“Ugh, Jack is being quite the nightmare today. Poor kid, though,” said Christine. “Poor kid?” replied Hellen. “I was helping Jessica find the right crayons for her drawing, but before she could make a choice Jack grabbed the whole bunch of them and flung them out the window. Not only that, but when I asked him to bring them back he launched the cello tape after them. Don’t you go poor kidding him.” They looked over at the mats next to the wall, where the children were fast asleep after a messy and exhausting lunch. Jack was at the far end, curled up in a ball, his thumb in his mouth and a frown on his face. It reminded Christine of herself at that age. She’d gone through something very similar to what he was going through now. “I think there’s something up at home,” she said, looking at Hellen again, who was now lifting her mug up to her lips. “When his mother picked him up yesterday afternoon, it wasn’t in the usual car. And the man driving it wasn’t Mr. Grayson.” As she heard this, Hellen’s drink took a wrong turn and she began to have a coughing fit. She had managed to shut her mouth quite quickly, but a red dribble still managed to escape, sliding down her chin and splashing onto her white shirt. “Shit, Hellen, you’re bleeding! Are you OK?!” Hellen, who was still hacking and fighting to contain the contents of her mouth, both nodded and shook her head, confusing Christine and making her wonder very briefly whether her friend was having a stroke. “Yes, no, what? Yes you are bleeding? Or yes you’re OK? No what?” Eventually, Hellen gulped what was left in her mouth and was able to speak once again. “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s not blood. I’m drinking elderberry kombucha. That’s where the red came from.” “You’re drinking what?” “Elderberry kombucha,” she repeated. Christine imagined her face must look like little Diego’s when he was trying to put together one of the larger puzzles, the ones with 50 pieces. After enough seconds of silence, Hellen graced her with an explanation. “Elderberries are a highly nutritious berry. They contain a ton of vitamin C and B6, as well as iron,” she recited, the way she always did when she spoke about the food she ate. Nothing was ever just a piece of fruit. “I’ve been drinking this for the last two years and haven’t had a cold, the flu or anything like that in all that time.” Christine decided not to mention the two weeks Hellen had spent off sick the previous winter, nor the week she’d been ill the winter before that. “What about that other thing, that… cucaracha thing?” Hellen let out one of her well-practiced giggles of condescension. “You mean kombucha? It’s a fermented tea. It’s full of probiotics – great for the gut – and prevents arthritis and diabetes. My God, Chris, hadn’t you ever heard of any of this? What do you usually drink anyway?” “Cola or tap water during the week. White wine at the weekend.” Hellen’s eyes popped out in disbelief, as if her head were about to explode. Christine decided to test if it would. “Diet Cola, actually. No sugars, barely any calories, great for staying awake when you need to.” Hellen blinked emphatically several times, as if checking she was indeed awake and not in a dream. Time for the master stroke, thought Christine. She produced a bag of crisps from her lunch-box and proceeded to stuff her mouth with handfuls of the salt-and-vinegar snack, her gaze never leaving Hellen’s. “Jesus, Chris,” said Hellen, wrinkling her nose, “how on Earth are you still alive?” “What are you on about?” asked Christine. Or tried to, anyway. With the crisps still filling her cheeks, it sounded more like “Whargyu anabuff?” Tiny potato slivers, moist and gloopy, flew out of her mouth like flavoured confetti, leaving only a scent of vinegar behind. “I’m talking about the poison you’re putting into your body. I didn’t say anything about that breast of roast chicken you wolfed down earlier on, but it did not look organic, free-range or from a local farm to me. I’m pretty sure the peas were the GMO kind, given that radioactive green they exuded, and there’s nothing wholesome about that artificial ketchup you drowned it all in, no matter how many smiling farmers they stick on the label. It’s like you’re trying to kill yourself in the most disgusting way possible.” Christine decided to finish eating the crisps already in her mouth before replying, calmly licking off the flakes of vinegary salt from her greasy fingers. “That’s all great, Hellen, but you and I both know I barely can find the time to put my terrible cooking skills to use at home, what with my commute and my mother. What do you expect?” “It’s not that hard! Look at my lunch: a couple of handfuls of fresh, crunchy kale, some diced tomato – a greenish-orange one, mind you, not one of those bright red ones that look like they’ve been grown inside a nuclear plant –, some chopped avocado, onion slices pickled in French vinegar, chia seeds, extra virgin olive oil, freshly ground peppercorns and Himalayan salt. All organic and non-GMO, of course. And locally sourced.” “What, the French vinegar and Himalayan salt are local?” Hellen rolled her eyes. “OK, most of it, whatever. The point is, one day you’re going to regret putting all that rubbish into your body.” Christine shrugged her shoulders in the most indifferent way possible, emphasising her display of emotion by ramming another fistful of crisps into her mouth. Despite her sermon a minute earlier, Hellen chuckled at her friend’s reaction. Soon they were both giggling uncontrollably, trying to keep their volume to a minimum to avoid waking the children up. Not that it mattered much, though, for ten seconds later they were all woken up by the sound of a fist punching through the classroom door like it was made of wet cardboard. The teachers both jumped out of their seats simultaneously, while some of the children, who had also jerked awake in unison, were starting to moan and sob. While Hellen turned to calm the toddlers down, Christine stared at the hand sticking out through the new hole in the door. The skin on it was the colour of cement, mottled with dark splashes, but it flexed and writhed around as if made of ordinary flesh. Only three of the fingers on it seemed to have nails, the other two being covered in a jet black crust of inky blood, some of it still liquid enough to smear the sides of the hole in the door. As it had first punched through it, splinters had flown into the room and spread over the floor. One of them, at least an inch and a half long, had stabbed into the sickly skin just above one of the knuckles, but the owner didn’t seem to notice or care. After groping around blindly for several seconds, the hand disappeared back through the hole, only to reappear through a new one it made a few inches to the right of the first one. As it did, Christine heard a distant voice come in through door, as if from someone standing behind the aggressor. “Hey, Larry.” Punch. “Larry!” “Not now, Craig. I’m busy.” Punch. This second voice seemed to come from the owner of the hand. “Larry, listen to me, will you? Larry!” “What, what, what?!” Can’t you see I’m occupied trying to get through this door?” “I know you are. That’s what I want to talk to you about.” “What about it?” “Have you tried the handle?” “Have I–. You know, Craig, I actually haven’t. It’s seems like everyone usually locks themselves in when we arrive, so I’ve just gotten used to punching through doors without checking.” “I know, pal, I’m the same. But I just tried a door back there and it was unlocked. Give this one a go.” With terror filling her to the core, Christine saw the handle turn and the door swing open. Two figures stepped into the room, both at least six feet tall. They looked like they might have been in their mid twenties, but any semblance of life have been drained from their skin until it was a dull, overcast grey, with darker blotches as those on the punching hand. Their clothes had also gone the same way, their original colours long gone, bespattered with what Christine wanted to believe were strawberry stains. “Do I feel silly now,” chuckled the first one as he casually extracted the splinter from his finger. Tossing it over his shoulder, his eyes locked on Christine and a wolfish grin appeared on his face. He licked his cracked, icy blue lips and began to shuffle his way towards her, his feet dragging while he shoved desks and chairs aside carelessly, his pale eyes never losing sight of her. Once there was a clear path between them, his shuffle became a rushed stumble and Christine, who was paralysed by the utter horror of the situation, was unable to move away in time. The creature reached her and grabbed her by the shoulders, his remaining fingernails digging into her skin. The pain woke her up from her trance, but it was too late. She was in the hands of this monster, whose iron grip threatened to pull her arms out of her sockets. He opened his lopsided jaw, letting out a putrid smell from his slimy mouth. However, before he could take a bite, his companion stopped him. “Larry, no!” he shouted, pulling him back from her. His hands slipped away, but she could still feel the pressure on her shoulders. That was going to leave a bruise if she somehow managed not to get eaten by the pair of zombies. “What the hell, man?” said Larry. “Can’t a zombie eat in peace?” “Not her you can’t.” “What? Why not?” “Look at what she’s been eating!” They both looked down at the remains of Christine’s lunch, where a mix of congealed chicken and dry ketchup were topped by a sprinkle of soggy crisps. “It’s disgusting,” continued the one she guessed must be Craig, “she’s drowned everything in that chemical bomb they call ketchup. And look at those crisps. They look anything but natural. Heck, I bet you the chicken wasn’t even fed with non-GMO seeds.” “I’ll be honest with you, Craig. I don’t really care about that stuff.” He looked back up at Christine, whose sliver of hope disappeared before the hungry expression on his hideous face. He moved to grab her once again, but Craig pulled him back for the second time. “No! I’m telling you, you’ll be poisoning yourself!” Larry grunted in frustration. “Fine, whatever, you win!” He pushed her out of the way and approached the children behind here. “Are you trying to kill us, Larry?!” “I… what? Me? How?” “Were you about to eat those children?” “Yeah. Is there a problem?” “Is there– Of course there’s a problem, you idiot!” “Woah, woah, no need to go around insulting. You didn’t hear me insulting you.” Craig took a deep breath, letting out a slow stream of fetid air. “You’re right, Larry. That was uncalled for and I apologise. It’s just this whole hunting for survival thing can be quite stressful sometimes and we also need to check what exactly it is that we’re eating if possible and I just noticed this patch of dry skin next to my elbow and–” “Hey, hey, it’s OK, Craig, don’t worry. I get it. We’re under a lot of pressure here and everyone’s usually screaming and shouting at us wherever we go. And we’re hungry, always hungry, which doesn’t really help. It’s only natural that we lash out once in a while. We’re both calm once again, so don’t worry about it. I accept your apology.” “Thanks, Larry.” “Not a problem. Now,” he said, turning back again to the toddlers, “why can’t I tear these children apart with my teeth? Is it their diet again? I don’t think we can tell what they’ve been eating – actually, that one has a baby carrot stuck in his hair, we’ll leave him out if you don’t think it’s organic.” “No, no, it’s not about their feed, it’s about their age. They’re too young. We can’t go around eating cubs or they’ll never grow into adults. Before we know it, their population will be decimated.” “Deciwhat?” “Decimated. Their numbers will be reduced drastically and, if we aren’t careful, irreparably.” “Huh. I’d never thought about it that way.” “Neither had I until last year, when my eyes were opened to reality. Since then, I’ve always – ooooh, is that kombucha?” His white, lidless eyes had fallen on the bright drink in Hellen’s mug, still on the desk she’d been eating at. He picked it up in his gnarled fingers, swirled it around and put it under the slits where his nose used to be. The shaggy remains of his eyebrows rose in delight and he pressed the mug against his snowy lips. As he drank, a trickle of the sanguine liquid escaped through a puncture on his sagging cheek, making Christine feel ill. “Who’s the crazy one now, Craig? Look at you, drinking that insipid, lifeless thing. What’s wrong with a good swig of warm blood as it bubbles out of a freshly torn carotid?” “Nuh-uh,” interjected Craig, still savouring the drink. He swallowed it and held the mug out to Larry. “Try it. It’s alive too, you know? There’s live bacteria in it, great for the gut.” Christine couldn’t help but roll her eyes. As if one lecture on traditional Spanish drinks wasn’t enough for one day. Larry took the mug and peeked into it, one of his deathly eyes closed as he stared into at the beverage. “I don’t see anything alive in here.” “You can’t see them, they’re too small. But they’re there. Trust me. I’ve read – ooooh, look at that, hand-kneaded rye bread. You can tell it’s hand-kneaded because of the shape here, see?” Larry, who Christine was pretty sure couldn’t see, nodded his head and took a slurp of the drink. “This is quite good, actually.” “Told you. Whoever’s been eating this stuff is a clean eater. Closest thing to organic, GMO-free we’re likely to find. If only we could tell who–” Christine, surprised that he’d stopped talking, followed Craig’s gaze. He was leering at Hellen. Specifically, at the stains of kombucha on her crisp, white shirt. The two monsters looked at each other. They grinned.


