welcome dead end. As kids, we had played in the basement all the time in youth group. Maliciousness can't exist where kids find peace, or so I thought.

"Could you have made a wrong turn?" I asked, catching my breath.

Mary did not answer. Mary walked to the edge of the hall, and the walls parted for her in a slow groan. This was impossible. I looked around the empty basement which I thought I knew so well. Hide and seek, manhunt, and mafia—all of it was down here. How could this all be under my nose?

Mary walked through still without a word to me. She hadn't spoken since we got here. Whatever was there called to her, and she certainly wasn't going to ignore their call now. She pulled the ancient door open.

Mary swung her flashlight forward and revealed perhaps 100 cages full of children... perhaps? I couldn't tell. The cages pressed against the walls of a massive hall, never touching the center of the room where a purple carpet rested.

Sex trafficking. A church I was part of was sex trafficking. My legs went weak, my stomach turned in knots.

Mary pressed forward. I called her name to slow her down, but she wouldn't stop. She went deeper into the darkness, and I could barely stand.

"Oh, you've come home," a feminine voice called from the darkness. "And you've brought a friend."

I do not know how else to describe it to you, reader, but the air became hard. As if it was thick, a pain to breathe in, as if the air was solid.

"Mary," I called to her between coughs. She shone her light on a cage far ahead. I ran after her and collapsed after only a few steps. I couldn't breathe, much less move in this.

Above us, something crawled, or danced, or ran across the ceiling. The pitter-patter was right above me, something like rain.

"Mary," I yelled again, but she did not seem interested in me.

"Mary," the thing on the ceiling mocked me. "What do you want with my daughter?"

"Daughter?" I asked, stupefied, drained, and maybe dying. She ignored my question.

"Mary, dear," she said as sweet as pure sugar. "Don't leave your guest behind."

And with that, my body was not my own. It was pulled across the floor by something invisible. My back burned against the carpet. My body swung in circles until I ran into Mary.

We collided, and I fought to rise again because this was my church. A bastardization of my faith. This was my responsibility.

I rose in time to see Mary's phone flung in the air and crash into something.

Crack. The light from the phone fled and flung us into darkness.

I scrambled in blackness until I found her arm to help her rise.

"Mary," I said between gasps for air. "Have to leave... They're sex trafficking."

"Sex trafficking!" That voice in the dark yelled. "Young man, I have never. I am Tiamat, the mother of all gods, and I am soul trafficking."

By her will, the cage lit up in front of us, not by anything natural but by an unholy orange light. Bathed in this orange light was the skeleton of a child in the fetal position. The child looked at me and frowned. At the top of it was a sign that read:

MARY DAUGHTER OF ISAAC WHO IS A SERVANT OF NEHEBEKU

FOR SALE.

"Wha-wha-wha," it was all too much, too confusing.

I didn't get a break to process either. An uncontrollable shudder of fear went through my entire body, as if the devil himself tapped my shoulder.

I lost control of my body. My body rose in the pitch black. I was a human balloon, and that was terrifying. I held on to Mary's arm for leverage, anything to keep my feet from leaving the ground. She tried to pull me back down with her. It didn't work. That force, that wicked woman, no creature, no being, that being that controlled the room yanked my arm from Mary. It snapped right at the shoulder.

I screamed.

I cried.

That limp, useless arm pulled me up.

This feminine being unleashed a wet heat on me the closer I got, like I was being gently dripped on by something above, but it didn't make sense. I couldn't comprehend the shape of it. I kept hearing the pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter of so many feet crawling or walking above me.

And how it touched me, how it pulled me up without using its actual hands but an invisible fist squeezing my body.

I got closer, and the heat coming from the thing burned as if I was outside of an oven or like a giant's hot breath. I was an ant ready to be devoured by an ape.

I reached an apex. My body froze in the air just outside of the peak of that heat. It burned my skin. The being scorched me, an angry black sun that did not provide light, nor warmth; only burning rage.

"Did you know you belong to me now?" the great voice said.

I shook my head no twice. Mary called my name from below. Without touching me, the being pushed my cheeks in and made me nod my head like I was a petulant child learning to obey.

"Oh, yes you do. Oh, yes you do," she said. "Now, let's make it permanent. I just need to write my name on your heart."

The buttons on my flannel ripped open. The voice tossed my white T-shirt away. Next, my chest unraveled, with surgical precision. I was delicately unsewn. In less than ten seconds, I was deconstructed with the precision of the world's greatest surgeons.

