The branches of trees clawed and slapped at Maya as she rushed through the forest, as if a desperate attack of holding her back. These woods were untamed, only the experienced town's hunters ventured as far out as she was currently. Maya didn't have time to worry about any of that, though. She looked around frantically for any sight of her dog, Spot. He had run out the door earlier. Maybe he had spotted a rabbit. "Spot!" Maya called out, her voice strained from all the running. To her delight, however, she heard a bark call out in the distance. She started making her way towards it. "Spot!" The barking grew louder and louder and more frequent. He must be standing still at this point, she thought. Maybe he was looking for as well. She slowed her pace, and he finally came into view. Breathing a sigh of relief, she leaned over and placed her hands on her thighs, panting profusely. "Spot," she said between pants, "you know not to-". As she spoke she rose her head slowly, and only then saw what Spot was barking at. A mountain lion. Her body began to shake. The large cat stared down her hound mix as if deciding where it was going to start eating him first. Maya didn't know what to do. Spot was her only thing close to a friend. He had been with her since she was nine years old. She wasn't ready to see him go yet. Eight years wasn't long enough, Spot had to be there for when she graduated and got a job and enough money to leave this stupid town. His stupid slobbery face was the reason she walked to school every day and the reason she ran back home. No, she wasn't going to sit by and watch him go. Maya picked up a branch on the ground, banging it on the trunk of a tree and yelling. The mountain lion averted its gaze to her. Maya walked closer, making as much noise as she could. Then she heard a snap, and felt a pang of vibration as the branch promptly broke, leaving her holding a sad nub. She quickly turned her back, looking for something to substitute the branch, realizing her mistake almost as soon as she did so. Time seemed to slow as she shot her head over her shoulder only to witness the cat mid leap towards her. She wondered how she could be so stupid. You're practically inviting the beast to kill you by exposing your back. There was nothing she could do, though. She only hoped it went for her neck first and killed her quickly, so she wouldn't have to feel much pain. Maya was kind of happy she had no friends. It would mean less people are hurt by her disappearance. Would they even find the body? Would the cougar eat her whole? It would be impressive if it did. As these strains of thoughts whizzed through her mind, the cats eyes shot up. Its pupils shrunk to almost nothing, as if trying with every might in its body to recoil back. A force struck it, throwing it violently into the side of a tree. Time seemed to resume, but Maya remained frozen. The mountain lion howled, trying its hardest to run away as quickly as it could muster. Spot didn't move. He stood staring over the shoulder of Maya, unwavering. Her heart was pounding. She could hear the blood flowing through her veins. She could hear her lungs filling up with air. As she mustered the strength to slowly look forward, her head pounded more and more. The only thing Maya could hear was the pounding. She was filled with more fear and grief the closed her head got to looking forward. She didn't want to see. She didn't want to be in these woods any longer. She just wanted to go home. As Maya looked up to whatever force had struck the mountain lion away, she woke up. Her eyes shot open, looking up to the familiar ceiling of her bedroom. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was just a dream. A small smile cracked on her face, and she heard her mother call from downstairs. "Maya! Time to get up! You've got school today!" "Yep!" Maya threw her legs over the edge of the bed, throwing on her cleanest pair of jeans and black tee shirt. Spot was waiting for her outside of her room, wagging his tag and whining happily. She knelt down to him, scratching behind his ear, almost forgetting all about her nightmare at the happy sight of her dog. Dirt caked underneath her finger nails. "Man, Spot, you need a bath when I get home. How'd you get so filthy?" She finished her walk to the bathroom, picking up her toothbrush and looking into the mirror. Everything was the same. Her same black hair and her same brown eyes. The few pimples scattered around her face seemed to be clearing up though, so that was something to look up to. She spit into the sink, finishing up her teeth and grabbing her hair brush. Maya had forgotten to brush her hair yesterday, so it was full of knots and tangles. She's sure her bad dreams probably didn't help much. "Hey sweetie," her mom said as she poked her face in, causing Maya to jump. "You didn't open any curtains or windows or anything yesterday, did you?" Maya rolled her eyes. She truly believed the small town of Desmirne was the only town in Manitoba that believed in Morte Day. It was a shitty rip off of the Day of the Dead, where ghosts, spirits, and demons crossed over onto the living plane of the world. Except during this day their power rose, and if anyone was outside for the day then they were at risk for becoming possessed. "Why would I do that?" Maya thought the day was dumb. Most kids did. But all parents enforced it so strictly that they usually listened to their wishes. Besides, it's a day off of school where you're allowed to stay inside all day. "Oh, nothing I guess. It just feels kind of off. You're sure you didn't? Because you know the story of the Bayers-" "Yes, I know mom." The Bayers was a family that was around during the time of her mother's childhood. It's said that they left a window open during Morte Day, and the mother became possessed. She ended up killing her husband and child, and tried killing the neighbours the next day. Maya always believed the poor woman just went insane. "You're sure you didn't? Not even for Spot?" Spot had been left outside yesterday. Big dogs are believed to help ward spirits away. "Spot can handle himself. Right boy?" She looked down to the dog, who could barely contain himself. "Alright. I'm probably just paranoid. I've gotta go now, so see you after school. Dad says he loves you, he had to head back out to work early today and didn't want to wake you up. But he only has to go out for a week this time, so he'll be back before we know it." With that, Maya's mom headed back down the stairs to leave for work. Maya looked forward again into mirror. She liked it when her hair was knotted, and the sound of the brush ripping through it. After she was done, she went to pull the dead strands out of the comb to throw in the trash. But she froze. Because in the brush was a few assorted small leaves. They were pretty fresh, which explained why she didn't hear them being combed out. Her dream from last night flooded back to her. It was impossible. She woke up in her bed, completely fine. There's no way it was real. Maya shook her head. It was just a weird coincidence. That's all. She threw the ball of hair and leaves in the trash and walked downstairs. (End of part one. This is my first time writing in a long time, so sorry for any spelling/grammar mistakes. Let me know if you like it enough for a part 2. I tagged it as fantasy because even though it's about ghosts and stuff, its not supposed to be scary. That'll get more fleshed out in the next part, though. I'm writing on mobile so it's taking me a bit.


Eyes open. Eyes shut. Blink. Eyes open. Eyes shut. Blink. Eyes open. Eyes shut. Eyes open. Eyes shut. Eyes open. Eyes shut. Sleep. Eyes open. You can see her sitting at the end of your bed. Her matted black hair cascading down her back. You know she is going to turn around soon. You know she is going to turn around and it is going to be terrifying. Then her head starts to turn and suddenly your entire body is on fire. Your back is arching. Your throat is trying to force out a scream. It feels like this pain will never end. Then it stops. You’re lying on your back. You can feel the weight of the duvet on top of your chest and the pillow beneath your head. You try to move your arm. To wake up the person sleeping next to you but it just won’t move. Turn the light on you say. Please just turn the light on. Why aren’t they awake? You were in so much pain; they must have heard you scream? You know she is still in the room but you can’t move your head to look. Please. Please just turn the light on. It takes all of your energy to force these words from your swollen throat. All that escapes is a whisper. Eyes open. It’s pitch black. You can move your arms again. You turn over to face the body sleeping next to you. Please. Please turn on the light you say. Their bleary eyes open. They didn’t hear you at all. They had no idea how much pain you were in. You know you wont tell them what happened. You know you wont sleep with the lights off ever again.


