Seven o’clock. The morning automation for the downtown Spellnorth building kicked in. The main floor doors unlocked, the common area lights came on, the air conditioner brought the temperature up from the freezing night to a more comfortable twenty-one degrees. There’s an electronic hum throughout the building, transforming the dark, cold skyscraper into a more human-friendly environment. All except the thirteenth floor. The ceiling lights never come on there. The air conditioning only works manually. Even the door to the floor requires a key to open in the morning. An old, notched metal rectangle, inserted in a lock and turned for three full rotations. In fact, all these adjustments are part of Theodore’s job. He arrives at eight every day to open the door, since he’s the only one with a key. “Good morning, Theo.” Theo watched Ben entering the office and turning on his desk lamps. “You’re in a good mood today,” he replied, in an inquiring tone. “I literally just said good morning.” “Okay, no need to get upset. You know I’m the Happiness Manager for the team.” “You’re the happiness manager for the office. Not the manager for everyone’s personal happiness. Will we be having this conversation every day?” “Don’t stress out Ben, we need the happiness points. How about I tell you a joke?” Ben was panicking inside. His body was still not fully awake to deal with this kind of menace, but luckily help was just arriving. “Good morning, guys,” Mason said loudly from the door, followed by a similar greeting from Amelia: “Good morning, team”. “Hi, Mason, Amelia,” Ben replied. “Good morning, boss,” Theo said as he stood up and headed straight for Amelia, ignoring Mason. He followed the Director into the corner office. “Need anything, Theodore?” Amelia asked as she settled behind her desk, trying to pay him as little attention as possible. “Yes. Have you considered my application for Office and Team Happiness Manager? I know I could make something of myself if I only had enough authority. And the team would also improve, of course. I guess productivity would increase. Studies show happiness directly influences productivity. It’s a fact.” “Theo, you know I only added ‘Happiness’ to your title because you wouldn’t agree to open the office in the morning, right? Your job is still just ‘Office Manager’.” “If you could just think about it,” Theo said as he left the room, walking backwards, as he had read a long time ago in the ‘Management Showdown Guide’ to always face your goals head-on. Meanwhile, Sylvia had just arrived and was talking to Mason. “So, today’s the day,” she said. “It is.” “Do you think she'll have it finished before lunch?” “It’s hard to say. But she never has.” “Maybe she’s learning.” “You’re the one who should be there,” Ben added, joining the conversation. “No, I can’t. I’m not certified to work in the cloud,” Sylvia replied. “I’m pretty sure online Excel works much the same as the desktop one, Sylvia.” “Of course you would think that, Ben. You’re not a certified IT expert, like me.” “I just don’t understand why everyone else is able to work with the cloud, but our IT expert isn’t.” “Oh, I’m perfectly able,” Sylvia assured. “In fact, if anything, I’m too able. I’m a cloudy master. It’s like a Karate Sensei. Any one of us can peacefully enter a bar fight, but a Karate Sensei can’t. That’s how deadly my cloudy competencies are. Sensei level. That’s why I need a special certification to touch the cloud in the office, but they never sent me one.” “They never sent it, or you never checked your email?” Ben insisted. “I can’t. Gmail is in the cloud.” “She just seems to be pressing random keys,” Mason said, looking over at Amelia’s office. “Does she understand we get paid from that spreadsheet?” Harper asked, joining the conversation straight from the doorway. “Oh, hi Harper!” Ben said, approaching her for a hug and a passionate kiss. “Yes, I reminded her again yesterday. Although I’m not sure she understands the concept of wages. She commented on how weird this lottery is, where everyone gets a prize,” Mason said, turning his back to Ben and Harper who were already half lying down on his desk. “We should really go in there and explain,” Harper said, getting out from under Ben’s embrace and standing up to join the group staring at Amelia, who was typing oddly at the keyboard, with her index finger pointing up and then down to press the keys. “We tried. Remember when we took her to the supermarket, to show how we used our money to buy food?” Ben said. “Yeah. She was so confused to have to looks for things herself, and not being allowed to open anything until after paying,” Mason added. Amelia suddenly raised her head and they all scattered to their desks. Mid-morning, Amelia came out of her office, looking for Mason, and as she didn’t find him, she decided to go into the kitchen, to make herself some tea. “Oh!” she gasped as she entered and saw Ben’s shirt up and Harper kissing her boyfriend's chest with her hands below his clothes. “Oh, don’t mind me, carry on as you were,” Amelia said, blushing and pretending to cover her eyes with her hand, although her fingers were too far apart to hide the scene she was only too eager to observe. She picked up the kettle and took it with her, empty and cold. “Hi, Amelia, were you looking for me?” Mason asked, stepping in front of Amelia and almost getting knocked down by her. “Oh! Yes! I need some tea! But announce yourself before going in the kitchen. Ben's in there pretending to be in love. He just can’t get over me, the poor man. He’s making a fool of himself, with all that Mexican- novela kissing when it’s perfectly obvious he’s only trying to get to me and make me jealous. I wish he would just accept our time together has ended.” “O.K.,” Mason said, pronouncing each letter carefully and smirking. “Anybody in here?” he asked before entering the kitchen, allowing Ben and Harper to quickly straighten up their clothes. “Oh, hi Mason,” Ben said as he finished tucking his shirt in. “Amelia warned me you were trying to make her jealous.” Harper laughed. “Seems she can’t get over you, Ben...” “There’s nothing to get over. It was a single date. It wasn’t even a date; it was late and we went to grab a bite at the Kebab place around the corner.” “Well, something happened,” Harper insisted, ironically. “Yes, I heard a mention of flowers,” Mason added. “Flowers? There were no flowers! Oh, wait... maybe there were flowers on the table, but just those plastic ones. Every table had those.” “And that you offered to pay...” Mason continued. “She said she’d forgotten her wallet! Wait, how do you know all of this?” “Well, the next day she couldn’t stop talking about the amazing date she’d had with this amazing man.” “It wasn’t a date!” “Maybe you’re just too irresistible for your own good,” Harper said and reached out to rest her hand on Ben's shoulder. “I’m still here,” Mason noted, but the hot couple weren’t hearing him anymore. So he just finished making Amelia’s tea, no sugar, and went to deliver it. A little later, when Ben was able to leave the kitchen, he asked for everyone’s attention. “I have big news, people! I have a meeting here with a lead this afternoon! If it all works out, I’ll make a huge sale!” “I don’t understand,” said Mason. “What is there to understand?” “I don’t understand either. Why is a client coming here?” Theo asked. “Exactly. In all the years we worked together, I never once saw you bring a client here. You just call and ask if they want our services. They say no, you hang up. End of story,” Mason said. “Well, it’s this new thing I’m trying out. It’s called ‘making my first sale’! Guys, you should be happy! This is a potential client!” Ben was excited for all of them, so he just continued: “Mason, I need your help since you’re the oldest on the team.” “Well, I should also be in this meeting too. I have to manage the entire office, and that includes all the meetings that take place in the office,” Theo said. “I can help if you need me, Ben,” Harper offered. “Yes!... I mean maybe. I mean. please come, but stay behind me, so I don’t get distracted when I’m talking to the lead,” Ben said. Sylvia tried to excuse herself. “Well, you certainly don’t need me, so-” “Yes, I do! Emily, the lead, specifically asked to have our IT personnel in the meeting.” “She did? Why?” “I didn’t ask. I thought it was something I should know. Don’t you know?” “No,” Sylvia said. “Just be there.” “Okay.” “Any news on the spreadsheet?” Ben asked, turning to Mason. “She’s still typing,” he answered. They all went out to lunch, so that Theo could lock the door and open it again for them when they returned. Emily arrived shortly after. “Why is everything so dark?” “Sorry about that,” Ben replied. “We had a small technical issue with the ceiling lights. The conference room is this way.” “Well, we've had an issue for years, ever since we moved to this floor,” Theo said, getting a glaring look from Ben in return. “What? Honesty is the best policy when dealing with clients,” Theo whispered. And then added only to himself “And I’ll be adding that to the new Client Office Rules Manual.” “Yes, this thirteenth floor is also peculiar,” Emily carried on. “Luckily, you gave me good directions or I would’ve been stuck in the elevator looking for the button.” “There’s no button,” Theo said. “We have to get out on the twel-” “Yes, I know,” Emily interrupted him. “I just went up to fourteen and came down.” Theo and Ben froze. Going up and then down? They’d been climbing that last flight of stairs for years. They shared a look and Theo said, in a low-pitched voice, just for Ben: “It’s different for us. We come to work. It’s better to go up to a job than to go down to a job.” Ben nodded. He wasn’t going to be that dumb. Ben introduced Harper, Sylvia and Mason to Emily, and she began the meeting: “I like to get straight to the point. How many copiers do you need? I see you brought your whole IT team, so I guess this is a big investment for you.” “Copiers? We already have a copier...” Ben said, hesitantly. “And how many more do you want?” Ben shrugged and looked at the rest of his team. “What do you mean?” “I thought you set up this meeting to decide on how many copiers you want to buy?” “No,” Ben replied, his forehead starting to sweat and all his muscles twitching as his anxiety broke loose. “This meeting was to fool you... I mean to sell you customer support services for the Spellnorth products.” “What products?” “Well... all of them. We support all Spellnorth products.” “I never heard of that.” They all stared silently at each other, in the dim light provided by the floor lamps, and finally, Emily stood up, said her goodbyes, and left. “Are you alright Ben?” Harper asked after Emily had left. “Yes, of course. I just need a moment alone.” As everyone else left, Theo asked Mason if there was any news about the spreadsheet. “It’s almost five o’clock. The banks are closing and we’re going to get our paycheck late. Again.” “You should go and ask if she needs help, Mason,” Harper added. “She said she needed to practice, otherwise she’d forget everything she learned on the course. So, she forbade me to help her.” “We can all go!” Harper replied. “Like good employees, to check if the boss needs anything.” “That’s a great idea,” Theo agreed. And so they all gathered outside Amelia’s corner office, looking in, until finally Theo knocked on the glass door, turned the handle, and asked in his sweetest voice: “Hi Amelia, we were just wondering if you needed anything. Like tea, a sandwich, another lamp, someone to send the payment spreadsheet to HR?...” “Ah, funny you should ask. I’m having some problems with this Excel.” They took the opportunity and rushed behind her desk, but all they saw on the computer screen was an empty spreadsheet. “The cell is locked,” Amelia said. “What?” Mason asked, confused. “We talked about this during my course. Excel just locks a cell and you need a special key to get out.” “A cell, like in jail?” Theo asked. “No. Each square in a spreadsheet is called a cell,” Sylvia explained. “I think I’ve heard of this. It’s a Prison Cell. It locks the entire Spreadsheet.” “It’s all finished and ready to send. You just don’t see the values, because it’s locked,” Amelia assured them. “But I’ve been