Of all the shit my brother had put me through, putting me on his will had to be the worst. Naming me the sole heir of his inheritance, how generous! Now I had all of his garbage in my apartment. His stupid stinky clothes, the dumb drawing book I bought for him, that goddamn platic figure I thought I had lost when I was 10! What an asshole!

I still couldn’t believe it. That stupid, foolish, self-absorbed cretin had had the gall to go and die. After everything he had put me through, he went and got himself killed while driving. Who the hell did he think he was?

I placed the last box of his belongings in my living room after they had delivered them here. I was panting and sweating, but I was too angry to even feel tired. All his life Steven had put me through hell, first it was the prank wars, which was fair for a pair of children. Then it was the drunken calls and me having to pick him up every time to prevent him from driving while fucking drunk . Then it was running after him so he could complete his responsibilities and finally it was cleaning up each and every one of his messes. Honestly! I felt like I was living his life more than mine.

I sighed, throwing myself to the living room sofa. Not one thank you. No apology. Instead I had every last one of his possessions dumped all over my apartment. The guy was a hoarder. “Not a single visit.” I muttered before I realized my eyes had become watery. Weird. I had never cried of anger before, then again I had never been this angry. I cleaned my face and the tears disappeared as quickly as they came. A quick glance around the house worsened my mood. How could so many boxes make the house feel so… empty? The clutter was probably messenger with my head. I needed some fresh air. It was a cloudy day, my favourite type of weather. The wind was chilly and I could hear the small rumble of thunder at the distance. My black umbrella felt strangely appropriate, since the news had only reached me some two days ago. Although I wasn’t grieving, who was going to miss him anyway? Relax I told myself. No matter how angry I was, that last thought felt like crossing a line. He was probably going to be missed by someone out there, that someone just wasn’t me. I stopped at a crosswalk, blending into the crowd of people. Most of them seemed to be having a pretty active day, looking around or tapping their foot for the crosswalk light to turn green; there were a few people looking at their phones or making phone calls. It wasn’t until I glanced to the other side of the street that I saw him. He looked exactly the same. Light, long brown hair, his lanky legs that gave him too much height over me, that annoying little look he’d have that made it seem like he had just pulled a prank on me, even if I didn’t know it yet.

I shook my head, about to tell myself that it was someone that just looked like him, but that wasn’t possible either: I’d recognize that shit-eating grin anywhere. The light turned green and everyone started to scuttle across the street. I kept looking around, trying to find him again, but he wasn’t anywhere. My search became more frantic, I kept squeezing in between people, moving to where he had been standing. Finally I reached the other side of the street, but found nothing. Stupid I thought He’s not here, of course. Why would I- I shook my head, no point dwelling on a mistake from the light.

My walk continued with no particular direction in mind, being honest, I was just trying to tire myself out before I had another night of insomnia. The busy streets slowly faded away, as well as the crowds of people. Less and less houses were around as the number of trees increased, by the time I finally came to my senses the large black gate of the cemetery was in front of me. On any other day I would have marveled at how the “Green Death” initiative had become so successful, planting a plant over each buried body. The cemetery looked more like a garden where people would come to have picnics. Most people who had been buried with trees were at the edges, but more common than that were the flower bushes, red purple, white, and every other color in memory could be found around. I watched my feet to not step over food or pictures people had left around. I kept walking until I found my brother’s grave. A small sapling on its lonesome at the edge of the cemetery. Not sure with what possessed me, I folded my umbrella and sat in front of the tree, staring at it with all the rage of every chamber of hell.

“Hey.” I muttered “Asshole, you weren’t supposed to die like that, you know?” Another rumble of thunder, as if the sky itself was agreeing with me. “What? You thought you’d be able to escape your tap like that? Dream on!” My voice slowly started picking up steam, becoming louder and louder. “I still have my notebook! Every single penny you wrangled out of me and don’t you think I’m going to sell your stuff to get the money back. I’m too busy to make stock of every single trash of yours.” This time there was only silence, the sky, although still cloudy, made no acknowledgement of my words and the poor sapling simply swayed with the wind.

The lack of response felt insulting, somehow. Like the universe was mocking me for speaking to nothing but air. “If you were just going to die, then why I leave me that stupid voicemail, huh?!” I yelled again, taking out my phone and throwing it to the ground. It bounced harmlessly in the grass. “I bet you thought it was real funny.” tears began swelling in my eyes again. “Well, congratulations! But guess what? I get the last laugh!” I inhaled deeply, blinking the tears out of my eyes. “You’re dead!” Reaching a boiling point I could only rest my head on my knee before my cries became louder. My lungs were crushed in the pressure of my screams and my heartbeat rose like it had never before. Alone, lying in the grass and crying my heart out. “- I promise ” The faint sound of Steven’s voice pierced through my cries. “ I’m coming back home, I-I need your help. ” Looking up I saw my phone lying in front of my feet with my brother’s voicemail recording playing. “ I mean- No, I… Wait that came out wrong. I’m turning things around! For the better! Of course, I wouldn’t be calling you if it was for the worst. Well, no I would’ve still called if it was for the worst. I promise I’m not drunk! ” The rambling went on, the recording lasted for 10:45 minutes.

“I wasn’t.” said another voice behind me. Whipping my head around I saw him again. He was standing not so far away from me, his hands in his pockets and an awkward look on him, like he wasn’t really sure what to do with himself. With my tears slowly drying in my cheeks, a small laugh started bubbling inside of me. He’d done it. He took my “last laugh” comment too seriously and now I was going insane. I was seeing images of my brother right in front of me like he was some sort of ghost! I hadn’t noticed my laugh had devolved into a cackle until I saw my brother’s hallucination give me a weird look. Great, even my hallucinations thought I was insane. Boy! If I thought he was pathetic, then I was below rock bottom!

I deserved this. What kind of self loathing loser comes to the grave of someone they hate only to cuss them out? Ha! Who knew despicableness was a genetic trait? With one last look at him, I fainted. When I came back to my senses, I was still lying in the ground but the day had passed me by. My clothes were crumpled and I had to dust my face twice to even be able to open my eyes without bits of dirt getting into them. Despite having had a probably good rest I felt nothing but exhausted. I leaned against one of my arms to stop my from collapsing into the ground again. “Woah, you really can sleep anywhere can’t you?” On any normal day, my blood would’ve run cold. I would’ve ran to any hospital or mental ward and asked for help. On any normal day, I would’ve screamed and jumped back away from the - most likely - hallucination. On any normal day I would have cared. Instead I just gave him an annoyed look and let my head hang downwards while I got enough energy to at least sit down properly. “Here, let me help.” He reached out to me but I slapped his wand away. It felt real, it felt so, so real. The smacking sound even echoed around the air. “Did you fake your death?” I asked as well as I could with my dry throat. Out of the periphery of my vision I could see him shaking his head. “No, I-” “He’s dead, right?” My voice was harsh, demanding. I couldn’t believe my own brain would turn on me like this. I had seen his corpse, I had buried him, there was not way he could’ve faked that. “I- who?” The hallucination tilted his head, looking around as if there could be someone else who could explain things to him. “My brother, he’s…” I pointed at the sapling. “He’s dead.” He looked at Steven’s grave and them back at me. “You mean me?” “No.” I grew more and more irritated. “Not you. HIM .” “Scarlett, I’m-” I knew what he was going to say, but I wasn’t ready to hear it. “No, you’re not! You’re just a hallucination! A figment of my imagination I created to make myself feel better! I’m talking about him !”