The Hidden Precisely two weeks after my fifteenth birthday, on a mild and bright October afternoon, I saw a man get hit by a car. Although I was deeply afraid of what I might see, there was nobody else who could help. The road was otherwise deserted. I ran over to the driver, who was frantic and in hysterical tears. I tried to calm him down. Told him we needed to call an ambulance, but he insisted there was no time. We must drive straight to the hospital. It was the only way. Anything I had ever read or watched on TV had made it clear to me that moving an injured person was very bad, but I was powerless to stop the rising panic of the situation, stomping my shaky protest into the dirt. With all other avenues of logic and reason closed off, I found myself helping to lift the injured man into the car. In the back seat, with his head on my lap, I noticed for the first time how strikingly beautiful he was. He was not injured in any visible way except for a bright smear of blood across his forehead, but even that small visceral offence caused me discomfort. I wiped it away with a crumpled tissue I found in my pocket. His skin was pale and flawless next to the jet black of his hair that fell in a thick, shiny mop. He could not have been more than twenty years old. I silently prayed to whoever was listening for him to be spared any lasting damage caused by our hasty intervention. Some dried leaf litter was strewn through his lovely hair and I gently began to pick it out with my thumb and forefinger. I remember how important it was to remove every single crumb of it so I could restore him to perfection. I don’t recall how long I was absorbed in this intricate task, all I know is that I was so transfixed by it, that all other concerns had drifted away and a peaceful, dreamlike state cocooned me. It was the soft, dappled light flittering in through the car windows that broke my reverie and caused me to look up from the beautiful boy and notice that we were driving into the woods. I told the man he was going the wrong way. Said it. Then shouted it. As I was grappling with a succession of reasonable scenarios as to why this man was continuing to drive in the wrong direction, the beautiful boy opened his eyes and calmly sat up beside me. The surge of relief was overwhelming. I spoke to him in comforting words, tried to find out how he was feeling but he remained silent and facing forwards as if I was a ghost he could neither see nor hear. His eyes were an impossibly clear and bright blue. Two Jewels set into his perfect face, the effect of which dowsed me in calming acceptance as I waited for the ultimate, plausible explanation that had to be coming. Without any discernible intention, I began looking around the car for nothing in particular and anything at all that would make it all make sense. All the while, a tiny, almost imperceptible voice was trying to make itself heard over my placatory, dampening internal monologue. I wilfully ignored it because I wasn’t ready to agree with what it was saying. I kept pushing it down but it persisted and grew louder and more urgent until it was the only voice I could hear, and it was screaming over and over. GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT NOW. Yet there I remained, powerless to abandon the false comfort of denial. My mind wrestling with my instincts, still hopeful, still expectant of everything to be fine. The reassuring voice fervently resisting the opposing forces that would see it silenced. This can’t be happening. You must have this wrong. It’s going to be fine. The voice grew quieter and less certain each time it spoke, and a third voice was now chiding me. This is what you get for taking the shortcut home from the library. You were told never to use that route. It’s your own fault. My racing pulse thumped in my ears and throat, making my head feel like it was filling up with blood and drowning me. My body was leaden weight, a useless lump incapable of acting upon the one shrieking command that would not cease pummelling my brain. In one swift movement that seemed to happen regardless of any conscious control, I yanked the door handle and threw myself from the car. I landed on soft ground, then I was somehow on my feet and running. No longer heavy. I could barely feel the earth beneath me and could hurdle any objects in my path. I ran like this for what felt like miles without tiring. When I eventually found the courage to look behind me, I could see nothing but dense woodland. I continued to run, but the fuel to sustain the speed and endurance was now spent, and I soon dropped to the ground, gasping painfully. I wasn’t even sure how far it was to the road or which direction I should be heading. It was starting to get dark, and the temperature had dropped considerably. I sat for a short while, having a pointless discussion with myself about what I could do if I had only managed to grab my satchel before I jumped. Despite how the nascent idea of it knotted my insides, I knew what I had to do. The remaining light was fading rapidly, and my desperate search to find adequate shelter for the night was taking an alarming amount of time, but before total despair took hold, I came across a forest clearing. At the opposite edge was a huge, gnarly, upturned oak tree, which had lifted a good portion of the forest floor with it when it fell. A version of optimism glimmered as I approached it. The exposed roots with a solid layer of earth above formed a natural alcove that was as good a place as any I was likely to find. I took one last anxious look around before climbing in as far back as I could fit. The pungent smell of damp soil assaulted me from all sides, and I was barely able to stifle a scream when some existing tenant dropped onto my head. After frenziedly shaking out my hair, I zipped my coat, put up my hood and drew the cord tight, leaving just the centre of my face exposed. I tucked my jeans into my socks, pulled my hands inside my sleeves, and tucked them tight under each arm. With my swaddling arranged, I sat back against a patch of soft earth and looked out beyond the tree roots at a particularly bright, rising moon set against a cloudless sky. A gratitude I had never felt before radiated towards that moon. I knew that as long as she was there, I wouldn’t be all alone. That she would stay with me and spare me the terror of a night spent in total darkness. Thank you, I whispered over and over as hot tears burst their banks and cascaded down my freezing cheeks. Although I was still wretched with fear, exhaustion eventually won out. I awoke while it was still night. The distant sound of heavy footsteps crunching over dried leaves had penetrated the fragile slumber my nerves had allowed. Searching, male voices pierced the darkness. My stomach lurched, and I clasped my hands over my mouth, terrified I might let out an involuntary whimper. I waited, waited, waited for them to pass, but their voices would not travel any further away. My arms ached with their solemn duty to keep me silenced. I knew if those men saw the upturned oak, they’d have the same idea as I’d had. Silent tears streamed from my eyes, along with a sudden hit of warmth in the seat of my jeans. Any minute now, any second now, they were going to find me. My whole body had tensed rigid with terror, and every muscle fibre screeched in agony. Then something. Something was different. The voices had changed. They were no longer calling out to the little girl who was hiding. They were disagreeing. I strained to hear over the rushing of blood in my ear. The sounds became increasingly animalistic until I realised they were scuffling with one another. I considered making a dash for it while they were preoccupied, but dash where? I had no light. No way of knowing which direction to run. They’d chase me down easily. So I did the only thing I could do. The cessation of noise came more swiftly and suddenly than I was anticipating. I sat huddled, waiting for any clue that might reveal what was happening outside of my view. There was nothing. Hours passed. An angry wind had gathered pace and roared fearsomely through the clearing, taking up leaves and twigs and anything in its path. An occasional piece of hard forest detritus would hurtle in and attack my exposed face, so I placed my forehead onto my knees. For hours, I remained in the same position, waiting, waiting, waiting for dawn in a dank, dark pit of roots and soil and crawling bugs. If there exist adequate words to describe the desolation of the longest, coldest, loneliest hours of my life waiting for that night to end, I have never found them. By the time the sun had begun its ascent, I was as close to madness as I had ever been before or since. Whatever was waiting for me outside was better than remaining in that living grave. I crawled through the roots and emerged into daylight, blinking through falling soil. The cold hit me immediately. Shivering uncontrollably, I peeped over the crest of the mound. I saw only forest. Unsure whether to trust my astigmatic eyes, I squinted hard and scanned every square foot of visible forest. All was calm. There was no wind, and my ear picked up something that filled me with that same glimmer of optimism I’d had upon finding the fallen oak. It was the distant sound of running water; I was sure of it. The stream that ran through the woods. I could follow it back to the road. How had I not realised it before? It didn’t matter. Hope replaced fear, and I began to walk. I hadn’t gone more than thirty feet when my foot struck something under the leaves. A surge of adrenaline spiked in my chest as I realised what it was, and my head and eyes darted in all directions, seeking the threat of imminent danger. Finding none, my eyes returned to the brightly flowered pattern of my satchel, and I bent to retrieve it. I had already taken hold of it before I noticed the large, white hand clasped around its top handle. An involuntary scream escaped, and I let go, stumbling backwards. After I had gathered what was left of my shattered nerves, I deduced that the hand was not attached to a living person. Revulsion slithered through my midsection. I picked up a forked twig and shakily used it at arm's length to unhook the fingers. Once I’d freed the satchel, I stood for a moment, wondering if I should move the leaves from the rest of the body just to make sure. Of what? I didn’t know. In any case, I hadn’t the courage, and it didn’t seem important enough to try to muster it. I rifled through my bag. Everything was still in there. My glasses. My glasses. I could see. The half bottle of water was soon emptied into my parched throat. I continued my search for the stream. After a few steps, I heard a sound. I froze. Silence. A few seconds passed. There it was again. No denying what it was. No. No. No. In my peripheral vision, I caught movement in the leaves not far from where the dead man lay. I was consumed with terror as I watched a figure push itself up from under a mound of leaves. The face was bloodied and grotesquely swollen, but I recognised that mop of dark hair instantly. I was primed to dart in the opposite direction, but something held me fast. A primal survival instinct that insisted it was safer to keep my eyes on him than to not. He appeared too injured to take advantage of my proximity, but I had very recently been taught not to take things at face value. After a short, internal discussion, I was able to make myself walk over until I was only five or so feet away. He looked at me, his eyes wide with fear. He was trying to speak but could only produce that same laboured, gurgling wheeze that had alerted me to his presence. As I stood there, not knowing what I should do, he slowly lifted his coat to show me the handle of a hunting knife, the blade of which had been pushed to the hilt into his ribcage. I hunched and violently expelled the paltry contents of my stomach. When I’d steadied myself, I drew a few heavy breaths and forced myself to think. I eliminated all of the options that just weren’t feasible and there was only one that remained. I never even turned back to look at him. I’ll get help, I shouted over my shoulder as I walked away. I found the stream within ten minutes and the road within half an hour after that. The sun was brighter now, and soft light illuminated the asphalt, endowing it with the ethereal glow of a divine path to salvation. It was early on Sunday morning. There’d be no passing cars for hours. Despite the fact I hadn’t eaten and had vomited the only water I’d had in over twelve hours, I started to run. I knew if I could keep a steady pace I was only another hour or so from home. When I reached the foot of the hill that led to my house, I broke into a sprint. A slurry of thoughts poured into my head. What would I tell my dad? How would I explain? He will have been up all night, worried sick. And poor Jess, she probably got caught up in the panic, too young to understand. I arrived at the door and let myself inside, expecting to be mobbed or to come upon some scene of emotional devastation, but the house was still. All the blinds were drawn, and aside from the dim, strip lighting under the kitchen cupboards, everything was in darkness. The little jade statue of Buddha caught my eye, oddly out of place on the middle of the kitchen counter. I walked over. Underneath it was a note. Hey Sweetpea Phil was short staffed on the nightshift so I’ve gone in to help him out. Jess is spending the night at Auntie Jo’s so you have the house to yourself to knuckle down with your project. Get a pizza. Money in the teapot. See you tomorrow honey Love Dad x I ran to the phone, lifted the receiver and began to dial but my finger recoiled midway through and hovered over the buttons like a question mark. A seed of a thought began to germinate. A glimpse. A vision. A premonition of life marked by a narrow escape. Daughters’ worlds open up gradually, grudgingly and conditionally – and in return for our liberty we owe our safety. I replaced the receiver and stood stock still, silently locked in a fraught negotiation with my better self. When it was over, I walked over to the washing machine. I removed everything I was wearing, and placed it in the drum, coat, shoes, satchel, everything. I set a ruinous boil wash and tumble dry sequence. Accidents happen. I’d be forgiven. Then I walked, shivering, over to the bathroom and ran the hottest shower my hand could take. I stepped inside. The pain was singular. No other feelings or thoughts could invade my brain as shards of blistering water sliced at my frigid skin. I heard a faint noise and it took a few moments to understand it was coming from me. It grew louder and stronger until my lungs could propel it no further. Once my body acclimatised to the hazardous temperature, I took the soap and began to scrub. I washed off the foulness and the filth and watched until it all swirled away from me and disappeared.