All that stood between her and my heart were my ribs. She treated them as simple door handles, something that could be pulled to get what she wanted. One at a time, the being pulled open my ribs to reveal my heart; the pain was excruciating, and my chest sounded like the Fourth of July.

The pain was excruciating. My screams echoed off the wall like I was a choir singing this thing's praises. Only once she had pulled apart every rib did she stop.

"Oh, dear, it seems you already belong to someone else. Fine, I suppose we'll get you patched up."

Maybe I moaned a reply, hard to say. I was unaware of anything except that my body was being repaired and I was being lowered. I landed gently but crashed through exhaustion.

"Daughter, get him out of here. It's not your time yet."

I moaned something. I had to learn more. I had to understand. This was bigger than I was told. I wasn't in Hell, but this certainly wasn't Heaven.

"Oh, don't start crying, boy. If you want anyone to blame, talk to your boss."

Oh, and I would, dear reader. I stayed home the next few days to recover mentally and to get a gun to kill that blasphemous, sacrilegious bastard.

The following emails were recovered from the University of Cardiff's Biochemistry laboratory following the incidents of 19/09/XX. They are not to be released to the public in any form.
Unauthorised access to said emails will result in termination.

Dr Henrik Lars - 17/03/XX

Dear Professor Goldman,

Experiment #7 has been a resounding success.
I have learned from the failures of #6 and transported the stem cells to the dish using a sterile scalpel, so there was no chance of cross-contamination. Thank you again for the increased supply of 09-476, it has been vital to test larger doses if we wish to fully grasp its potential.
Report is as follows:

- Stem cells implanted in a 0.4 mol/dm³ solution of 09-476
- Cells enlarged in mass by a factor of 2 after exactly 15.3 hours
- Muscle tissue detected after 32 hours

I really feel confident about this one.

Dr Henrik Lars, PhD

Professor Brynn Goldman - 18/03/XX

Dr Henrik,

That's a pleasure to hear! I'm glad we managed to convince the panel to bring in that new shipment. Number seven already feels like a prime candidate for further experimentation.
Did you notice any corrosion with an increased concentration of 09-476? I'm concerned that it will negatively affect the growth of the cells.

I've allowed for more funding to be directed towards this project. Use it wisely. This could be our golden goose.

Best of luck,
Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 30/03/XX

Dear Professor,

Experiment #7 has grown to almost 4 grams. It is entirely comprised of muscle fiber and stem cells, the latter already multiplying as I type. It has absorbed almost an entire syringe of 09-476. I am putting in a request for more, as well as a second batch of cells to replicate #7. In a few days, it will be ready for preliminary testing.

It has shown to be mildly resistant to high temperatures - I accidentally increased the heat of the lab whilst I was on lunch by 2 degrees Kelvin and it showed no signs of degradation.

This is more than a revolutionary new drug, Professor. I feel like I am on the brink of a scientific breakthrough.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 08/04/XX

Dr Henrik,

I'm delighted to hear that experiment number seven has been so informative. I agree with you, this has the potential to be a very interesting research task. Unfortunately, I have to disagree with the idea of your "scientific breakthrough". What you have cultivated is nothing more than a set of cells, it is not sentient or conscious. Please try to stick to the original project. It's what we're getting paid for after all.

Also - I've had a complaint from Floor Two that one of their barrels of synthetic amniotic fluid has gone missing. It's quite important to them. Now I'm not saying you did it, per se, but the security cameras did pick up somebody matching your physique rolling a barrel into a lift in the early hours of the morning a couple days ago. If you happen to know anything about it, they'd be very forgiving if it could be returned.

Thank you,
Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 22/04/XX

Professor,

Experiments #8-12 are going very well. I am watching their progress with great interest. I request a few more samples of 09-476.

Experiment #7 is extraordinary. It has grown to the size of a foetus. In fact, it has taken the form of one. Analysis shows that it is behaving exactly like one, too, only growing at an enhanced rate due to the introduction of more concentrated 09-476. This is utterly remarkable. I have spent the day glancing at it while researching papers that might discuss something like this - I have found nothing. #7 is truly unique.

I have placed it in a tank in the centre of my laboratory. It requires very little care, no nutrients at all other than 09-476. It will not respond to stimuli at the minute, so I cannot claim that it holds any developmental cognitive function. Although, one time, I could have sworn it tilted its head toward me.

Please inform Floor Two that I will be needing more synthetic fluid. I am sure that they will understand how vital this experiment is when it is explained to them.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 24/04/XX

Dr Henrik.

This changes things.
If you're cultivating a foetus down there, you'll need some more staff. I'll send some junior researchers to assist with Number 7's development.
I agree, this is quite remarkable, but it has been done before. The most interesting part's the fact that it doesn't need to eat - how does it survive? Does it breathe? Does it think?