“Scar-” “Forget it.” I didn’t know what answer I was expecting, or rather, what answer would have made me feel better. Instead I focused on trying to come up with some energy to stand up and walk back home. Silence reigned in the cemetery. For I second I wondered if maybe I was alone again, but when I looked around I just saw Steven again, smiling. “You always did hate my ghost stories.” I turned my head back to face the ground, forcing myself to make the hallucination disappear. “I am really sorry, Scar.” I flinch “I-I needed you to know that.” Tears start swelling up again. “Stop.” Hallucination or not, his voice was too real. No matter how hard I tried to remind myself there was no way my brother could be beside me right now, I couldn’t bring myself to ignore him. “Thank you. You helped me out of every situation, even when mom and dad gave up on me.” “I said, stop! ” “I loved you, lil’ sis.” I turn around, crying again of anger, resentment and a soul shattering sadness. He had his arms open, waiting for a hug. I broke down, throwing myself for a hug and crying again. I couldn’t understand it and I couldn’t deal with it but I missed him. I missed him so much. The idiot had made my life impossible, but I had been the one who chose to follow him after my parents kicked him out. There was no reason behind that except that no one deserved to be abandoned and now… now he had abandoned me. “I hate you.” I muttered. He chuckled. “As you should.” “How dare you make me sad.” “I always did have a knack for causing trouble.” “Why did you die?” Silence. “Guess it was too late for me.” I broke the hug, looking at him curiously “The day I died, after I sent you the voicemail I… I made an appointment. Dr. Murphy.” He laughed again. “I knew I shouldn’t have paid in advance.” “You were on your way there?” He shrugged. “Maybe I was just not meant to-” “Stop that.” I interrupted. I had not suffered so much to help someone who was not meant to be happy. “No one is meant to do shit.” “Hey, look at the glass half-full, I’ll stop holding you back.” My head started shaking even before he finished his sentence. “I didn’t mean it.” “I know, but it’s true.” “No.” “You’re going to have a better life now.” “I can’t.” I stated, matter-of-fact-ly “Why?” “Because nothing good can come off your death.” I answered before I even thought of my answer, but like a broken dam the truth started to spill over me. “I don’t want a ‘glass half full’ I just want you to be okay! I want to see that person you wanted to become! I want you to be alive, damnit!” Steven cleaned my tears and said softly. “But I can’t.” I sighed, and repeated. “But you can’t” “And it sucks.” I laughed bitterly. “And it sucks.” “But you’re a resourceful person Scar, you’ve always been. Yeah, things are going to suck for a while and I would’ve liked to become a good brother to you, but you know what?” “What?” He ruffled my hair and pinched my nose. “I can leave happy, knowing you didn’t hate me.” Despite myself I laugh, getting his hand off of my face.

“I never did.” “Liar.” “Fine, I never completely hated you. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you actually wanted to become better.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw light starting to come on the horizon, even though it was still covered by clouds. In the brightness I could see how translucent my brother’s image had really been. “What happens now? Are you going to haunt me?” Steven just laughed. “I don’t know.” “But then-” A thunder crashed somewhere in the distance, but still close enough to make me jump and look to the direction of the sound. When I turned around, my brother was gone. I looked around for a while, not exactly sure what had just happened. Perhaps I was too disoriented to feel much of anything, or maybe I had emotionally exhausted myself the night before, but there was a certain feeling of peace around me; like a picture that had been off my whole life had finally been put straight. I picked up my umbrella and walked to the entrance, looking back at the sapling one last time. It looked weirdly more green than before. “I’ll miss you, Steven.”


Written for my boi JackDaws featuring Donutting and CrimsonAshes.  It was insignificant at first. A tiny crimson dot on his right arm which Jack thought would go away after a few days, but it had been weeks and it spread throughout his forearm like an angry cancer that taunted him at every turn. There were times when he heard it whisper, but of course it was surely his imagination. Hands don't whisper. Such lunacy would have gotten him a hiding from his father if he still lived with the grumpy old man. It was after work and Jack had long learned to ignore the odour of stale sweat that permeated the gym, but there was something about the damp locker rooms that didn't sit right with him. There were a few people finishing up their showers, but Jack could not be bothered today. He was tired and needed some sleep before the morning where a busy day of planning his house renovation loomed over him like a towering monster that grinned cruelly at his struggles. He grabbed his gym bag from the rusty, dented locker and when he passed by the mirror he paused for a moment before deciding that he should at least wash his face. The sound of streaming water filled his hearing but Jack could only stare at his face in the mirror. His once healthy smile was now replaced by a permanent frown that creased his forehead with wrinkled lines. Yes, work and house renovations had taken their toll, but he was also dealing with making arrangements for his relatives coming over to visit from the UK and a body building competition at the end of the month. Weeks of eating bland chicken breasts had made him unhappy. Suddenly the light overhead flickered, and a voice spoke to him. *"Eat a donut."* "What?" Jack wondered out loud. Water pattered against the floor. Whoever was in the shower was taking their sweet time. A water waster, in Jack's opinion, but that didn't matter now. Apart from him and the showering person there was nobody else in the locker room, unless... *"Eat a donut!"* the voice urged again, stronger this time. With more conviction. "No! Get out of my head!" cried Jack. "You're not real!" *"Aren't I?"* the voice said. It was smirking. Jack could feel it. Jack doubted himself for a second, and that was all the voice needed. *"You know I'm just looking out for you, Jack,"* said the voice. *"Eat a donut. It's good for your health."* Jack stared at the mirror again. His reflection stared back at him. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks were hollow. Maybe the voice was right. *"You know I'm right,"* said the voice. The sound of water streaming was louder now. Even louder than the voice. Jack found himself cupping his hands and scooping some of the water before splashing it against his face. The cold had done it. It cleared his thoughts. "No!" Jack denied flatly. He knew if he listened to the voice there would be no going back. "I am better than this!" The sound of a metal hatch sliding open from behind him caught Jack's attention. Of course it was a fat aged man with a white towel wrapped around his waist. What did he expect? They always seemed to take their time with their showers but somehow there was something sour smelling about them when you get close, no matter how much deodorant they used. Jack didn't blame them though. It wasn't their fault. The old man stared at Jack curiously before getting changed. Jack realised what an odd sight he might have been just now. A young, fit man just staring at himself in front of the mirror. But that didn't matter. The voice had gone quiet while the man was there. When the man had left, Jack gazed upon his crimson arm. Was it just him or had it spread even further now? Jack found the silence of the locker room deafening. What he used to enjoy was now very unsettling and he found himself reaching for his gym back and striding off outside where there were more people, but he didn't make it very far when the voice of the crimson arm spoke to him again. *"Did you really think you'd get rid of me that easily, Jack?"* there was mirth in the voice. The suddenness surprised Jack. He almost jumped out of his skin and caused one of the motorcycles passing by to swerve away from him but not before honking angrily and blowing dark smoke right into his face. Why was the voice talking? Jack panicked. There were so many people in the street. Their bodies squeezed and slid against him, ignoring his personal space, but this was Pakistan and that was the norm here. Jack had learned from a young age to always be constantly vigilant. The aroma of street food cooking everywhere filled his nostrils and Jack found his stomach grumbling. His will to resist was weaker now. Perhaps if he bought a skewered chicken it wouldn't be so bad. It was protein after all, right? *"It must be a donut Jack,"* the voice urged. *"There's no two ways about it."* "ARGH! SHUT UP YOU WHORE!" Jack lost control and screamed at the top of his lungs. People around him were staring now. Jack could feel the heat on his cheeks and on his ears. If he could see himself, he was certain that he had gone very red, and he tried to use his gym bag to hide his face. *"I will shut up,"* the voice started. *"But only if you grab a donut."* "Fine." He had given in, and Jack could feel his right arm tingle in what must have been happiness. There was a donut shop nearby, Jack decided to make a beeline for it. An electronic bell rang the moment he opened the door and the first thing that welcomed Jack after the bell and the blinding white lights was the cool air. He needed that. The thin film of sweat that coated his arms started evaporating and Jack felt a sweet bliss. There was no one else in the store except for the staff sitting at the counter. She was a petite girl wearing a black hijab. Jack noted her name tag which read 'Kres', but there was a bored look about her as she played with her phone. "Ahem!" Jack faked a cough to grab her attention. Kres stared up at him with her dark eyes. "Yes?" "I'd like a donut please." The girl looked annoyed at being disturbed and did not speak when she pointed to the sign that read 'Self Service'. "Can you read?" she said. Jack didn't bother with her. All he wanted was to satisfy the crimson hand's cravings so it wouldn't bother him anymore. He grabbed a brown takeaway bag and stuffed a donut hurriedly in without thinking too much about the flavour. *"What are you doing?"* said the voice. *"Take three!"* Jack clenched his teeth together and rolled his eyes. Fine. If that was what it took to get rid of the voice, then so be it. He stuffed two more donuts at random in the bag, but the voice was demanding. *"Jam filled buns hardly count as donuts. Only the ones with the hole in the middle are real donuts. Replace one of them!"* This was the worst. Jack put one of the strawberry jam filled donuts back and grabbed another. Then he made his way back to the counter. The girl seemed less annoyed now. She had obviously been watching his antics and must have found him amusing. "That's $6 for three. Or you can grab a dozen for a dollar each." "No the three will be fine." Jacked reached into his gym bag and opened his wallet to find that he only had 99 cents left! "Oh fuck." "Sorry?" "STEAL THE DONUTS!" screamed the voice. \# To be continued...