trying every key on the keyboard since this morning and I can’t remember how to unlock it.” Ben had snuck up behind them. “So, you’re telling me that my life... I mean our livelihood is locked in that spreadsheet?” he asked, startling them. “Sylvia, can’t you fix it?” “Well, I could, of course. But she’s using Excel online. I don’t have credentials-” “To work in the cloud, we know. Can’t we just press all the keys?” Ben insisted. “I did that a couple of times in my class, and my teacher was very upset, he said-” While Amelia spoke, Ben just reached out and pressed the Escape key, in the upper left corner of the keyboard. The central cell on the screen blinked a few times. “Oh no, Ben! What have you done?!” Theo asked in an accusatory tone. “Look! It’s alive!” Suddenly the screen started filling up with random letters and gibberish. And then the letters moved, filling several cells. It was as if all the keys Amelia had been pressing all day long were waiting there, hidden, and had just been released, bursting onto the screen. After a couple of seconds, it all stopped and at the end, there was a cursor blinking. Amelia clicked around with the mouse. “You fixed it, Ben! Nice work! Let me just click here... Sent. All done.” She looked at all of them and just concluded. “Well, that’s it for me today. See you tomorrow.” They started leaving the room, heading for their desks, but before Ben could sit down, Mason called him: there was a phone call from Emily. “Maybe she wants to buy something, after all,” Theo suggested madly. “Hi, Ben. Sorry for the misunderstanding this afternoon. I’m calling because I’ve misplaced my phone. Maybe I left it there?” “Hang on. I’ll take a look,” Ben asked Harper to check the conference room. “Sorry, Emily. My colleague from Marketing just went and checked. No phone.” “Oh. I was hoping it would be there. Wait, Marketing? I thought you were a customer support department. Why do you need Marketing? Oh, never mind. I’ll have to buy a new phone. Thanks, anyway.” Ben hung up and went to sit down in the kitchen. It didn’t take long for Harper to join him and start kissing him, but he sat her down on the chair next to him. “Something wrong?” she asked. “Nothing. It’s just ... we never talk about your work.” “What’s there to talk about? It’s work.” “Yes, but everybody knows what I do. I call potential clients, try to sell them our services... What about you? What do you do?” “You know. Marketing stuff.” “Like what?” “Like stuff... What is this, an audit?” “Oh! She was right!” “Who was right?” “Emily. She asked me why we had a Marketing person on our team. And we shouldn’t have. We’re a customer support team. You don’t have any work! You just sit there all day...” Harper tried to kiss Ben, but he avoided her. “No. No. You don’t work. Why do you come here every day?” “You’re upset about this? Really?” “Of course. You... you don’t work.” “Do any of us work?” “I do! Mason does!” “Do you? Really?” “Yes!” Ben answered, starting to sound desperate. “How many clients do we have?” “I ... I don’t know.” “You say we’re a customer support team. Have we ever got a call from a client?” “Of course not. Our product works really well.” “Really? Never? Don’t you think it’s weird we don’t have light? That no one ever comes in here from other departments?” Harper was on a rant. “That we don’t know anybody in the elevator although it’s all the same company.” “I mean ... I don’t think I ever thought about that. What are you saying?” “We’re on the thirteenth floor. The elevator doesn’t have a button with a thirteen. We weren’t even supposed to be here.” “What do you mean?” “Well, when they told us to move, I took the paper with our new floor to Amelia. I thought it would be more fun to work on the thirteenth than on the eleventh, so I ... you know ... adjusted the numbers.” “Oh my God! They don’t know we still work here!” “Well, someone knows, because we still get paid.” As Harper said that, she finally embraced Ben again and started kissing him. He soon forgot all about his work dilemmas.


I remember the first time I killed it. You're probably wondering what it is. It is more of a thing really. It's a parasite. A fucking spiritual draining parasite. And not a quick drain, more like a slow and gradual mental and spiritual decline. That's what happened to me... I used to be different then I am now. I used to laugh and have a sense of humor, a real sense of direction, and now... I'm just a body existing through life instead of living. I moved into my three bedroom house with my daughter in July 2019. There were immediate signs. My daughter began to have nightmares, horrifically vivid nightmares. She would describe them to me and the hairs on my entire body would stand at attention. A few weeks passed and a friend I would often confide in recommended having a priest pray over and bless my house. I thought he was full of shit but what could it hurt? I mean my daughter was literally suffering every night and was terrified to go to sleep. Reluctantly, I called the priest from my friend's church. He came to my house and blessed it by spraying holy water in every room and burning sage throughout my entire residence. Her nightmares only grew worse and I began to have a strong feeling I was being watched when I was at home. This felt like whatever it was was angry. I could feel its rage. It grew stronger with each passing day. It didn't take long till it manifested itself in the form of something hideous, something physical. I trapped it and stabbed it repeatedly, killing it, or at least I thought I did. I buried it in my backyard just to find an empty hole in the morning. We moved out of our house and hit the road for Colorado to stay with my brother. It followed us all the way to his house. It killed my brother and ate his entire body. It likes people. It feasts on them. And so I used that to its disadvantage. I set a trap using my daughter as bait. I didn't tie her up or anything crazy like that. She sat in a chair in the middle of our living room and cried. It loves tears. Especially those that belong to a weeping child. It came and tried to eat my daughter but I killed it... again. That was a few years ago. I know it's not dead. It's out there, waiting to come back. It's waiting for me to settle down somewhere. Somewhere it can hide. It has nestled itself into every place we've moved to, so we've stopped settling and have remained on the road, scraping by to live. I still don't sleep most nights. I sit up and watch over my daughter as she sleeps. She rarely gets nightmares anymore. However, I'm still uncomfortable most days and feel this impending dread. Plus, being on the road nonstop and running is exhausting. I wish we could settle down. But I know if I settle it will come back. It always comes back.


The day was young. The sky was dim and overcast, much like an old antenna TV that couldn't find a signal. The snow begins to let down, accumulating pretty quick. Ryan was on his way home from college for winter break. He was so excited, he'd just managed to get this new game his brother Luke had been dying to play, for him. With Christmas coming, gifts in his back seat he was ready to go home and forget school for winter break. As many have learned, sometimes events don't pan out quite how we expect, and this is no different for Ryan. The snow kept coming, changing to icy hail. Ryan's car wasn't exactly the safest on the road and was pretty well... 'used'. And like any other day with it, something went wrong. Only this time it wasn't a check engine light that stalled his car, it wasn't the heat stopped working. No, this time his wiper malfunctioned. Snow piling up fast, he starts to slow down. Perhaps this would have worked if he had only replaced his breaks last month as he intended. His speed declines but in not with any haste . Banging on the windshield trying to get the wipers moving again, he finally has success, if only it had happened half a second sooner. The wipers move only to reveal a tree branch piercing his windshield. A large crash is heard throughout the streets. Ryan's airbags deploy, forcing him back into his seat . The neighbors come rushing out to the scene, Each one of them dialing 911. It wasn't long before an ambulance and fire truck showed up tearing the car apart to free him. Ryan flowing in and out of consciousness only remembers glimpses of the event. He gets put on a gurney and rushed to the nearest hospital. By the time he reached the hospital Ryan was out cold. He doesn't remember much after that, just that whatever they did felt like they poured ice into his veins, all to almost immediately feel like he's been sent through the gates burning gates of hell. Maybe it was PTSD that caused Ryan to change, maybe some brain damage, but the next thing Ryan remembers is being surrounded by family and friends. He mostly kept to himself, and wouldn't utter a word to anyone. Not to mention that after the accident he couldn't move without help. It was seldom that Ryan would leave the living room, and only went places when his family absolutely forced him to go. Really though he was quite content doing nothing sitting in the living room, just knowing he was surrounded by family. Even if he didn't show it. After a few weeks of him being home the contents of the car came back. The Christmas gifts seemed in perfect condition, and Ryan hoped so much these would put a smile on his family's face. Ever since his accident the house seemed kind of glum. First his mother; A pair of earrings in the shape of a snowman. It doesn't seem like much but his mother had always been obsessed with winter. She loved the crisp and cold air, and coming inside for hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. It was all around her favorite season. Before she even knew it she put them on, looked at her boy and said "Thank you Ryan. I love them" her eyes mist over as her boy remains emotionless. His father was next; a new fishing pole. During the summer the two of them would go out to the lake on a small boat, and go fishing. Those were some of Ryan's fondest memories. He absolutely loved the serenity the lake brought. His father started to tear up. "Your mother and I were talking about going up to the lake this year. We thought you'd like it. We thought.... I don't know. We just thought you might enjoy going out to the lake again." To which again Ryan showed no change. Maybe the next gift, the one he was so excited to give would change that. Ryan and Luke were really close before he left for college and this was his attempt to rekindle that. The game he was so excited to share, it had been sold out everywhere. There was a note inside the wrapping 'Hey, I know we havent gamed much since I left but I got 2 copies! Just shoot me a message and we can play!' Luke started to laugh and cry all at the same time and looks right at Ryan. "Yeah we gonna play this now? You havent moved in weeks! Go ahead and pick up a controller!" Luke scoffs storming out of the room. The weather begins to turn from what his mother used to consider a winter paradise to a more tepid heat. Perfect fishing weather. Sure it's a little brisk but that never stopped Ryan and his father from going fishing before why should it now? Ryan's mother makes a nice little picnic set up, his father grabs his new pole that his son got for him, and Luke helps Ryan into the car. Not much chatter on the way there, but they did listen to the new CD Luke got for his brother for Christmas. . The lake was quiet, serene and oh what a view. The sunrise perfectly reflected on the lake front showcasing it's beautiful orange sky. The mother puts out some sandwiches that she made earlier and the father casts his line out, just like the old days. For the first time in a while you could see the family actually enjoying themselves. Spending a day out together was definitely something they needed. But like a days even this one must come to an end. The sun had begin to set. The family all gathered round and hugged each other. "Guess this is where we say goodbye huh.." Luke says in tears "I'm really gonna miss you bro" his father opens the receptical containing Ryan's ashes. "Goodbye son" his parents barely manage to says as his father allows the ashes to float away in the wind.