All the sales representatives have a healthy competition amongst themselves every month. The 2 representatives that are usually first and second are Jerry and Linda. This month, at this point, Jerry is ahead of Linda by $ 1000. Today, being the 23 rd day of the month, the quota must be met in one week’s time. The 28th day of the month has arrived. All the employees sales are listed on a chart. Jerry has reached the quota for the month. The list indicates that Linda is $ 5000 below the quota requirement for the month. She has only 2 days to match or surpass the sales quota for the month. Mr. Richard Sentinel, their boss, calls a meeting for all the sales reps. He makes an unexpected, but gratifying, announcement. “I have called this meeting to make a special announcement. The sales representative with the highest amount of sales, in dollars, this month, will be rewarded with a Caribbean Cruise that must be taken Christmas Week this year.” When the sales reps heard this news, they all clapped their hands and cheered. At the end of the month, a last-minute sale catapulted Linda $ 1000 ahead of the sales quota for the month. That means that Jerry ended up $ 1000 behind Linda in total sales for the month. When the monthly meeting is called to announce which sales representative made the most sales, in dollar amount, Mr. Sentinel announces that Linda has. “Linda, you have surpassed the sales quota for the month by $ 1000. Congratulations! I am also pleased to announce that you have won the Caribbean cruise as an added bonus to the employee of the month award.” Linda is ecstatic! She cannot believe her good fortune! She is practically packing her bags to go on the Caribbean cruise right this minute! --- It is now Friday, the end of another work week.  Something totally unexpected happens to Linda. One of her client calls with an alarming announcement. The client decides his company no longer needs the $ 5000 of merchandise they bought last month. Therefore, they are cancelling their last order. The repercussions are immediate.

It is now a fact that Linda did not exceed the sales quota for the month. Therefore, Jerry is awarded with the employee of the month award. To add insult to injury, he is also awarded the Caribbean cruise that Linda had won. This news does not sit well with Linda. She is very upset about this whole situation. Rest assured; she will not take it lying down. --- Jerry invites the 10 sales representatives to his house to celebrate his success. On the night of the party, Linda brings with her some rat poison in a bottle. She knows that Jerry has a pet dog. All the sales reps and Jerry are enjoying drinks and food at the party. Linda excuses herself. She goes to the kitchen where there is the tray for the dog food. She discretely pours the bottle of rat poison onto the food and returns to the party. Unbeknownst to her, she accidently leaves the bottle, with her name on it, next to the dog food tray, and it rolls under the kitchen counter. She returns to the party to celebrate with her colleagues. This all takes place 4 days before Christmas holidays are to take place. --- After the party is over and everybody leaves, Jerry notices something peculiar about his dog. It stops barking and eventually stops breathing. He quickly rushes with the dog to the animal hospital. The veterinarian indicates that the dog has been poisoned but still has a chance to survive. With this situation, being what it was, Jerry cannot take the Caribbean cruise. Therefore, since Linda had the second highest sales for the month, she takes the cruise in his place. The following week is both good and bad. Good for Linda because she is basking in the warm Caribbean sun. Unfortunately, it is a bad week for Jerry. That is because his dog ended up dying from food poisoning. He wondered how that happened. It certainly wasn’t a Merry Christmas for Jerry. He returned to his home dejected and heartbroken. He wondered who could have poisoned his dog’s food? He had to return to as normal as life as possible without his dog, Rex. --- When he was in the kitchen, he bent over to pick up Rex’s dog food tray. When he bent over, he saw a quick flash of light. He wondered what it was. It turned out to be a reflection of light shining off a small bottle. He extended his arm to pick up the bottle from under the counter. He took a close look at it. Upon close observation, he saw a label attached to it. The name on it was “Linda”. He was shocked, but not really surprised. He now knows who the culprit of the crime was. This called for a drastic measure. He was going to report this cruel act to his boss, Mr. Sentinel, when work resumed after Christmas holidays. --- The Christmas holidays were over. Jerry placed the bottle with Linda’s name on it, in his briefcase. The first thing he did was walk into Mr. Sentinel’s office when he got to work. “Mr. Sentinel, you have a killer working for you!”, exclaimed Jerry. Mr. Sentinel was shocked to hear these words from Jerry. “What do you mean, Jerry?”, asked Mr. Sentinel. “Linda Cross poisoned my dog’s food and Rex ended up dying.”, said Jerry. “How do you know she did it?”, asked Mr. Sentinel. “I’ve got the proof right here.”, replied Jerry. Jerry pulled the bottle out of his suitcase and handed it to Mr. Sentinel. He explained how he found the bottle, where it was located in his kitchen, and when the dog died. Mr. Sentinel is not pleased with this malicious occurrence. He summons Linda into his office with Jerry present. Linda walks into Mr. Sentinel’s office and gets nervous when she sees Jerry present too. “Happy New Year, Mr. Sentinel. What can I do for you?”, asks Linda. “Miss Cross, you undertook a malicious act against Mr. Reed. You poisoned his dog’s food and killed it.” “I would never do that!”, replied Linda. “Mr. Reed has the proof. Show her the bottle, Jerry.”, exclaimed Mr. Sentinel. Jerry showed Linda the bottle with her name on it. She was speechless. She knew she couldn’t defend herself. “You are to pack all your belongings and leave this building immediately. You are no longer an employee of this company.”, stated Mr. Sentinel. Linda left his office. She packed her belongings and left the building. --- Mr. Sentinel thanked Jerry for his candor and honesty. “Jerry, because you were honest about this act of treachery that Linda committed, I am going to reward you with the Caribbean cruise you originally won.” Jerry was over the moon. He thanked Mr. Sentinel for his kind generosity. Jerry also realized something: Revenge is a dish best served cold.


When the sun set began to set, the shells always shimmered. Orange streams of light from far above filtered through the water and danced upon the smooth and curling structures like prisms. It gave Ursula such joy to watch the light bounce off of her beautiful collection. She felt the soft pouch around her neck and poured the contents of the treasure into her hands. The pearls in her palm shone iridescent against her lovely brown skin. Dusk was always bittersweet. Soon she would see her lover, but just as reliably as sunset came the sun would also rise once again. That’s when her father would be waiting, when she would be bathed in darkness once more. Would she ever feel a morning’s sun upon her skin? But she mustn't think of that now. She couldn’t. She must instead think of Phillipe. He was the one who had found her that night. Her tail entangled in a net she had become buoyed upon the sand in bathes of moonlight like a whale.

At first, Phillipe had been mesmerised by his discovery. His insomnia often led him to envision many strange things at night. But then the epiphany came as he looked upon the sheer perfection of the seabeing’s face and realised how real the experience was. He had pulled out a knife. She had clawed at the sand, desperate to return to the waters, sure she would die. And then the net had been cut away in one careful swoop.

He thought she would flee to the waters. She knew that she should. But those eyes… Love gripped them before they had even shared their first words. She had returned to the same spot every night ever since.

Ursula returned the pearls to the pouch and glided towards the shore. Phillipe was waiting for her on the cut of rock long lapped by the waves. Moonlight bounced off of the ripples of the water she left in her wake, her wet hair like long dark strands of seaweed. She swam slowly, moving closer and closer to him. Her eyes were a storm. She took his breath away every time. Beautiful.

They had tried to talk to one another in an attempt to communicate but it had never worked. His tongue was too dextrous and vibrant for the coarse and throaty language her kind spoke beneath the waves. But somehow that didn’t matter. Somehow whatever they had between them worked. Ursula knew what Phillipe meant when he pressed one warm finger against her damp lips, and he knew what it meant when she did it back in return. I love you.

Time pressed on, and the dark sky soon began to grow pink again. She looked at her Phillipe’s face lovingly, stroked at the dark circles and wrinkles that lined his face with concern. She rubbed her palm across the grating stubble on his face. He laid his forehead against hers gently. They both knew what this meant. Tomorrow.

All too soon dawn’s rosy fingers began to swirl the currents. They parted with a brief kiss and a sigh before Ursula plunged into the waters and began to make her descent into the darkness. It didn’t matter that the sun was out. No light penetrated the waters this far deep.

Her sharp and agile eyes saw every trace of the depths, every sinewy slick thing and crusted old crab. The darkness invaded and crawled beneath her skin. She shivered. Deeper and deeper she dove until all was black and muddy and there was no sign of life. The cavern revealed itself like a screaming open mouth, ready to swallow her whole as she struggled into its depth. “Daughter?” her father called. “Yes father, it’s me.” A tentacle licked around her waist, smothering and impenetrable. She repressed a shudder as her father pulled her close. He was bulging and ancient. Two black holes where his eyes once were stared emptily into the black space. Barnacles crusted his face. Sometimes, Ursula could not quite fathom that this nightmarish beast was her father. The dark was his cold and smothering blanket from which he had never left. His empty sockets studied her closely. “Hmm,” he said approvingly. His slithering hold on her never relinquished. His tentacles slid and churned with a sickening squelch. “You are home late, but I am pleased you are here. We have much to talk about.” “Oh?” Ursula breathed fearfully. He couldn’t know… surely he couldn’t know.

How could he? She reassured herself. She never told him about her outings and her father never left. They just sat in each other’s company, wallowing in the darkness whilst Ursula eagerly anticipated the night. She was not allowed to go out in the day, that was her father’s one strict rule. To him, light was sorcery, an evil that played tricks. Perhaps that’s why he had gouged out his eyes.

“Ursula,” Her father continued. “Tonight is your eighteenth year beneath the moon. You were born in darkness and we will celebrate in darkness. I wish to give you a gift.”