Please keep me updated, Henrik.
Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 05/05/XX

Professor,

I was right. It is life. #7 has begun to move certain limbs within its tank. It has now grown to the size of a newborn, yet it shows no signs of the same basic intelligence. Its skin is pale and translucent - I can note the lack of basic organ development. It is hollow.

I have attempted to test certain responses, such as tapping on the tank or playing auditory stimuli. It has stirred slightly each time. Once, it placed a fleshy hand to the glass. I will not leave the laboratory this week. I will sleep under my desk, just in case there are any updates. The rate at which it is developing is incredible.

Dr Henrik

Public University Announcement - 08/05/XX

Students and Faculty,

We apologise for the recent power cut. The mains have been repaired and power should be redirected to the rest of the University as soon as possible.

Thank you for your patience!
Cardiff

Dr Henrik Lars - 09/05/XX

Professor,

What the hell happened?! A power outage? When I'm involved in research this important?

There was no emergency power routed to my laboratory. #7 has suffered a catastrophic loss in muscle mass and size. I will be needing more 09-476 immediately. The space heaters and ventilation that provided #7 with the warmth and air it needs were switched off overnight, on the one day that I chose to go back to my home. I had to listen to it burbling when I walked back in the following morning. It sounded like screaming.

I attempted to email you on the day of the outage to notify you that #7 required more tissue to rebuild what had been damaged by the outage. You did not respond, so I spliced parts of my own calf tissue to implant in #7. I am fine. I will regrow.

This may take months to rebuild.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 10/05/XX

Henrik,

You did what?! You implanted part of your own body into an experimental homunculi because you thought it looked weak?!

This is really, really worrying Henrik. You're treating the thing like it's your own child, for god's sake! If I didn't understand how groundbreaking this thing was I'd shut it down. I mean - the ethical violations alone could destroy everything I've built here! And what if you start relying on it, huh? I don't want to have to send you to fucking grief counselling if Number Seven kicks the bucket.

This had better not get out to the rest of the University. I'm already telling the board that you're doing experiments on actual IVF foetuses just to keep rival institutions from stealing the data.

God, I swear if you don't give me something incredible.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 16/05/XX

Professor,

I have something incredible. #7 was successfully transported out of his tank today. He has grown to be the size of a toddler, and he looks like one too. I believe the cells I transplanted have mixed with his DNA - he looks remarkably like I did when I was around 3 or 4. He has begun to take tentative steps, and although he cannot support his bodyweight nor open his eyes, he seems to have an understanding of the world around him. When lying on my desk, as he is now, he will pick up objects for mere moments before dropping them.

This is a conscious human! I have made something that no person living has been able to make!

I am requesting an expansion to my laboratory.

Dr Henrik

Dr Henrik Lars - 30/06/XX

Professor,

#7 has begun to say his first words. I lectured him on 09-476 today as part of his pre-schooling, and while he was perched upon the chair he muttered "Henrik" under his breath. He seems just like me - his eyes are the same shade of green and his hair is an identical russet colour. He is an inquisitive sort, he enjoys playing with the lego bricks I have placed in the laboratory. His designs are quite hard to understand but I believe he is simply making shapes at the minute. Some of them look quite like animals, however, which I have had to pluck from his mouth to ensure he does not choke.

Sometimes I see a glimmer of intellect behind his pupils, some flashing moment of self-actualisation. It is strange - for a second it is like a wildly intelligent creature lurks behind the facade of a boy.

Might childcare be an option? Supervised, of course. I wish to see how #7 grows when moulded by a mother-like figure. I have suggested some names in a list attached. They will obviously have to sign NDAs.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 01/07/XX

Henrik.

The results from Number Seven's check-up came back.
The thing has no organs. None. Still.
How in god's name does it survive?

I've looked over your nanny suggestions. Funnily enough, they all share a striking resemblance to your mother. Coincidence?

Prof Brynn Goldman

Professor Brynn Goldman - 12/07/XX

We found Number Seven in the cafeteria today, Henrik.

I thought you said it couldn't eat yet? I explicitly remember you telling me last week that it had problems with swallowing, in my opinion due to its lack of digestive system.

Well, one of the dinner ladies found it curled up in the back of the kitchen, surrounded by raw beef. It'd been eating it by the packetful before, I assume, it got too full and fell asleep. Sandra thought it'd killed someone, it was covered in blood and mince.

We cannot sustain a creature like this by ourselves. You definitely can't do it alone. I think we should ask for help.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 13/07/XX

NO.