My name is Doctor Elizabeth Hayes. I’m a psychotherapist who specializes in the unlocking of repressed memories. A repressed memory for those of you who may not know is a rare psychological phenomenon in which memories of traumatic events may be stored in the unconscious mind and blocked from normal conscious recall. In simple terms the human mind can sometimes hide away memories of trauma or abuse, giving them the illusion as if the event never happened. Some theorists claim this is a defense mechanism developed in the cases of young children who could probably not be able to mentally cope with the trauma from the experience. At first glance, this may not seem to be much of a concern, what you can't remember can't hurt you, right? For some people, this may be the case, but in others they find themselves responding to mental triggers, smells, sounds or phrases with no prior knowledge as to why they are having these experiences. For others, they may unknowingly stumble across the memory in their sleep. Have you ever had a dream that seemed so vivid and real yet upon awakening you think back to it, unable to recall when in your life the scenario happened? What you simply dismissed as a strange dream could have very well been a repressed memory unwittingly stumbled upon in your subconscious. It's weird, I know but bear with me. I find the phenomenon fascinating. Which is why I choose to specialize in this area of psychology in my studies and practices. Periodically from time to time, I am visited by patients from all over the country who believe they have experienced this phenomenon. After being referred to me by their therapist who suspects their patents may have repressed memories from their childhood. It is then up to me to “unlock” these memories. Only after using social cues and making notes on their reactions to certain smells, sounds, and pictures can I estimate wherein their lifetime the repressed memory takes place. This is a slow process that can take up to a year before we even identify the timeframe of this memory. Once the right time frame of the repressed memory is discovered, commonly between the ages of 4 to 12. I bring in what I call the “Dream Screen”. A device invented by the National Center for Neural Applications lent to me by the University of Illinois. The appropriately nicknamed “Dream Screen” is a device that measures brain activity while you sleep. This data can be plugged into an algorithm that reconstructs your memory so that it can be played back in a recording. Subjects are first put into a stage of sleep called Hyponagoia. This is a semi-lucid stage of sleep that takes place at the moment between sleep and wakefulness so that I can communicate with them as I watch their memory unfold on the screen, live as if I, myself were living the memory. While walking the subject through the memory for the first time it is up to me to coax the subject through the entire memory, asking the right questions, pointing out the hidden details all while making a conscious effort into not leading the subject too much as to incidentally plant false memories into their subconscious. This is an incredibly delicate procedure and requires absolute concentration on my behalf. Something I have only been able to achieve after years of experience and practice. This entire process can take up to an entire month to complete, but the results are always worth it. Some patients were able to recover memories they lost years ago and finally be able to come to terms with the past and put years of not knowing to rest. Other times missing evidence from crimes and horrific injustices such as rape, torture and child abuse were able to be reported in the court of law so that the victim could finally get the justice they deserved. It is for moments like these that I continue to do what I do. was only after viewing my most recent subjects results that I ended up having more questions than answers. Questions I’d never imagine asking myself. Questions, in hindsight even I would much rather be left unanswered. The subject, Hugo was a 26-year-old male from Eden, New York. He was initially referred to me by his family therapist after identifying gaps in his memories and recalling a strange reoccurring dream he had no memories of in his childhood. The subject appeared healthy both mentally and psychically. Aside from the obvious signs of sleep depravation he was in great shape for someone of his age. During our initial interviews, he was able to recall memories from as far back as 1995, when the subject was only 2 years old. These memories were recorded and replayed to his living relatives and confirmed as being legit memories. This is very impressive and gave me high hopes for this being a quick and easy case. All there was left to do was find the key. I asked the subject if he could recall any forms of abuse during his childhood years either from the hands of a family member, friend or stranger. “No, nothing like that”. He replied with a forced smile on his face. “Do you recall ever witnessing a traumatic event such as a traumatic accident, or a murder take place’? I asked him curiously. “Nothing as long as watching reality TV doesn’t count”. He remarked comically. I forced a smile at the bad joke and continued. “Tell me about those dreams you have been having”? I asked him with genuine curiosity. His smile was quickly replaced by a look of concern as he unconsciously stole a glance over his shoulder then back to me. “Well... Uh,” He stuttered. “It started happening last year.” He said as he took a casual sip of water from his table as he continued. I noticed a slight tremor in his hand as he placed the glass back onto the table. “I’ve been having this dream I’m in a field at the old family farm”. “How do you know it was that particular location”? I asked. “According to your file, you moved several times during your childhood”. “I would recognize those blue skies and open farmland anywhere.” He said. “My mother would complain all the time about wanting to move back to the city, but my father claimed that the open country air would do us kids some good”. “What else do you remember”? I asked patiently. “I remember standing in an open field walking toward something.” “Go on” I coaxed him. He sat there for a moment in silence, becoming visibly tense. “Then things get weird”. He said nervously “I’m all of a sudden in a dark room I’ve never seen before, and someone else is there”. “Do you remember who this person is”? I asked him. “No, no I don’t,” He said. “If I can be one hundred percent honest, I don’t remember anything else that happened”. He leaned back in his chair closing his eyes as if trying hard to remember. “How old were you when you lived on that family farm,” I asked him. “nine to ten years old” He replied more confidently. I lived with my grandparents at the time, it was only for about a year or so.” “Anything else you can remember about your time there that you think could be related to this dream,” I asked “I don’t know”, the patient admitted. “That’s where my memory begins to get a little foggy. All I know is that hours, even days after having the dream, I just can't shake this feeling of dread. No matter how much I try I just can’t calm my nerves after that dream”. I took a few notes and stood to my feet. Well, I guess the only way we are going to find out is through phase two. I moved the cart over to where the patient was sitting and began to prep the “Dream Screen”. After leaning the subject’s seat back into a prone position, I administered the sedative to ease him into his semi-lucid state. After placing the electrodes to his temple and forehead I slipped on a pair of headphones onto the patient so that I could communicate with him from the observation room. After guiding the patient through verbal cues and building the scenario I began to see the first sign of images on the screen. The memory started dark at first, but what began to look like an open wheat field came into view. I began to take in the sights. Blue skies, white clouds, the sway of the golden wheat blowing in the wind and what appeared to be a small country home in the distance. “OK, now tell me. Where are you standing right now”? I asked the subject. “The Farm” The subject mumbled, “The one I grew up on”. As he spoke I took in the surroundings as they began to become clearer as the subject began to remember. “Now tell me who else was with you”? I prodded. “My... my friend... no .... cousin... Kaity”. The subject said. “Good, you’re doing great”! I said encouragingly as a figure appeared walking next to the subject in his memory. “Now describe your cousin, what did she look like”? “Dirty blond hair, brown eyes, freckles on her nose.” The subject said confidently as Kaity came into view, exactly how he described her. She looked to be around 8 years old. “Come on Huey,” Kate said excitedly! “Can you see it? The old farmhouse, we are almost there!” “Can you tell me about this old farmhouse”? I asked the subject? “Yeah. It was an old abandoned house built on my grandfather’s property. It was built before my family bought the property, we lived just a few acres away from it” He mumbled quietly. “Kate and I wanted to check it out, we were planning on making it into a new clubhouse” I spotted a small smile on the subjects face from the window of the observation room as he began to remember. “We had a backpack full of stuff, action figures, comic books, a couple of snickers bars.” He said quietly. “We were driven out of our old clubhouse in the hayloft after a family of raccoons moved in”. Now describe the old farmhouse to me. “I asked him as the blurry image of the house began to come into contrast. “Two stories, peeling dark blue paint, thatched roof, an old tire swing in the tree out front.” He told me. The image now became clear as the farmhouse came fully into view. Down to every detail he described it in. “Come on Huey” Kate beckoned “Let’s see what’s inside. As she walked to the front door the subject’s eyes darted to a window on the top floor. A figure quickly moved out of view that appeared to be watching them. “Wait, I blurted. “Who was that”? The subject’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t remember, he said after a long pause”. I let it go and let the subject continue. “Ok now, what happened after you went inside of the farmhouse? What did you find inside”? I asked. “Umm... Nothing”. The subject said slowly. “It was cleaned out. No people, no furniture, not even a single scrap of litter.” The dream suddenly grew darker as the subject now appeared in a small dimly lit room. Light pooled out from the creases in between the boarded-up windows. “Isn’t this great”? Kate said excitedly. “We can have campouts, we can have picnics, we can even invite our friends over and-” Her voice was cut off as a low creak sounded from upstairs. “What? What was that”? Kate said nervously. “Probably another family of raccoons. I heard Kate say as the subject’s eyes trailed to the top of the stairs”. “Wait, I remember now,” the subject said shakily”. “Who was it”? I asked cautiously. “No, not who.” The subject said with genuine fear in his voice. “Oh god, It... It was...” His voice trailed off as a figure appeared from the top of the stairs. I leaned in close trying my best to make out the figure standing at the top of the stairs. “Stay with me” I coaxed the subject. “Describe what you saw inside of that farmhouse.” The subject didn’t say anything, his facial features remained taunt but his lips quivered. My eyes went back to the screen as the humanoid figure began to walk down the stairs. “Huey?” Kates soft voice said nervously. “Who is-“? The figure suddenly dropped onto all fours and dashed down the stairs with alarming speed. “Teeth” the subject shouted “White-eyes, pale skin”. The figure suddenly stopped, inches away from the subject’s face. My heart began to race as the image cleared up, as the subject began to remember. Most of what I could make out of the face of the figure was only what was visible in the small slivers of light from the boarded-up windows. Pale skin, gleaming white teeth, and brown receded gums from a mouth who’s lips were pulled so far back they almost appeared to not exist. Its eyes were also rolled so far back that the pupils and irises were not even visible, showing only the whites of its eyes. Its nose was nothing but two slits as it breathed heavily only inches away from the little boy's face. The being wore no clothes and appeared to be human, yet showed no discernible signs of gender. For a long