t was the most thrilling moment of her life. Travelling to Paradise Island. The ultimate destination where you could find your happiness. If that happiness meant love, then love was what you would find. If money, then you would have money. If fame, then you would become famous. Paradise Island was a place where wishes would come true. The email said so. She received the mysterious email only two days ago. At first, she was going to delete it. Surely, this had to be a scam. Somewhere that wishes could come true! Be serious! No such place could exist. As her finger hovered over the delete key, she decided to google it. To her surprise, she found that it was legit. There was such an island and you could go there and find whatever made you happy. This was no scam. Holy shit! The thing was real. She didn’t waste any time. Booked her flight online, packed a few items of clothing and off she went to the airport. With her ticket in hand, she smiled and boarded the plane. It was a very small plane. For a moment, her smile gave way to a slight frown. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the flight attendant, ‘am I the only passenger?’ ‘Yes,’ said the flight attendant. ‘Really?’ Suzan exclaimed. ‘I would’ve thought there’d be more people on this flight?’ The flight attendant shook her head. ‘We take one passenger at a time.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ Suzan said. ‘I guess it makes sense. More people means more wishes.’ Suzan giggled. ‘So many wishes to be granted. One wish at a time makes sense to me.’ ‘Where would you like to sit?’ asked the flight attendant. ‘Next to the window, thank you.’ ‘Follow me please. My name is Emma and I will be attending to you. Anything you need, just ask.’ ‘Thank you, I will, Suzan said as she sat down. Suzan closed her eyes and imagined herself as a famous actress. A beautiful famous actress. Why not? If you want to make a wish, then make it big. Very big. She had tried to become an actress. She took acting classes. Did some auditions. Got a couple of non-speaking acting roles. And that was it. The entertainment industry was brutally difficult to break into. She sighed and opened her eyes. Well, that is all over now. After this trip, she will conquer Hollywood. She listened to the humming of the engines. Any moment now and the plane would take off. She asked Emma, as she walked by, if she should put her seatbelt on. ‘I’ll notify you when the plane is ready to take off,’ Emma said. Suzan relaxed and let her imagination wash over her. Yes, a famous actress. Wow! She couldn’t wait to land on Paradise Island. If she could make the hands of the clock run faster, she would. She looked at her watch to check the time. *What the hell!* *An hour!* An hour had passed since she boarded the plane. No. This was wrong. She winced and tapped on her watch. It always kept correct time. It was a fancy watch that showed the date too. ‘Excuse me, Emma,’ she called the flight attendant. ‘Yes?’ ‘Why aren’t we moving?’ ‘I’ll go and check,’ Emma said. Anxiously, Suzan waited for Emma, while at the same time keeping an eye on her watch. Ten minutes. Where was she? Emma,’ Suzan called and rose from her seat. ‘Oh, there you are,’ Suzan said, seeing Emma coming out of the cockpit. ‘What’s happening?’ ‘Just a little delay. Not to worry,’ Emma assured. ‘Okay,’ Suzan said as she sat down again. The humming of the engines continued. And Suzan’s anxiety kept growing. She looked at her watch again. It was now two hours past the scheduled flight. Suzan rose from her seat to go and look for Emma. But Emma was nowhere to be seen. Suzan looked about, not knowing what exactly to do. Maybe she should go and see the pilot. Yes, that is what she should do. She made straight for the cockpit to talk to the pilot. ‘Excuse me,’ she addressed the pilot. ‘Yes,’ the pilot said, turning his head around. ‘When is this plane taking off?’ ‘We are just waiting for clearing. Hopefully very soon.’ Suzan nodded and returned to her seat. And she waited. And waited. Four hours. Eight hours. The engines were still humming. But no flight. The plane was stuck on the tarmac. This was very strange. She called for Emma and she received the same response. Soon. The pilot gave her the same response. Soon. And Suzan waited. Twenty hours. Thirty hours. The strange thing was that she didn’t feel hungry at all. Nor thirsty. She debated with herself whether she should abort her flight or stay put. But she didn’t want to let go of her wish. She wanted to be an actress. A famous actress. A beautiful famous actress. And the only way to become a beautiful famous actress was to catch this flight to Paradis Island. She wanted to scream at the pilot or whoever was responsible for the delay. ‘Oh, for the love of god, take off,’ Suzan finally screamed. No, this wasn’t working. She had been on this plane for forty-eight hours. Enough was enough. Damn with the wish. Suzan got up from her seat. ‘Excuse me, where are you going?’ Emma asked, appearing in front of her. ‘I am getting off this plane. This is ridiculous. I’ve been stuck here for two whole days. I haven’t even eaten anything. I am done.’ ‘Done?’ ‘Yes. Now could you help me to get off this plane?’ ‘I am sorry, I can’t.’ ‘You can’t? What the hell does that mean?’ ‘Captain!’ Emma called. ‘What seems to be the problem?’ asked the captain, leaving the cockpit. ‘The passenger wants to leave.’ ‘Leave? Leave and go where?’ ‘What the hell!’ Suzan exclaimed. ‘I wanna go home. I’ve been stuck here,’ she paused to consult her watch again, ‘Oh my God, I’ve been stuck here now for … for … shit … I can’t believe it … for seventy-two hours. I’m getting off.’ ‘You can’t get off.’ ‘Why not?’ Suzan objected angrily. ‘This plane is stuck on the tarmac. It’s not going anywhere. I wanna get off and I want my money back.’ ‘We can’t do that, I am afraid. Remember, we had a deal!’ ‘What? What deal? I want to go to Paradise Island. But you are not taking me there…’ ‘We will take you there.’ ‘When?’ Suzan cried, frustrated. ‘I haven’t eaten or drank in days. Just sitting …’ Suzan’s voice drifted away. She could readily accept that the whole thing was a hoax, but her lack of hunger or thirst was not. How could she have gone this long without food or water? ‘Come,’ the captain said, helping her to sit down again. ‘Stay calm. Don’t panic. We will get you to your destination. We are just running into a bit of a trouble.’ ‘What sort of a trouble?’ The captain looked at Emma, then back to Suzan. ‘We are waiting for certain things to be clarified.’ ‘Like what?’ ‘Well, not everyone who wants to go to Paradise Island can. They have to meet with a certain approval.’ ‘Approval? Approval from whom?’ ‘From God.’ ‘What?’ Suzan cried in disbelief. ‘This is purgatory, Suzan. And until we get the approval, you are stuck here.’ ‘What?’ Suzan winced. ‘Am I …. dead?’ Suzan asked, swallowing a lump in her throat. ‘But … but … but how? I have no memory of being dead.’ ‘You died two days ago. You were on a plane to Chicago when your plane went down.


I ran away from the country. Failing school while selling drugs probably had something to do with it. Primal instincts told me to run away as far as possible. The farthest option was to join the Korean army, so it was the only option. My last week in the states can be summed up as eventful and predictable. There was one last fling with an ex from highschool, drinks shared at the local wing joint with childhood friends, and many tears shed by my parents and sister. I didn’t deserve their love, but it was probably the first time in my life I truly understood that. There’s something weird about traveling across the hemisphere for the first time as a young adult. Naps taken between the flight are accompanied by the same blue ocean until they’re not. Eventually land is visible beneath the clouds and the agitation from sitting on a plane is washed away by the excitement of reaching the east. When I served as a soldier for the Korean army, I lived on an American military post thirty minutes away from the dividing line between North and South Korea. The 4th floor of the barracks I called home oversaw the on-post playground and pizza shop/casino. Working twelve hour shifts for the military police station, I often slept throughout the day and woke up when the sun was about to drop. Trying to sleep while kids were playing and the sun was up was hard at first, but exhaustion from long graveyard shifts proved to be enough to power through. One day the whole barracks were shaking furiously, bombs were going off, and I woke up knowing we were being nuked. Kim Jong-Un kept threatening us about doing it for weeks, but it kind of surprised me to see him actually press the buttons. There is a weird calmness felt understanding that everybody around me would die, that I was about to open my door to death and destruction. Laughter came out as I realized I couldn’t even tell my parents or sister goodbye. I shifted around my closet to put on war gear, and reached for my cigarettes after strapping my boots up. If I’m going to die, I’m dying with a joe in my mouth while stealing one last look at the sky. The sound of bombs going off outside reminded me of my childhood, when I tried to wonder what it’d be like for the people in the twin towers. Would this be more chaotic if people around me were fearing for their lives, if there was a chance to survive? None of that mattered though. Life is too short, and this cigarette gave my one last moment to look forward to. After packing the cigarettes, I stepped outside. There were explosions seen and heard from every direction. All sorts of colors painted the sky. It was the Fourth of July. I looked to my right to find my coworker with a cigarette looking up. “Did you think we were being nuked too?” “Yup.” I forget who asked and who responded. Doesn’t matter. Sharing smokes in that moment not only felt great, but right. An immediate annoyance of waking up to fireworks followed, not to mention the war gear. Work was in a few hours, this was complete and utter bullshit. “Going back to sleep.” “Yup.” I miss the army, and I fucking hated it.