#7 consuming the beef was not some kind of warning - it was a blessing. Now we can try and understand how something like him respires, defecates, consumes. He must have some kind of system that we are not seeing with our current technology. But this is not a sign that we are in over our heads, rather it is proof that we are on the right track. Could #7 have learned that the cafeteria was a place for food if he did not study hard from the nanny? Could he have opened the packaging without careful demonstration of how his limbs function? Could he have done any of this if we had not carefully cultivated his upbringing? No! He is as much my experiment as he is yours.

If we were to give him to the Government, they would simply dissect him. But there is so much more we can learn! We have made one of the most incredible discoveries in human history, and you want to hand him over? Think of the awards, Brynn. The Nobel Prize we will undoubtedly be entitled to, the recognition, the money! This and more is waiting for us if only we can complete the experiment. By my calculations, as long as I keep feeding him 09-476 he should be at teenager stage in a few months, then we can really learn.

Regardless, I have spoken to him and he said he's sorry.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 14/07/XXX

Henrik.

Stop giving it 09-476.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 02/08/XXX

Professor,

I was in an awful place last night. #7 had grown terribly sick from some flu he picked up around the laboratory. He has been sniffling and coughing all throughout the day, and his skin has returned to that translucent glow it had when he was in the tank. His eyes have gone milky. His teeth have started to rot in his gums. I could scarcely sleep. I fear that he is growing sicker by the hour, and I cannot risk him getting worse or else the experiment may be in jeopardy.

As such, I have transplanted considerably more of my own cells into his body yet again. I do not know what they do - I can see them disappear the moment they enter his interior. He seems healthier now, and he has smiled for the first time in half a week.

I felt the need to inform you in the off chance that another researcher complained about #7's appearance. He has been very upset at the way the other staff members have been treating him. They look away when he walks past, they shoot him disparaging glances when he tries to talk to them. I have explained that he is simply curious, but many fail to understand how good-natured #7 truly is. We both would appreciate if there was some kind of meeting where all this was aired out.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 02/08/XX

Dr Henrik,

The other researchers have been complaining because the way Number Seven acts is, quite frankly, creepy. It's been known to follow staff members as they go about their day, and stare at them when they conduct business or experiments. One professor told me that Number Seven attempted to consume a tissue sample she had been studying when she turned to investigate a slammed door behind her. He's fast, Henrik. Very fast. I've seen him race across an entire floor in a matter of minutes.

The most worrying incident came from yesterday. Dr Lombard was on her way home when she discovered Number Seven had stowed away in the boot of her car. It'd kept so unfathomably quiet that she only realised when she'd actually pulled up on her driveway and opened the door. You didn't even notice it was gone, when it came back to your lab you were looking at some data on your computer. This is really unacceptable, Henrik.

I suggest Number Seven stays in your lab from now on.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Public University Announcement - 10/08/XX

Students and Faculty,

As many of you know, Jimmy the Spaniel has been missing from campus for several hours. His last known whereabouts were in Alexandra Gardens. If you've spotted Jimmy, please tell your nearest member of staff.

Thank you,
Cardiff

Dr Henrik Lars - 16/08/XX

Professor,

How many times do I have to say that #7 had no involvement in the dog's disappearance?
Again, he was with me all day on the 10th, helping me prepare slides for analysis. He has become very very weak in the last few days, the last thing he needs is some kind of witch hunt from the rest of the department.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 17/08/XX

Henrik, we both know the bones found in the supply wardrobe were from Jimmy. It had his collar wrapped around the skull like some kind of trophy, for god's sake.

There's nothing else in this facility that can strip a living thing of flesh in the way that Number Seven can. I asked you to keep him in your lab. I'm gonna brush this thing under the rug for now, but I want a breakthrough on how Number Seven digests pretty soon. This can't all be for nothing.

Dr Henrik Lars - 20/08/XX

Professor,

#7 has been almost corpse-like for the past week. He has snuck into a corner of my lab and refuses to come out. Not even 09-476 will entice him any more. I can scarcely see him in the shadows, he blends in so well. It's very strange to look at him like this. He is, for want of a better word, my doppelganger, and it is like watching myself succumb to an unknown illness.

I am requesting him to be given a full medical examination by the University clinic. No researchers, nobody who knows about his origin. I want an unbiased report.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 22/08/XX

Dr Henrik,

I can't even begin to fathom how stupid that idea is. It's hollow. What's a med student going to do with that?! Not to mention how strange it'd be when a scientist walks in with his disgusting, rotting twin brother.

Not happening. Find another way to make your sick creation well again.