time, I watched in complete shock as the figure appeared unmoving, the slits where the nose should have been flaring with every breath. Its teeth began to click as if in curiosity as movement was spotted from behind the being. “Katie, no!” The subject screamed in unison with the child in the dream. Kate stood behind the figure and swung a two by four at the being’s head. The creature spun around with lightning speed catching the little girl’s wrist in his hands and lashed out with the other slicing a clean cut into the child's stomach with its clawed hand. Kate fell onto her back, hands covering the open wound and began to whimper terrified subdued sobs as the creature slowly crawled on top of her, its face now inches from hers. “Leave her alone”, the subject screamed once again in unison with his younger self as he made his way forward, arms outstretched as if to push the creature off his cousin. The creature once again moved with blinding speed knocking the young boy across the room with a mule kick to land roughly against the opposite wall. The creature once again drew its attention back to the young girl lying beneath it. It slowly leaned forward, its mouth only inches away from the young girl’s ear. It then stopped and a hissing whisper could be heard from the creature’s mouth. Kate looked up in confusion as the creature then broke into a sprint, dashing out the open door faster than any living creature I’ve seen anything move in my entire life. The screen went dark as an alarm went off in the observation room. The subject began to shake violently as if in a seizure. I ran forward and quickly shut down the machine and removed the electrodes from the subject’s head. “Kaity no, leave her alone”. The subject cried as the trashing became less violent and he slowly drifted into unconsciousness. I will be honest with you, this was not the first time I have seen this creature while using the dream screen. The first time I dismissed it as simply a pseudo-memory. Sometimes a subject subconscious would replace the person who caused the trauma with a childhood fear, like the monster in their closet, or a creature from a horror movie that scared them as a kid creating a pseudo memory. The second time I saw it, I knew It was so more than that. Several times before I have seen this thing locked deep into a subject’s locked memories as if its appearance itself was so horrifying that the human brain automatically retracted the memory into the deepest parts of the subject’s memories as to keep them from going insane. Each subject completely different, unrelated with no discernable trends or patterns in physical appearance, mental health or age. I do not know who or what this thing is but, but I have dedicated my entire career to finding out what this creature is. Every case only leads to dead ends but this case was different. Never in any of my past subjects’ memories have I heard this creature speak. Even in my most recent report, I could not make out what exactly was said. Earlier this month, I have contacted the most recent subjects’ cousin from his memory, Kate. After much convincing on my behalf I talked her into visiting my office in Washington DC, to have her memories examined. The now fully grown Kate was also experiencing similar dreams as the most previous subject prior to our first meeting. Her resulting memory once unlocked ran parallel to that of her cousins. She also bore an old scar on her stomach in the same place the creature scratched her in the memory, proving its legitimacy. The only difference between that of Kate's memory was the creature's voice was now clear as day. I will never forget the words I heard from Kate's memory. The sound of the creatures hissing voice still fresh in my mind what I heard what it say to that little girl almost 17 years ago. “Stop searching for me, Doctor Hayes.


His coffee had grown cold, but he took a large gulp all the same. He would need as much supplemental energy as he could find if he had any hope of arriving home before dawn. Already, Oliver could feel fatigue taking hold, and it was only just past midnight. He had at least five hours of dull and tedious driving ahead of him. His eyes were heavy in his skull, and the thought of sleep proved all too enticing. He longed for the warm embrace of his bedsheets above all else. A weekend of debauchery in New Orleans had left him exhausted. At some point, he lost track of how many bars and strip clubs he had visited. *When in Rome*, he thought. The weekend had also left him nearly destitute. Even if he wanted to rent a motel room for the night, he would have trouble finding the capital to do so. It seemed he was left with no choice but to press on, to make it home. Now, he was traversing rural Arkansas on his journey back north. The highway he found himself on was nearly deserted at this hour, and it was lined with dense forest as far as the eye could see. The unchanging scenery made staying alert all the more difficult. He took another swig of gas station coffee, his second cup of the night. He feared that caffeine would not be enough to carry him home, though -- he needed to break up the monotony of the flat, static highway. The radio had been playing at a low volume thus far, but he thought loud music might reinvigorate him, so he turned it up to a volume that most would consider unpleasant. It was tuned in to a local classic rock station and, sure enough, he felt a renewed vigor as he hummed along to the cycling hits. He carried on in this fashion for another half-hour or so, thumping his thumb upon the steering wheel to match the familiar rhythms. *I might make it home after all*, he thought. Then, one of his old favorites came on -- Blue Öyster Cult’s “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” -- and he turned the volume even higher, letting the music wash over him. The song brought with it memories of a simpler time, when Oliver was just a child, listening to the radio with his father in his childhood home’s garage. So much had changed since then; he was not sure when his life had gotten so off track. For the time being, though, he was content with allowing the nostalgia to fill his mind with images of a much more pleasant era, and he sang along: *All our times have come, here but now they’re gone...* A smile crept across his face. Without noticing, he began pressing his foot to the gas pedal harder and harder, gradually building speed in a subconscious effort to match the euphoria brought on by the music. Soon, he had accelerated to 100 miles per hour, though he was blissfully unaware of doing so. *Seasons don’t fear the reaper...* *Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain...* *We can be like they are...* Despite having few reasons to be happy, in that moment, Oliver felt at peace. All the while, the car continued to gain momentum. Then, in the blink of an eye, the entire weight of the world came crashing down upon him. *Come on baby, don’t fear the reaper...* At first, he only saw the glare of his headlights reflected in its eyes, but within fractions of a second, its full figure became clear -- a deer, frozen in the headlights, watching as two tons of metal came barreling toward it. *Baby take my hand...* There was no time to correct his course. In a brief moment of clarity, he became aware that he would collide with the animal, and that he would, in all likelihood, die in the process. He discovered that the old adage was true, after all -- your life really does flash before your eyes in the moments leading up to your demise. While some might think of all of the good times they have had, of cherished moments with loved ones, Oliver’s mind was flooded with a single, all-encompassing emotion: regret. *Don’t fear the reaper...* In an act of animalistic instinct, he closed his eyes as he braced for impact. He slammed his foot down upon the brake pedal, though he knew this would not change his fate. Time seemed to slow as his car, still traveling at ferocious speed, came closer and closer to obliterating the blinded beast, until, finally, it made contact, a monstrous machination of man colliding with the hide of one of Earth’s most beautiful creatures, and then -- *We’ll be able to fly...* Nothing. His tires screeched as his vehicle came to its tumultuous halt, but inexplicably, there was no collision. Oliver felt like his heart might beat out of his chest, and his knuckles were white from the tightness of his grip on the steering wheel. Some time passed before he remembered to breathe. After a few moments of sitting in shock, he exited the vehicle to inspect the road behind him. There was no sign of the deer -- no blood, no carcass, no tracks in the grass beside the highway. He tried to rationalize what had just taken place and failed to come to any conclusion. Was his tired mind playing tricks on him? Was the deer a figment of his imagination, a sign that he was not fit to continue driving? After searching the area thoroughly, he reentered his car, no closer to understanding what had transpired. He resolved to stop at the next establishment he came across to collect his thoughts, whether it be an eatery, a gas station or a rest stop. He turned off the radio and continued driving, this time at a sluggish pace. His hands shook violently on account of his crushing anxiety, having survived after coming within inches of certain death. He traveled well below the speed limit for the next few miles. Not a single car shared the road with him. The night now felt incredibly eerie, and he became acutely aware of how far he was from what most would call “civilization.” He was prepared to resign himself to pulling over and sleeping in his car when a beacon of hope appeared in the distance -- a bright neon sign, a sign of life. He was unable to make out the words, but he knew that he needed to get there as quickly as possible. He picked up speed, and soon, the sign gained clarity -- it read: “World’s End Diner.” It was the first building he had seen in over an hour. To Oliver, it felt like finding an oasis in the middle of a harsh and unforgiving desert. *A fitting name*, he thought. He reached the diner within minutes and, to his surprise, it was gorgeous -- pristine, even. Given its surroundings, he had no idea how or why it had been so well maintained. The neon sign glowed a stunning blue in the night sky, and the retro architecture made it appear as if it had been plucked out of the 1950s and dropped there, just for this occasion. The scene was a strange amalgamation of beauty and omen. Strangely, there were no other cars in the parking lot, yet a neon sign in the window flashed: “OPEN.” For that, Oliver was thankful. He was not particularly hungry, but he felt that a cup of coffee that was actually hot would help to quell his nerves. Above all else, though, he yearned for human contact -- the simple act of making small talk, even if he did not recount the details of his bizarre experience, might help to ground him and shake his deep feeling of dread. At the very least, it might take his mind off of an event that he was sure could not be properly explained. He parked his car and stepped into the night air, now oddly frigid when it had once been warm. A strong gust of cold wind stung his face as he made his way toward the diner’s entrance; it was as if he could feel the temperature plummeting by the second. He reached for the glass door and swung it open, bells jingling to announce his presence. He felt a rush of warm air as he stood in the doorway -- already he felt relief -- and he stepped inside the World’s End Diner. Letting the door swing shut behind him, Oliver glanced about the eatery and took in his surroundings. All of the décor matched the retro aesthetic he admired in the building’s façade -- porcelain enamel, red leather booths, stainless steel panels. Either the diner’s proprietors were meticulous in their dedication to vintage design or it was built in the mid-20th century and had been painstakingly preserved. There were three others in the diner: a tall and slender middle-aged woman behind the counter who he assumed was a waitress, an older gentleman cleaning the grill, and a patron sitting alone in a booth at the far end of the restaurant donning a brown cap and a long overcoat. He could only see the woman’s face, which looked downtrodden; the others had their backs turned toward him. He hoped one of them would be kind enough to entertain his attempts at light dialogue. He found a stool at the counter and made himself comfortable before looking up and smiling at the