“Oh father, that is kind of you - but I want nothing.” The old creature processed this information carefully. “Nothing? But how can that be? All seabeings want something. For the crab, it is the perfect shell. For the clownfish, the largest anemone. For the merman, a merwoman,” the old creature paused. “You want none of these things?” “No, father,” Ursula replied. “I am content to be here with you.” “Hmm,” he rustled in his place. His tentacles slithered against the sands like snakes. “Give me your pearls,” he said.

Ursula jumped in surprise at the request. How had he known? She tugged at the pouch around her neck and passed them to him curiously. His tentacles flicked busily for a moment before they stopped to display the finished project - her pearls beautifully clasped to a chain of small shells to form a necklace. “Oh father,” she hushed. “It’s so beautiful I can’t accept it.” “This is no simple pretty trinket,” the being boomed. “It will give you what your heart most desires. When this moment of realisation comes, simply fasten this trifle around your neck and your wish will come true. Be sure to use it wisely.” A tentacle delicately placed the necklace back into her hand “I will.” Her mind was already racing to that moment. Racing to tonight on the shore, when she would embrace Phillipe with her arms wide open - not with a tail - but with two long, human legs. She would never have to return to this dark chasm again. “I will, father. I promise you I will.” The day crept by more slowly than ever in that colossal darkness. Finally, night fell, and she was released from her duties with a flick of a tentacle and escaped from the black. This was what it was probably like to be born, to swim upwards towards a light that was both welcoming and warm as you moved further and further away from the dark.

Phillipe was on the crag again. He was as constant as the waves; receding, leaving, but always always to return once more. They welcomed each other with an embrace. She wondered when it would be best to place the pearls around her neck. She wanted to start her new life as soon as possible, but it was strangely difficult to leave the one she knew so well behind. What if Phillipe didn’t like her with legs? It was decided - she would spend one more night with him in this way. She would change with the sunrise. Soon the sky changed from black, to blue, to pink. Phillipe looked tired and solemn as he bent his forehead to hers to bid goodbye once again but she quickly moved away and gestured with her hands frantically. His face contorted with confusion. This night went against the routine of all other nights they had shared before. From her pocket she protruded the pearls. She watched Phillipe’s continuing confusion as she delicately moved to unclasp the necklace, to carefully place it around her neck, to feel the burn of a transformation… ...and burn she did. It was agony. The pearls scorched her skin like acid, choked her like a noose as she tried to prise it from her skin. Phillipe cried out as she thrashed amongst the waves like a fish caught in a shark's jaws. She was aware of Phillipe jumping into the water beside her, of his boots splashing through wet sand as he moved to wrap his arms around her body just as a huge dark mass slowly moved up from the depths… Everything happened in moments. There went the flash of Phillipe’s knife as he desperately tried to anchor the blade beneath the binds of the pearls as the breath choked shorter and shorter from Ursula’s chest. And there the knife fell uselessly as her tail swatted it away - no, not her tail - a tentacle. And there Phillipe shuddered in horror as two empty sockets well-known to Ursula fell upon his as tentacles dragged him beneath the surface of the water… ...and his body turned to seafoam. A scream writhed from Ursula’s body as her hands clasped hold of the fallen knife, as it cut through the binds of those poisonous pearls around her neck as they spilled into the ocean. There went the knife as she descended furiously, ferociously upon the bulbous tentacled mass that was dragging her back into the darkness. She plunged the knife deep. She thought her father would scream. She thought her father would choke. He did neither.

A loud bellowing laugh flooded from his bulbous body as a black essence swallowed Ursula whole. It delved deeply down her throat, penetrating to the very depths of her body. She was aware of being split into halves, quarters, eighths. She imagined that this was how being struck by lightning would feel, as if you were being cut again and again. No longer did a tail glide before her, but tentacles, tentacles that slid and tangled and collided with one another in this gross and egregious change. She could feel herself sinking deeper and deeper, crashing against rocks, against coral and creatures as the darkness enveloped her and grew blacker and blacker before her body folded with a final crash against the seabed. She retreated back into that blind cavern just as her father had once done. She did not emerge for many months at a time. She did not want to see herself in the light. She was a bulging beast . A monster. Ugly . Phillipe’s face stayed with her in her dreams for many nights before it started to fade. She would look upon a shell, or look up towards the orange glow of the sunset upon the ocean and question why it was so familiar. Then only Phillipe’s eyes remained as a memory. Months went past. They became forgotten altogether. Her heart turned harder and harder like a cankerous barnacle before it was completely turned into stone.

The sea witch was born. Many years later a couple walked along the beach, hand in hand. There they spied it.

A single pearl washed ashore, half buried in the sand and resting beside a shell.


'Hello there. Who are you?' I stare at the strangers crowding around my bed. Something is familiar about them, but I can't exactly grasp what. 'I'm your daughter, Mama,' says the familiar stranger, a young woman with dark hair, the same shade as mine. 'Daughter,' I muse, glancing at her. I look inquiringly at two other men. 'Who are you?' 'I'm your husband,' says the man, who looks as if he's in his 60's. 'This is your son, Lacey.' He nods toward the man. 'Husband. Son. Who's Lacey?' 'Oh, Mama,' cries the daughter. She flings her arms over me, the husband and the son joining in. 'You're Lacey, Mama. You're Lacey.' That night, I laughed a lot. The daughter told me her name was Lauren, the husband told me his name was Todd, and the son told me his name was Teddy. 'Teddy,' I chuckle. 'Funny name.' Teddy's cheeks flush. 'You thought of it, Mum. You said that you named me after your favourite teddy bear.' 'Huh,' I muse again. We played board games galore. Todd was especially good at it, but I always lost. 'That's alright, Mama,' says Lauren, patting me on the back. 'No one can be good at everything. I nod. As the daughter, husband, and son left, I waved them off. They promised they hoped they would come back again soon. And to my surprise, I hoped so too. # The busy noises of the city fill my ears. Cars zoom past and the skyscrapers brush the sky. I linger outside the bakery stores, the scent of food tempting me forward, but then I smell something better. Freedom. I inhale the smell of freedom. The familiar strangers have left, but I am determined to find them. 'Daughter?' I call, but my voice is drowned by the chatter of the crowd. 'Husband? Son?' 'You alright, Mrs?' says a man about the son's age. 'Need help finding someone?' 'Are you my son?' I ask. I can't exactly remember what he looks like anymore. 'Umm...' says the man. He shuffles away. Hmm. The real son wouldn't have done that. Suddenly, someone shouts, 'Oh, Mrs Cotton! Thank goodness I've found you!' A stranger comes up to me, sweat streaming down her face. 'I thought we lost you! Come on, let's get you back up to your room at the Village. 'Are you my daughter?' I ask. 'What's the Village?' 'Mrs Cotton,' sighs the woman sadly. 'Dear Mrs Cotton. Your daughter is coming next week, like normal. Remember? She always comes on Sunday afternoon, you know.' 'Don't know,' I murmur, feeling stupid. # 'Great news, Mrs Cotton! Your daughter, Lauren, is coming to work here at the Village and she'll help us look after you. Isn't that good?' 'So good.' I choke out, but inside I'm hitting myself for forgetting the daughter's name was Lauren. 'When?' 'Now!' says a voice, and a young woman bursts into my room with a smile. 'Where's Lauren?' I ask. 'It's me, Mama,' says the stranger, her face falling. 'Oh, it is Lauren!' I laugh. But deep inside, I still did not remember who this person was. # 'Good morning, Mama,' someone says. 'It's morning?' I mumbled. 'Yes, Mama. It's morning. I made your favourite. Freshly squeezed orange juice with avocado and cottage cheese! Yum.' 'Not my favourite,' I say. 'But, but, when I was little, you always said this was your favourite, Mama.' I cannot recall saying that, I think stubbornly. Another lady creeps in. She says something to the woman, thinking I can't hear her. I can. 'Mrs Cotton-I'm mean, Lacey, doesn't really have a favourite, anymore, Lauren.' 'That's ok,' says the Lauren person, brightening. 'As soon as Mama tries this, she'll remember. I know she will.' Lauren hands me the plate. I pick it up. Here goes nothing, I think. Picking up the orange liquid, I sniff it. Smells ... edible. I take the tiniest sip. Eww! It's tastes so cold and weird. However, I force a smile. Then, I picked up a fork and picked at the avocado and cheese. I gingerly scoop a little bit of each on it. Lauren and the lady watch with wide eyes. I shovel it into my mouth. Before I can stop myself, I cried, 'ACK!' At the top of my voice. The taste is so horrible, I drop the plate onto the floor. SMASH! It shatters into a thousand pieces. Oh no, I think. Lauren isn't going to be happy. I was right. Lauren looks up at me. 'Mama?' The question I've been asking myself all morning slips out. 'Who's Mama?' Lauren bites her lip. Her soft eyes well up with tears. She started to sob, and she ran out the door as tears began to leak out. 'Oh no.' I whispered. I knew I had done something terribly wrong. 'What did I do?' I cried, looking at the lady. 'Oh, Mrs Cotton,' she says. 'I-I'm going to get a broom to sweep this mess up, alright? Stay put, Mrs Cotton.' Shaking her head slightly, the lady leaves the room too. What did I do wrong? # I ring the bell. My curtain flutters slightly as the wind whooshes in through the open window. I sink into the warm bed covers, the only place I ever feel safe in. Ring. Ring. Ring. My door opens. 'Yes, Mrs Cotton?' says a woman. 'Bright.' I whisper. 'Here, I'll close the curtains for you.' The curtains gently scrape closed. 'There. All better?' 'Still bright.' 'Oh, my. Poor Mrs Cotton. You must be hallucinating again. Would you like me to get you your eye mask? It might help.' I shake my head. A sleep mask won't fill the hole in my heart. I always feel the hole in my heart. Like ... something is missing in there. 'Alright, Mrs Cotton. 'Lauren, Todd, and Teddy are coming tomorrow, by the way.' I don't answer, but in my head I'm thinking, Who is Lisa, Todd and Teddy? # 'Hi, Mama.' 'Hi, Mum.' 'Hi, Lacey.' I looked at the familiar strangers. 'Hello there. Who are you?'