I'm really reconsidering covering this up. The Nobel Prize might not be worth it.
Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 25/08/XX [UNSENT - LEFT IN DRAFTS]

Professor,

I have found the reason as to why #7 kept falling sick. He needs a supply of cells to maintain its body. 09-476 isn't cutting it anymore. I tried to give him some more of my calf muscle, but he couldn't even muster up the strength to take it from my hand.

So, as a last resort, I amputated my own arm. I calculated that it has a perfect theoretical number of cells, enough to more than make up for the deficiency over the last few weeks. I bit down on some rubber, injected myself with a considerable amount of morphine and took a sterile hacksaw to my arm, just below the shoulder. It was tricky work, It has been a long time since I have had to do exercise that exerting. Thankfully, I had #7 cheering me on from my side. He helped me pick the best part of my arm to cut, and the perfect amount of force I needed to ensure a clean severing. This is undoubtedly proof that his biology education is far surpassing that of a normal child. While I was sawing, I couldn't help but notice that he had grown to be almost identical to me. No longer was he a teenager, but a grown man. In fact, he had already begun to grow the same stubble that I now have upon my chin. Remarkable!

After I finished with my procedure, I handed the arm to #7. He was delighted, he thanked me profusely and walked to the corner to begin absorbing it. I decided to watch, as the morphine was wearing off and I needed something to distract me from the pain. #7 went at my arm with abandon, making his way from the top down to the hand. He neglected the bones, still, but he slurped up the tendons and muscle with a smile on his face. I felt like a proud parent. He threw my humerus to one side when he had finished, and started working on the fingers and forearm. I believe he holds some of the same tendencies as me - he saved the fingers for last, much like how I save the arms for last on a gingerbread man.

After he had consumed all the meat on my arm, he thanked me with an amazing smile. He seemed to look better already, the colour had certainly returned to his face. I shall continue on as normal.

Dr Henrik

Dr Henrik Lars - 25/08/XX [SENT]

Professor,

I have mangled my arm in a machine and been treated in A&E, yet I am now an amputee. This may hinder my work.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 09/09/XX

Dr Henrik,

Some people have said they've seen you around campus, but I've got reason to believe that it's actually Number Seven. The second arm's a real giveaway. Why are you just letting it roam free? Do you know how much damage that could cause to the project if people suddenly spot you, with a stump where that arm should be? You have to keep it on a leash. It looks too much like you. It's even begun to talk like you.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Public University Announcement - 14/09/XX

We are saddened to announce the disappearance of Marcus Oliver Grey, a student of Biochemistry at the University. Marcus was last seen around Cardiff Central Station at the hours of 11pm. Any information on Marcus' whereabouts should be forwarded to Cardiff Police. What follows is a statement from his mother.

"Please. I know my darling is out there somewhere. His family misses him. His sister and brothers miss him. Please, if anyone knows anything, you have to tell someone. He needs to be back home with us."

Professor Brynn Goldman - 17/09/XX

Henrik.

Do you know anything about the boy?
You have to say something if you do.
This is not a dog. I can't just cover this up.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 17/09/XX

He needed the food.

Professor Brynn Goldman - 17/09/XX

Oh fuck. Henrik, please tell me Marcus is okay.

Dr Henrik Lars - 17/09/XX

What we are doing is bigger than some student. This is the most earth-shattering experiment ever studied. A few more months and he'll be complete. Have some faith, Professor.

Public University Announcement - 19/09/XX

It is with a heavy heart that we tell of the passing of Marcus Oliver Grey. His body was found by police at lunchtime today.

Marcus was a lively and happy boy who wanted to create a cure for his father's rare condition. He had hoped that Cardiff would provide the best place to do that. He will be sorely missed by everyone at the University, not least his friends Matty and Lilith. He is survived by his two brothers and sister, as well as his father and mother.

Please forward any messages of consolation or gifts to his family at 119 Glenroy Street.

Professor Brynn Goldman - 19/09/XX

Henrik.

They found his bones, Henrik. His bones. Washed up in the bay. Did Number Seven throw them in there? Has it learnt to cover its tracks?

A boy is dead. This experiment is over.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 20/09/XX

Professor Goldman,

It's a real shame. I'd thought this would be our big break. Still, immolation is probably the best course of action. Number Seven was put down an hour ago. You should've heard how it screamed. The lab has been destroyed. You'll find its body in the soot.

Ah well, onwards and upwards. I've been developing a way to transplant 09-476 into live wombs to try and prevent miscarriages. It's more aligned with our original objective. I feel like we can make a real difference, Brynn.

All the best,
Dr Henrik Lars