The storm whooshed in. Waves surged up covering the beaches. Rain and sleet slammed the Oregon Coast rainforest wilderness. Wind roared. Douglas Firs swayed and creaked. Heavy rain hammered the roof.

Water drops hit the windows like bullets. My little blue cottage deep in the forest shook in the gales. It was a good day to stay home. But that is not how the day unfolded. What happened is absolutely true. This is all in my new book “Visiting with Sasquatch - And Other Surreal but True Stories from Mystic Beach on the Oregon Coast.” Here are the scenes and experiences of that day. After I typed up the story of what happened, I let my neighbor's 8th grader read it. I called it "The Rebuilt DeLorean Time Machine." She said, "Trippy! I love it!" Through the windows, in the dawn’s pink light on that day, I could see the trees moving in the storm, like silhouettes of mysterious creatures. Now the sounds of storm waves came as they exploded when they crashed nearby at Mystic Beach.

Each morning I walked there with my gifted dog. I felt wonder every day that an average person like me had stumbled upon such a remarkable four-legged companion, endowed with special abilities. We disappeared into the tendrils of fog and mist, emerging bathed in supernatural energies. Wading through tidepools , we felt the fantastical realms and portals reaching out to us.

I was trying to block out the storm sounds when Coos Bay Bear nudged me to wake up. Coos has psychic communication skills. He is ethereal and at the same time a physical being. Large, with black fur and flashing eyes, he is a hybrid dog-Black Bear-ethereal being.

We felt cozy and warm now. It was still dark as dawn approached. In the hours after midnight, I had already taken him for a moonlit walk in the backyard.

“What is the reason for this?” I said to him. “You were outside just a while ago.” Coos turned his dark, piercing eyes on me. I felt his mind tuning in for psychic communication, like a radio station. Next to us, we could see the little hologram of Breezy, the chihuahua who visited us from the Afterlife. She was curled up in the blankets the way she used to do it in physical form.

Her spirit would be invisible to us if she did not activate her aura glow. We loved to see her hologram aura dancing around here.

Then we knew she was dancing in the Ethereal World too. In the early dawn I wanted to stay warm under the blankets. The pair of dusky eyes that spoke “Coos Bay Bear language” appeared a few inches from my own greenish orbs.

I sighed. “Okay, we’ll get up in a few moments Coos,” I said. On the reading table next to my bed sat the books. At night I got to sleep faster by reading from printed pages. I had the books on my electronic device too. But I tried to stay off the screens later in the evening, so I wouldn’t keep checking internet algorithms and stats late at night. My own skills were modest compared to my friend who has a Phd. in Computer Science. But I felt a sense of wonder and pleasure when I got the code for html5, css3, and wordpress website plugins to function. On top of the stack sat the 1,000 page plus book titled “The Oregon Coast Almanac of Paranormal Activities - by  F. Herbert, Author of Dune” with it’s dog-eared pages from years of heavy use. Next to it waited “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Time Travel in the Galaxy.” It is the story of an earthling who was grabbed by her friend, who turned out to be an alien. They wound up as hitchhikers on the space-time traveling ship of extra-terrestrial enemy invaders. The early parts of the book warned that hostile aliens may try to torture prisoners. They force them to listen to bad poetry. It described the wails of pain and pleads for mercy by the suffering. I was glad to be forewarned. Hopefully, they were not referring to my own poetry, epic in length and brimming with advice. Another textbook rested on the table. It was “The Seekers Atlas to Worm Holes for Optimized Space-Time Travel – Get There Faster.”

For my studies of a British expert was the book - “Dr. Who’s Illustrated Encyclopedia for Beginner Time Travelers – Avoid Chaos, Use Steampunk Machines and a British Phone Booth for Time Travel.” I know you Dr. Who enthusiasts will recognize these travel methods. American time travel books included the great "Quantum Leaper - Zig Zagging Through Time and Ziggy's Best Advice." The rest of the library paid tribute to Ray Bradbury, H.G. Wells and other greats. A recent addition to my library included “Tourism in the Time and Space Eras – Improve Profit Margins in an Exciting Business Opportunity.” And finally, there was a copy of “The Physicists Formulas for Calculating Improbabilities that Happen Anyway in Time Travel – Accidental Landings in the Paleolithic, Dealing with Ice Age Landings, and How to Avoid Making Refunds to Time Traveling Tourists.”

Last night, propped up on pillows, with the earthly form of my real dog “Coos Bay Bear” and the hologram of my spirit dog “Breezy,” snuggled next to me, I was reading “How to Rebuild a Doc Brown’s Classic DeLorean Time Machine Using Scrap Metal – Travel Back to the Future or Ahead to the Past.”

For those who loved classic modes of time-space travel, Doc Brown’s style machine was the angular, gull winged car. The vehicle was created by an Italian designer and an American engineer from General Motors. Then Doc Brown customized it for time travel in his garage in Buellton, California. The professor’s sidekick, Marty McFly, helped make this popular in its day. Although it is a legacy method it’s still popular with afficionados. I favored more cutting edge modes of time-space travel. Although sometimes I used an antique blue lantern that cast a spell, too. But I loved the pictures of these old timey style vehicles blasting through time eras to the future and back. In the olden days of my grandma, they used machines for time travel instead of our modern day power of the mind. The charm of the old time travel vehicles persists. Today they were still built especially during recessions, by idealistic young scientists who gathered scraps of old metal, discarded nuts and bolts, and old automobiles to repurpose them.

Creative time travel machines made from recycled materials are displayed in museums today. The illustrations in the books had full color images with parts labeled and numbered bullet points for the directions. Right now, after my dog woke me up, he nudged me and used his teeth to give me a small type of love pinch on my arm to get me moving. “OK, you have my attention. You’re bored. We need to do something,” I said out loud.

“We need to go now,” I heard Coos Bay Bear’s thoughts come to me through his psychic communication. “What’s the hurry,” I messaged him.

“You’ll see,” he said. “Someone needs our help. We need to take a time travel trip.”

I knew Coos Bay Bear’s psychic abilities were able to hear messages from far away, even from space and distant historical eras.

Today, I wanted a time-out to recharge my batteries, and wait out the storm, but I knew Coos and and I would need to answer this call first. Looking out the window at the distant sea, I could see spindrift flying into the air from the waves atop the swells on the ocean. The tropical storm from the South Pacific, and the King Tides of winter, were combined. It made the ocean rush up onto the shores.  Waves tossed trunks of trees and logs bigger than telephone poles onto the beaches. I hoped today would not be similarly turbulent while we time traveled. Now Coos Bay Bear herded me along to make me hurry. I knew from our walks at Mystic Beach, where our earthly forms get lost in the magic of the mysterious marine fog, that Coos was more than a dog.

He had both an earthly form and an ethereal one. The DNA for his earthly dog form said Coos was blend of Australian Shepard, Border Collie, and Labrador Retriever. So he was a herding, fetching, swimming, curious, playful, determined, observant dog of stamina and deep mental abilities. My own DNA must have said I was an open minded earthling, ready for the adventures that Coos Bay Bear brought to me. Beyond his canine form Coos was a hybrid of other creatures too. I had seen him transform into his Black Bear self and a radiant aura of an otherworldly spirit often glowed around him. One time on the way back along the Secret Path a cougar who did not know us appeared on the trail. Coos Bay Bear grew quickly into a 10 foot tall Black Bear standing on his hind legs. His intense eyes almost drilled a hole into the Cougar’s eyes.

“Sorry, we haven’t met,” came a psychic message from Cougar. “Excuse me. I’ll be going on my way. See you another time.” The moment of tension was dissolved. We smiled at each other and nodded as we went our ways. Now as the translucent glows of dawn penetrated the curtains, Coos Bay Bear’s nose pushed against my arm. I reached out to stroke his soft, dark hair. His midnight eyes with starry lights were like laser beams going into mine with intention.

“Okay, Coos, I’m ready,” I said. I was wearing my time travel outfit and Coos had his tactical dog vest on too. My long pale hair was held in a blue scrunchy. I took time to add a little make up, even though probably no one would see me.

There is no wind in the time travel era-verse to blow your hat off, so I had my favorite beat up, gray poet’s fedora on with the colorful Peruvian, handwoven hatband. The description said it was made by a shaman in the Andes and this inspired me. A pale blue chambray shirt and faded blue jeans went with it. Long thin silvery earrings with a few beads hung almost to my shoulders. A necklace of tarnished silver beads with aqua and coral hung around my neck.

I wouldn’t be running on land but I still wore my black and pink jogging shoes because they are comfortable. Dressing creatively felt uplifting. I was ready for the day now. Coos Bay Bear had his tan K-9 vest that contrasted with his black Labrador Retriever coat. A patch on it said, “OTT K-9 Companion.” It meant Official Time Travel K-9 Companion. The storm abated and as the sky cleared Coos and I walked down the Secret Path to the Mystic Beach. This was a good place to start. We sat on a log washed up by the sea and began to meditate.

I could tell Coos was listening to psychic message hunches. I began to see a vision of space and a trip to look for a worm hole to speed up the time travel. Instead of a linear trip we could go in where space-time was folded and quickly get somewhere. We felt the time-space begin to spin. The surroundings became blurry like a French Impressionist painting by Renoir, with the lighting having a similar effect.

Grasped in each other’s arms and paws, we entered space to float and look for a worm hole so we could travel faster. As we spun through time, I heard clanging noises. In the distance was an old fashioned time machine made of a rebuilt DeLorean vehicle, with dented fenders, rusty scrap metal, and two shapes of beings in it. Sparks were flying, squeaking noises echoed, and something was malfunctioning – they saw us and began to yell and wave. Their legacy style time machine was rust colored with extra implements welded to it. I could see an old-fashioned dashboard and some vinyl seats that looked like beach chairs found at a junkyard. It was a real museum piece. But it had a sort of steampunk, artistic, abstract flair.

As they came closer I saw they were not from earth. Maybe aliens hijacked someone’s vehicle. Perhaps they too were looking for a good wormhole path to another time and place. Were they friend or foe? There is something we always need to carry on the time travel trips in case we need it – the antique blue lantern light with the etched glass – the one my father used to show us people from 100 years ago at our antique pine dining table. We can use an old fashioned spell from the blue lantern sometimes. It’s also handier than a flashlight when we need to see in the dark.