waitress. She did not smile back. In fact, she seemed to be in no rush to accommodate him; she just stared at him blankly. This awkward silence carried on for some time as Oliver studied her wrinkled face. Her expression was a blend of profound sadness and total indifference, and could he blame her? Surely a life that revolved around waiting tables in the back of beyond, likely for decades on end by the looks of it, was not a particularly glamorous one. Eventually, he spoke, still holding onto a smile that was now forced: “Hey, how’s it going?” No response. “This place is gorgeous, by the way. Kind of a hidden gem, huh?” Again, there was no response. It seemed he would not be able to find the conversation he longed for with her. He sighed, and spoke once more: “Is there any way I could get a hot cup of coffee?” At this, she finally stirred. She shuffled toward a coffee pot slowly, her expression unchanging, and filled a mug. She handed it to Oliver without so much as a friendly nod. “Thanks so much.” He took the mug into his own hands and felt its warmth immediately. “This is just what I needed.” He watched as steam rose in wisps off of the black liquid, eager for it to eradicate his lingering chills. He raised the mug to his mouth, and as soon as the coffee touched his lips, he was shocked to find that it was already ice cold. He managed a small sip before resting it back down atop the counter. He stared at the mug, perplexed -- not only was it cold, but it also tasted absolutely foul. He turned back toward the waitress, who was still watching him vacantly. “Uh... Can you please warm this up for me, miss?” Again, she shuffled slowly as she made her way toward him, without a word. She retrieved the mug before sluggishly sauntering toward a sink, into which she poured its contents. She filled it yet again, from the same pot, and returned it to Oliver. It was warm in his hands, just as it had been, but by the time he swallowed, it was icy. He had no intention of burdening the waitress any further, and so he feigned gratitude. “Thanks again.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet, laying a $5 bill on the counter. “Keep the change, miss.” She stared at it, emotionless. It occurred to him that she might be braindead; she evidently did not have all of her faculties about her and she did not behave in a way that any functioning adult would. He slid the bill toward her, encouraging her to take it. After a long while, she did. She held the bill in her hands and gawked at it, as if she did not understand its purpose. As she was studying it, Oliver noticed something incredibly unnerving -- a long gash on each of her wrists, blackened with dried blood, perhaps the remnants of a failed suicide attempt that she made no attempt to conceal. His eyes widened. “Are you okay?” She returned her attention to him, though she made no effort to reply to his query. “Ma’am, shouldn’t you see a doctor?” Her face twitched, and he thought she might actually respond, but all she did was shift her facial expression to one of confusion. *At least she’s finally showing an emotion*, he thought. *That’s progress.* He intended to continue attempting to help the injured woman, but before he could say anything further, she turned and retreated into a back office -- or perhaps a storage closet? -- at a much quicker pace than she had been operating at thus far. Oliver was left alone at the counter, dumbfounded. If she did not want his help, it was probably unwise to continue offering it. Still, he could not shake the feeling that the woman was in dire need of assistance, but at that moment he had more than enough of his own traumas to confront. He turned his focus toward the older gentleman tending the grill, and decided he might as well try to spark up a conversation with him -- if he was friendlier than the waitress had been, Oliver might even be able to convince him to help the poor woman. He found a seat closer to where the man was standing, but his back was still turned toward him, so he sat in silence for a moment as he pondered how to attract the cook’s attention. Eventually, he decided on: “How’s it goin’ there, sir?” The man immediately let out a deep, guttural grunt. Oliver was not sure if that meant he did not wish to be disturbed, but he was so desperate for conversation, for at least *some* sense of normalcy, that he was not deterred. “Sorry, what was that, sir?” The man slowly began to turn, his feet scraping against the tiled floor as if he did not possess the strength to take proper steps, and little by little, his face was revealed -- his eyes were shut tight, his jaw hung in a zombie-like manner and the skin around his lips was a sickening shade of blue. He faced Oliver and unleashed yet another rasping groan. Oliver tensed up, taken aback by the man’s appalling appearance. It seemed that every employee of the World’s End Diner might be in dire need of medical attention. He was left speechless as he studied the cook’s lifeless visage. The two of them silently faced each other for some time, although the man never so much as opened his eyes, so it was difficult to tell if he was even truly cognizant of Oliver’s presence. He just stood there, mouth gaping. Eventually, the man turned back around and commenced his task of cleaning the grill, although it was already spotless. Oliver abandoned his hope of conversing with the cook and considered the diner’s sheer peculiarity. Its occupants operated somewhere within the uncanny valley -- they resembled humans, but did not behave like them. He reminded himself that he was, by all accounts, in the middle of nowhere -- perhaps their strange behavior could be attributed to the drug abuse that had devastated so many rural communities in recent years. With half of his foul coffee remaining, he resolved to spend a bit more time in the confounding eatery -- besides, he did not believe he was mentally fit to continue his journey just yet. He glanced over at the man sitting alone in the booth at the far end of the diner, concealed by his cap and overcoat. He was idle, not doing much of anything; in front of him were empty mugs and plates, signaling that he had been there for quite a while. *Let’s give it a shot*, Oliver thought. He stood, let out a deep sigh and slowly made his way toward the man’s booth. Timidly, he asked: “Do you mind if I join you, sir?” The man looked up and, to Oliver’s relief, he seemed to be in good shape -- a middle-aged man of dark complexion with no apparent maladies. He looked melancholic, but that was to be expected at this queer hour. “Sure,” he said. “Have a seat.” *Finally someone capable of normal conversation*, Oliver thought. “Thanks -- I think I really need to talk to someone.” He sat opposite the man and took a swig of coffee. After a moment of contemplation, the man asked: “What’s on your mind, son?” “Oh, where to begin,” Oliver groaned. “I’ve had such a strange night. I’m on a sort of road trip, and I had this run-in with a deer... But I’m not sure it ever actually existed. I may have imagined it or something, because here I am. Anyway, that shook me so much that I really needed to find a place to stop, and this diner showed up not long after. But this place seems just as strange -- it’s in the middle of nowhere, but it’s beautiful. And the staff here... They look like they’ve gone through hell and back. They’re not even capable of small talk. It’s like everything just confuses them. It all feels like some sort of fever dream... I guess I could just use a little help making sense of all of it.” At that, the man chuckled. “I don’t think there’s any making sense of it, man.” Oliver was puzzled. “What do you mean by that?” “A place like this -- there’s no rhyme or reason to it. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” Oliver returned a confused expression. The man scoffed. “You really don’t know where you are, huh?” A brief silence. “Arkansas?” He shook his head at Oliver’s naivety. “Shit, man, you’re in for a rude awakening. Here... Take a look at this.” The man removed his cap and tilted his head downward, revealing a bloody mess of a hole in the back of his skull, the atrocious aftermath of a point-blank gunshot. Oliver’s chest tightened. “What the *fuck*?!” He looked toward the counter, where the waitress and the cook were now standing side by side, facing their booth directly. “Somebody call 9-1-1!” When nobody made any effort to seek assistance, Oliver took it upon himself. He retrieved his cellphone from his pocket and was dismayed to find that it was shattered, well past the point of repair. *When could this have happened?* The man laughed and returned his cap to the tattered remnants of his skull. “Don’t you get it, boy? There *is* no help. Piece it together, man. I know you’re smarter than this.” A part of Oliver’s mind began to work out what the man was implying, but yet another part rejected the notion entirely. *No. No. No.* He stood up and darted his eyes around the now sinister diner. The three other occupants were eyeing him expectantly, and he started to hyperventilate. “Ah, it looks like he’s starting to get it, y’all.” Oliver’s panic began to evolve into an irrational anger. “Fuck this and fuck all of you.” He stormed toward the diner’s entrance, determined to put the horror show that was the World’s End Diner behind him. “I’m done.” “There’s no running from this, man. Come on, now.” This time, Oliver did not dignify the man with a response. He swung the diner’s door open and stepped outside. Then, all hope was lost. Nothing looked as it had when he first arrived. There was no highway, no parking lot, not even any trees. Before him was only a bleak and desolate wasteland, black sand stretching out into eternity underneath a similarly black sky. The diner was the forsaken landscape’s only light source. His car was nowhere to be found. *What is happening to me?* Oliver fell to his knees and wept. He had never been a spiritual man, but now, he prayed -- to whom, he could not be sure. Several long minutes passed in this fashion, alternating between curses and pleas to a higher power. He soon became convinced that these pleas were utterly useless. *I deserve this.* If there had ever existed a place where hope was strictly forbidden, where light itself was a mere fantasy, he had found it. *I do deserve this, don’t I?* It was then, in Oliver’s darkest, most despairing moment, that his surroundings began to change, ever so slowly. Initially, he was not sure if he was imagining it, but after some time, it intensified. The landscape was brightening. It was as if some great, all-encompassing light was being shone down upon him from a source unknown -- as far as he could discern, there was no sun in this place. It seemed that the entirety of the sky was emitting this light, blindingly white and scorching hot, slowly but surely gnawing away at the once-infinite dark. Oliver’s tears ceased as he stared toward the sky, getting brighter and brighter by the second, until it seemed that light was the only thing there was, and perhaps the only thing that had ever been. He watched in awe as it enveloped the whole of the world, inch by inch, until at last, it had enveloped him, as well. There was no way to be certain of what he was experiencing, but in that brief moment, Oliver felt that he was gazing directly into the eyes of his Creator. **∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙** When Oliver regained consciousness, his brain was a foggy mess -- it took him some time to remember who he was, and what had transpired. He was acutely aware of a single sensation, though: an excruciating, full-body pain. He was unable to move his body; he felt locked in place, wholly drained of strength. His vision was still white, but eventually, color faded in, and other sensations began to return to him. He was able to discern that he was lying down, staring up at some sort of metal ceiling. Then, he made out the bumps in the road beneath him, and he deduced that he was a passenger in some sort of vehicle, but he lacked the energy to turn his head and study his environment. There was a shrill ringing in his ears, drowning out all other noise, if there was any other noise to speak of. Then, that ringing began to fade, as well, and he felt like a newborn infant, entering the world for the first time. Other sounds began to flood in: footsteps, mumbled chatter and the persistent beeping of medical equipment. And finally, he was able to clearly make out someone’s words: “We’ve got a pulse. We’ve got a pulse. We’ve got a pulse.


