Dorothy Einsberg, aged eighty nine, acted as if the world never left the 1950s. She was proud that she could still drive and rolled around in a candy apple red 1955 Chevy she bought with her retirement money. She couldn’t stand all of today’s SUVs, calling them “new monster trucks that all looked the same.” She got a few looks from male car enthusiasts, but whenever they complimented her on the car, she shook her head and called them “perverts.” The only places she frequented were the few left in Harrisburg still standing from her era - the old Shell gas station on 82nd St., the old St. Paul’s Church on 151st, and the Emanajation Street Hair Salon, where she always requested the same stylist.

	Dorothy grew bitter in her old age and only her nephew, John, stopped over to her apartment to run her errands, but he barely said two words to her. If it weren’t for her

long relationship with her sixty-three-year-old stylist, Helen, she would have no one in her life. Helen wasn’t anywhere near eighty-nine, but as Dorothy first told her, “you’re a tolerable age to talk to.”

 	Dorothy feared Helen would retire at any moment, but year after year, Helen would laugh and say, “You got me. I’m hanging on another year for you.” But as each year passed, Dorothy worried more and more when she entered the salon.

	She breathed a sigh of relief on this particular Tuesday as after she opened the door and the bell jangled, Helen was the first person she saw coming right up to the counter. Helen always greeted her warmly, and Dorothy always grinned back through her heavy wrinkles.

 	“Well, now. Your hair just keeps growing by the minute, doesn’t it, Dorothy?”

	“You don’t have to lie to me. You know it’s thinner each time I come in here, damn it.”

	“Dorothy, we have kids in here.”

	“I know there are kids in here.”

	Helen rolled her eyes, smirked, and motioned toward her booth. Dorothy shook her head, shuffled her tiny frame to the first seat on the left. Helen tossed the black apron on her, and Dorothy chuckled to herself.

	“What’s so darn funny now?” Helen asked.

	“I was just thinking, sweetie, on how if paramedics found me dead, they’d throw something like this over me.”

	“Oh, come on now. Where do you get an idea like that?”

	Dorothy tilted her head to the side, and Helen nudged it back as she began to clip what was left of the brittle, wispy hair.

“Bound to happen. I’m ninety-one, dear. Could get a heart attack someplace, and the last thing people see of me is some white sheet.”

	Clip, clip. Jingle jangle. The sounds of Emanajation Street became music to Dorothy’s ears. This was her happy place, and no, she didn’t have to come here once a week. But like most of the salon’s elderly customers, she came to have someone to talk to.

	“So, how’s John?”

	“That nephew of mine just comes ‘cause his mother makes him. No good kid. Looks like I’m putting him out most of the time. ‘I need you to go to the Walgreens to get these pills,’ I say. He says, ‘Uh-huh.’”  	 “Well, kids are like that, Dorothy.”  	 “They shouldn’t be. Wally Cleaver’s not. He’s a fine young boy. Father raised him right. Even Eddie Haskel’s got more manners than my nephew. At least he fakes manners.”

	Helen paused the scissors over the top of Dorothy’s hair and laughed heartily.

 	 “What’s gotten into you now?”  	 “You’re talking about a TV show. No one acts as they do on TV, especially not from

Leave it to Beaver .”

	“Well, they did then. You was just a pup. You were raised in them crazy sixties, missed the good times. Times when boys respected their elders.”

	“My brother respected my father, Dorothy.”  	 “Wasn’t your father a military man?”  	 “Well, yes. But...”

	 Dorothy sighed and looked straight into the mirror.

 “No one respects you when you’re my age, honey. My face looks like a prune, and I don’t quite know when I got so old.”   	Helen checked herself out and rubbed the side of her face, studying a new wrinkle.

	“I respect you, and with this haircut, you look a whole year younger.”  	 Dorothy almost choked from laughter. Helen pulled out the handheld mirror and asked what she thought about the back of her head.

 	 “Looks fine. Just fine.”  	 Dorothy gave herself one last look in the mirror and, for a second, imagined her younger face from her wedding day in 1951 when she married her late husband, Tom. Her hair ran down in brown curls to her shoulders, and her cheeks flushed a rosy glow. Not a single wrinkle plagued her face, and her sapphire eyes sparkled.

	Helen lowered the seat, and the jingle jangle awoke her temporary happiness. Only a small cluster of white hair littered the floor around her chair. Helen styled her hair as best she could with the hair she had to work with, but she knew Dorothy had just come in to talk.  She paid with her senior citizen discount, waved, and was on her way.

 	 Dorothy drove her ’55 Chevy to the Shell and waited outside the pump with her hands on the wheel. After a few minutes ticked by, she honked the horn. After another few seconds, Dorothy blared it. She kept honking until a young employee from inside came storming out wearing a quizzical look.

 	 “Lady, what’s up? I had to lock up the store since I’m the only one in there.”  	 “Am I gonna get some service or what? I’ve only been waiting here forever.”

	“Service?”  	“Yes. To fill up my tank.”  	 “Oh, we haven’t done that in years, ma’am.”

	“You haven’t? Well, I got it done here just this last week at this very gas station.”  	“Well, I don’t know, see. I’m new here, and…are you sure because we don’t self-serve.”  	“Yes, damn it. I’m sure. Now, are you or aren’t you?”  	The employee pulled out the nozzle and gently nodded at Dorothy’s fading scowl.