I lit the blue lantern and held it up to see the DeLorean time machine and its passengers better, through the twilight of the time travel spirals Alarm raced through me at what I saw. Instinctively I reached out to Coos Bay Bear and clutched him tightly. A glance at his eyes told me he was employing his Australian Shepherd-Border Collie laser eyes technique at the squeaking, rusty, grimy looking time vehicle that was approaching us. A ray of light came from it. A magnetic pull seemed to be activated, drawing us closer to them, or them to us. “Why isn’t Coos doing something?” I thought. My heart pounded. My throat grew tight. My face felt like a frozen mask. Horror filled me as they came alongside of us. They reminded me of wet, green blobs of slime or mold.

Were these the aliens that “Hitchhikers Guide to Time Travel in the Galaxy” warned me about? If they caught us would they torture us by reading bad poetry to us? Don’t judge, I said to myself. Remember “Hitchhiker’s Guide.” Pretend to use the “Point of View Gun” to see what they see through their eyes. I tried but could not access their psychic selves. They were trying to communicate, but I could not understand them. I could not hear or decipher their thoughts or their sounds. Their machine appeared to be falling apart. They must need new ways to travel. “What did they want?” A deep, low growl rumbled from Coos. I saw him transform into a full Black Bear size, standing almost 10 feet tall on his hind legs. He does not do this often and I love to see him do this. Coos activated his ethereal, paranormal self. He threw lightening into the air. It crackled. Then there were thunderous booms. With clangs, squeaks and groans of metal the newcomers machine wobbled and zoomed to a distance away from us. With the blue lantern glowing and Coos Bay Bear standing at full Black Bear height, growling, I tried again to hear the newcomers or see through their eyes. “Help,” came the message. “We can’t get out. Our time machine is broken and too weak.” “Is it a trick,” I thought? Coos spoke to me, “Beware of shapeshifting tricksters, Kristi Marie.” I stopped looking at them and focused on listening to the psychic communications. “We’re from the earth. We rebuilt this DeLorean time travel vehicle in our garage in Buellton, California. Something in it reacts with time-space and changes us into new forms.” Coos Bay Bear and I were experienced at transformations into other forms. We looked at each other. “What could be done?” we both thought. “Could we get them back home to the Buellton, California of their usual era?” “Okay,” I sent them a message. “Maybe we can help.” The magical antique blue lantern with the etched glass was still glowing.

“Come closer to this blue light to feel the healing spell,” I said. “Concentrate. See your real selves and your home.” As I watched, the blobs turned into human style beings. One of them had a mop of unruly white hair and bulging eyes. He looked like the epitome of a crazy professor. The other was a young man with brown hair and an innocent, youthful face. Above them a vision appeared of their home. It was a modest stucco home with a red tile roof. Sunshine painted the scene with warmth. Golden rolling hills with live oak trees under a sunny, summertime blue sky were behind the house. “Thank you,” the white haired professor type sent a psychic message. “I’m Doc Brown. Take care.” He turned to the younger man and said, “See Marty, I told you everything would be okay.” “Glad we could help. Our pleasure. Take care now,” I sent back. We waved as their vehicle and forms began to fade and dissolve. “It’s working!” Coos and I thought at the same time. With a clanging, and squeaking like rusty hinges, the old rebuilt DeLorean time machine vehicle disappeared from our vision.

Floating in time-space, I smiled at Coos. I was glad Coos Bay Bear had heard the fellow travelers call for help, when it echoed through time-space in the early dawn. Discovering Coos had the gift of hearing psychic messages with calls for help gave me new insight into my amazing companion. That’s my Coosy Coo…. the hero dog….Black Bear and mystical being hybrid. We cuddled up together, picturing home, and it seemed like only seconds before we saw the waves of Mystic Beach gleaming. The sky had cleared, the tide was low, and we waded out into the ocean under a sunny sky. Far out on the waves we saw sea lions rising and falling on the swells.

“Thank you Coos, for waking me up before Dawn today,” I said to him. He looked at me and his mouth opened into a wide angle with his lips curving. Coos did his trick where he sticks his ears out to the side and spins them like helicopters. His eyes twinkled at me in the sunlight.

We both began laughing.


           Hector contorted his face as he pulled his nose to the side, flattening out his nostril. He carefully studied the line that ran along the base of his nose, connecting it to the rest of his face. With surgical steady hands, he dragged a cotton swab, soaked in rubbing alcohol, along the smooth valley, gathering up even the most infinitesimal speak of dirt and oil. Exchanging the cotton swab into his right hand he pulled his nose once again, this time to the right, and repeated the methodic cleansing. Upon completion, the swab landed upon a pile of fifteen similar swabs, each one soaked in alcohol, each one assigned to a different area of his young face.            Prior to the beginning of the ritual, he had never anticipated the growing pile of cotton swabs, but upon the conclusion of his first stroke, a swab that rode along the bottom of his jaw on the right side: the true filthiness of his face was revealed. A shade appeared on the soft white cotto, causing him to set down the single swab and retrieve the rest of the pack. He couldn’t risk cross-contamination, not tonight.            Thew next swab’s lofty location was across the hairline. Hector held back his dark black hair, and instead of rubbing, decided to dab the cotton at the very conjunction of the face and scalp. Pulling back the smooth hair proved slightly more difficult than he could have expected. The hour-long shower, which consisted of a thirty-minute hair conditioning soak, proved effective, softening his hair to where it held little resistance to the light pull of his fingers. The momentary setback caused him not even the slightest bit of frustration, but rather a slight smile, indicating his realization of the success of his immaculate grooming.            As he reached the left temple he paused. It was at this spot, on his older brothers face where the event occurred. An event that directly contributed to this evening’s ritual. Five years ago, as his older brother, Miguel, stepped into Karlew Middle School for the first time, beginning his sixth-grade year; a small red bump pushed through his coffee-colored skin. The newly formed pimple had beaten through the creams, exfoliators, and preparation. Unfortunately, the blemish went undetected, by Miguel. If it had, he surely could have hidden the blemish behind a sticker, as pre-teens often do, as in the least combed his hair forward, obstructing the view to others. But no, Miguel didn’t notice, and if anyone else had it went unmentioned until lunch time when an uninspiring fellow adolescent shouted out, “Hey Cano”, a lazy version of ‘volcano.’  Edven thought the pimple only lasted a single day, thanks to an old home remedy involving a paste containing, baking powder, honey, and garlic; the nickname followed him throughout his life. Through creativity, a little fortune, and the short goldfish like attention span of middle-schoolers, he was successful at convincing everyone that the name came from his explosive speed in P.E. Yet Hector knew the truth, and would on occasion, find his brother, alone, his head buried in his hands, melodically repeating over and over, “Cano can’t yo…. Cano can’t yo.” Hector had no idea what he meant by the depressing mantra and dismissed it as a hormonal imbalance. Yet he swore to himself that he would not allow puberty to cause him even the most similar of fates.            His sister, Olivia had had a very different experience with middle-school puberty. Her skin was flawless, the envy of both friend and frenemy. Not one picture existed of her face being less than perfect. Even after posting an exhaustive catalogue of the week, she had the flue during her fifth-grade year, her face remained unchanged. On social media she was constantly being accused of using filters, and despite her most noble attempts at proving the naysayers wrong, the comment section continued to fill with scandalous accusations. From the safety of online separation and even visual distance she was both desired and despised, yet upon closer approach her pubescent initiation was made potently and pungently clear. She stunk. Her armpits exuded a smell that can only be described as undead. A putrid mix of damp decay with floral notes of relentless rot. No over-the-counter deodorant could mask the unforgiving odor. Eventually a secret concoction from Romania was discovered to contradict the stench. Hector had always assumed that the creator of the miracle potion had received the Nobel Prize for chemistry or for some other humanitarian centered category. Fortunately for Olivia, the moment of her ‘flowering’ occurred as she and some of her friends were hanging out behind the cafeteria next to the dumpster. The smell was easily explained and upon discovering that the fungal fragrance was exuding from her own body, she quickly made and excuse to leave. She then had to suddenly, “take care of her ailing aunt” for the next several months and only had contact with her friends through social media. To help sell the lie, Hector had to dress up on several occasion, impersonating different cousins and enduring the olfactory onslaught as he posed in several staged pictures.            Despite the odds being stacked against him, he was determined that he would beat puberty, with both its subtle and blatant attacks. The hour shower not only prepared his hair, but his body as well. He had scrubbed places he had never scrubbed before, using both luffas and exfoliators. With the last dab of the cotton swab upon his hairline he was finished. Never had their existed, in the history of the world, a cleaner, unblemished young man. A proud grim slowly formed. “I don’t know how you did it?” he charmingly questioned his reflection, “but somehow… you did.” He ended the exchange with a finger point, wink, and an even larger grin. The rising confidence exposed his teeth in an overly positive smile.

           He immediately leaned forward. Pulling down his lower lip while jutting out his jaw, he inspected his lower teeth. Not one speck of plaque or discoloration. His gums were a deep rea, contrasting the whiteness of his teeth. Next, he raised his upper lip to inspect those teeth as well. Dental perfection. Raising his hand as a cup in front of his mouth, he let out a quick exhale. Breathing in he could only detect the subtle fragrance of mint. “Not going to happen.” he slowly stated, leaning unusually close to the mirror, “You did it.” Another over-confident smile exposed his teeth, which for a moment looked slightly yellow.            “What the….” he quickly let out as he leaned even closer to himself. He smiled again. They were slightly yellow. To his shock as he closed his mouth to confront his own stare, his skin too began to take on a slight yellow hue. Quickly he closed his eyes. Titling his head down he turned on the faucet. Catching some water in his hands he splashed it onto his face. He looked up again. The yellow hue continued to grow. Another splash of water revealed that even his hands appeared to have a yellow hue, yet when he looked down upon them, his hands appeared perfectly normal. Once again, he held up his hand to the mirror. The reflected hand was turning yellow, yet the back of his hand continued to have the same complexion. Even his exposed chest was slowly becoming yellow. In a frenzy he continued looking back and forth from no mirror to reflection. Comparing the two there was a difference. The mirror was turning his whole-body yellow, and oddly enough a yellow that seemed familiar. In a fit of frustration, he turned away from the torturing glass, and then he saw it. The wall opposite the mirror was yellow, and not just any yellow, the exact shade his body was morphing into. In horror he turned back to face his jaundice counterpart, realizing instantly that he wasn’t turning yellow but instead his reflection was vanishing. “No… not today,” he screamed as he placed both hands upon the mirror, each holding their fading twin. “Please,” he quietly pleaded, placing his forehead upon the cool glass, “I was supposed to have a few more years.” He looked up once again and stared into his own eye; eyes he would never see in reflection again.