He hadn't recognised her at first. Pink did nothing for her complexion and a waistline that high was a difficult look for any woman to pull off. Beneath that bell-shaped skirt and modest bustle he couldn't begin to guess at the shape of her figure. All he could go by was her face, now pale and dewy without the dramatic eyeshadow she had worn the last time their paths had crossed. Her hair was still long, but blonde this time and piled up in elegant curls at the back of her head. A brief look was all he had before the swelling of the crowd had carried her away. The ballroom was bustling and bright, filled with laughter and music. All that would change, of course, though not for a few hours yet. His objective for the evening would have to wait until then, and in the meantime there was little for him to do beyond enjoying the party and ensuring that there was no question of his belonging there. Avoiding that woman from the opposition would be an added bonus if he could manage it. He had made the acquaintance of a kindly old Lord and his wife who had put it upon themselves to introduce him to a few of their friends and see that a young gentleman such as himself was not left out of the fun. The conversation was pleasant and not too taxing. Rumours of the advancing army were already sweeping around the room, but the Lord's wife was keen to talk about anything other than the war and did so with little interruption, catching them up on all the latest fashions and gossip from her correspondences with friends back home. The band reached the end of their piece, and the room was filled with polite applause. The crowd began to stir once more as the dancers, flushed and giggling, left the dance floor to find their next partner or to rejoin one of the many huddled conversations happening at the edges of the hall. He could see that most people in his current circle were searching for a way to excuse themselves from her Ladyship’s inane chatter. "Oh!" she squawked with delight, Mrs Lloyd is here. Have you been introduced? Come now! You really must meet her. You must know her husband, of course.” And suddenly the crowd parted and there she was, standing alongside the woman returning her Ladyship’s wave. Their eyes met as she glided towards him in that terrible marshmallow dress of hers. He stifled a groan. "A pleasure," he said, forcing a smile and giving a small bow as her Ladyship introduced him by the name and rank he had borrowed for the evening. "Have you been introduced to Miss Wetherby?" asked Mrs Lloyd. "I don't believe I have," he said. Which was true. That was not the name she had been using last time. "She came over to visit her dear cousin. Quite tragic." "He passed before I could see him," his fellow imposter explained, "Mrs Lloyd and everyone else here have been quite good to me. I hadn't the heart to travel straight home." "Well," he said, "I do hope you are feeling up to leaving here soon. Your family will be missing you." "I think I shall be," she nodded, "Though not just yet. The parties here are far more interesting than at home." "Quite," laughed Mrs Lloyd, "He was an artilleryman like yourself, you know. Perhaps you knew him?" "I do not think that Miss Wetherby will want to talk of that tonight," he interrupted as politely as he could. He glanced around. The situation had the potential to turn slightly tricky, especially with the supposed Miss Wetherby there, who might decide to turn on him at any moment. He had made sure that the Lord's wife took him under her wing for the evening precisely so that he could avoid talking military matters and mingling with commissioned officers. Commissioned officers such as Mrs Lloyd's husband, who was surely here somewhere and would return to his wife's side shortly. Mrs Lloyd may not have recognised the name he was introduced by, but it was likely that her husband would notice the alarming disparity between his face and the face of the man that had been drugged and left sleeping soundly in a quiet, dark spot where no one need disturb him earlier this evening. He needed to excuse himself quickly and preferably remove the opposition agent before she had a chance to throw a spanner in the works. The band began to play again. It was a waltz. Young men and women flooded back into the centre of the room like the tide coming in. A solution presented itself. "Miss Wetherby," he said, putting on his best smile, "Would you care to dance?" "I say," laughed the Lord's wife, "How scandalous! Still. You’re only young once, I suppose.” The so-called Miss Wetherby looked down at the hand that was offered to her, then up into his eyes. She glanced towards the spot in which the Duke was sat, though they both knew it would be some time before he made his move and the night's work could begin. "It would be my pleasure," she said, taking him by the arm. *** We danced. The lights blurred as we whirled our way around the room. The people standing by were bright smudges of red and blue and white in the corner of my eye, but he was in perfect focus. He was as handsome as ever. It takes a certain kind of arrogance to successfully carry off white breeches, but he had always had plenty of that. I looked up into his face, searching for a sign of recognition, some hint as to which version of him I was dancing with. His eyes barely met mine. His posture was stiff, his head turned slightly to survey the room. Who was this man? Who was I to him? He bent his head and whispered into my ear. "Don't step on my toes." I shuddered, despite myself. He wasn't talking about the dance. The tone was far too curt for that, though he had never really been a man of words. I hoped I was mistaken, but knew deep down that I was not. "That depends on your lead, Captain,” I told him, smiling coyly to see his reaction. The look he gave me in return was icy cold. Gone was the pleasant fake smile that he used in polite company. I longed to see that rare and precious thing, that true smile that I had come to know, the one that lit up his eyes and revealed the dimples in his cheeks, but I knew there was little chance of that.

We danced. This was a man who knew who I was. I was the opposition. His enemy. I was the thorn in his side that chased him across time, foiling the grand plans of the Revisionists. I was someone who would stand by and watch a man die, gladly stopping anyone who would see that it be otherwise. I was the woman who would take a bullet for the murderer who was never caught or protect the baby who would grow up to be an enemy of the state. I was the woman who stole books before they could be burnt, who collected testimony from those that had not been given a voice in their own time. I was the woman who would stop them from creating the history they wanted or culling the facts they didn't like. Yes, this man knew who I was, but he did not yet know me . I felt his arm gripping my body and remembered a time when he had held me under very different circumstances. It was a night not unlike that which was about to unfold on the battlefield outside. On a night like that- one of death and violence- it was all too easy to become a victim of history, regardless of whether you had the gift of hindsight or not. Alone in a time you did not belong in and with little to no hope of returning home, you held on to the only other person who could understand, enemy or not. Amongst the carnage and before I could even think, I had saved his life. In return he had huddled with me in the dark and the cold and the mud, sharing his heat with me till sunrise. That was the first time we held each other, though not the last. In the end, he would save my life as many times as I had saved his. He would keep a tally, as well. He was that kind of man. We danced. This was not the man I had fallen in love with. This was not the man who had come to know me, who I had met for countless secret meetings in shady Parisian cafes or in ancient temples. He was not yet the man who would come around to my point of view and defect to our side at great personal risk. This man had not yet shared a joke with me, or brushed the hair from my face, or held my hand as we walked in the rain.

This was not the man who died in my arms, shot down as a traitor. We danced.

And then, like all things, the dance came to an end. He released me from his vice-like grip, knowing that neither of us could afford to make a scene out in the open. He bowed and I curtsied in return. ”So what now?” he asked. I blinked back tears. I could not tell him what was to come. Nothing I could say would make him fall for me that night. History, as we Preservationists say, must happen in its own time. He would have to wait, and I would have to hope that somewhere out there was a version of him that loved me who I had yet to meet. ”Yes,” I said to the stranger I knew so well, ”What now?”


A woman’s life. The day began like this: I woke up in a rush, as I was quite late for the morning train. It was pouring rain outside, but it was too late to change my outfit though. I sprinted out the door to my car. I fell asleep in my outfit from the day before, a pair of jeans and a plaid button-up. I worked an IT job and was of course the only woman in the company. It was unusual where I live to have women doing ‘masculine’ jobs. Isn’t that strange? It’s such a small town too. In the middle of nowhere. Anyways, I ended up having to drive my car to the work building that day. On the way, though, I noticed something. It was quite peculiar. It was a smell. The smell of.. cookies? I don’t know what the importance of it is to me, but I do have to say it brought a memory back. A memory of my grandmother, my sister, and me. She would always talk while she was cooking about how women could do anything men could do. She was quite a feminist I must say. My sister, unfortunately, was troubled due to stereotypes. We didn’t grow up together and only had time to ourselves with our grandmother. She was raised by my parents to always wear pink or purple, dresses or skirts, flats or heels. No blue or green, pants or shorts, sneakers or sandals. ‘Beauty is pain’, my mother would say. I left that awful place when I was 9. My grandmother took me in. Not once have I ever been forced since then to wear dresses or skirts that are pink or purple. My sister though, up until the day she died wore only pink and purple outfits. In memory of her, I will wear pink and purple on her birthday and her day of death. I never understood why women were always expected to be less, and only to be seen as objects with the use of only cooking, cleaning, and caring for children. Not once have I ever wanted children, and I don’t have a desire to be a stay at home housewife. Once again, I spaced out. I got to work and walked in, as always I was met with many, many men staring at me. IT is not just a man’s job, it’s everyone's job. Both women and men can work at any job. It doesn’t matter the gender. I figured with my smarts and determination I knew I could do it. You know? I figured I could change stereotypes. Women can do anything men do. We might be emotional, but we’re strong-willed and light-hearted, that might be a bad thing at times though. A memory can bring back many things. Bad things, good things, even neutral things. Life is good, for most. A little bit of happiness brings joy. I think nowadays most women don’t have happiness because of stereotypes, and we can’t do things we enjoy. Women aren’t objects you know? I think that we can do anything, even work in an IT job.  Edit: To a friend, who helped me realise that short stories are what I do, I sure hope you see this and that this volume and the other two will now be dedicated to you.