Even as a young child, I was always an observer. My parents used to tell me that I had a knack for noticing things that others might overlook. This unique trait of mine led to an unforgettable experience when I was around 4 or 5 years old, during a family drive down the interstate. Sitting comfortably in the backseat of our car, I peered out the window, my gaze darting from one passing sight to another. My parents flanked me in the front, their voices muffled by the hum of the engine and the road's white noise. The interstate is dotted with radio towers, and these towering giants captured my imagination like nothing else. I was particularly fixated on them, their structures and the mysteries they held. They stood tall and proud like sentinels of communication, transmitting signals across the expanse. On this particular day, a radio tower emerged on the horizon, and my attention immediately locked onto it. But it wasn't the tower itself that drew me in—it was the figure standing atop it. A lone man, perched high above, seemed to be watching over the world from his precarious vantage point. I couldn't tear my eyes away, captivated by this unexpected sight. The man stood motionless, a solitary silhouette against the canvas of the sky. His clothes rustled in the wind, but he remained steadfast. Then, in a moment that defied both logic and reality, he stretched out his arms, forming a perfect "T" shape, as if he were embracing the very universe itself. Time seemed to slow down as I watched in awe and confusion. And then, as our car approached the tower, the man performed an inexplicable act—he leaned forward, as though gravity had no power over him. For a brief, suspended second, he seemed to hover in the air, an ethereal figure against the backdrop of the world. In a blink, he succumbed to gravity's pull, hurtling downward in a swift descent. As the ground rushed up to meet him, a cloud of dust erupted upon impact, a silent testament to the tragedy that had just unfolded before my eyes. My heart raced, and a mixture of shock and fear coursed through my young veins. I knew I had to share what I had witnessed with my parents. "Mom, Dad," I stammered, my voice barely audible, "I saw… I saw a man up there. He was on the tower, and then he…" My words trailed off, unable to fully convey the weight of what I had experienced. My parents exchanged puzzled glances, their attention focused on the road ahead. "Oliver, that's not a funny story to make up," my father replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice. My heart sank. They didn't understand, couldn't fathom the gravity of the situation. I slumped back in my seat, my gaze fixed on the road as the tower slipped out of view. The memory of that moment remained etched in my mind as if a lava flow had just cut a path through a small town, a somber reminder of the fragility of life and the impact of witnessing a fleeting yet profound moment. Now, as an adult in my thirties, I often find myself revisiting that memory. I wonder about the man on the tower—his identity, his story. I've searched countless times on the internet for any mention of the incident, hoping to find closure or understanding, but to no avail. That day remains a part of me, a poignant reminder that even in the briefest moments, life can leave an indelible mark on a young heart, shaping the way we perceive the world and the enigmatic events that unfold within it.


She slowly enters the cave, hand on the hilt of her still sheathed blade. Loose armor faintly clangs together with each step. Wolf fur rustles around her neck marking a trophy of days passed. Beams of sunlight shine through the cave entrance and reflect off her helmet. As she creeps closer to the back of the cave, the outline of a door lined with stone comes into view. A metal seal depicting a tarantula wasp encased in fire gleams in the torchlight at the doors center. Knight slowly unsheaths her sword revealing jagged saw-like spikes on one side and a clean serrated edge on the other. She slowly opens the massive door, careful not to alert anyone who may be inside. She removes her helmet to peek through the cracked door. Inside was a long hallway lit with torches, a tall man in a white robe walks through the hall and disappears into a side door. Knight dons her helmet and slowly enters. As she moves forward, another robed man rounds the corner at the end of the hall. His face was covered and the same symbol from the door was painted on his chest. A wolf with a red X painted on its face walked at the robes side. Its breathing heavily and its eyes dilated. Knight darts into the closest doorway before being seen. As she turns to face the room, she locks eyes with the man from before. He holds a servants platter with a strange smelling meat on it. The man opens his mouth to scream for help but before the sound could pass his lips, the knight shoved the butt of her sword into his mouth, breaking his teeth. She glided behind him quick and quiet, strangling him until he passed out. Knight rapidly rotates her head around the room making certain she is the only one conscious. After taking a few calming breaths, Knight once again peers out the cracked door. The robed man most definitely heard her encounter. He approaches the door slowly accompanied by two more with swords drawn. The sound of a growling wolf can be heard. Its thick yellow eyes fixed on the slightly ajar door Knight is hiding behind. With no other choice Knight bombards the door, breaking it from its hinges and trapping one of the robed men underneath! Knight cuts down the robe to her right with one powerful swipe of her saw blade. The wolf lunges at her sinking its teeth into her arm and knocking her off the door. Knight begins stabbing wildly with the butt of her sword in an attempt to get the wolf to let go. The other robed man helps his accomplice out from under the door and together they jump into action. Knight stands and brings her saw blade up to block the first assault and forces the robe back a few steps. Knight lets out a small grunt as she raises the wolf still attached to her arm to block the second assault. The robe strikes the wolf in the back but it wasn’t enough to shake the wolf’s grip. Knight turns the saw blade to the wolf’s neck and cuts deep, severing the spinal column. The wolf drops lifeless to the ground as blood spills from knights punctured armor. The robe to Knights left makes another attempt to swing his sword at Knights neck. Now free of the wolf Knight catches his blade to redirect it and plunges her saw deep into the robe's shoulder. Undeterred the third robe begins slashing wildly hoping a blow will land. Knight kicks his chest the moment an opening appears once again knocking him back a few steps. She pulls her saw blade from a now limp body and swipes hard removing the robes sword arm from his body. The robe still standing lunges at her as if he didn’t even feel her blade sever his arm. Knight cuts his head from his neck in a panic, confused about how he shook off what should have been a painful deterrent. She looked down at his lifeless body trying to piece together the mystery. Knight shakes her head and gazes down the hallway indicating to herself the task at hand requires her focus. Careful as not to arouse anyone else’s attention, she continues down the corridor for several feet. Nothing but the flickering sound of torch light can be heard as Knight creeps further. After some time the quiet murmur of someone talking is emanating from one of the doorways up ahead. Knight approaches the door, removing her helmet and crouching to peek through the keyhole. Inside she sees a man with robes more elegant than those she has seen so far and a pendant draped around his neck. A flag bearing their tarantula wasp symbol hangs from the wall at his back. He appears to be speaking to someone standing in front of the door. As Knight looks closer at the pendant, her eyes widen and begin to fill with tears. She stands and stares at the door with tears streaming down her face. Knight’s expression turns from sadness to rage as her helmet settles back on her head.


"Just passing through," I said as the officer pulled her head away from my driver's side window, satisfied. I hadn't been drunk in over a year and tonight was no exception. "We're looking for sober drivers with valid licences," she smiled sincerely. Never mind the fact I'd just been caught doing 80 in a 60 zone. Among the various bumper stickers on my camperized Delica, there was a bold road marker proclaiming, "have a 99 Day!", along with a Minnesota-shaped script reading, "NICE", and a shiny 5.11 Tactical sticker. I suspect the latter was subconsciously telling her I was one of them, on her side, a "good guy". I put it there deliberately. "What's in the bag?" She gestured to my back seat. "Medical stuff," I replied. I wasn't lying, but I wasn't telling the whole truth. "Were you in the military?" "Just a concerned citizen," I said, "There's no data up here sometimes and I wanna be prepared in case anything happens." "That's fine. Drive safe!" And the flashing lights ceased in my rearview as I thanked her with a smile and just sat to regain my breath. That's the second time in the past month I've been caught speeding and let go. It's a combination of the 5.11 sticker and my demeanor, I think. I've always been told I have a calm and commanding presence - one that takes away any anxiety or worry. I laugh to myself while knowing I always find a way. And I am a good guy - I got passing grades in college, where I majored in psych. I drive a respectable Lexus when I'm not living from this old van, and I have ambitions up the wazoo. That's how people measure goodness these days, isn't it? I tell myself that. The contents of my backpack argue otherwise. I'm alone on the side of the highway now and it's 4 AM. "Just passing through," I recalled saying. "Yeah, through this town and the next 5 to come". I signalled and put my car back in drive. I press the gas and pulled back onto the barren, early-morning highway. "Pemberton 48 km," the sign proclaimed. I drive the next 48 km in silence. I recalled the officer's questions, "where are you heading?" and "where are you coming from?" The answer was the same: I'm coming from Vancouver and that's where I'm going to end up. I'm doing a big circle route. I'm doing it because I get restless, and because driving aimlessly provides a cheap sense of freedom. Gas is $1.75 per liter tonight, costing me nearly $100 to fill up my tank. That's not so "cheap" monitarily, but freedom is my drug of choice. Once I reach the point of fatigue where I start to lose concentration and swerve, I'll pull over at a pitstop and camp in the twin sized bed I have rigged up behind me. But I just had coffee and that won't happen for a while. "Just passing through" had been my response. "I like to go for road trips and I like to drive at night when there's nobody else on the roads." It was true. I was driving for the sake of driving and I didn't have a destination in mind, just a strong sense that I'd return to Vancouver soon. I had to work tomorrow night. This morning, though. This morning it's just me, myself and the open road. The sun's beginning to rise. The skies have gone from a midnight night blue to a pale, almost pastel, blue with clouds. I was never good with colour vocabulary; that's a woman's domain. The mountains to my north are capped purple. Some trees are silhouetted against the sky and I take a moment to breathe and bask in it. This is what I live for. In a few minutes I was back on the road with the tunes blasting, now driving as if everyone on the road is a cop. Construction truck comes up behind me? Do the speed limit. I don't care. Living dangerously means accepting certain limits for the maintenance of one's own operation. Living dangerously means I can't risk being pulled over again.