           As his phantom body slowly disappeared, he stepped back to take one last look. “I guess I’ll… see ya around,” he slowly let out. He smiled one last time, not an overly confident smile from moments before, but a large smile, big enough for him to be sure. And there amongst the fading yellow teeth, he saw them, two extending fangs.


Its Monday. I arrive at the office, pass by the reception desk, “My God Kathy, you look like crap!”, softer now, I sit near the reception desk where Melissa works, she says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, you just look like you didn’t sleep all weekend. Are you OK?” I answer, “Yes. Everything is fine now. Sarah’s fine. Friday she had pneumonia, but she’s past the worst part. It has just all been such a strange ordeal.” “Was she that sick?”, Melissa asks softly. “No, it’s not that . . . Its . . . For a while now, she’s been telling us about *The Green Lady*. Things would happen like, she’d misplace her favorite doll and The Green Lady would remind her she took it outside. That it’s near the dog house where she was playing with it the day before. I had an imaginary friend when I was a kid. Lots of kids do for a short period, so Daniel and I never really thought much about it.” Melissa said, “You thought it was a ‘phase’ she would grow out of.” “Right. But then, she’d say The Green Lady would tell her things, things she couldn’t possibly know herself. We had a family friend that was very sick. Daniel and I were afraid she might die. But we’d kept all that from the children until, or unless, it actually happened. Then one day we were planning a weekend trip to Disneyland in three weeks, something the kids love to do, and she said the next morning ‘We shouldn’t go that weekend, The Green Lady said last night, your friend will die that Saturday and you’ll want to be here for the family that weekend.” Melissa looked on, eyes wide, shocked and speechless. I continued, “Yeah. We thought we’d done a pretty thorough job of keeping how serious the friends illness was from the kids, and here she is saying our friend is about to die. Well, three weeks later, Saturday morning I get a call from our friends mother telling us she had just passed minutes before.” Melissa leans in to place her hand on mine, “Oh my Gosh.” “Yeah. So Daniel and I are searching the attic and crawlspaces and everywhere someone could hide. Because I’m beginning to wonder if The Green Lady is some real person that has been talking to the children when we aren’t around. We find nothing. We don’t want to scare the kids, but talk to both separately and our other younger daughter mentions she’s seen her too. That she tucks her in at night some times, and sings to her after Daniel and I have left her in bed. So, Daniel and I are fully freaking at this point. Wondering if moving, or an exorcism, is the better option?” Melissa snorts, “Right.” “We talk to the children, and very discretely slip in some casual questions, to make sure The Green Lady isn’t asking them to kill the neighbors or anything wild, but no, it’s all tucking them in at night, and harmless bedtime stories, or finding the occasional lost or misplaced doll or calming them if something unsettling happened during the previous day. We asked where they’ve seen her at, they say ‘mostly in the house, in our bedroom’. So it’s not someone meeting them out at daycare or school, somewhere when we aren’t around.” Melissa shrugs, “Like when they’re out clubbing.” “Right, I mean they’re seven and four, it’s not like they spend any real time outside close, trusted, adult supervision . . .” “Three months pass, the occasional mention of The Green Lady drops. While its bizarre to us, to the children she’s harmless and it’s all meaningless. Then the oldest daughters allergies kick in, or, it’s a cold, or the flu, we can’t tell yet. She’s not particularly getting worse, but not getting better either and her temperature is back and forth. I tell Daniel I’ll take her to the Doctor tomorrow just as we’re going to bed. 2:30am, I feel a tug on my shoulder and roll over to see . . . A woman, who looks vaguely familiar, with long probably red hair, freckles, and flowing green Victorian length dress, with a bright green aura glowing around her, lean over and say. “She’ll be fine, but it’s gone over to pneumonia, you should probably take her to the hospital and have them check oxygen levels and give her something to drain the fluid around her lungs.” I roll over and scream at Daniel to get up and get dressed, that we’re taking Sarah to the hospital. Turn back and see . . . Nothing. The Green Lady is gone.” “I throw a robe on and head to the girls room as Daniel gets dressed. Her breathing is worse, we take her to the hospital, and the doctor confirms . . . Pneumonia. He gives her something to reduce the fluids and help her breath, and we monitor the oxygen levels for a few hours, and eventually take her home six or so hours later. The Doctor asks what made me bring her in, was her breathing that bad? I paused head down, sighed and said barely audible, ‘No, it was The Green Lady.’ He turned back to the chart, chuckled softly, hanging the stethoscope around his neck and responded, ‘Ah, fifth time in the last year. Who do you think she looks like?’ I couldn’t believe someone else had heard of her and said I didn’t know, but she did look familiar. He asked if I watched a certain TV show’, I blurted out a characters name, that’s where I recognize her from.” I lean back in the guest chair, “Mom and Daniel were with the kids. Phone rings Saturday evening, just as I get home from the grocery. It’s the Doctor from the ER. He’s a friend of a friend of the actress the Green Lady looks like, and wants to know if I’d like to meet her? I said, ‘Sure, I guess’. So he tells me they’ll be home Sunday afternoon and gives me the address. I talk it over with Daniel. My mother had already stopped by to help with the kids, so Daniel and I decide to go.” Melissa asked, “You went over to her house?” “Yes, and recapped the entire story to her and her boyfriend. Her eyes get wide, she leaps off the couch, and says to her boyfriend ‘Oh my God John, they’re crazy. You keep them here, I’ll go in the back and call the police’, and she bolts out of the room.” Melissa gasps, “So you’re about to be arrested?” “We thought so. Daniel and I are panicking. Standing up and apologizing profusely to the boyfriend and trying to excuse ourselves to leave. The boyfriend just smiles, shakes his head, waves us to sit down ‘She’s not calling the police. She’s going into the spare bedroom to get a drawing hanging on the wall.’ Thirty seconds later she comes out and spins around a roughly 11x14 portrait in a very old frame and there is . . . The Green Lady. Red hair like the actress. Long flowing Victorian Green Dress, like the one I saw next to my bed. Not a twin, but enough of a likeness to the actress to make you think of her.” The actress says, ‘This is my Great Aunt Jessica. Its a Black and White charcoal drawing that was shaded over in color. Some of the green is actually coal shading. Apparently if you’re skilled enough, you can shade color with coal, depending on the surrounding room light. She’s been gone for sixty years. I never met her, well,’, she nods with a bit of an eyebrow wink, ‘not while she was alive anyway. But she had no children of her own, and spent most of her life looking after others children while the parents were out working. I saw her as a child, like your daughters do. And, every three to six months, someone sends us a letter, telling us a story, similar to the one you just told us. I can’t explain it, there seems to be no connection to these other people. It’s as if . . . Jessica just continues looking after children as she always has.’” Melissa exhales, “Oh my God, that’s amazing. So a ghost saved your daughter?” I shrug, “Someone, or something did. I can’t explain it. And I haven’t seen her since. Daniel has never seen her. So, that was my weekend, how about you?” Melissa said, “Oh no. I can’t top that.


The Lost Looking Glass of Peter Pan Strange forces were at work. The loadstone of the human mind is more mysterious, and just as powerful, as the irresistible attraction the little needle on your compass has for the land far to the North. Henry had walked this way a thousand times, but today he was swept through the front door of Trudy’s Treasures as if he were on autopilot. No thought, just feet slowly shuffling their way along the worn wooden floor through a menagerie of peculiar objects perceived by someone to have outlived their usefulness, and now, perhaps, destined for renewed purpose in the lives of others.