“Well doc, I’m about to be married. Sure it took me till I was a little over 30, but what more could I possibly want in life than the possibility of eternal love and a family of my own?” I state this with as much fake enthusiasm as I can muster, though I’m pretty sure my long-time therapist Dr. Bennet who is in her 60’s and has seen more than her fair share of client pandering isn’t buying my crap as usual. “I’m not buying that crap Layla.” Told you. “Look Layla dear, we have been together on this journey of recovery for just over 11 years now and…” “And I promise I have taken every second of it heart doc, but…” “But, I’m not just going to watch you walk away from this if I don’t think you are truly ready. Not in good conscious at least.” I stand up and start to pace. “When exactly will that be huh? I may still be sick in the head according to everyone in this town, but I'm more sick of this. I just want my freedom.” “You will never be free…” “Until I learn to take this seriously. Yeah I know, and I try to. I mean I haven’t done anything drastic in years, and I’m am in a committed relationship.” I say pointing out my ring finger sporting a basic yet still elegant diamond engagement ring. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” “It isn’t about what I want Layla. It has to be about what you want, and even more so about what you need.” She stands slowly and gestures gently to the sofa indicating I should sit as she continues. I sigh and take a seat as she continues her lecture. “I can only give you advice on what I think would make you happy Layla, but I am not a psychic. While I have commended your progress and did suggest that it may be time to make new connections and relationships, you have to be doing it from a place of good intentions and not obligation. Also, while you may not have done anything drastic recently, we would both be lying to ourselves if we didn’t know the potential is still there.” As she talks, she makes her way around the desk and sits next to me on the sofa and to my surprise puts her hand on my shoulder in a comforting motion. Her look saddens. “While I am not supposed to grow too attached to my clients, after all these years together I do genuinely care for you and your wellbeing Layla.” “Stop being a perv doc. Remember I’m taken now.” “I’m being serious here. Please just know I am making you continue with these sessions not out of disregard for your feeling, but because of them.” “Doc, really I feel grea…” “Jason.” I instantly feel a sense of cold and empty dread inside. She has played this trump card many times before, and the cheap shot always wins. I look away trying to hide the impact the word has on me, or perhaps the lack of impact. She simply nods and we share a long moment of silence that seems to last an eternity. Finally, she breaks the silence by tapping on her watch, indicating the end of the session. “See you next week Layla.” Without responding or even looking her way I exit the room in a coldly heated haste. Exiting the office building I make my way down the street in a rush to get somewhere, anywhere fast. The brisk air of winter feels like nothing as I march mindlessly forward. As I move through the crowd I stumble a bit over a crack and smack into the nearest person. “Ah shit!” I get my bearings and see that I have smacked into the unwelcome but familiar face of Todd. Once a friend from high school, now just another one of the many thorns in my side from the prickly field of thorn bushes that is my life. The collision has made some unknown liquid he was drinking spill all over him. When he looks up and finally sees me there is an instant shift from simple frustration to instant hatred. While I know that may be a strong word, I assure you it fits the bill perfectly. “Of course it had to be Layla the Lunatic.” He says with a scoff. I start to walk away without a word, but he grabs my arm forcefully. “Don’t think you can just ignore me now. Just because others are scared of you or think you’re some pathetic pity case doesn’t mean I do.” He flashes to cold smile. “To me you will always just be the bitch who murdered my best friend.” “What do you want from me Todd?” I respond emotionless. “Nothing. You had 11 years to do something, but you can’t even muster up a sorry.” “Would that make you feel better?” “No, but this might.” He lets go and goes to grab a hot coffee from the stand next to him and is about to throw it my way when a little girl about five years old that has gone unnoticed till now tugs on his coat. “Daddy?” His eyes meet his daughters and without hesitation he places the cup back down. It was as if a spell was broken and I was no longer even there. He takes the girl's hand and walks away calmly, without even looking back at me. No longer in a rush after the encounter, I begin to walk more slowly, but just aimlessly. Todd was right, the town is split between those who think I’m someone to fear and those who think I am someone to pity. There were of course a few though like him, mostly those closest to the situation, who just entirely hated me, and may always hate me for what they think I did. But, seeing Todd today letting go of his hatred for his little girl though is something I can’t seem to get out of my mind. He just walked away from me. How come he didn’t try to punish me? How is he able to just let go? How come he can set himself free from that moment, but I can’t? I notice that my walk has lead me to tree a little outside of town. Nothing special about it really, but the area itself is peaceful and without intrusion. Just myself and a lone tall tree covered in a light layer of frost. I go up to the trunk and place my hand on it. Before I can even realize what I am doing I find myself beginning to climb the tree. Up and up I go without any hesitation or consideration of the risks. Finally, I get up to where I deem high enough, about 25 feet up, and set myself on a fairly thin branch near the top of the tree. I watch the view from up above as I feel my weight slowly starting to weigh on the branch I’m sitting on. I smile and just continue to stare out towards nothing in particular as I ignore the cracking sounds of the branch. I don’t embrace for anything as I hear the final snap. I just let it happen. Down I fall at a rate that would surely be fatal. The dizzying effects of the downward spiral take over me. The moment feels surprisingly slow and entirely chaotic as I feel myself hitting one or possibly two branches on my way down. I close my eyes partially from the pain and partially to try and stop the disorientation. Just as I am sure the final collision was about to come, I feel instead my hand catching onto something. I open my eyes with a start to discover myself just hanging in mid-air. Stunned I look up to see a figured hidden in front of the blinding light of the sun standing on a thick lower branch of the tree holding onto my hand with clear desperation. “Let go!” I call out forcefully. I get no response and hear the figure still struggling above. “Let go!” I call with even more force. Still no response. “For Christ sake, JUST LET GO!” “I CAN’T!” I finally hear the voice of my so-called hero respond only to find it oddly chilling and familiar. I shake off the feeling and get back to the matter at hand. “Ugh. Hey, if you worried I might die just look down.” I see the figures head move downward to look at the ground below which is at most 5 feet below the bottom of where my feet hang. “See. It’s not far enough for me to even spare an ankle. Though my arm might be if you don’t let go soon. You stopped my velocity and saved my life. Thanks, hero.” I say with signature fake enthusiasm. I feel the figure gently loosen their grip as I prepare for the drop to the ground, but suddenly I feel the grip tighten once more with renewed energy and begin to get lifted back up onto the branch the figure rests on. Once safely seated on the branch I shake out my arm and inspect it for further injury. “What the hell was that all about? You could have done some real damage to my ar…”

Before I can get the last word in I am suddenly embraced in a tight, almost suffocating, hug. Too shocked to even respond, I sit frozen as I am pressed into the figure's torso. Though strange at first, the feeling becomes warm and familiar as time passes. Finally, I can’t help but wince at the pain from the injuries sustained from the fall, and the figure slowly releases me, allowing me to I get a clear view of the person that now sitting beside me. I shudder in a shock so deafening that it silences all thought under the gaze of what I instantly recognize as my first love, and the cause of all my misery, Jason. Though the last time I remember seeing him he had just turned eighteen, the Jason before me is most certainly now a fully grown man around his 30’s. I stare with wide eyes at how he looks exactly as I had pictured a grown-up Jason would look had we never been separated.  “You can really see me? I’m really here?” Jason says with his intense gaze locked on me “How…” Suddenly he grabs his head as if just recalling something. “Oh my god. I am so so sorry Layla. I never meant for any this to happen. I don’t even know how it happened. I was right there with you on the field getting ready for graduation and then I jus…” I slap him with everything I have in me. Years of rage, sadness, fear, and pain that I held back in every session comes out in that singular action.

The force knocks him off balance and he begins to slide off the branch. Quickly I grab onto him to help steady himself. After a long moment of reflection on both sides, I decide to break the silence. “What happened?” “I don’t know.” “Don’t give me that bullshit Jason. You suddenly vanish out of thin air without a word and leave me with nothing. I was suspected of your murder! Now you just suddenly show up. I deserve to know where you were all these years.” “I was here.” “You have been in town this whole time?” “No. I mean yeah, but not really.” Frustration builds within me once more. “Stop playing games with me Jason. People think I’m crazy enough because of you, and I don’t need any more reasons to go off the deep end. Just give me a clear answer or I’ll do what everyone already thinks I did and push you right out of this tree.” “I thought you said it you couldn’t even sprain your ankle from this height?” “True, but falling head first may be a different story.” I stare him down in hopes of gaining results, but he suddenly starts laughing. “Is this funny to you?” “No no, sorry.” He coughs back his laugher. “There is just so much I’m feeling right now and I don’t know how to control it all so it just came out in laughter I guess.” He says as he turns to me with a smile. This simple act breaks me completely as I finally let everything free for the first time in years. “I spent 12 years being the town lunatic because I couldn’t control how I felt about what happened. I told everyone you just disappeared before my eyes. No one believed me, and those that did thought I was insane. I wanted to do nothing by cry for weeks, but I didn’t get to because I had to defend myself against your parents and friends mercilessly trying to get me accused of your murder. So after being too tried to fight or care anymore without you I just started to believe them and became the villain they saw me as. I did things I regret to get myself locked away from everything and everyone. I didn’t get to feel anything after that because I was too busy being told to repress everything or being given drugs that would do it for me. ” “I know.” “Like hell you do. What could you possible know when you were even around to see it?” “Layla, I saw everything.” “What does that mean?” “I told you I was here. I never left your side, but it was like I was some kind of ghost. I could see and hear everything, but never interact with them. Until today.” “Did you go crazy too?” He sighs and then puts his hand to his chin as if trying to think of something buried in memories. “When you burned the neighbor’s house down you made sure that you broke in and got their cat out first. Everyone thought it was just a lucky escape, but you did that because taking a life was a line you were never willing to cross.” He face darkens a bit as he looks down “Besides your own that is.” “How did you…” “I told you. I never left you side. During every hardship, I was there. I wanted to be the one to help you through it all like I always did, but I could never reach you.” As he says this he puts his face in his hands, as if to block out his pain. I can’t help but soften a bit as I see this and place my hand on his back. A moment passes before he regains his composure and I release my touch. “We should probably get out of this tree now.” I say “Could we just chill for a little longer?” “Why? It’s getting colder, this branch isn’t exactly comfortable, and I could go for something to eat as we talk more about how crazy we both are.” “It’s the only spot I know we can talk.” “Wait, you think if we leave this tree you will go back to...wherever you were?” “Maybe there. Maybe somewhere different. Maybe nowhere. Heck if I know.” “That’s just a stupid theory than. We aren’t kids anymore, or monkeys for that matter. I am not hanging in a tree all night. Let’s go” I go to hop down, but before I can Jason holds onto my forearm with shaking hands and sad eyes. “I’m not ready to let go Layla.” We stay in the tree for a long time after that. We go through topic after topic until the sun is completely gone and the moon is in full view. "Why now?" I question. "I can't say for sure, but maybe it was just the right time to get over all of this." "There is no right time." "Fair enough." "Are you even real?"  I finally dare to ask. "Honestly? Hell if I know." He sayings laughing a little. We take another moment to let our time together sink in. “Are you ready to let go now?” he asks me with sad smile. I pause and then kiss him one last time. Years of happiness, passion, and love for him released in one singular action. I release myself from the kiss and jump down from the tree. I gain my footing from the short fall and begin to walk away from the tree. Without looking back I keep moving forward. “Yeah, I think I finally am, Jason.” I say as I finally shed my first tears at the sound of the name of the man I will always love.