“Has the forensic team finished up with their part yet? I don’t want to contaminate the scene with my shoe prints if they haven’t cleared it.” “Yes. It’s ok to walk around now. They already did their thing. About two hours ago they got dispatched to a new crime scene. Another stiff was found a few miles from here. HQ didn’t notify you about that one yet? The crew is there working that case. I’m sure you’ll be investigating that one also. Dave’s still on vacation, right?” “Yeah. I guess It’s my lucky day.”; Hiroki Hamada responded to the deputy with an eye roll. The detective noted a couple of obvious things first. The victim hadn’t been dead very long and visible evidence pointed to it being a homicide. A large ‘T’ was carved in the man’s forehead with some sort of sharp instrument. That sort of cartoonish mutilation was usually reserved for big city murder cases and crime novels. It wasn’t enough that the victim died. The perpetrator wanted to make a strong statement about his or her victim. That extra level of effort implied it was a crime of passion. There was no ID present on the corpse but the forensics team had taken his prints and other info. They would know who the deceased was soon enough. Once his identity and personal background was known, a clearer picture of possible motives would hopefully present itself. For the time being the mystery man was simply labeled ‘John Doe #1’. The coroner picked up the body and transported it back to the county morgue for an autopsy. Detective Hamada called Mark’s work cell. “Hey. I hear you have another case? Since Jefferson is still hula hooping in Honolulu, this one is gonna fall on my assignment docket too. Text me the location. I’ll be over as soon as I finish my notes here.” Larson sent him the address. Upon arrival Hiroki immediately noticed the glaringly obvious connection between the two crimes. The victim was similarly posed and also had a large letter carved in her forehead. This time it was a giant ‘A’. He exchanged furtive glances with his be-speckled coworker. It was no coincidence. They were dealing with a spree killer. Who was Miss ‘A’? She did have identification on her person and from it Detective Hamada noted that no part of her name bore the initial ‘A’. He was immediately reminded of ‘The scarlet letter’. It was mandatory reading when he was in high school. “ I see she’s wearing a wedding ring. Does it list her emergency contact in her phone? As soon as we’ve make positive ID on the body and notified the family, I’ll bring in her spouse and have a little chat with him. Her death may not be that much of a shock. I’ll feel him out and see if he knows who our ‘John Doe’ is” “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”; Larson muttered. “Nathaniel Hawthorne?” “Yep.” —————- The woman’s husband was brought in for an exploratory ‘interview’. He seemed genuinely broken-up about her grizzly death but that was to be expected. Even if he killed her, that didn’t exclude the possibility that he felt genuine sorrow and remorse for his violent actions. Hiroki studied the husband’s facial mannerisms carefully but didn’t detect any sign of deception in his eyes or body language. His reaction came across as that of an innocent man grieving over a devastating loss. A detective’s instincts about a suspect were not indefatigable but his gut feeling had served him well over his career. In order to validate or strengthen his opinion of the man, it was necessary to escalate the pressure and intensity in the interview. It was about to morph into a full-blown murder interrogation. Certain terse details presented in the right way were apt to trigger an honest response. The day before, Hiroki had done some digging around in the wife’s personal life. He uncovered that she was having an affair with a man in her aerobics class. More telling, she hadn’t been terribly discreet about it. The ‘A’ carved in her forehead fit his ‘Adulterer’ theory perfectly but when confronted with the sensitive news, the husband denied knowing anything about it. Being asked point blank about something like that would likely rattle any pretense or acting out of the subject. He was genuinely crushed to learn of her infidelity. As tidy as it would have wrapped up the case, Hiroki believed the man really didn’t know. Interestingly, ‘Mr. T’ as they began referring to him; was not even the dead woman’s lover! His mysterious identity and relationship to her (if any existed) was still unknown. The other detectives on duty observed the interview from behind the one-way privacy glass. They were just as perplexed by the ‘near miss’ of not being able to connect the two cases, as Hiroki was. It was unusual having two unsolved murders for their modest-sized town. For them to be so similar and obviously connected (but unproven) was incredibly frustrating. Both crime scenes had been surprisingly free of usable evidence. The killer had been very careful to cover his tracks. They intended to bring in the wife’s lover for questioning but that would have to wait. Another dead body was reported in the industrial district. Like the first two cases, a letter was carved into the deceased person’s forehead. This time it was a large letter ‘H’. The detectives were starting to feel overwhelmed. The woman’s identity was unknown but based on several facts revealed at the scene, she was believed to be a prostitute. The detectives and forensic team recognized the tell-take signs of needle marks and drug paraphernalia on her person. They’d seen those things enough in the abandoned buildings nearby to realize she probably had an arrest record. A quick run of her prints at the precinct would reveal her identity. Much more complicated was going to be how to unravel her connection to the other two victims and what the ‘H’ stood for. Someone was leaving them a symbolic trail of breadcrumbs but they couldn’t see where the mystery led yet. ————— “Does anyone have a working theory or possible suggestions for what the letters might mean? Originally I thought the ‘A’ stood for ‘adultery’ since the victim was having an affair but that could just be a coincidence for all we know. The ‘T’ victim does have theft and larceny charges in his extensive arrest records but he’s been guilty of many other crimes as well. In the end, we are still assuming here. We could be wandering down the wrong path.” Detective Jefferson answered: “If your crime initial theory is right, what would the ‘H’ stand for on the prostitute? ‘Whore’? This killer is way too cunning to misspell a word like that. He’s been very careful in his efforts to avoid detection so far. That implies some level of higher education. For all we know, he’s just alphabetizing his murder spree. Heaven forbid! I’d hate to think he plans to have 26 bodies out there.” In the next few weeks several more bodies were found. An ‘R’, an ‘M’ and an ‘S’, among them. Detectives Hamada and Jefferson were up to their necks in seemingly unrelated details. They sought to find an obvious pattern to the murders. They examined financial details of the victims, relationship statuses, political ideologies, and a dozen other random variables. Despite the exhaustive research, none of the victims were believed to know each other and no connection could be found between them. It was baffling. Hiroki interviewed family, friends, spouses, and coworkers. He was able to build a clear understanding of the victims but wasn’t really able to find a common thread. Eventually he had to consider another angle. It was a strong possibility that their murders were the morbid handiwork of a completely unconnected vigilante. That would make solving the murders infinitely more difficult since there would be no clear connection between the victims and killer. Regardless, even a vigilante would have to encounter his victims somehow in order to know intimate details about them. There had to be at least a minimal source of connection in order for the killer to select each of them for their letter designation. Hiroki was determined to find out how the victims were picked. From there he hoped to track down ‘the alphabet killer’ before another person ended up with a letter carved into their head. One by one, the identities of the victims were uncovered. They came from all walks of life and personal backgrounds. Detective Hamada kept going back to his ‘sin label’ theory. The little bits and pieces he learned about them could possibly be tied to the letter they were found with. The victim with the ‘T’ had been a thief. The victim with the ‘A’ was definitely an adulterer. The ‘R’ victim had been accused of rape. The ‘M’ victim’s family strongly hinted during interviews that he had ‘touched them’ inappropriately. He had never been legally charged with molestation but those crimes often go unpunished. It was enough to support his suspicions. The ‘S’ case was difficult to tie to a traditional ‘sin’ at first until Dave Jefferson reminded him that homosexuals had been referred to as ‘sodomites’ in the past. That in itself was very telling about the killer, if correct. Finally that left the ‘H’ case. They knew she was a prostitute, so why hadn’t she received a ‘W’ or ‘P’; if the theory was right? —————- Somewhere in their modest-sized town, a very angry, judgmental killer hunted prey with little resistance. Law enforcement struggled to find suitable suspects to focus on. With all of the online surveillance and potential eyewitnesses of a modern society, it seemed reasonable to think that someone knew who he was. Someone held the key. The police department put out an urgent request for witnesses and tips. As was typically the case, most of the calls received were of questionable assistance. They interviewed dozens of felons and individuals with police records. Public and private pressure was mounting. The municipal powers that be, seemed as if they were more concerned about arresting someone, than finding the actual guilty party. To finger a patsy would be a double miscarriage of justice. State and federal police threatened to take over the investigation. Some days, Hiroki was beyond ready to hand it over but pride or masculine stupidity pushed him to keep going. Some days he wasn’t sure which one was the motivator. He surmised that perhaps it was a little of both. The ‘alphabet killer’ case drew national attention. The news media went out of their way to pander to public fear and imply that Hamada and Jefferson were inept detectives. Even the ‘favorable’ reports panned them as being way out of their league. That was perhaps the strongest catalyst for Hiroki to keep trying. He drew up a list of what they knew and then divided it