“Can I help you?” “Who, me?” Trudy’s first customer of the day seemed confused. “Yes, if you have any questions, I’ll be here. I’m always here.” Questions? Had the gift of speech not eluded Henry for the moment, he might have inquired as to where he was and why he was there. Music boxes, Christmas ornaments, baby cribs, shoes, bonnets, dolls, bikes, bowls, caps, an army of figurines, beer signs, anything that had once served mankind, had found their way onto the packed shelves of Trudy’s. Henry strode up and down the aisles without noticing any of it, but then that magnetic force thing stopped Henry in his tracks. It wasn’t his reflection peering back at him from the clouded mirror framed by hand-carved oak; it was Henry, from a time the years had buried and Henry could barely remember. The image of a 6-year-old boy with disheveled hair and a mischievous grin stirred his memory and touched his heart. What had become of that little boy? “What is that, Henry?” “It’s a mirror. It will look nice in my office.” “What? Why would you want that ugly thing in your office?” Henry wasn’t sure. “And where did you get it?” Henry didn’t know that one either. “Please don’t tell me you paid for that thing.” Martha had stumped him again. Long after Martha had gone to bed, Henry studied the face of that little boy in the mirror in the dim light of his small office, and finally, he remembered- the carefree moments of play, the wonder of all things seen for the first time, the ability to imagine and dream, the life of a child. The boy’s smile grabbed hold of him, jumped from the mirror and onto his face, never to let go. Time could no longer erase the memory as the magic of the mirror dusted off the years, and Henry’s smile matched the grin in the mirror. Henry was still Henry. “Good morning, dear.” Martha had not heard that tone for years. Her husband seemed…different. “What are you so happy about?” “What day is it?” “Are you okay, Henry? It’s Thanksgiving Day. How could you forget that? Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving.” “Thanksgiving! Oh, my gosh, I’ve got to get going on my list.” “List? What list?” “My wish list. Christmas is only a month away and Santa is coming. I better get moving.” A very perplexed Martha watched Henry hurry off to his office. Henry thought, and wrote, with great excitement: - A new sled. - A battery-operated robot. - A Nerf gun that shot Nerf bullets. - A Candy Land game. - Plastic dinosaurs that could fight each other. - A dump truck that actually dumped stuff. -Electric train with engine that blows real smoke. Henry looked up and saw the mirror hanging on the wall next to his desk. He stood and saw the little boy looking back at him. Henry was happy to see him again. “Yes, Doctor Barnes, he believes in Santa.” “What do you mean by that, Martha?” “I mean what I said. My husband believes in Santa Claus.” “No...” “Yes, he thinks Santa will be coming at Christmas. He spends hours working on his wish list.” The good doctor had known Henry for years, and it was difficult to take Martha’s call seriously. “What’s his position on the Easter Bunny…or the Great Pumpkin… the Tooth Fairy?” After coping with Henry’s rediscovered belief in the jolly old elf for more than a week, Martha was not in the mood. “Dammit, Doctor! My 54-year-old husband believes in Santa! This is not funny.” “Well… it’s a little funny…heh, heh, heh.” Henry’s co-workers were likewise befuddled. “Fred, what kind of cookies do you put out for Santa on Christmas Eve?” “Huh?” “I usually do chocolate chip, but this year I’m going to put out some peanut butter cookies. I think Santa will like the change.” “Huh?” “And I’m worried the milk will get warm. How do you get the milk to stay cold for Santa, Fred?” “Huh?” “And the reindeer! Don’t forget about the reindeer, Fred.” “Marvin, have you noticed anything unusual about Henry lately?” “Well, at his annual review last week, he asked me if he had been naughty or nice. That seemed a little odd.” The body of a man and the mind of a child provided some good entertainment for the neighbors. “Susan! Come here and check this out. Henry is building a snow fort in his backyard!” “Oh, my God, Tom. Yesterday I saw him sledding by himself on the hill at City Park. I think Henry’s lost his marbles. I hope he’s not dangerous. Where are the children?” Martha bounced around from confused to annoyed to compassionate. The sight of Henry on his knees, leaning into the fireplace and peering up the chimney, touched her heart. They had been together since high school, and now the love of her life, in layman’s terms, had gone woo-woo. “How in the world does he get down the chimney, Martha? The guy is amazing. And with all those toys!”  “I’m at wit’s end, Susan. Last night he asked me where his ‘jammies’ were, and this morning he put Hershey’s Syrup on his pancakes. He came home from work wearing a cowboy hat.” “That is pretty weird, Martha. I’ve heard of the midlife crisis where a man tries to revisit his early years, but it seems like Henry has gone back a little too far. I didn’t want to tell you this, but last week he showed up at our door and asked Tom if he wanted to come out and play.” Martha suspected it wouldn’t be long before Henry’s behavior went beyond the neighborhood and workplace. The line in front of Santa’s Village at the mall moved slowly, and Henry was growing impatient. “What are you asking Santa to bring you? I want him to bring me an electric train, one that shoots real smoke out of the engine. My name is Henry. What’s yours?” Deep within the heavy jacket, stocking cap, and colorful wool scarf, a little boy was struggling to come up with the appropriate response. “I’m Willie. Uh… are you here to see Santa?” “You bet. This is my third time. I keep changing my mind. I don’t want to ask for too much. Sometimes it’s better to ask for just one special thing to make sure you get it.” The image of the 6’2” 195 lb. Henry perched on Santa’s lap will long be remembered by all who witnessed the event. As fate would have it, TV 6 was doing a story on the Christmas shopping rush, and Henry made the six o’clock news- the national news. “Here’s an interesting story out of Cleveland, Ohio. A 54-year-old man was seen sitting on Santa’s lap at a local mall, apparently telling him what he wanted for Christmas. Our own Jay Larson caught up with the man after his visit with Santa. Jay, what’s the story here? Some kind of a joke, or did the guy lose a bet? America wants to know.” “Well, Bret, let’s first give our viewers a chance to get the little ones out of the room. Some things are best unsaid in the presence of small children.” “Good point, Jay... And with that warning, what’s the story here?” “Apparently, someone’s parents didn’t tell him about the real deal with Santa. I think we may have the first recorded case of a grown man who still believes in Santa. Here’s a clip of my earlier conversation with 54-year-old Mr. Henry Farkel.” At this point, Martha closed her eyes and covered her ears, Henry beamed with pride, and a gleeful Tom pulled his chair closer to the TV. “So, Mr. Farkel, how was your visit with Santa?” “Awesome! Santa is the best person in the whole world. He’s going to bring me an electric train. I love him.” “That’s great…” “With an engine that blows real smoke.” “How nice. So, Mr. Farkel, I have to ask you. Do you still believe in Santa Claus?” “What do you mean, still?” “I mean, most people stop believing in Santa when they are six or seven years old.” “That’s silly. Who do they think brings them their presents? Geez.” Martha reflexively turned the TV off, put her head in her hands, and moaned softly. Tom and Susan, along with millions of people in their homes, at bars, and in airports throughout the country were laughing hysterically. Life would never be the same for Henry and Martha. “Hi, Mom.” “Martha! What’s with that goofy husband of yours? Santa?! Oh, my God. I told you not to marry the guy.” Martha felt like she was wearing a “Kick Me” sign on her back wherever she went. “Look, Gladys. Her husband’s the one who still believes in Santa.” “I saw your husband on TV last night, Martha.” Enough said. Giggles and smirks everywhere.  At work, Henry garnered a company record four reprimands in one month- one for sailing paper airplanes across the office, one for putting a fake snake in Nancy Martin’s lunch bag, and two for firing spitballs into Fred’s cubicle. On the homefront, he regularly played Ding-Dong Ditch on Tom and Susan, and short-sheeted his and Martha’s bed to the growing annoyance of his early-to-bed wife. And, of course, the relentless revisions to his Christmas wish list continued. Martha was reaching her breaking point. No plan of action derived from additional calls to Doctor Barnes, and occasional visits to the 24 Chapel at St. Mary’s yielded no miracle. She tried reasoning with her husband. “Henry, you have to know that reindeer can’t fly.” “Oh yeah? Well then how does Santa deliver presents all over the world in one night? You’ve got to think this thing through, Martha.”  Martha grudgingly understood she was now married to a man with the world view of a six-year-old. The contrast could not have been greater, the elderly, austere Father Hanley delivering his soul-saving Homily from a lectern with the receiver of a remote-controlled gag-sound machine, set to barnyard chickens, cleverly concealed inside. Henry eagerly awaited the moment. Bawk, bawk, bawk! Cluck, cluck, cluck! Bawk, bawk, bawk! Never in the history of gatherings of people had so many tried so hard to contain their laughter, and there had never been a more mortified priest than poor Father Hanley as he struggled to comprehend the moment. After church, Martha expressed her displeasure over the sophomoric stunt. “That was bad, Henry, really bad. During Mass! You’ve been doing a lot of strange things lately. They have been childish and silly, but not harmful… until today. That was bad, Henry.” Henry felt like a scolded child… which he was. The last thing Henry would ever want to do would be to hurt Martha.  Father Hanley immediately suspected Henry was the culprit when he fell out of his pew and rolled around in the aisle in a fit of unrestrained joy. He pulled Martha aside after Mass. “Martha, I think your husband was the one responsible for that childish and disturbing prank. ” “Really? What makes you think that, Father?” “Martha…” “I’ll talk to him.” “Martha, a few nights ago, just after dark, I heard laughter coming from the playground. I looked out my window and saw Henry coming down the big slide. Then he went to the swings. 1 Corinthians 13:11, Martha. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But, when I became a man, I put aside the things of a child.’ Please remind Henry that he is now a man.” “I’ll do that. Sorry, Father.” But… strange forces were again working their magic. For the first time since the momentous change in Henry’s behavior, Martha felt conflicted. The episode in the church was certainly regrettable, but the thought of Henry flying down the big slide brought a smile. And the swings! On their first date, she and Henry went to the town park and talked for hours while sitting on two swings. That was so long ago, but Martha remembered. The guy was acting like a complete nut-job, but it suddenly occurred to her that Henry seemed… happy, happy as he had ever been. That night, Martha observed Henry once again planted in front of the mirror. The smile was there, and he seemed peaceful, content, and… happy. Henry returned to the kitchen table where he had been drawing stickmen attacking a castle as Martha reflected on the events of the past few weeks. Santa, all the strange behavior, bringing home the mirror, constantly looking in the mirror… the mirror… the mirror. It was drawing her in. She walked into Henry’s office and looked at herself in the mirror. It was her, but not her. The years peeled away, and Martha saw a little girl in a red jumper, light brown hair with a yellow ribbon, and a smile she had a hard time remembering. It was the smile of those carefree, fun years of a child. She had seen that smile recently…on Henry. Martha stared at the little girl in the mirror until she could no longer keep her eyes open. When Henry came home from work the next day, Martha greeted him with a smile… yes, that kind of smile. “Henry, I made some sandwiches, and I thought we could go over to St. Mary’s for a little picnic. Then maybe we could go down the big slide and sit on the swings and talk for a while. We haven’t done anything like that for a long time, Henry. What do you say?” “You’re on! And when we get home it will be dark, so we could pull a little Ding-Dong Ditch on Tom and Susan!” “Hell, why stop there, Henry? Let’s hit the whole neighborhood!” Henry smiled as he put his arm around Martha. He had just gotten his Christmas present early, the last thing he had asked for from Santa.


Chat Transcript 09/17/2012 G: Hey there! R: Hi, What's up? G: Marry me? R: nope G: :-( R: Are you gonna do that every time we talk? G: of course! R: ha R: you're funny G: ...and cute G: ...and a good cook R: yes G: and quite romantic G: and a good dad G: and sexy... did I forget sexy? G: and I have a nice voice R: Don't forget how modest you are G: Oh! I forgot that one! I'm the most modest man on earth! R: that's right! G: I'm so humble that they tried to crown me king of humility G: ...only... G: I was too humble to accept R: haha! G: See! I make you laugh! R: Quite a lot right now, actually :-) G: Think about it... a life with me would be full of laughter and romance and good food! R: Are you trying to romance me with this? G: Hmm, I don't know... is it working? R: ... R: I'm starting to think you have a quota to fill.. that you must propose to me at least once every single day R: you seem to be doing that G: Well, if you ever say yes, imagine how romantic it would be to tell our children: G: "He proposed to me every day for 2 years, until I finally said yes, on Sept 17th, 2012!" R: lol, you wish! G: *obviously!* G: The kids will say, "why did you keep asking, Daddy?" G: And I'll say, "Because, once you meet an angel, you'd be a fool to not do everything on your power to win her heart' G: Then they'll say, "why did you say yes, mommy?" R: and just what will I say, in this hypothetical future? G: You'll say, "I said yes because he told us about this day, with my perfect children and my handsome, romantic husband. And I knew that was the future I wanted, and now it's come true, more perfect than I could ever imagine." G: And then I'll kiss you deeply G: And our children will say "ewww" G: And it will still be romantic as always G: Then we'll tuck them in together, and go out to our porch with a glass of wine and watch the stars, wrapped in eachother's arms R: aww R: ok, that was seriously cute G: :-) R: We also have to put Nanny back in the dog house R: and make sure the windows are closed. R: Then it'll be a good night G: Lol... of course G: ... G: Tell the truth, you liked that one even better than my sunset-horseback-picnic-proposal scenario from last week.