Christmas was never the same after the year I turned fifteen. Of course, I was nearing the end of puberty. Like other boys my age, I had a dark air around me. The storm of it washed away the naivete of my childhood. My mother, a crude and cold woman called it, "finally growing a pair". She wasn't the same after that year either. Not when my father had the nerve to die the day before Christmas Eve. I was a quiet child. My mother was loud. She and her girlfriends were like catbirds fighting with crows at all hours of the day. Now that my father was gone, their favorite prey was me. But I do not like to dwell on my mother. She was gone now too. I had no other family to give me grief about skipping her funeral. She didn't deserve one. If I had my way, I would've found a tall hill with soft dirt, so the ground would never settle, and she would never rest. Many of the people I consider friends call me cynical, rude, and depressed. The truth is that these people are just the people I share an office with. I had no choice but to talk to them. They were kind. It was something I didn't understand. We worked in a labyrinth of cubicles. The only sound was phones ringing and the ruffling of paper, but every once in a while there was a sound that brought life to the dense office space. Caroline's laughter. I took every chance to feign thirst at the water cooler just so I could watch her twirl her blonde hair as she laughed with the person on the other end of the phone. Depressed was her descriptor of me. I take the same path home every night after work. I'm a creature of habit, and stubborn like my mother. Construction had started along the path over the weekend. It was nearing six, but there was still a team of workers working under the glare of flood lights. I thought I might be able to sneak through as they were distracted, and that's exactly what I did. There was incoherent yelling behind me, but I kept my head down and walked quicker. I was sure the yelling was about me until I heard a terrible hissing, and I hit the ground hard. "Jamie, it's Caroline. Can you hear me?" Caroline? Who's Caroline? The first thing I saw was her blonde hair lit up like a halo by the light from the window. She was beautiful. I wish I knew who she was. I couldn't find my words, so all I did was point at her like an idiot. "I'm Caroline. Do you remember?" I shook my head. "What do you remember?" I shook my head again. Caroline sighed. There was something about her that was familiar. I just couldn't think of it. She leaned back in her seat and twirled her hair between her fingers. That's what it was. Her hair. Her beautiful hair. I pointed at her again. "Caroline." She sat up again and laughed. I laughed too. Even though it caused me an awful headache. Her laugh was like waking to songbirds on a Saturday morning. It was easy and bright. "What did I do?" She looked at me like I said something wrong. "You didn't do anything. You got hurt. They said you were walking through a construction site and one of the cranes failed while you were underneath it. You could've died." I would've preferred death. I may not remember much, but I know not to say that in front of her. She was here with me in the hospital. I didn't know of anyone else that would do that for me. "I don't remember." "I know, but it'll come back to you." She scrunched her eyebrows and took my hand. "Listen. I talked to the nurses and convinced them to let me take you home when you're ready. Home with me, that is. But, since it's Christmas Eve I'll have a lot of family over so it might be awkward." I felt like a lost puppy wandering on the side of the street getting picked up by a stranger, but she was the perfect stranger. "Okay." "Okay? That's it? You're alright with staying with me for a bit?" I nodded, and she scolded me for moving my head too much. Two excruciatingly long days in the hospital later, I was put into Caroline's Honda Civic, and we made the treacherous drive in the snow to her home. As we drove, she pointed out to me locations I should remember. The park, our office, and the grocery store where we always buy snacks for the break room. She said Pringles were my favorite. I rubbed at the gauze wrapped around my head. I grew increasingly frustrated at the fact that I couldn't remember any of it. The only consolation was having her next to me. It was even more frustrating that I didn't know why. We got to her townhouse twenty minutes later. A Christmas wreath hung on her door and her windows were plastered with stickers of Santa and snowmen. "What about my stuff? Don't I have things I'll need?" "The doctor said it might be too stressful. Don't worry, I have an extra toothbrush and a change of clothes. We'll go over to your place tomorrow." She brought me in and introduced me to her family. The whole lot of them. Her parents, her aunt and uncle, and her two nieces and nephew running around the living room. It was a surprise they all fit in her small home. I was bombarded with them telling me, "We're so happy to meet you," and "We're so sorry to hear about what happened". "We can leave and get some breakfast if this is too much," Caroline whispered to me. But I shook my head. She took me up to her spare bedroom. "I kicked the kids out so you'll have your own space. They'll be down on the air mattress in the living room." She scrunched her eyebrows at me like she did in the hospital. "Say something, please. I know we didn't know each other that well, so if this is too much for you just say so." It was perfect. More than perfect. I knew my life was bleak and dark. Caroline was kind enough to take me into her life, even for a short time. I didn't know anything of love, but if I had to guess, this was the start of it. "It's good. Thank you." She hummed. "That crane must've hit you hard. I've never heard you thank anyone." She left me to get settled. There were clothes on the bed that I changed into. The jeans hung above my ankles, but I was happy to change. The clothes I was wearing stunk of sweat and were covered in my blood. I came downstairs and was greeted with a beer from Caroline's uncle. Her mother immediately took it away from me. "He just got out of the hospital, George. He can't be drinking." It was almost funny. If my head didn't hurt so bad I would've laughed. I hung around the kitchen the rest of the afternoon. Caroline was helping her aunt bake cinnamon rolls and Christmas cookies. Since I refused to go back up and rest, Caroline put me to work. It was mostly making sure the mixer didn't fall over. "So, Jamie," Caroline's aunt started, "I hear you two work together. How is that?" I looked at Caroline and she smiled at me. "Um, it's good. I enjoy it." Caroline was the only thing I remembered. She was the only thing I wanted to remember. Throughout the day I had flashes of my life. I saw the office we worked in and our coworkers. I remembered how much of an asshole I was to everyone. I couldn't remember my childhood, except my mother. I wished that crane hit me harder so I could forget her altogether. I looked around Caroline's home. I looked at her family trying desperately to talk over the Christmas music her mother put on, and the kids stealing fresh cookies that just came out of the oven. It was warm, unlike what my life was like. "Caroline, can I talk to you?" She shared a look with her aunt and followed me to her spare bedroom. She sat on the bed with me and waited for me to speak. "I've been remembering things, and I want to apologize if I've been rude to you in the past. I haven't had an easy life and I let that affect me for way too long. I'm sorry, Caroline. I do really like you. I wish I talked to you more." She laughed again. "You really don't remember? I tried so hard to talk to you, but all you did was shut people out. I think that crane did you good." "Is that why you were the only one in the hospital with me?" "I'm sure they'll have a card or a little get-together when you go back to work." I smiled pitifully at her. "You know they won't. I'm not a good person. An accident like this," I pointed at my head, "doesn't change that. Does it make sense if I say I want to be better for you-like you?" "Yes, it makes sense." She placed her hand gently on my cheek. "Why don't we go back downstairs and get a cookie before the kids eat them all?" We ate cookies and cinnamon rolls until we felt sick. The sugar rush distracted me from the pain of my wound. Caroline distracted me even further. She was the light I was missing in my life. I couldn't say it enough. It was frustrating that I lost my memories, but Caroline was the opportunity to make new ones.