Here we go again, Matthew murmured as he entered the manor house a few hours after they received the call this morning. It was another typical day at the office. When the phone started to ring frantically at this early time, it was a sign that something big has happened. And when the person on the other end of the line was screaming that he found the lifeless body of Timothy Rogan, the world-famous solar energy businessman, the whole precinct was up in the air. Matthew hated rich people. Most of the time the police department had to cover for their stupidity in causing scandals and deal with the tabloid journalists who waited for hours outside the precinct for a piece of information that would give them the exclusive they so desperately needed. But this time he braced himself that it will not be like any other time. It would be much worse. Timothy Rogan was not just a celebrity or a pretty face that sold copies of gossip magazines like crazy. He was a business tycoon, one that belonged among the three richest persons in the world. His presence in the business industry was so heavy that with the slightest wrong move he could affect entire governments or cause stock markets to collapse in a single day. Letting out a heavy sigh, Matthew put on his dark grey coat and grabbed his car keys from the drawer of his desk before he exits the precinct. The air was extremely chilly, he felt his face freeze the moment he stepped outside. He cursed under his breath as he passed the cars parked outside. There were only a couple of police cars and some fancy saloon ones of his superiors. His car was far on the opposite side of the ‘presentable’ scale, as the captain had once commented. So, he had to park in the other parking, hidden behind a row of tall buildings, two blocks from there. After two failed attempts the engine was brought to life. The lucky third one. He drove out of the parking lot and took the road heading to Ruda - the ‘paradise on Earth’ as many in town were referring to. It was a long road with fancy houses and villas, destined for the elite of the elite. When he reached the large golden gates the crowd of reporters with mics at hand and cameras flashing were already outside, pushing against each other to get closer in desperate need to manage to enter the property. When one of them spotted his car he shouted something incomprehensible to his ears and the crowd drifted its attention to him. Within seconds, the reporters scrambled around his car, shouting questions. Matthew just shook lightly his head sideways and pulled out his badge, holding it high in his hand so the guards at the gate could see it. A small team of guards approaches the gate in order to keep the media away as the doors open slowly to let the car enter. *** The forensics van was already there the moment his car stopped in front of the house. Matthew got out of his car and stood for a moment, looking at the exterior of the house. The man knew for sure to appreciate the classic beauty of the countryside. The building was so grand and imposing on the outside, Matthew was sure that it matched perfectly with Timothy Rogan’s character. The huge door opens with a light creak and the form of a tall slender man, dressed in a dark uniform appears in the door frame. He looks sleepless, with huge bags under his eyes and wrinkles that expand across his face. Matthew thought he was way past the retirement age and wondered since when this man was under Rogan’s employment. “Good morning sir, I’m Peter Gevraux, Mr Rogan’s butler.” He said with a cold tone in his voice, like a talking robot. Matthew wondered how many times he said this phrase. “They wait for you inside.” Matthew gave a nod to the butler and stepped inside. Most probably everyone who’s seen Timothy Rogan for the past forty-eight hours was informed and gathered to get interviewed. His mouth fell slightly open when he saw the décor of the great hall extending in front of him. The decorations around the borders on the ceiling contained lines of gold and Matthew thought that it was definitely gold leaves up there. The antiques that were filling this huge space could easily be in museums. Peter the butler waited patiently for Matthew to end admiring the area until his face fell on him and motioned Matthew to follow. He followed the butler, crossing a hall that seemed not able to see its end until they turned and bright light strikes him. It must be a ballroom, that was Matthew’s first impression. And he was right. The room lacked furniture - apart from a piano - but the walls were filled with various paintings of different sizes. Except for one large area with high arched windows that expanded to the side the fourth wall would be. The room was sparkling as the sun was hitting on the massive chandelier decorated with numerous crystals that made the room more bright than the day outside. Under the chandelier, there was a large dark bag, probably containing the lifeless body of Timothy Rogan while the forensics team was scattered around, some taking photos of the evidence found while others were getting samples for further tests in the lab. “What’s the weapon this time?” Matthew asks Danielle Robertson as she approaches his side. “Surprise me,” she replies writing something on her notepad. Matthew took a brief look around. “I’d say... knife.” Danielle’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Not bad, not bad...” she smirked. “Letter opener to be more precise. Multiple stabs and cuts on his torso and neck.” “Any guess on who’s the killer?” Matthew turned to her, taking already his pen and notepad out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “Oh no!” Danielle backs off lifting her hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. “I leave the good part at you. They are all gathered in the orchard and are ready to eat each other! Good luck with those.” She pats him on the back as she leaves to continue her job. It is then that Matthew notices voices, coming from afar. Probably arguing. He turned around and followed the voices, moving across the ballroom until he went out from one of the large arched windows that led towards the orchard. The view was magical. The orange trees had started to flower and a thin coat of snow had covered the bushes around, forming some sort of maze. And when Matthew turned to the left - behind some trees - there was chaos. At first glance, they all reminded Matthew of characters from Cluedo his favourite board game as a child. A priest, a couple - with glasses and briefcases on their hands - and a young woman around her thirties with multiple visits to the plastic surgeon. They were all talking together shooting death glares at each other. When Matthew approached close enough and they spotted him, the noises suddenly vanished. “Hello everyone.” He decided to say eventually. Good morning would be far too oxymoron. “I’m detective Matthew Karamanides. So, shall we begin? Who will be the first?” Everyone stares at him blinking. Matthew scans their expressions in case he notices something out of the ordinary. “We can start together if you want.” The priest finally breaks the sudden silence fallen to the crowd. “Yes, come with me Father...?” “Langley,” the priest says calmly. “Father Langley.” The two men walk further away, where a patio is. They could also go inside but Matthew wanted to keep an eye on the rest of the company as well while he was interviewing each member. If they went inside, someone might attempt to eavesdrop. “So, where were you exactly at the time of the murder?” Matthew asks with a low voice as he takes a seat on the bench placed on it. The pen flips between his fingers as he waits for Father Langley’s answer. “I was at the church, making preparations for a wedding we have tomorrow. As you can see the people residing in these areas are quite selective with their ceremonies and everything has to be put in order. They don’t accept anything less than perfection.” “Do you have anyone to confirm this?” Matthew continued taking a quick note on his notepad. “Yes, the wedding planner was there with a small team of his associates.” Matthew took a thorough look that the priest before spitting his next question. Father Langley seemed quite calm and composed personality. If it was him who did it, he could easily conceal it. “And when did you meet with Mr Rogan?” Father Langley took a deep breath. “We met yesterday, early morning. Mr Rogan jogs before sunrise and sometimes I jog too before I start the morning mass.” “I’m sorry to ask this and if you want you can answer my question,” Matthew said trying to appear as discreet “but did you know if Mr Rogan was having problems with someone? Has anything come to your attention?” Father Langley sighed, his index finger tapping quickly on his lap. “Look son, some things are shared with me during confessions. And this is a very private discussion so I cannot disclose any information on the matter.” “I understand father, but this is a murder case and I’m sure Mr Rogan is not available at the moment. I’m sure solving his murder would provide a piece to his soul.” Father Langley’s posture changes slightly. His shoulders got down in relief. Matthew-Father 1-0. “If you put it that way. I guess you’re right. Well, recently he was having trouble with young miss Darma - the lady in the red dress. They were having an affair that must be kept secret at all costs until her parents learnt about it and came to have a heated discussion with Mr Rogan. When they left, miss Darma screamed at him that he ruined her life and swore to make him pay. That’s all he told me.” *** “Who do you think did it?” Miss Darma said letting a large ball of smoke as she dragged the cigarette out of her mouth. “The Jacomets did it! Timothy had told me that they came the day before yesterday to his office and tried to sell him a patent, something they’d invented. But it was not worth it at all. Timothy rejected their proposal and they got mad!” “And how was your relationship with the victim?” Matthew continued. “Well, we had some ups and downs. Maybe more downs now that I remember. We had some big fights but in the end, we seem to get along well. When my parents found out about our relationship, there was a possibility that I would be pregnant. We came all here and the fight started. I was coming today to tell him the news that thankfully, I’m not pregnant when my phone rang and Mr Gevreaux informed me of Timothy’s loss.” Her voice cracks with emotion as she finishes the sentence. *** “We are scientists sir, we’re not some cold-blood murderers!” Alec Jacomet spits as he stands up from his seat and starts pacing up and down. “We believed that Mr Rogan was a man that would appreciate an innovative idea. We run many tests with my wife Patricia and we were a hundred per cent sure that this will be a winner. But when Mr Rogan rejected us, my blood boiled. We’ve been given years of our lives in research and development of this and he dismissed us so quickly as we sell him air!” “I know you also leave in the area. Any idea about an incident or who might have done it?” Patricia and Alec both looked at each other like they knew something. Finally Patricia decided to speak. “There were rumours about a video that circulated in some blogs about Mr Rogan and Father Langley in... intimate moments.” When Father Langley came to see Mr Rogan, I’m pretty sure the whole valley could hear their voices. At least, we could hear them and we leave on the other end of the road.” Matthew rubbed his temples when the interview was over. This is a nightmare , he thought. So, who do you think did it?