Sarah was by the lockers when Jordan came to greet her. “Hey,” Jordan said, “you’re the new girl. Sarah, right?” “Yeah,” Sarah said, smiling, “nice to meet you.” “So I know we don’t know each other well, but I couldn’t help but notice that you were sitting with Billy at lunch.” “Yeah, I didn’t have anywhere else to sit. I asked him if it was cool if I could sit next to him, and he said yes. He seems like a cool guy.” “About that. Word of advice: don’t hang out with Billy.” Sarah knitted her brows. “Why? What’s wrong with Billy?” “He’s a freak.” Sarah, taken aback by the straightforwardness, asked, “What makes you say that?” Jordan leaned in and whispered, “He’s a Republican.” “Oh,” Sarah said, relieved that it wasn’t something serious. “Well, I’m a Democrat personally, but I don’t think him being a Republican makes him-” “That’s not all! He also likes weird things.” “Weird things?” Sarah said, concerned again. “Like…” “Fantasy novels.” “Fantasy novels?” Sarah said, deadpan. “Yeah, he’s always reading books about dragons and elves!” Sarah nodded, not really listening anymore. “I appreciate you trying to warn me, but I don’t think any of these things makes Billy a ‘freak.’ I have to go, so-” As she turned to leave, Jordan said, “But you haven’t even heard the worst part yet.” “Worst part?” “The thing he does with his pet dog.” Sarah, deciding to give her one more chance, waited for Jordan’s explanation. “You see,” Jordan said, “he likes to dress his dog up in little sweaters, and-” “Alright,” Sarah interrupted, “this is ridiculous! Billy is a perfectly nice guy. I really don’t understand why you think he’s a freak, but I’m not going to stop hanging out with him, because of his love for cute animals or his politics.” “Hey, Sarah!” Jordan jumped, and standing behind her was Billy himself. He was a skinny teenager that wore big glasses and a t-shirt with a fire-breathing dragon on it. He had a goofy smile, unaware that he had been the topic of the conversation. “Hi, Billy,” Sarah said, smiling, “how are you?” “Fine,” Billy replied. Billy readjusted his glasses and said nervously, “I was wondering if you’d like to hang out at my place. I have this board game I bought and I have no one else to play it with, so-” “I would love to,” Sarah said. Billy and Sarah walked away together, and Jordan shook her head in disapproval. The next day, Sarah was at the lockers again and looked troubled. Jordan walked up to her and patted her on the back. “Hey,” Jordan said, “you okay?” Sarah nodded, her eyes unfocused. “You were right,” she said. “About Billy being a freak.” “Yeah, sorry I couldn’t dissuade you before you learned the hard way.” Sarah, shaking, said, “I just wished you warned me about the furry porn and him being a Nazi first.


It’s 2 a.m. I’m lying in bed, waiting for the day to start, so I can finally escape this nightmare. Once dawn hits I’m jumping out of bed, running to the Ops Managers' office, and handing in my resignation. I'll explain to him that I can no longer work here, and thank him very much for the opportunity, but I’m seeking employment elsewhere. I’ll pack my bags and leave this place on the next bus out to town. For the last five months I’ve been working at Hillcraven Gold Mine. It’s a relatively small operation, but one that's been going for over two hundred years. I’ve been working as it's surveyor, much to the dismay of my mother. I was originally supposed to study and become a software developer. After passing high school and getting my degree (alongside the hundred other kids who had the same idea), I'd spend most of my days sitting behind a computer monitor, drinking copious amounts of coffee while typing code for hours on end. Luckily for me, a few bad marks on my final report card prevented that catastrophe from ever happening. As a result, I’ve become what is known as a ‘third generation miner’, as my dad likes to call it. He made his living as a mine surveyor, and his dad did as well. It was fate, really, that brought me to here. The work is tough, but I’ve found that the mining culture and the routine of the work is extremely enjoyable. I've been living in a commune on-site with five other men, provided to me free of charge by the mine, eating meals at the cafeteria for pennies and only going in to town once a month for a whole week of drinking with my colleagues. The routine has created what I can only describe as a kinship between me and my coworkers. We eat the same food, work in the same conditions and sleep in the same house. Every morning at 6:30 a.m. sharp, we wake up and make our beds, rubbing the sleep from our eyes and stretching out our stiff limbs. We walk out and join the other hundred people in the locker rooms. We open up our assigned lockers, get changed into our overalls and gumboots, grab our hard hats from the racks and make our way to the lamp room. The lamp room is where you get the safety equipment required for going underground. The kit includes one battery-powered LED headlamp, which you attach to the top of your hard hat, an external battery pack that provides power to the lamp, which you thread through one side of your belt, and one small oxygen tank that you clip onto the other side of your belt. So far no one has bothered to explain to me when I should use the oxygen tank, or even how, so I pray that I won’t have a need to know anytime soon. Once you’re kitted out, you make your way to the mine shaft. The Shift Boss will be waiting outside the lift, with his ragged clipboard and leathery face. You give him your name, and tell him which tunnel you’re going to today, and he’ll make a note on his list. That way, they can see who’s missing at the end of the shift, and who shouldn’t have gone in in the first place. The Shift Boss is also responsible for checking if you have the right equipment on. If you don’t, you can’t go in. Got your hard hat? Check. Headlamp working? Check. Earplugs? Check. Last on his list is your boots. He’ll glance over his clipboard and give your gumboots a quick once-over, to make sure you have them on. Once he’s checked that off the list, he’ll give it a second check. If your gumboots have so much as a spot of dirt on them, he’ll raise his eyebrow at you and give you a chuckle. “Been working the night shift, huh?” he’d ask. All the fellow miners will laugh at that, having been asked the same question at some point. “What?” I asked the first time it happened to me, my boots muddied and hard hat perched awkwardly on my head. “Your boots. The only people who have a reasonable excuse to have dirty boots are the people who work the night shift.” He replied. “But we don’t have a night shift?” I asked, slightly confused. “Exactly. Make sure you keep your boots clean.” He replied, stepping aside to let me into the lift and looking back down at his list, checking off the next person’s name. All the surveyors must also report to the survey office for a briefing on what parts of the mine you'll be surveying that day, as well as to fetch the equipment from lock-up. Since I’m the only surveyor on the mine besides Mark, I have to lug the near-10kg equipment by myself. Mark is nearing eighty, has severe arthritis and spends his days in his office, looking over the mine plans and watering his beloved fern. He retired over ten years ago, hopping onto the solitary bus that takes you back to town once a week to live with his wife of fifty years. His plan was to spend his last good years with her, doing some gardening on the two-acre property that he brought in the 80’s, until he passed away, hopefully, in his sleep. After spending a month living with her, though, he hopped right back on that bus and begged for his job back, deciding that he’d rather spend his last few years working away from home. His duties mainly comprise of checking my work and updating the plans when necessary. On occasion, though, he’ll grace you with one of his many pieces of advice that he’s acquired through the years. “Always keep both feet firmly on the ground while in the tunnels. Don’t wanna slip and fall.”, he’ll tell you as you pass him in the kitchen, or: “A sharp pencil is a sign of sharp work.” One of his favorites though, that he never seems to grow tired of, is: “Always check your headlamp before you go down. It’s easy to get lost and without a torch, you’ll never make it back.” I normally try to follow the advice he gives me. Most of it makes sense, and has actually helped me at times. Thanks to him I always check my lamp before going down. I mostly just give it a cursory click-on and click-off while the lift takes me down to the right level. Yesterday I was working alone in one of the quieter parts of the mine. It was an old shaft that they were looking at expanding, and it was my job to make sure they knew where they were going. While I was setting up the equipment, I stepped on something soft. I picked up my foot. It was lying on the floor, half-buried by the dust and debris. A small pocketbook. Curious, I dug it out and dusted it off. *“Survey Report - Mark Whittel.”* it said on the front, in neat block letters. It was bound by a green leather cover, slightly scuffed and warped from sitting in someone’s back pocket. I chuckled to myself as I picked it up. He must have lost this back in his heyday, when he was still making his rounds. I thought it would be funny to show it to him, take a look through his old notes and laugh at how he lost it. I slipped it into my pocket and carried on with the job, forgetting about it almost immediately. Once closing came I went back up the lift, locked up the survey equipment and said goodnight to Mark. I handed in the headlamp and oxygen tank and went to the locker room. It was there that I remembered it, as I was changing into my normal clothes. By that point Mark was most likely asleep, so I’d have to show it to him the next day. My colleagues and I ate dinner in the cafeteria, playing a round or two of poker before ultimately moving back to the dorm. As I lay in bed, winding down and getting ready to sleep, I decided to take a look through the pocketbook. Just out of curiosity. The first few pages were just random personal notes on things to remember, as well as some drawings of different tunnels, all of them labeled. I laughed at a few of them, the contrast between the old man Mark I know and the young man Mark in this book was startling. After a few more pages, though, something caught my eye. A note was written across the page: *“If you’re reading this, please send help. I’m trapped down here with no idea how to get out.”* I almost choked laughing at that. The Mark I know could probably navigate those tunnels with his eyes closed, there’s no way he’d lose the exit. He must have been very young. I couldn’t wait to show him this. We’ll go through it together, most likely in tears thinking about Young Mark lost in the tunnels. Getting found by a group of miners who probably never let him hear the end of it. I turn the page and carry on reading. This time the page is full of text. He’s numbered the date at the top. *“Day 6”* *“It’s been almost a week since I came down here, and none of the tunnels seem familiar. I’ve been walking upwards for what seems like hours now, with no signs of me getting closer to the surface.”* *“I was surveying tunnel B2L when my headlamp turned off. I stood there frozen for a second, the darkness causing my muscles to seize up. I reached for its switch, flicking it off and then back on. The light flicked back on, luckily, but that was the least of my problems.”* I turned the page. *“For a moment I couldn’t believe what had happened. I wasn’t in the same tunnel.”* I re-read that line again, slightly confused. Did he mean that he somehow accidentally wandered into a different tunnel? Or was he just magically teleported to a different part of the mine? I’ll have to ask him tomorrow. “I wandered around for a while, calling out, hoping someone would hear me and tell me which section I was in. My equipment was missing as well, most likely left behind when I was taken here.” *“After what felt like hours, I heard noises. What sounded like people digging further in. I made my way towards it, still calling out, until I heard them stop and call back to me.”* *“I’ve been working here for over ten years. I started as an ordinary miner, rubbing shoulders with everyone at some point, before getting promoted to Chief Surveyor.”* *“In all that time, I have never met these men.”* I turned the page again. *“Day 9.”* *“These men have a wild desperation about them. Some just keep hammering against the wall, ripping chunks out of it with wild abandon for days on end. Some just sit idle, making small talk or just staring at the wall.”* *“They told me that there’s no way back up, as far as they’ve seen. At some point they worked on the mine and their lamps did the same thing as mine. When they turned back on, they found themselves here, just like I did.”* The next few pages are filled with what looks like scribbles drawn inside a grid. They all start in the center square and stretch out until meeting back in the middle, hundreds of little strands stretching across the pages, After awhile, I realized that they were maps. *“Day 10.”* *“They call this ‘night shift’, due to the fact that all their watches stick at 2 a.m. sharp. Mine’s been reading the same thing since I got here. When I asked them why they were digging, they explained that no matter how far up or down you go, you end up back here anyways. So they decided to go sideways.”* *“I’ve been here a week, and to me that sounds like a reasonable choice. Some of these guys have been here for years.”* *“Since I got to night shift, I haven’t felt the need to eat or drink. Sleep hardly comes and almost seems to be more out of habit when it does. I’ve spent the week mapping out the tunnel system, there are hundreds of offshoots that all seem to end up at the same spot, no matter how irrational it is.”* *“Day 11.”* *“I think I’ve finally found something. A small stress seam at the end of a dead-end tunnel. It stretches from the floor to ceiling and is just wide enough to stick my pinkie through. I can feel air coming from it, a soft, erratic breeze that must come from outside.”* *“I’m turning back and finding the other guys to help me dig. This could be the way out.”* The next few pages were full of sketches of the tunnel wall. He labeled where the stress seam is, as well as the optimal spots to dig it out. I flipped through them until I found another page full of text. This time, it looks like it was written with a shaky hand. There’s no date on the top. *“They haven’t stopped chasing me since we let them out. As far as I can tell I’m the only one left alive. They were waiting on the other side for someone to break the seam.”* *“They look just like us. Same faces, same clothes, same everything.”* *“I’ve been hiding but I think they’ve found me. I can hear them coming, they have good sense of smell. I can hear them sniffing-”* The rest of the pages are blank. I turned off my torch and placed the pocketbook on my nightstand. As I turned on my side, something caught my eye. Fred was lying in his bed, his head turned towards me. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could feel the hair on the back of my neck rising. He's been staring at me, his eyes wide and mouth slightly open. My heart beat faster as I realized he hadn't blinked. I turned away from him, my insides going cold as I fought down my paranoia. I shut my eyes. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm myself down.