It was a cold and wet afternoon, typical of January. The whole of her observation was washed out, gray and drab. As she walked down the street in her teal rain slicker, she kept her head down and studied her shoes. The way the water puddles splashed and rippled with her passing was pleasing to eye and ear, and it got her thinking about volumes and object displacement in water. She moved instinctively along, minding no street signs but instead strolling by an internal map of the town that was her whole life. She was born there, eighteen years and three hundred and sixty days to the day, and she knew that innately, too. Her parents were biblical folks and her name came from the Bible, though she herself had concluded the Christian God to be a lie by the age of eight. That was kept a secret, as well as the ritual in which she now partook, for they always insisted she not leave home unattended. Her name is Magdalene Pitcher. The town is New Canterbury, Illinois. The date is January the fifth, nineteen fifty. In five days she will be eighteen and in one hundred and eighty two days she will graduate high school at the top of her class. These were all dry facts that buzzed around her brain like flies, trapped and incessant. Knowing the numbers and the dates and the times unsettled most people she knew, and so she was left alone most days. That was fine, by her reckoning; It’s not that she couldn’t or wouldn’t like people, but all things considered she preferred solitude. She also despised ignorance, more specifically the willful kind, of which there was an abundance in her little world, and that made it easy to not open up too much. She came to her destination, a neat brick building of two stories that sat on a grassy incline. As she raised her head up to take to the concrete steps, her mind was inexplicably pulled to something well behind her. She turned, looking across the street, where there was a little place where her dad liked the coffee and a barbershop that he hated. It was just starting to rain, again. There was a gap between the two, a narrow little alley, and she got the unshakeable feeling of being watched from it. Of course, nobody could be seen and after a few long intense moments the feeling abated, and up the steps she went, not so much gripping the iron railing as she was running her hands down it to wipe off the rainwater. The town library was her castle, her paradise and her shelter, and the librarian Miss Ghariff silently greeted her with a nod as someone who knew Magdalene best. She returned the gesture with one of her own before strolling on, past the desk, into the rows, eager to get lost once again. The smell of stale paper was her perfume, the weathered spines of shelved books her rainbows. It was something of a personal quest to read every single book there, and she took it quite seriously. She was in the midst of Hemingway now, and reached gingerly for “Farewell to Arms”, when that feeling of eyes on her person crept in again. She was alone in the aisle, and nearly alone in the whole of the building, yet there it was, something wandering on the fringes of her peripherals. Was someone following her? Perhaps her parents were right, not that there was much to do about it now. She turned her head first left, then right, then twice more both ways. Nothing once again. It was at that time she spied something curious and unfamiliar. Atop the bookshelf poked the corner of a hardcover, just so that it could be seen only by an attentive eye. Someone had left a book up there, through carelessness or jest, most likely. That upset her, that choice to be rude to a woman that had done nothing to them by giving her extra work. It had to be corrected, and Magdalene quickly decided to do so herself. Thankfully, the shelves came with ladders, and she ascended up, already priming to read the title and author and determine its home through memory. When her eyes met the cover, however, she was suddenly transfixed. It was no book she’d ever spied before, not in the library or anywhere. It was a decently weighted tome, about nine hundred pages or so, by eye. The skin was thick and leather bound, tanned dark brown and rugged. The spine had bands of illuminated gold that ran around to the front, and the latter was like a thing onto itself. The cover was studded with little silver colored points like the heads of nails, forming the impressions of several dotted rectangular borders in a motley pattern. In these borders, at the center of that mystifying surface, was what looked to her a theater mask. It was alabaster white and milky in luster and the size of a large jeweled pendant, like the sort she’d seen in her mother’s catalogues. It had no eyes, a long slender nose and stout full lips, and when she curiously reached out with her fingers she found it raised like a bas reliefs few inches from everything else. It felt smooth like porcelain and absent of dust, and the latter fact intrigued her perhaps most of all. Reason dictated it to be some manner of artwork, personal and handcrafted, and to leave such a thing would be quite the personal coup. There was no lock or clasp to imply a private recollection like a journal or diary, and when she picked it up carefully to study it further, no mark of ownership or hint of a title could be found. Eagerly, she opened the cover, hoping perhaps to find a name stenciled in the margins. There was none, not even a dedication or foreword. Magdalene took the work down in her arms and weighed options. Such a thing had to be precious to whoever idly forgot it. She briskly made her way to the librarian, reasoning the best course of action would be to leave it to Miss Ghariff, but as she strode out of the aisle, she slowly froze. She looked the thing over, thumbing its surface. It was about the prettiest thing she had ever seen, a true work of art that set her mind ablaze with its craftsmanship. To leave such a masterpiece was criminal. Perhaps, at least, she might peer inside? Surely there was nothing wrong about just a peek. Satisfied with her own reasoning, she went to the nearest reading table and gently laid it down, sitting in front of it. She took a breath of anticipation, and, with one last look in both directions, opened it to a random page. A bitter confusion welled up as her eyes studied the contents. The paper was neatly handwritten in a script that was assuredly not English, or even of the alphabet. Approximately thirty or so crisp lines of black text, or what certainly seemed to be text, sat at the top of the page, and from the middle to the bottom was an illustration equally puzzling. It was an incomplete circle, basically full save for the very top. In the center of this non-circle was a dot and through the dot was a straight line segment that came to rest just outside the confines of the unfinished circle. The whole scrawling was done up in a deep red that evoked fresh ichor and the longer she looked the more it seemed to hypnotize with its inscrutable simplicity. Shakily, a hand reached up and the lead finger gently touched that central line and traced it. What pushed her mind to this act she couldn’t say, but something extraordinary occured when she did: The paper seemed to shift and brighten, like embers in a fire! So startling was this impossibility that she pushed the thing straight off the tabletop. The silence that followed was so palpable that she didn’t notice at first that she was trembling like a leaf. She blinked, broken from a trance, and slowly looked down. The book was on the floor, and seemed for all intents and purposes to be fine and ordinary.. Almost staggering, she knelt to scoop it up, and in that instant, she felt it again. That haunting, invisible gaze, and without thinking, she grabbed up the book, and ran, harder and faster than she ever had before. The journey home was a rainy blur. Her lungs felt stabbed and her heart pounded faster than thought. She was soaked too, with the book tucked up to her chest, and her first instinct upon entering her bedroom was to check it well. No obvious tears or water damage, but looking it over reminded her of what she’d just done to have it, and that made her put it down ever so slowly on the bed. Social ineptitude aside, she’d always been extremely well behaved; She spoke when obliged, opened doors for others, and avoided reckless behavior like the plague. Now she’d stolen, and more than likely had been noticed while doing so! This was of course compounded by whatever it was that the book had done, that impossible phenomenon when she instinctively traced the lines of that emblem. Magic was a thing of fiction, like the lands of Oz she’d been read about in her earliest recollections. It had to be a trick, some optical illusion, sparked perhaps by some trick of the ink used, and the sensation of fear naught but compounding bad luck. The deed was done, and she now had the ill-gotten prize, so why not take another look? Magdalene reached a hand down and gripped that fine cover and pulled it open. The pages were jaundiced and softened on the edges and corners. She leafed through the paper, seeing more inscrutable symbols and incomprehensible characters, and it struck her that the ink was inexplicably fresh-looking despite the apparent age of the medium on which it was printed. In places, whole pages were given to illustrations equally puzzling and disturbing. One in particular had her breathless and wide-eyed. It was illuminated in borders of that shiny fresh red flecked with a lustrous metallic she couldn’t name, and in its borders was a thing in the vague shape of a man’s torso. It was black as night, so tall it seemed constrained by the borders, and anorexic in build. Out of its abdomen sprouted no arms or legs, but long black tendrils that whipped in flailing shapes at the confines of the piece, like the latter was a cage. The head, too, had those strange appendages, but they were fewer and evoked the image of the Gorgons of Odyssey. It had no facial features, just a void where a face logically ought to be, and the whole of it was so black it reflected no light shined on it. The strike of thunder outside snapped her from viewing, and she quickly turned the page while her wits were freed. Nothing was right about the book, and it seemed the most logical course of action would be to return, apologize to Miss Ghariff, and hope for forgiveness. However, there was one more thing she hadn’t yet tried, and that reality dogged her. She flipped through the pages again until she found it, that incomplete circle with the dot in the center and the line crossing it. It couldn’t have been real, so she reckoned, yet the thought of repeating it to be sure was petrifying. There was no magic, no presence, just her mind being swayed by some eccentric’s artistic vision. The downpour outside was very loud now, and when she looked out the one small window in her room there was nothing but water and grey darkness. Long moments passed, until finally, she worked up the nerve. Her lead finger gently pointed and pressed to the old parchment, just as before, and slowly, certainly, she dragged it along that line. Just as before, the paper seemed to come alive, and in that instant, she noted that she could actually read the text. It was still in that cuneiform of unrecognizable origin, like it was something she’d forgotten and now suddenly recalled with perfect clarity. So, she moved back to the first page, and she began to read. The text was something akin to biblical teachings, history mixed with allegory and instruction, but it was far from that of King James. It presented the Earth as ancient, far older than anyone she knew believed, and man was but a relative newcomer. Indeed, it asserted that there were sentients much older than man and smarter too, and these beings in fact still lived, though not in the way humanity understood living. They were invisible, imperishable creatures, born from the swirling chaos of the cosmos and came to settle upon the Earth from ancient meteorites. These “Hidden Ones”, were beyond life and death, but craved the former, and so fed on life since life began. Even now they drifted through the halls of civilization, undetectable except to those sensitive few that could peer them in daydreams and visions, and taking as they pleased. Their victims seemed to simply wither and die, giving all appearance to some natural passing like their hearts had simply stopped beating. She rubbed her eyes, stupefied. It had to be nonsense, but something about it all inexplicably rang true. She read on. That mural from before was an attempt to capture one of these Hidden Ones in a comprehensible medium, but the book stated outright that to truly capture the horror of a Hidden One’s visage was impossible. Then came the next passage, and here she found herself near hyperventilating, for it told of telltale signs of a Hidden One stalking, and among them? - The sensation of being watched by something unseen and unheard. A knock on the door set her jumping from her bed with a fright. She looked to the window, and saw it had grown quite dark, and a familiar voice called from beyond the door. It was her father, fetching her for dinner. Thus suddenly snapped back into normalcy, she set the book down, and came to the door. He looked concerned, for while it was routine that she remain in her room for hours at a time, he told her plainly that she looked frightened out of her wits. She lied, assured him it was just a horror novel, and quickly made her way to the dinner table, where she did not touch a single edible thing. Her family talked, but it was like they were in another room, muffled and unimportant. She stared into space, unblinking, thinking about Them. Were They here, among them now? She felt nothing in her peripherals, but that did little to assuage the creeping paranoia. It was the brusque tone of her brother now that got her attention, and as they came into focus, she found them all staring, looks of worry on their faces. She quietly said she wasn’t hungry, and asked to excuse herself, getting up before permission was even granted. Back to her bedroom she fled, and with the door shut, she went immediately back to the book. There had to be more- answers, and perhaps, solutions. Why else would someone commit such information to a book that could be read by anyone with the instinctive compulsion to investigate its contents? Time and space melted away, just her and the book, page after page. Magdalene shot up from her bed, sweating and near blind in the utter darkness. Her vision darted about, and found the book still half-resting on her lap. She must have dozed off while reading, and it had to be very late. She stood up and came to the window, looking out for anything. Drenched blackness greeted her, not a star in the sky, and even The Moon was absent. It was in that umbral space, after a long moment of straining to parse any light at all, that her hair stood on ends. She felt it, that gaze, but now no particular direction beckoned. Her heart began to thump, and she turned all around, hoping to somehow dispel the fear by showing herself that none but her stood in that room. It was to no avail, and suddenly, a knock at the door. It couldn’t be anyone, not at this hour. It was a trick, it had to be. They knew that She knew, and that could not be abided. Another knock-knock-knocking. So urgent, and sharp, yet no audible call, though she dare not reciprocate a thing. What could she do? There were no weapons, as if mortal arms could harm Them. Knock-knock-knock. The book had no solutions, and had brought her into Their midst. Was it all a trap? A lure for sport? The knocking grew louder and louder, matching her heart. The window! She grabbed the book, for all the good it had done her, and raced back to that portal. No time to open it, she threw herself forward with the book in her face. All sound was deafened by a great crash, and then, nothing at all. The vanishing of Magdalene Pitcher was the talk of New Canterbury for years to come. Her family only heard the shattering of a window in the dead of the night, and when they came to the source, they found her gone. A neighbor swore that she saw the girl running barefoot and screaming in the rainy darkness as they were roused to their own window following the noise. The librarian too reported how the girl had left the library in a panicked sprint the day of her apparent flight. A search of two weeks proved fruitless, finding only a curious little pile of ashes in the nearby woods, warm from a fire. All that remained of whatever was burnt was a curious little stone, white like porcelain and shaped into a eyeless face. Even now, the locals speak of occasionally seeing a girl running in the dark, barefooted and shrieking of hidden beasts coming for them all. Few remain to tell of the actual event. Miss Ghariff, the neighbor, and indeed the entire Pitcher family passed over the decade, heart attacks, one and all.