*By Nicholas Cakarovski* *“Hello to those below. We are not friends nor are we foe. So, remain closed or we shall release the horrid blow.”* It was the third one, and maybe the last and there it is not a singular hint to what these messages could be. Somehow they managed to gain control of all Phoenix televisions, radios, electronic billboards and the notifications on every damn phone and plastered this message for all to see. As I woke this morning it has become rather apparent to me that this last one had everyone acting rather strange. Too strange. To me it reads a threat, a threat to Earth, or to Phoenix, I’m not sure. What did we ever do? But my suspicion had become ever so enhanced when I found a letter within my mailbox the morning before everything changed. It was strikingly different from the typical fees, bills and other random letters I regularly receive. This one was small, smaller than average, and it wore a bright white coat of an intricate texture, patterned entirely with minute diamond shapes. It screamed of importance, urgency, though it remained textless. Within it the letter it read: *“To Duke:* *Meet Sophie, 47 Winning Street, 7:27 pm. Find Wearhouse 3.* *From, Us.”* I guess they called themselves *‘Us’*. The anonymity of their supposed population failed to intimidate me. I did not know Sophie and if she was dangerous, so be it. I normally sat at home with myself and my pallet. I entertained myself with painting, but sometimes making and hanging up my works triggered my boredom. I lived alone. It felt as if it was situated within perpetual hell so someone to talk to would have ignited quite a thrill. I *was* a social butterfly. It’s six-thirty. I was early because I was unable to contain my anxiousness, restless at the fact I had been invited to the unknown. I saw a pretty woman. She wore a blend of white and black hair and wore a bottom lip blemished by metal studs. It was Sophie. I spotted her sitting with her back against an old door directly below an empty red picture frame, dirty, with dry mud upon its glass, barely hanging by a wire. I walked over with class. *“Evening! You must be Sophie, I'm Duke, pleasure meeting you.”* *‘Whatever man lets just go inside and get this done.”* *“Did you receive a letter by any chance?”* *“Of course why else would I be here?”* *“May I ask what it reads?”* She had an attitude. *“To Sophie* *Meet Duke at 47 Winning Street tonight at 7:27 pm. The Question we ask is Red or White* *From, Us.”* Cryptic it was. It posed a question. It mentioned two colours, none of which typically match as black or white or red or blue would. It was an obscure message. Nonetheless, I let her in first like the gentleman I *was*. As we stepped within its threshold we were faced with two dilapidated doors, they were painted, though done roughly with old cheap paint, left one white, right one red. No lacker. We now were situated within a little room surrounded by four walls each dark in appearance, coloured with a thick blood red. Beneath us a light brown carpet soft enough to lose your ankles in. Every corner of my eye met a myriad of empty picture frames. Dozens of them placed within a symmetrical formation, like that of brickwork, a dense array. These frames, however, seemed useless. We could see directly through them as if the glass was missing leaving only a wooden rectangle, but, the glass was indeed there, barely visible. The room was illuminated from a warm bulb that remained seldom lit above. Each frame was identical, devoid of the slightest gossamer of distinction. Between the doors sat another letter upon the floor, similar in appearance to the others. It read only a single word. “Choose” *“Ok mister, I’ll open red you open white, we get this done and go home.”* *“But what if I said I wanted red. It's my favourite colour.”* *“Don’t do that. I chose first so I get it, this is already weird enough let's just get it over and done with.”* *“Woah! How about we get to know each other first!.* *“Fine, I'm Sophie, I'm 25, I'm from Inner Phoenix and I want to get the fuck out of here. Happy?”* Ill-mannered she was. Before I could say another word, she escaped, with what swiftest pivot of the feet. She grasped the knob and turned it, pulling it just enough for me to miss the contents inside. She removed herself from my company with an unnecessary degree of pettiness. I was left alone, judged by the simplicity of wood and glass upon the walls. *Harmless* panels. It was my turn. I was entranced in hesitation, a paralysing reluctance to commit. I was still. My mind spoke with itself: *‘It can't be that bad.’ ‘I bet this is some Halloween prank.’ ‘Damn kids.’ ‘Whatever, fuck it.’* The creak was something a lick of oil was not able to fix. Before me, a narrow hallway. It too had blood-red walls. Fading to a gradient of black, thick darkness that reached for some distance. Its end was invisible. I was also unable to escape the frames. They extended beside me head height for as long as my eyes could go. One step after the other my pores flooded, a tiny drop of sweat slid ever so slowly through the density of my beard before leaping off my jaw and onto the tip of my leather boots. This hallway was hot. Very hot. Too hot. Almost *intentional*. As I made my way away from the opening, the line of lights above me seemed to follow. Passing in succession. It was as if I was not moving, as if I was walking on the spot, however, the frames were passing one by one. Returning was pointless. It felt as if I were within a beast. The esophagus of the devil. Each step I took felt as if I were gradually being swallowed awaiting my landing within the pit of its stomach. These frames failed to desist. Like pupils, they judged me. I thought if I quickened my pace I was to reach the exit sooner however I received nothing but fatigue, calves like the tip of a matchstick. I built tension with myself and walls, tension thick enough that the world's sharpest blade would break in two. The frames judged me harder. They insulted me as I could not satisfy them. Its silence shrieked within my ears. Loud. Nothingness mixed with the thumping of my heart and the subtle brushing of my feet against the bristles of the carpet amplified in volume. It had no end. There was no end to the heat, to the lights, to the blood-red walls, nor was there an end to the darkness. There was no end to the sound of nothing and no end to the frames. No end at all. I felt as if I were dead as if it killed me. And I noticed that something I had once owned was now missing. At last, I had reached its gut. The exit was before me, but not before *me.* A letter sat beneath the door. It read: ‘Success!’ I let myself out, and I felt nothing. Now I am free and I am safe\*.\* They have no reason to touch me. Sophie was gone, nowhere to be seen. I was because Sophie *failed*. She does not fit. There are others, but they lack ‘self’. They have no human in them. They are the same, they are like me. Gone. Empty. I am no longer Duke. I am nothing. I am changed as fear has changed me, morphed me, manipulated all that I was. Forced to follow neither friend nor foe. I have been made to remain closed to escape the horrid blow. I am now theirs.


The torrential rain furiously hit the tiles of the roof, causing an echo throughout the barn. An ominous mist seeped through the cracks of the wall, adding to the already frigid atmosphere. The only source of warmth and comfort was the small campfire in the middle of the room. Two shadows were cast by its flames, one of which seemed significantly more subdued than the other. The middle aged man was laying on his back, both hands shielding his face from the ill intentioned individual who stood before him. “Please... please don’t do this! I’ve already told you, I-“ “Cut the bullshit, old man. It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat!” the woman barked back at him, readjusting her aim as she did so. The wrath in her eyes could stop an entire army dead in its tracks but the raspiness in her voice could seduce any man. Seduce any man to his demise that is. Elena Storm took a few steps forward, and kicked one of the man hands away from his face, then proceeded to block it under her boot, slowly exerting more and more pressure. The man let out a scream, but was soon shushed by the young woman. “Keep a little dignity... a little dignity... ah damn it” “Cut!” As soon as the director ordered the camera man to stop rolling, a bell sounded in the background and the crew simultaneously turned off the rain and fog machines. The producer rubbed his eyes brows and lazily got up from his chair, throwing the megaphone onto the makeshift table. He slowly made his way to the previously fierce woman, now a shy actress hiding behind the leather uniform and the fake handgun. “Sara, Sara, Sara” the director shook his head, “remind me how many times we have to go through this scene?” Sara Blake hesitated, knowing that her answer would just upset him even more. She looked down at her feet, occasionally glancing at her co star removing the straw off his jeans. The director stood silently in front of her with his hands behind his back. The hubbub in the entire studio seemed to grow fainter and fainter, their attention was fully diverted onto the lead actress. Sara cleared her voice and mustered the courage to look at her superior in the eyes, “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I’m doing my best to act here.” The director sneered, but his expression quickly changed into pure anger, “Well that’s exactly what you’re doing wrong! You’re not supposed to act! You’re supposed to be Elena Storm! Not Sara Blake pretending to be Elena Storm!” Sara slowly nodded, not wanting to show in any way any form of disagreement. “You know what miss Blake? I think we’re done for today,” he menacingly stated, “Yes everyone, we’re wrapping it up for today. We’ll continue tomorrow morning” he continued, facing his crew this time around. Before walking back to his station, the director briefly looked back at the actress, oh so slightly leaning towards her. “Don’t you make me regret this” he quietly said, making sure she heard every word. Sara gulped and nodded once more. The director murmured something under his breath and dismissed the actress. Her co worker being within earshot of their last exchange, went up to her and gave her the good old fashioned tap on the shoulder, clearly thinking that his act of kindness would help her or reassure her in any way. It didn’t. Instead, Sara Blake sought comfort in her dressing room, slaloming between curious and non-oblivious crewmembers. As she approached her dressing room, she noticed a glow under the door. The room usually bathed in darkness at this time of the day, why was the light turned on? The actress cautiously approached the door then proceeded to slowly lower the door handle. “Come in!” an all too familiar voice called out. Right in front of her Hollywoodian mirror, sat her stunt double, casually flipping through the script of A Glimmer of Death , the movie that they both were working on. “Stephany?” Sara expressed her surprise, “what-what are you doing here?” Stephany didn’t care to look behind her to face Sara, instead, she provocatively placed both of her feet onto the vanity table. “I’m just going through our script for tomorrow” she replied. “Okay, well... I don’t want to offend you in any way but... why are you in my dressing room?” Sara innocently asked while leaning against the door frame; not because she felt relaxed, but mainly to hide her nervousness. Stephany continued to look through the script. A smirk