“I thought you said this island was uninhabited!?” “It is,” Alessia squawked back at me. “Then what the fuck was that?” Alessia let a beat pass. “By the looks of it a bunch of murderous naked people that we don’t want to be heard by.” I paused. Taking a moment to breathe and lower my volume. “Okay. But… shit.” I could feel myself shaking, my heart punching against the bottom of my throat. My eyes were both drawn towards and disgusted by the red stains on the beach. “You okay?” Alessia asked. “No.” Alessia flinched slightly at the venom in my voice, and I took another few seconds to compose myself. “But I will be. How are you?” “Honestly? A little relieved I didn’t have to do it.” She looked down at the detonator by her feet. “I would’ve but… didn’t want to.” I nodded, looking around at the island. To my right a straight plunge down to the ocean and a series of ragged rocks. To the left, nothing but dense forest. I stepped up to the ledge, looking down the cliff. “We can probably get down again.” “Even if we get down right now, the tide’s not coming back for hours. We’d be sitting on the beach hoping those bastards didn’t come exploring. And if they see us clambering down…” I sucked air between my teeth, imagining being halfway down the cliff face with those baying bodies beneath me. “So what do we do instead?” Alessia eyed the path along the top of the cliff leading into the forest. “It’s not too bad through there. Wait till nightfall, go through the forest, get down to the beach that way. Meanwhile, find some shelter at the edge of the trees.” We detached the wires from the detonator and let them fall down the side of the cliff, before carefully dropping the plunger into a bush so we could get through the forest unencumbered. I followed Alessia’s lead and we walked down the gentle sloping path towards the forest, camping out by resting against the first row of trees. I watched the day wane slowly in the west, the sky turning from blue to orange as the sun dipped across the horizon. When the protection of darkness arrived, we ventured into the woods. As soon as we passed through the first few layers of trees, it quickly became a near pitch black. Above me, I could see occasional glimpses of stars, but the canopy was thick, and little light penetrated. I could see movement; make out Alessia shifting against the background in front of me, but all else remained a mystery. We moved in silence, trying to avoid detection. Still, we couldn’t help the noise of our steps crushing twigs, or errant arms brushing against branches. Every few paces we stopped, listening to the forest around us. Each time there was silence. Though after a while the darkness began to play tricks on us. The branch snapping beneath my feet became a shout from across the forest, the shifting soil, the growl of a would-be attacker. Then I heard what sounded like a distant whistle. It was faint. I shook my head, dismissing it, telling my ears to focus and not lose myself in fantasy. The sound came again, this time a decibel louder. I could feel a slight hesitation in Alessia’s step. But she kept walking. Then a howl. A loud, high-pitched, trill sung out into the night air. We both stopped on the spot. Another howl called back. A message sent across the forest. The noise was like no other I had heard. It was a high key but it resonated deeply, the sound forced out across the dense woodland. I tried to imagine my own body making the noise, stretching my throat in some way to create such a shriek. It wasn’t possible. All I knew is that whatever made that noise, wasn’t human. “What was that?” I whispered as loudly as I dare. “I… have… no idea.” I had never heard such unsteadiness in Alessia’s voice before. I could hear her swallow, as she dared to move a pace forward. “It sounded far away. Let’s hope it stays like that.” Step by step we regained the confidence to move, wearily putting one foot in front of the other as the hill began to level out. Another couple of minutes and gaps began to appear between the trees as the soil became looser and dryer, unable to support the packed foliage. Moonlight could be seen hitting the ground, a faint grey tint illuminating what was previously void of light. Ahead of us, the trees continued like this for another hundred metres or so, before the treeline stopped. The edge of the forest. The start of the beach. Our pace increased, the promise of freedom drawing us towards it. Our heavy footsteps grew louder as we pushed towards the sanctuary of Alessia’s boat. And it was too late when the dreadful realization hit me that the noise of feet against the ground was too loud to just be our own. “Stop!” Everything beneath my neck turned to ice. My head merely slumped against my chest. We were caught. We would have to fight, and maybe die. “Who you?” I turned slowly to find five men and women staring at me. However, they weren’t naked like the attackers on the beach. They wore simple furs around their waists and torsos. Some were clearly deer, others were a shaggier fur, a pale color indistinguishable in the limited light. “Who you?” the one at the front repeated. “We’re leaving,” I said slowly. One of the other members of the group stepped forward, patting the front one with the side of a long, pointed stick. “Look. Klader,” he said, pinching his furs and pointing to us. The first man, the leader of the group, nodded. “We’re no one. You can let us go,” I said slowly. “You are trouble. Corruption.” The leader readied the wooden spear in his hand. “You vapen?” I looked at the man confused. “Vapen!?” he barked. Realizing we didn’t understand, he reached over and tapped the end of his stick. Making a small thrusting motion. “Weapon.” I muttered. Alessia nodded, reaching into her belt and pulling out her knife. The man pointed to the ground and Alessia dropped it by her feet. “What do?” one of the other islanders asked. “Kill them,” a second replied. The leader shook his head. “Leviathans find out, then we dead too. Think we skadad.” “Befri?” “Leviathans likely know. They alltid know. We befri, we guilty. We take them to the river,” the leader said, his eyes still locked onto mine. “Then Leviathians definite know.” “Our best hope. Give avsta. Show fortrond. Leviathans forgive.” “Admit tech to Leviathans?” One of the group said, walking in front of the leader. “Yes.” “And if Leviathans kill us anyway?” “Why would? We show commitment to nature. Offered avsta.” Silence returned to the group. Happy there were no further protestations, the leader turned to us. “Okay. You with us.” He pointed to the forest. I looked over to Alessia, wondering if we should run. She gave the smallest shake of her head and walked in the direction we were told to go. The man looked up to the sky. “Too dangerous at night. Varg. Ovan. Wait by the water for morning.” At a small stream the leader walked over to a tree and pointed to it with the spear. I walked slowly, delaying putting myself between the pointed end and the trunk. I shuffled up slowly against the tree as Alessia leaned against the other side. The man nodded downwards. I interpreted the gesture and began sliding down the tree, staring at the man’s face as I inched down the trunk in case I had not understood the gesture. As I reached the floor, I could feel the cold forest earth press against my thighs, the moisture of a night’s dew seeping through the trousers. The man walked over, standing mere inches from us, looking straight down. I craned my neck up to look at the giant looming over me, wide pupils framed by an unruly beard. “You move. You die.” I nodded. The man walked over to the others and muttered something. After they were done a woman walked over and sat down at right angles to us both, ready to keep watch. I felt a rustling as Alessia shimmied against the trunk behind me. I turned my head to the right, whispering away from our watcher. “You got another knife or something?” “Nope,” Alessia said. “What then?” “Getting comfy. Might as well try and sleep.” “What?” The words came a bit too loudly, and I could sense the eyes of our watcher narrow. I faced forward, allowing the suspicion to dwindle. Only once it felt safe to do so, did I turn back. “Sleep?” “We ain’t escaping. Not now. If we get a chance to make a move, it’ll be tomorrow and we’ll need energy.” “So you’re going to sleep while they could kill us any second.” “If you’re quiet I will.” I took a deep breath in, resisting the urge to argue. Instead I joined Alessia in her plan, slouching against the tree, getting as comfy as possible. Sleep came in small spurts - a brief thirty-minute cycle here and there before the discomfort or the realisation of my jeopardy hit me. Between the moments of