from what they believed. Dave Jefferson has always been skeptical of the ‘sin letter theory’ but he didn’t have a better explanation for the killer’s motives. None of the victims names shared initials with the letter they were branded with. The two men decided to focus on the puzzle pieces which didn’t really fit. “Why was Charlotte Jones inscribed with an ‘H’? Did she try to rob a customer who retaliated, or was she lured into that vacant building with the sole purpose of killing her?” Jefferson answered. “I think she was ‘dead’ before she even walked into that seedy place. The killer had her number, er, umm, ‘letter’. It wasn’t really a crime of passion. The situation was fully controlled. She wasn’t shot or stabbed in fury. She was strangled with the meticulous focus of a baker slowly kneading some dough. This was a political statement, pure and simple. I think the ‘H’ might stand for ‘hooker’. It would suit your ‘sin letter’ theory.” Hiroki agreed with part of Dave’s assessment but disagreed with another key aspect. “Absolutely! This is about ridding the world of ‘undesirables’ (from his misanthropist point of view) but who does that? Who takes it that far? What person carries his contempt for the ‘amoral’ in humanity to the level of murder while branding them with a corresponding initial? It’s not enough to just take their lives. He also leaves us a cryptic clue as to why he killed them. This guy is ‘cool, calm, and collected’. He’s focused and very determined.” “Obviously.”; Dave replied. “He doesn’t make forensic mistakes that would lead us to him. To me, he doesn’t seem like the type to call prostitutes ‘hookers’ either. Maybe I’m wrong but that slang term almost seems ‘beneath’ him and ‘distasteful’. At least, based on what we’ve witnessed by his choice of victims. I seriously doubt he has a police record either. I get the feeling this guy is Ivy League educated and even hobnobs with social elites. He’s basically a morality snob. Who still calls a homosexual a ‘sodomite’ in this day and age? I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy wore a top hat and monocle.” Jefferson imagined the ‘Monopoly guy’ and grinned. What Hiroki said made complete sense. He laid out his argument perfectly. The normal pattern for a murderer is to have a lengthy crime record of escalating offenses which eventually build up to violent crime. They typically have a personal beef with their victims. This killer appeared to operate on some misguided morality crusade. It wasn’t simply a mindless murder spree. In the mind of the unknown killer, it apparently served the purpose of ‘bettering mankind’. Idealogical killings of that nature wouldn’t be committed by irrational individuals who had criminal records or made rookie mistakes. ——————- The two of them had spent too much time focusing on traditional criminal patterns and predictable behavior. Nothing about these bizarre killings fit the pattern of a sadistic felon with an uncontrollable bloodlust. Both men realized that a radical adjustment was necessary in their methodology and problem solving efforts. They refocused their energy on those with higher education and the devoutly religious. It brought in a whole new list of potential suspects. Hiroki couldn’t stop fixating on the ‘H’ victim, Charlotte Jones. He was sure that she was somehow the key to solving the crimes. Her name echoed continually in his head. He tried to work through the mystery information roadblock by sheer repetition. “Charlotte. Charlotte. Charlotte... the... hooker. Charlotte the ... huuuu”. Like a bolt out of the blue a thought came to him. “Adkins! Hand me that Oxford dictionary. Quick!” The clerk pulled the oversized reference book off the shelf and handed it to Detective Hamada. Hiroki flipped wildly through the pages. He scanned the top and bottom word of each margin in search of a specific noun. There on the yellowed sheet was the very answer he sought. ‘Harlot: noun; Origin Middle English, rogue, buffoon, female prostitute, from Anglo-French herlot beggar, vagabond. First known use: 15th century’ “Harlot!”; He almost shouted to Dave over the phone. “ it’s the ‘H’! It’s got to be! Harlot is an English noun for a prostitute. By prim and proper English standards of the older generation, Charlotte Jones was commonly referred to as a ‘harlot’. Why don’t we see if there are any expat British citizens living in or around the city? It would fit in perfectly with the evolving profile we’ve built about the killer.” The men dug in to their research with renewed enthusiasm. Hiroki didn’t even want to consider that their new idea might lead to another dead end. The cruel thought was unbearable. This HAD to be it. It just had to be. As luck would have it, there was an ex-English nobleman living nearby. He immigrated to their city less than a year before. Under ordinary circumstances, he would’ve never been on their radar but with their adjusted parameters, he deserved more attention. Hiroki and Dave sat down to discuss their interrogation strategy. Someone with his power and influence could easily ‘lawyer up’ and avoid answering questions if he became spooked. If he was their guy, he surely anticipated being caught as some point. If so, he had a strategic head start of almost a year. The distinguished subject of their interest was an older gentleman with degrees from Cambridge and significant financial resources. It wasn’t going to be easy to wrangle him into the interview room. He was definitely no ordinary suspect. It would be even more difficult to get him to be forthcoming if he was involved. The detectives needed to plan for every possible contingency. They needed the element of surprise to catch him completely off guard. They researched his background extensively so there would be no surprises (if and when they got him into the interrogation room). ————— “Good evening constables! I was told that my assistance was needed here at the precinct. I have availed myself to be at your service. Anything I can do for the brave lads in blue.” The detectives looked at each other in amused skepticism. His gentlemanly manner was almost too exaggerated to be believed but he was dead serious. He was suave, urbane, and genteel. Hiroki invited him in. The three men sat around the interview table and made small talk for a few minutes. It was all meant to put the suspect at ease to lower his guard but it had the opposite effect. For the suspect to show up so enthusiastically and unannounced, it put them at a strategic disadvantage. He was calling the shots. It was almost like he was interrogating them. Dave shot Hiroki a discreet look. He wanted to excuse themselves for a private moment to discuss the odd turn of events but it wasn’t a good idea. They didn’t dare leave him alone so early in the session. They had to keep tag-teaming him, to stop the suspect from collecting his thoughts. In an embarrassing gaffe, he’d already managed to fish some details from them over why they had asked him to come in. They had to regain control of the situation. All during the questioning, both men had to keep reminding themselves he was their lead suspect. It was surreal to think that such an affable gentleman was possibly responsible for a number of gruesome unsolved killings. He came across more like a dignified TV host of ‘Masterpiece theater’ than a serial murderer. The only hint of his possible guilt was how he dominated the interview. With that in mind, it was believable. The two detectives were used to being in total control. In this ‘cat and mouse game’, he was the cat. “Gentlemen, I hate to be imprudent but I sense there is something you wish to ask me. Can we dispense with the banter and pleasantries and ‘cut to the chase’? I feel we would all benefit from ‘yanking off the bandaid’, as it were.” Hiroki looked at Dave. The interview had drifted so far off course that it made getting back to their plan of attack, a challenge. The whole point was to put the suspect at ease and then slowly build toward confronting him. His forceful candor had turned the tables on them and unseated their careful stages of planning. Then he forced their hand before they could recover. “Mr. Maybeck. We appreciate your directness. Really we do. Let me lay it out for you. We have a series of unsolved murders in the city. We are certain they are connected because of certain commonalities between them. These reoccurring crime elements point to a person with certain distinctive traits. Through painstaking deduction and police work, we have created a profile of the killer. While that profile is still developing, it’s incredibly specific.” “And you feel that I fit this suspect profile...”; He interrupted. “Um, Yes sir.”; Dave replied. “You currently match our parameters so we’d like to ask you a few questions, in order to eliminate you as a suspect. Do you mind, or would you prefer having an attorney present?” “Ah! We were doing so dashingly up until now. I appreciate your candor, gentlemen. We can sit on opposite sides of the table and still maintain our dignity here. I’m sure that you’d very much appreciate closing the book on those crimes you spoke of. Please do me the kindness of not trying to outmaneuver me in some mental chess match. Just put forth the questions. I shall answer them with full truth. It’s my word as a person of honor.” Hiroki couldn’t believe the situation they were in and neither could Dave. They were actually considering being completely straight and open with the man. It went against every rule in the detective’s playbook but it was unique circumstances. Against his better judgment, Hiroki came out and asked him point blank about his involvement in the crimes. Mr. Maybeck smiled. “See. That wasn’t so hard, was it? I am indeed, ‘your man’. Honestly, it’s a great relief that I’ve finally been caught. I wish to unburden myself over my reasons and justifications for my bloody deeds soon but for the moment, I’m just curious about my ‘Waterloo’. What was my slip up that led you to me?” “Harlot.”; Dave deadpanned. “Detective Hamada realized that ‘H’ had to stand for something other than ‘hooker’ or ‘(W)hore’. Once we happened upon the old English noun ‘Harlot’, it pointed to an educated, older Englishman like yourself. We just looked into our census records until your information came up. If you had used ‘P’ for prostitute, we’d probably still be looking.” Mr. Maybeck smiled at the linguistic irony. He knew that one day he would eventually slip up. It was just a matter of time. He was proud that the two astute gentlemen across from him were the ones who finally brought him in. He imagined a ‘M’ carved into his own forehead.