appeared when she landed on a particular page. “Mm. I heard you had a little trouble with this part. It doesn’t count if you’re planning your own defeat! ” she mockingly imitated the actress. Sara Blake let out a forced laughter, “Yes... I guess it didn’t exactly turn out the way it should have. But tomorrow’s a new day, I’m sure it will turn out fine... at least I hope so”. Her lack of confidence always emerged as she spoke. A chink in her armour. Stephanie flipped the script closed and threw it onto the vanity table. “You haven’t heard, have you?” “Haven’t heard what?” Sara worriedly asked. The stunt double scoffed and got up from her chair, crossed her arms and slowly paced towards her co-worker. “The director and I had a little chat and, after a little negotiation, he thinks that I may be suited for the lead” she bluntly announced. Sara felt as if the world was going to crash down on her. The solidity of her career was comparable to the thin, frail piece of paper of a contract she complied to with three pen strokes. “Why-what do you mean by that? I’ve gone through interviews, auditions and who knows how many hours of filming. You can’t replace me like that! You’re the stunt double. I swear if you spent the night with hi-“ “You’ve being filming for exactly three days, Sara. It is just as scrapable as salvageable, just with a different lead. And I don’t think it’s too wise to make assumptions” Stephanie responded, standing just two feet away from Blake. Sara looked away from Stephanie for a brief moment, trying to recompose herself. It wasn’t the time to show any shape or form of vulnerability. But unfortunately for her, the stunt double caught onto that. “But don’t worry Sara, tomorrow the director will do a trial. Technically, you’ll be given another chance, despite given a plethora of those throughout the week,” Stephanie said as she was about to head back out, “See you tomorrow, Elena Storm” The door slammed shut. The next day Sara nibbled on her fingernails during the entirety of Stephany’s performance. She mentally nit-picked every flawed move and delivery, but upon glancing at the director on her right, she quickly started to question her thought process: he seemed unfazed by the small mistakes, his gaze was fixed on her, it was impossible to tell what truly went through his mind. But given his body language, it was bad news for the lead actress. Sara leaned towards the director, unconsciously mimicking his prior day’s self. “We don’t have a second stunt double do we?” she whispered. The director scoffed, and slowly leaned as well towards Sara, all while his eyes being glued to the actors. “If I recall correctly, you started off as a stunt double, didn’t you?” he whispered back. Knowing what he was implying, Sara sat back in her chair without replying. Convinced that her career was over, she was almost ready to throw in the towel and walk away defeated. But before she could review her thoughts, the director signalled to her that it was her turn. Sara nervously rubbed her hands together and recited in her mind the script like a poem. Just as she was going to make her way towards the small campfire, her co-star suddenly walked off set. The crewmembers looked at each other and then at the director. “Let him be!” he said in an annoyed fashion, “Stephany, pretty please, could you briefly replace our dear colleague, because we simply don’t have all day” Stephany didn’t seem to exalted about the idea but went on with it. Sara couldn’t help the small smile that appeared on the corner of her mouth. The lights dimmed. The torrential rain started to furiously hit the tiles of the roof. The ominous mist seeped once more through the cracks of the wall Stephanie rolled onto her back, with her hands in front of her face, quickly trying to remember the lines of the co-star. “Please... please don’t do this! I’ve already told you, I-“ “Cut the bullshit, old man. It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat!” the woman barked back at her, readjusting her aim as she did so. The wrath in her eyes were fuelled by her determination and the raspiness in her voice was what differentiated her from your average actor. Sara Blake took a few steps forward, and kicked one of Stephany’s hands away from her face, then proceeded to block it under her boot, slowly exerting more and more pressure. She could feel her heel digging into the straw filled ground, all while feeling the sole of her foot squeezing her co-worker’s wrist. Stephany let out a scream, but was soon shushed by the young woman. “Keep a little dignity for the amount of time you’ve got left. Screaming serves no purpose, you’re merely entertaining the silence of the night. And before, sir, you ask who I truly am: Ask yourself, what has brought you in the situation you have found yourself in, in present time” Sara Blake then released the pressure off the girl’s wrist and crouched next to her, slowly placing the plastic gun underneath Stephany’s chin. “Now, remind me what you’ve already told me?” she said in a menacing fashion. Stephany glanced at the director, and the latter abruptly stood up in response. “Cut!”


Trigger warning: suicide -Ten days ago- “He’s been writing for hours,” Yasmine whispered to me. “He’ll stop, scribble things out, crumple up the paper and then toss it away. It’s happened even more than when he’s working on an essay. I’m getting worried.” I stared at Rayne as he rammed a hand through his hair and gave a tiny growl of frustration. I’d never seen him like this, even when he was freaking out over his resume in tenth grade. I turned to Yasmine. “Have you tried to talk to him?” Yasmine shuddered. “Yes, and it didn’t go over so well. He practically bit my head off. There was blood everywhere. It wasn’t pretty.” I rolled my eyes and peeked through the crack in the doorway again. Rayne was scribbling furiously now, eyes afire with something I couldn’t place. I waited until he stopped again, glowering at the paper, and then pushed the door open and strode into the room. “Rayne! How are you?” I plastered a smile on my face. Rayne glanced up and sighed, turning the paper over. “Now is not the time, Cail. I’m busy.” I sighed dramatically. “You’re always busy. Are you ever gonna have time for me?” Rayne turned his glare to the doorway. “Yasmine, I thought I told you to keep people out of my room.” Yasmine shrugged helplessly. “You try stopping Cail. It’s like talking to a wall.” Something akin to a smile flickered over Rayne’s face. “Can’t argue with that.” “What are you working on?” I asked playfully, reaching for the paper. Rayne’s eyes widened and he slapped my hand away. “It’s nothing!” Seeing my startled look, he sighed and softened his tone. “It’s nothing, Cail. I promise. It’s just another essay.” “Another one?” Yasmine asked warily. “How many essays have you had this year already? Twelve? College must be hard.” “College is hard, baby sister. And it requires a lot of focus, so I need to be alone right now. Okay?” He directed that part at me. I stared at the floor, twiddling the strings of my jacket. “Yeah. Okay.” “Cail.” His tone was patient. I looked up. “I’ll be out soon.” He smiled at me and squeezed my hand. I nodded and slipped out the door. “I see what you mean,” I remarked to Yasmine when the door was closed. “He’s never been like that before.” Yasmine cleared her throat and nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think it’s just a school thing, despite what he says.” “I don’t think so, either.” Yasmine looked up at me pleadingly. “You’re his best friend. Can’t you do something? He scares me when he’s like this.” I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know, Yasmine. I wish I could. But this is mostly up to Rayne. If he wants to talk to us, he’ll talk to us.” I wish I hadn’t been as confident about that as I was. -Now- “Last Will and Testament of Rayne Ash Brooks My dearest family and friends. I regret what I am about to do already, but it could not wait any longer. I would like to thank you all for everything you have done for me, and I would like you all to know that you did nothing wrong. What is about to happen is no one’s fault but my own. I was weak, and that weakness dragged me too far to ever return to how I was. I hope you all know that I loved each and every one of you. To my mother, I leave all the scrapbooks and photo albums I made over the years. I hope they may remind her of the good memories. To my baby sister Yasmine, I leave whatever she would like to have. I hope whatever she chooses may serve her well. To my grandfather, I leave the pocketknife he gave me on my twelfth birthday. I would like to thank him for teaching me about carpentry. To my grandmother, I leave my guitar and my thanks to her for teaching me how to play it. Finally, to Cail I leave whatever else could possibly bring memories and comfort. I love you, Cail. I want you to know that. My deepest thanks to all of you for caring for me the way you did. You are all wonderful people. I will miss you dearly.” I fold the paper in half numbly as tears drip down my cheeks. People around me are singing quietly, but I can’t hear the song. The world is so loud in its silence. Rayne should still be here, laughing with me over absolutely nothing. Teasing Yasmine while she’s yelling at him. Why would he do this? What could have caused it? An overwhelming urge suffocates me, telling me to curl into a ball and never get up again. I squeeze my stinging eyes closed and try not to think about how certain I was that he would talk to us if he needed to. Had I only asked how he was doing, had I only paid closer attention, I could have at least done something. A half-sob escapes my lips and I press a hand over my mouth to stifle it. Someone starts gently rubbing my back, but it can’t take away the yawning cavern that has been carved into my heart. I open my eyes and open the paper again, staring at the words as they begin to blur again. I do not look up for the rest of the funeral. I head for the doors as soon as the ceremony is over. I need to be alone. Unfortunately, someone taps my shoulder before I can make it to the safety of my car. I mumble something about home without turning around and keep walking. But they clasp my hand and spin me around to face them. Yasmine is staring up at me, tear tracks covering her cheeks. She gives me a watery smile. She knows what I am going through. I gather her up in a hug. People part around us like a boulder in a stream. Neither of us move for a very long time. Finally, Yasmine pulls back, taking a deep breath and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s so different now.” Her voice wobbles and she pauses. “I never would have guessed- I mean, he was always so happy.” I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. “He was incredible.” My voice breaks and tears trace down my cheeks again. I ball my hands into fists and press them against my eyes, willing myself to stop crying. Yasmine rubs my back gently, and I take deep breaths. “You loved him, didn’t you, Cail?” She asks suddenly. I look up at her sympathetic face and then down again, nodding silently as fresh tears well up. “He was the best man I’ve ever known. I just wish he could’ve known that, too.” Yasmine hugs me again. “Me too, Cail. Me too.” Four hours later, Yasmine and I are staring at the orange and pink of the sky as the sun turns red and sinks below the mountains. I am looking for traces of him; I have no doubt she is, too. We sit there until the sky is dark and pinpricks of light shine down on us. Hand in hand, watching the stars. The ones he left behind.