shuteye, I watched the stars through the gaps in the trees as the celestial bodies made their journey across the earth. The final sleep was interrupted by a loud cry of “Wake” from the man leading the group. My eyes opened slowly to the dawn. I peeled my back away from the trunk, the vertebrae burning as they were ripped from the bark and curled back into their regular position. “Wake. Time to move,” the man shouted once more. I nodded that I understood. However, he was uninterested in giving me time, moving the spear to his front. “Move,” he barked, teeth bared. I jolted myself forward, letting out a small groan as my body clicked into place. I pulled myself to my feet and brushed off the remnants of the forest floor from my clothes as Alessia appeared from the other side of the tree. “How’d you sleep?” “I’ve had better,” Alessia said, crooking her neck. “Quiet,” the man said. “You front.” The man pointed to his left with the spear. We walked a few metres in front of the men and women, the spears pointed at our back. I kept looking over my shoulder, wondering if they were likely to charge and end us at any given second. I began to feel my spine twitch, small points on my back becoming warm with the anticipation of being pierced by the sharp pieces of wood. There were no true paths here. Navigation came from finding the largest gap between the trees and listening to the instructions given by our captors. After a few hours of trudging, we were completely disorientated. The low spring sun couldn’t be seen through the tall pines around us, and the constant shifting from left to right meant I had no idea which direction we were heading, or where the beach would even be were we to escape. However, as the trek continued, our captors seemed less immediately concerned with us. And I took the opportunity to take half a step closer to Alessia, now narrow enough for a whisper to carry. “Where are they taking us?” “No idea.” I let out a small huff and looked over my shoulder. A brief thought flashed across my face, and Alessia seemed to catch it. “Don’t…” she said, rolling her eyes. “What?” “You’re going to try and talk your way out of this aren’t you?” I refused to respond. Instead I paused, counted to five, and turned to face our captors. “Where are you taking us?” I saw Alessia’s head fall backwards, her gaze pointed to the heavens. “Leviathans.” “Who?” “Leviathans watch over the island. Keep connection with nature. You ruin that.” “We’re not here to ruin anything-” “Your klader. Your knowledge. Your hair. Your words. All corruption from nature. If we not give you to Leviathans we at risk. Keep walking.” The man jolted his spear an inch forward, just enough for me to turn and scurry a few steps. “What would they even do? These… *Leviathans*… if they knew you spoke to us and let us go.” “Kill us.” “What?” I said, spitting out the words. “You cannot return to nature once it is corrupted. Only solution? Clear earth and let something else grow.” The man’s words were plain and unemotive. “What are these Leviathans like? Who are they?” “Don’t know. No one does. Leviathans only appear if nature is broken.” “But how do they know if you have?” “Leviathans alltid know” the man huffed. “Leviathans are spirits,” said a woman from the group. “Fly above us. Watching over us.” I caught Alessia’s side-eyeing me as we walked between the trunks. “Sorry?” I asked. The woman continued. “Two years past. Group was cleansed by Leviathans for building homes. One woman survived. Said Leviathans floated above ground. Coloured pure white. And can kill by looking and pointing at you. Leviathans gudars. Spirits.” I saw Alessia wince, trying to keep her mouth shut. “So if you break from nature, spirits of the forest come for you?” I turned to ask, facing my captors once more. “Shut,” the leader barked. “I’m only asking-” “Shut.” The man halted. The others did too, their spears readied. I looked at them, waiting for more information. My heart began picking up pace, preparing itself for whatever was about to unfold. The steady beat became a kick against the inside of my ribs. Then I heard it. The rustling from the forest to my right. Another beat. Another second of silence. Then they came. Four of the attackers we’d seen earlier on the beach ran at us, nude flesh charging towards us with stones raised, jagged ends pointed down. They hit one of our captors first. Rolling with them onto the ground. With the man subdued, they raised the stone high in the air. However, before hell could be unleashed, a wooden spear was thrust into their side, piercing the abdomen. The stone dropped to the floor in reflexive agony. The woman withdrew her lance and its blood tipped end. She turned to face the man on the ground as another of the naked attackers approached from behind. She dodged the first swipe, but the jagged stone glanced off her hip and thigh, tearing deep into the flesh. The woman screamed, holding her left hand to her leg, and reaching wildly with the spear in her right. She got lucky, piercing her attacker by the collar bone. The javelin cut through the shoulder, breaking the skin on exit. The wooden tip protruding into a small dome, as blood pooled around the space. The assailant jolted, and the spear snapped, the wood still embedded in them. They swiped with the stone. The rock caught the same leg. Another bit of flesh torn out. Seeing the danger another spear carrier stepped in, this time dealing a more decisive thrust to the neck. A desperate gurgle escaped the attacker’s mouth as he fell to the ground, liquid life pouring from his lips. I turned to my left as the other attackers were dealt with. Spears snapped against rib cages. So our captors took to using their attackers' weapons against them. Stones rammed into skulls until there was no resistance left. With one final grunt, the last of the attackers was dispatched. The screams ended. Silence returned save for labored breathing. “How you?” the leader called out, turning and examining the group. The others nodded a confirmation they were okay. “All ovan dead?” he asked. Once more, confirmatory nods. “We go, before the varg smell it.” “The varg?” I asked. The man ignored me. “Leave broken spears. More at camp.” Everyone turned to walk. Everyone except the woman with the gash to her leg. She was knelt on her right knee, her left leg bent. However, as she tried to push up to stand, her left leg buckled. She pushed again, this time nearly fully upright, before a yelp left her mouth and she fell to the floor, her outstretched arms cushioning her fall. I looked at her hand, streaks of ruby leaking between the knuckles. I took a step to my right so that I could see her thigh. It looked like it had been ripped away, the muscles and tissues replaced by nothing but blood oozing from shredded arteries. “Can’t walk can you?” the leader asked. “I can try,” the woman muttered, looking up to meet his eyes. The man walked over to her side, looking closer at the wound. He shook his head. “Can’t keep up, can’t come.” He stood up and turned to the others. “Go.” “What?” Alessia blurted out. “We can carry her, easily.” The man’s face tensed as he walked over to Alessia., standing mere centimeters away. “The wound is bleeding. Either bleed out or die from infection.” “That wound is healable. It needs to be cleaned and cauterized-” “Shut!” the man screamed. He threw a fist, hitting Alexia in the abdomen with one sharp movement. She keeled over, the wind knocked out of her. But she didn’t whimper. “Do not speak. Your knowledge damn us all. We leave. We leave now. Move.” I walked over to Alessia and placed an arm around her shoulder, picking her up. “You okay?” She nodded, but with a small wince that she tried to hide. Somehow our situation seemed graver than ever. Never before had I seen Alessia be anything but the most sure person in the room. But in one moment she had been silenced. Perhaps up until that moment, despite all the violence I had seen on Outer Fastanet and elsewhere, I felt some comfort in knowing Alessia was by my side - a calm guide in the roughest storms. It was a comfort that had now been shattered. As we walked off into the forest once more, I looked back at the woman. She held back spluttered tears that knew too well of her fate. Yet the instinct remained. And even as we disappeared among the leaves, she would push off with her leg, crawling a few inches before collapsing again. Eventually the trunks grew too many, and I lost sight of her. She was alone, left to the forest. I turned to Alessia, now standing stronger, but still with a hand held over her stomach. And I wondered how long it would be till we were claimed too. \ Next chapter published 28th October.