A wizard is never late, so you can see how this is a little embarrassing. I must look ridiculous in long black robes in this steamy weather next to the nonmagical people on the train. A few of them eye me with suspicion. Not only is my attire outlandish to these sorts of people, I’m sure my hastily washed, shaggy hair would have set off some alarm bells with the nonmagical community. I would have changed into more acceptable clothing, but there had been no time. I am extraordinarily late by wizard standards to my meeting with Ole Scar. He closes up his shop in thirty minutes. I keep rolling my eyes as I glare at my watch. Half past five as the crow flies. “Who are you supposed to be?” says a boy across from me. “Is it Halloween yet?” Without a good story as to my appearance, I grumble, “Trust me, kid. You’d know if it was.” The boy ponders if what I said was a threat or a warning. I’m thankful when the subway stops. These trains are extraordinarily slow, but the nonmagical subway is the only way to get to the Hidden Ways.

I walk to a patch of wall crumbled by time. Making sure no one is spying on me I whip out my wand and tap the third brick from the left, muttering, “Like smoke, unseen.” A chalk white outline of a door appears in front of me. I stow my wand away, turn the doorknob, and step through the wall, disappearing as quickly as I appeared. The Hidden Ways are a nightmarish part of the magical world inhabited by warlocks, goblins, hags, and other underground scum. The pathway is narrow brick on all sides, twisting upon itself like a huge labyrinth. Hunched, cloaked figures go into various shops and come out clutching their merchandise close. I catch a hissing sound coming out of a crate a masked wizard held as he brushed past me. I’m one of the only people not wearing a hood or mask. I have nothing to hide. I’m not buying anything. It takes me a while to find Ole Scar’s place as I knew it would. This furthers my frustration of my punctuality. Finally, I tuck into a shop called Smoke and Mirrors at the far end of town. Like the Hidden Ways, this shop is not so easily found. Ole Scar enchanted his shop so it was in a different place every day. Skulls sit in glass cabinets like old jewelry. A black cabinet guards the far corner of the room. It’s dimly lit enough to see spiders weaving webs along the ceiling. Crusted bugs litter the counter next to the register where a gnarled man with a long incision running down his face stares at me bemused. A collection of rune-etched rings clinks on his fingers as he smokes a short, black pipe. “You’re late, Zed.” I roll my eyes. “I’m not buying this time, Scar.” The shop smells like rotten potatoes, pipe tobacco, and dark magic. The aura radiating from the skulls in the glass cabinet make me nauseous. I don’t want to know what kinds of curses are on them. Knowing the clientèle Scar serves, everything in the place is illegal. “Oh?” Ole Scar puffs a long drag of smoke out through his nose. “I need information.” I pull out a newspaper clipping from my robes and give it to Scar. The front shows a picture of a girl with skin so pale she could almost be a ghost. She wears a silk dress, color indistinguishable in the monochrome paper. As all photographs in the magical world, this one is moving. The girl in the newspaper tosses her hair back and smiles crookedly at the reader. Scar doesn’t need to read the headline to tell what I want. “Mathilda. You’re investigating the Wrens,” spits Scar. He grits his blackened teeth together. “A wizard’s got to eat.” “You got a death wish, boy, prying into their affairs. How much gold is the Conclave paying you for this job?” “Not enough,” I say. “Rumor has it, she’s gone to the Dark Side.” “Big of you, to talk about the Dark Side,” Scar chuckles. “You’re basically a warlock yourself even if you don’t admit it.” I flash my wand and hold it against his heart. Ole Scar had touched a nerve. “I will never—be—like—you. Now, you know anything about this girl or not?” He holds up his hands in surrender. One letter to the Conclave sends Scar to the place with no name, a prison where people vanish, erased, as if they never existed. I’d prefer death. Death is at least quiet. “She came in,” says Scar. “Mathilda. A few days ago. Was interested in a few cursed candles. Wouldn’t say what they were for. Bought out my whole stock.” I pull the wand away but keep it trained on Scar. “What were the candles for?” “Ritual magic.” I snap my fingers and disappear from the shop in a cloud of smoke and reappear before a wrought iron gate three times as tall as me. The sign above the gate reads Wren. A dense fog clouds my vision. I light my wand and hold it up like a torch. The light doesn’t help much. “Who disturbs the ancient and noble house of Wren?” boomed a foreboding voice. The voice came from everywhere as if magnified by a heavenly sized speaker system. The Wrens are one of the oldest magical families in the world. They pride themselves in tracing their magical lineage through the Middle Ages. They are highly respected and would likely want this case resolved quickly. I bet all the gold in my vault the Wrens had something to do with her disappearance.

And the candles. Why would the Wrens bother with ritual summoning? Such magic is outdated and outlawed since the Witch Trials of 1693. There are more efficient and less risky options in the realm of dark magic for summoning.

“I’m an investigator,” I shout, careful not to give away too much. “I’m here to ask a favor.” The fog swirls around me as if guided by the wind. The gate creaks open. I walk across the threshold along the gravel walkway up the hill to Castle Wren. Castle Wren is an imposing sight with its many turrets and sleek parapets. The sun did not shine here though it is noon. The clouds above the foreboding fortress loom overhead enchanted to forever darken the timeworn castle. The great iron doors swing open automatically as I reach the top of the hill. They close behind me as I make my way into the polished marble entrance hall. I hold my wand alight still not daring to let my guard down. At first, I think nobody is home. The air is quiet as if I walked into a strict library. The torch brackets are lit. The portraits along the walls, which were snoozing in their frames, jolt awake at the sound of the door crashing into its frame. Upon realizing the source of the disturbance is not an emergency, the figures go back to sleep. A gaunt face enfolded in a sleek velvet cloak and long gray hair meets me in the Great Hall next to the entrance. Long tables line the room as if for large parties the Wrens hold often. They are a well-connected family, full of history, and more gold than anyone could ever spend. Black curtains drape the windows. The tables are already set for dinner with fine china, silver goblets, and silverware that look as if I press too hard it would snap. The man is suspicious of me. I appear like a vagabond compared to the castle’s luxury. I clear my throat. “I am here on behalf of—.” “I know who you are.” The man speaks in high manner driving home the fact that he is better than me in every way. “You must be Master Wren.” “You’re not here to duel, are you?” He smiles the same crooked way Mathilda did in the paper at my still lit wand. Hastily, I extinguish the wand light and walk with Wren to the top most tower past portraits of knights on white horses and fairies bewitching people’s minds. Wren does not so much walk as glide like an apparition. “As I mentioned previously, I am here for a favor.” “Mathilda,” says Wren.

My insides wrench a little. “You’ve been following the paper then.” “No. It is not so hard to pry open a wizard’s mind when he invites me in.” I try not to be disturbed by the prospect of Wren being able to read minds. “Read it,” says Wren, “like a book? More like unhinge it, explore it, control it. You’d know nothing of the kind of magic I speak of.” I act willfully ignorant. “The Conclave believes your daughter is under the influence of a warlock. I have reason to believe she is attempting a ritual.” We arrive at the highest point in the castle. The Wrens own a swathe of forested land, wanting to preserve the natural state as it had been hundreds of years ago. The canopies drape over the plot in rolling hills of leaves. Butterflies flutter in and out of the leaves. “As it so happens,” Wren says after a pause, “I know of your predicament. I will give you Mathilda’s location on one condition. That you bring her straight here.” “But the Conclave—.” “—does not have her best interests at heart. They will send her away. You know the place the Conclave sends those they want to disappear. Bring her here. I will compensate you far beyond anything the Conclave can hope to give.” Wren dismissively tells me a number. My eyes widen. Wren offers more gold than I could hope to make in twenty years. If I refuse, I might as well go home and forget about Mathilda. Plus who knows what kind of curses Wren would cast on me if I did refuse. I’m going to have to do a lot of paperwork with the Conclave after this is over. “Fine,” I say. “Where is she, then?” “Point your wand into the sky and it will guide you.” My hand shaking slightly I draw my wand and point it over my head. Immediately, I sweep into the air, spinning like a tornado for a few seconds. My feet slam into the ground and my knees buckle. My stomach retches and I expect to puke all over the sidewalk, but nothing comes out. Head still spinning, I struggle to my feet and hold my wand out. I’m in a clearing, dusk nearly settling. Lit candles float in midair, the same ones Ole Scar sells in his moving shop. A female figure in the same silk dress levitates in the air over the candles. Mathilda. Her expression is vacant, drool rolling down her chin. Mathilda’s hair drapes over a large cauldron big enough to sit in. A blue fire cackles underneath it. A silver vapor rises over the cauldron. A cloaked figure hunched over the cauldron turns around, the rings clinking on his fingers. “You,” I say. Scar looks at me with the same contempt as Wren. “Me.” My wand arm shakes back and forth from Scar to Mathilda and back again.

“Yes, I have never renounced the old ways,” says Scar. I jab a blaze of bright blue light at Scar. He waves it away with a gnarled hand. “You have to do better than that,” Scar laughs. I glance back astonished. He blocked my stunning spell like an annoying fly on a summer’s day without the use of a wand. Unheard of. “Instruments like wands and staffs only hold the wizard back. He comes to rely on them like a crutch.” Scar is stronger than I thought possible. The Conclave snapped his wand and took away his spell books when they freed him from that prison. He renounced the Dark Arts in front of the Conclave. But he was biding his time and making excuses to save his own skin. When I threatened him in his shop, Scar was holding back. He could have crushed me at any time if he wanted. That realization raises the hair on my arms. “What are you doing to her?” “I’ll give you a clue. As little Mathilda gets weaker. I get stronger.” At one point, Scar was one of the most feared warlocks in the magical community. The Conclave stripped him of much of his power when he was sent to prison the last time. He was released on condition that someone would watch over him, making sure he wouldn’t do exactly this. That someone was me. “You’re taking power from her,” I gasp. “You’re pouring her essence into the cauldron.” Scar dips a goblet into the potion and drinks. He stands to his full height, no longer impeded by his older and weaker form. The wrinkles on his face ebb away and the callouses in his fingers retract. Before me is a younger version of the warlock at the height of his power when everyone feared to speak of him. Yet I sense he is more powerful now than at any time in the old days. The rings on his fingers are more pronounced now, protecting him with an aura where even my mostly wisely chosen spells would fall useless to the wayside. “Oh, how the Wrens would mourn if one of their heirs had no more magic left in her. Very proud of their lineage, they are. If she doesn’t die here she will be exiled by her own blood. Now that she is nearly depleted, I can test my new power on you. I’ve waited a long time for this, Zed.” Then, the strongest surge of pain I ever experienced crawled over me. I scream like I never screamed before. Scar laughs at me overhead. I clear my mind through the pain and focus on a blink spell, simple to do, tough to execute. I concentrate all my energy on being in the air next to Mathilda floating over the cauldron. This is the only choice I have. I have to do anything to save the girl. One moment I writhe on the ground and scream in horrific pain, the next I blink forward and clutch Mathilda’s hand. We plunge straight to the bubbling cauldron. Right before we submerge in whatever contents the potion contained, we burst into smoke and reappear moments later in the summoning circle on the marble floor before the Conclave of Wizards, the girl clutched in my arms. Gentle hands relieve me of my burden, and I pass out. One last thought intrudes upon my mind. The Wrens will have my head for this.