“MAGDALEN, Peter.” The name on the card glittered in the fresh sunlight of a new day. Amber opened the file and ran her finger over the mugshot and felt the connection. Another client. Another day. Another twenty-four hours. ** I saw him standing in the middle of a crowded shopping square, neatly dressed but staring around the place like he was confused and afraid. He seemed lost and dazed, but no-one approached him to help. I could see the thoughts running through his head. Why is no-one helping him? Why didn’t anyone see him? What was wrong with the world? Why did he suddenly feel empty? After watching him suffer for a little while more, just to get the gauge of him, I approached. “You look like you could use a friend right now,” I said softly, standing beside him. “What?” He turned to look at me. Peter Magdalen. “No, thanks. I’m just a bit lost is all.” “Then let me help you.” “I don’t need your help.” He became defensive. They usually did. I checked my watch. Time was already ticking. I’d used up my first hour observing him so I could help him better. Before I could say another word, Peter marched away from me. So, naturally, I followed him. After all, I was on a time budget. After twenty-four hours, he wouldn’t pass. I followed him for another hour, listening to his ramblings. His train of thought was a wreck, crashing here and there, trying to figure out exactly what was missing. He wasn’t stable enough to know, not just yet. He needed to be calm. He walked without purpose, but fast, his thin-soled shoes barely making a sound on the hot concrete. I watched him walk towards the busy intersection he hadn’t seen. I watched cars whizzing past at seventy miles per hour. I watched as he stepped out, and then realised, and stepped back. “ARGH! FUCK!” I stepped beside him. “What the fuck?! Jesus… I don’t need to die today!” he breathed, clutching his chest. Then, he froze. “Wait.” Still, I said nothing. He looked down after a moment and frowned, but then shook his head, dismissing the thought entirely. “Hot day, huh?” I asked, with a glance up to the cloudless, sunny sky. Peter gave a vague nod and smiled at me. “Yeah, sure is…” he sighed, leaning against the traffic light post. It was almost instinctive that he would want to keep his virtually unprotected feet from burning. It always happened. His girlfriend Georgia usually nagged him for it, but he had okay feet. He frowned again, looking down. He stood normally. Something wasn’t right. “Not as hot as it usually is, though,” I offered up politely. “Did you follow me from the square?” Peter was defensive again. “You got me.” “Why?” “Because, Peter, I’m making sure you’re alright.” “Wait… how do you know my name?!” “Have you noticed anything, Peter? Anything odd? Anything strange?” I asked gently. I wanted to touch him, but to do that would risk taking him over early. “I…” he thought, but I could feel his reluctance to admit anything. “No. No, nothing out of the ordinary.” He gave a no-committal shrug to demonstrate just how blasé he actually was, but I knew he was worrying about what he’d noticed. No-one on the planet could ignore such things. “Anyway, whoever you are –“ “Amber.” “Amber… alright… please leave me alone. Please. Go away. It’s creepy.” He glared at me and, as the crossing light turned green, he practically ran across the street. Cases like this usually annoyed me, but I hadn’t had one for a while. I’d helped enough people let go quite easily, given we’d just overseen a pandemic. Peter was a welcome challenge. It did get a little bit tiring when my wristwatch read ’13:42.09’, meaning just over thirteen and a half hours left to get this guy to calm the hell down and listen to me. It also meant I’d spent twelve hours tailing him to make sure he didn’t go super nova on anyone. The hours I’d tailed him were permeated with him rounding on me and barking at me to stop following him, but I altered my appearance slightly to make him comfortable. A stooped posture made me shorter, a pair of sunglasses and some obnoxiously-chewed gum threw him for a penny too. But when he arrived home, I had to be myself again. Because he was about to have an incredibly transformative experience – the only one perhaps that could wake him up properly. “Girls! I’m home!” Peter stepped through his open front door and grinned, his arms outstretched. He waited for his girls to run to him, but they never did. Georgia never came to greet him with her usual kiss, and Harriet never came with her attack hug and her cry of ‘Daddy!’. Neither of them came. “Girls? Daddy’s home! Georgia? Harry?!” I followed him in, silent footsteps. He’d need me soon enough. “Girls?! Hello!” He’d found them, sitting in the living room on the sofa. Both of them were crying. “Girls? Georgie? Harry?” he kneeled down in front of them and took a hand each. “Girls?! What’s going on?” he waited, but neither of them acknowledged him. “What did I do? Have I done something? Please, speak to me?!” Behind him, on the coffee table, Georgia’s phone rang. She reached past Peter and picked it up. “Hey, mum,” Georgia whispered, her eyes wet with tears. She didn’t look at Peter at all. Neither did Harriet. “Yeah… no, I’ve got her. Yeah… mum… c-can you come over? Mum? N-no…” Georgia descended into tears. “Mum, Peter’s dead.” The coldness that gripped the room then was palpable, and I had to act fast. I sat down in the armchair next to Harriet. “Peter? Look at me, Peter.” I kept my tone gentle and even. Peter looked at me, his eyes betraying every single thought in his head. “D-dead?” he breathed. He didn’t listen to the rest of Georgia’s conversation with her mother. “I’m… I died? I’m dead? What?” Panic rose in him. I fought the urge to touch him. “I died?! What?! How?! How did I die?! Is this some prank?! Some fucking awful prank because – because why?! Because Bella told you I was cheating with her?!” Peter took Georgia’s face, but the woman didn’t flinch. “Georgia?! GEORGIA! HARRIET! NO!” He began to cry when he realised his girls couldn’t hear or see him. Harriet cried into her mother’s lap. I let him cry on them, because he needed it. Eventually, after another half-hour, he turned to me. The question that he couldn’t form repeated over in his mind. “Peter, come outside with me. The energy here is being drained by you. Come outside. Let them both rebalance.” I stood and walked to the door, which I walked straight through. Peter followed, realising now that he wasn’t constrained by walls and doors. “How… how can I be dead when I’m still here?” “Notice, Peter. Notice it and look at yourself.” Peter bit his lip, his hand moving to his chest automatically. “I noticed. My heart wasn’t racing when that car almost hit me.” “That car did hit you, Peter. It was the feeling of it passing through you which startled you.” “And… and the ground… the pavement should have been too hot to stand still on… but it wasn’t. It was cold.” “Because your skin is now impermeable by the elements.” I nodded at him sagely as he reeled off his feelings. But there was still that seed in his mind that he didn’t ask me outright about. “Peter, my name is Amber, and I’m a Guide. Your time on this earth is done, and it’s time for you to let go.” “How can I let go when I won’t get to see my little girl grow up?!” Peter hissed at me. I smiled softly. “Because there are other things that need you now more than she does. As cruel as that may sound, if you don’t let go, you won’t be able to pass through. And if you don’t pass through, when she eventually dies herself – and Georgia, of course – neither of them will be able to find you.” “But why couldn’t they see me?” Peter whispered. “I was right there…” “You are dead, Peter.” “I always thought Georgie was my soulmate…” “She is your soulmate.” I turned to him properly and held out my hands, offering him some soothing light. He reached over and took it, not touching me still. “You died prematurely, Peter. Which is why I’m here.” “So… so I shouldn’t have died?” “No. You were killed, Peter. By someone who had intent to kill you. Bella, her name is. She intended for you to die because she couldn’t have you. She hit you with her car and then she burned it out. There were drugs involved, which heightened her intentions… but that’s by the by – you’re here because when a soul leaves its body prematurely, it clings to the Earth because it is confused.” “So… I’m a confused soul?” Peter scratched his head, but at least his thoughts were slowing down. “Yes. You are a confused soul. Because your life path was a lot longer.” I gave him a smile and sighed. “Peter, you were murdered. And you need to come to terms with that before you can move on. And you have to move on.” Peter could only nod. Understandably, he was a little put out, but we still had plenty of time to help him make peace and let go of his old life. “So… so I need to say goodbye now?” he asked after a moment, watching his family from outside the house. I shook my head. “No. Not yet, not to them. We can come back later and they can be your final goodbye.” Peter nodded. “I… I can’t be dead… there was so much I needed to do… I mean, I didn’t do much, did I? I only really had Harry… that was it…” he palmed his face. “I could have done so much more…” “Let’s go and see someone special, shall we?” I offered him my arm, and he took it. The world around us changed in a snap. We left the wide-open space of the garden, and arrived in a packed corridor, filled with students milling around, heading to lesson with the usual rush a teenager has. Peter stared around, but one particular group of boys came into focus. A young girl was trying to collect dropped books from the floor, but each time she stood with them in her arms, she’d had them slapped out of her hands again. Her energy was at a low ebb as she reached down again for the books. The group of boys around her catcalled at her and jeered at her, calling her some horrible names. Peter blushed deeply, more out of shame than anything else. “That’s me,” he whispered. “Oh God, that’s me… wait – that’s ME! How –“ “Peter, you’re dead. You have access to your entire timeline now.” I gave him a smile. “One single action changed your life path. I want you to see it.” I nodded towards the group, watching as a fifteen-year-old Peter stepped forward and crouched down, picking the books up for the girl. “Leslie Jones,” Peter whispered. “She was the school’s bully victim… Everyone hated her, but I never understood why deep down.” I touched Peter’s arm, and a rush of thoughts fed into his head. I don’t know why I’m still here. I might as well kill myself tonight. No-one will fucking miss me. Everyone hates me. Even my own mother can’t bear the sight of me. I watched as Peter stood with the books and turned to his friends. “What are you doing, Maggie?” the leader, Jason, asked. Peter clutched the books and stood in front of Leslie. “I think it’s enough now. She’s upset. It’s not funny anymore. It’s cruel.” His voice shook. The thoughts feeding into Peter’s head changed. He’s standing up for me. I’ll pay for that. God, I can’t wait for this to be over. “She was going to kill herself?” Peter asked beside me. I nodded. He continued to watch as Jason aimed a punch at Peter and then left, spitting on him. Peter turned to Leslie and helped her up, putting her books in her bag. He took her bag from her and carried it for her. “See, Peter, that act led to Leslie going home and believing that someone out there cared. She confronted her mother about why she hated her, and learned that her mother didn’t hate her at all – she just didn’t understand why her daughter was so reclusive. That chat empowered her to get through school, and she actually went on to become one of the best doctors in the world for cancer treatment and diagnosis. You did that, Peter.” Peter stared at me. “Oh…” was all he could manage. He licked his lips. To prove my point, I took him to see Leslie, who was at the present moment embroiled in a rather tense game of Boggle with her son, daughter and husband. Lining the walls, plenty of awards and plaques bearing her name. All of them accolades for her work in science. “See?” “I do…” Peter shook his head. “I mean, alright, I helped one person! One. But the rest?” “Alright. Let’s go and visit another person.” I took him to the same packed shopping square I’d found him in, although the day was wet and dreary. Peter aged twenty crossed our path and headed past a homeless man to get into a coffee shop. He kept looking out of the window to the homeless man who sat getting wetter and wetter. Shortly after, Peter emerged with two hot drinks in hand, and a bag with food. He stopped next to the homeless man and handed him the coffee and the food, and then a ten-pound note. “And?” Peter asked me, sighing. “One homeless guy in the fifty times a month I go to that coffee shop.” “Watch.” The homeless man stayed there, enjoyed his food and drink, his heart glowing with the kindness. Whereas the man faced another few days on the streets trying to make another few pounds, Peter’s kind donation had given him enough to rent a room at the local homeless shelter. The man, armed with the prospect of a hot shower and a meal and a proper bed, conducted a job search with the employment volunteer than night and ended up landing an interview the next day. And he got the job, too. He was able to afford a small studio apartment and got on his feet properly in three months. “So if I hadn’t given him the money… he wouldn’t have had that job?” I nodded. “Because that job was fleeting, and the man- Willis, his name – had those skills. You helped him with a coffee, a meal and a tenner.” Peter sighed again, and pressed his lips together. “I can do this all day, Peter.” And indeed, we did do it. For the remaining hours I had left with him, I showed him past and present the people he’d helped. All the small acts of kindness he’d given, and how they’d suffered the butterfly effect and become something far greater. His death had been untimely, and I’d shown him why his death had happened. Peter’s one single bad action had led to his death. He’d met Bella in University, and she’d fallen in love with him quickly. He hadn’t returned it, though, because he’d fallen in love with Georgia. Georgia was the girl he knew he’d marry. They’d lost their virginity to each other after six months of dating, and when they were together the world was right. The world was good. Bella didn’t like it at all, and even though she did everything in her power to break them up, Peter and Georgia married shortly after leaving Uni. Bella was incensed, but she’d remained friends with him because she still had hope that he’d choose her. And he never did. He still held her in his life, but when Harriet was born, it was the nail in the coffin. The day Harriet was born, Bella had invited Peter to a party in the hopes that she could make him cheat on Georgia and that Georgia would ‘conveniently’ find out. But Peter chose to be at the birth of his baby girl instead. Bella went off the rails. She turned to drugs that night, and fell down the rabbit hole of cocaine and heroin. In the end, after seeing Peter dropping Harriet off at nursery for the day, Bella had taken a couple of lines of cocaine and had sought Peter out in a stolen car. She’d made her resolve. He’d die. And he did. Watching his death play out sobered him, and Peter’s soul relaxed. “I think I want to go and spend some time with my family,” he said softly. I checked my wristwatch and smiled. “You’ve two hours with them, and then it’ll be time to go.” Peter nodded. “Which bit first?” “Our wedding… and then the birth… and then I want to just be with them.” A wedding and a birth later, I spent time outside as Peter spent time with his family. Harriet picked up on his energy and stopped crying. “I love you, Harry. I love you Georgia.” “Daddy says he loves us, mummy,” Harriet said softly. “Daddy loves us very much. He’ll always be here, darling.” “Always,” said Peter, as he placed a kiss on their heads. He turned to me, and nodded. I took his hand and lifted him up into the light.