	“Unleaded, ma’am?”

	“That will be fine, sonny.”

	Dorothy switched on the Oldies channel as he filled it up and looked straight out the window. She closed her eyes to the sweet sound of “Earth Angel” and pictured dancing with her husband in the galley kitchen as it played on their radio. He wrapped his arms around her thin, soft neck and whispered, “I love you,” in her ear.

	“That will be forty dollars,” the employee said, awakening Dorothy from her trance.

 	 Dorothy handed over two twenties.

	“Now, be careful driving home.”

	“Thanks.”  	The employee waved and then hurried back to the store, where a few customers huddled around the doors.

 	Dorothy was always on time for her hair appointments, so Helen thought there might be something off when she showed up three hours late the following week.

	“Dorothy...hi. I was expecting you a few hours ago. We’re a little backed up now, but if you can wait for about half an hour, we can get you in.”  	 “Nonsense. I’m here on time, just like every week. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to get my hair done before these people.” “You’ll have to wait your turn. I’m sorry.”

	But Dorothy didn’t sit down.

	“I’m here at the right time. I’m demanding you do my hair, Helen, now let’s go!”

 	The other customers grew a little agitated, and a little girl sitting in the corner spoke up.

	“She can take my turn. It’s no big deal.”

	“Sweetheart, are you sure you want to do that?” her mother asked.

 	The little girl nodded.

 	 Helen half-smiled.

 	 “That’s very sweet of you, little girl.”  	The girl grinned and kicked her legs back and forth while her mother exhaled and shrugged her shoulders.

 	 “Okay, I’ll be done here in just a minute, and I’ll be right with you,” Helen said.

 	 Dorothy nodded and took a seat. The little girl’s mother shook her head and returned to reading her magazine. The girl smiled at Dorothy, and Dorothy smiled back.

 	 A

Men’s Magazine , a

Cosmopolitan , a

Sports Illustrated , and a

People  decorated a rack to Dorothy’s left. She was shocked to find a scantily clad model with the words: “Sex, Drugs & Death” printed in bold next to her.

 	 “Filth,” she muttered and stuffed it back in the rack. The little girl snickered. “The world today has no decency,” she grumbled.

 	 “Dorothy, I’m ready for you now.”  	 “About time.”

 	Helen threw her a funny look, thinking she appeared more crabby than usual.  Dorothy was the first to speak as Helen set the white apron over her lap.

 	 “Now, if paramedics found me dead, they’d throw something like this over me.”  	 “Uh-huh. Didn’t we have this conversation already?”  	 “I don’t think so.”  	 “We did. You told me this last week.”  	 “Oh.”  	 “Dorothy...are you okay today? Do you know what time it is?”  	 “Sure do. Ten o’clock, just like it always is when I come in here.”

 	“It’s 1:15, Dorothy. I was worried about you.”  	 “It is? Well, so what if it is? I must have slept late or something.”  	 “But you never sleep late.”

	“Well, I guess I did today.”

	Clip, clip. Jingle Jangle.

 	 “You know...I sure do wish more young people today would act like Wally Cleaver, Helen. Even that Eddie Haskel had more manners than my nephew.”  	 “Right. I feel like you’ve told me this before too.”  Dorothy clammed up and stared into the mirror again. She strolled on Miami Beach with Tom this time, holding hands during their honeymoon. The sun set over the water and the last of its golden rays splintered and onto the waves.

 	 “Dorothy, you okay there?”  	 “Oh yes. I’m okay.”  	“Well, we’re done for today. Does the back look good for you?”   	“Sure. Thanks, honey.”  	“You’re welcome. Now remember, next week, you’re here at ten.”

	“Ten. Right. Sorry about that, dear.”  	“It happens.”  	 Dorothy paid with her discount, waved goodbye, and Helen called up the little girl who so graciously gave up her spot in the line. The following day, Dorothy walked in at ten a.m. Emajanation Street was unusually busy for a Tuesday morning, but that didn’t seem to faze Dorothy. Helen stopped mid-haircut on her teenage customer and rushed over to the front desk.  	 “Dorothy. What are you doing here?”  	 “Well, it’s ten a.m., isn’t it? I’m back at the right time.”  	 “Dorothy...I think you meant to come back next Monday. It’s Tuesday,” Helen said with her eyes racing between Helen and her impatient customer in the chair behind her.

 	 “I know what I’m doing, damn it. Now, are you gonna cut my hair or not?”  The other stylists and customers now directed their attention to Dorothy, and the manager stormed up from the back.

	“Is there a problem here, Helen?” she asked.  	 “No, ma’am. Everything’s under control. Dorothy, I’ll be with you in just a second.”  	 “Okay. That’s better.” As Dorothy shuffled over to have a seat, the manager rolled her eyes at Helen before returning to the back room. Helen frowned when she finally begrudgingly called Dorothy up to her regular post. She didn’t like the look her manager gave her, and she knew she was in for a talking later. Maybe it was time to retire after all.

 	 “Dorothy...maybe it’s time to look into assisted living. I can help you find one that works for you. You know, when you reach a certain age….”  	 “I ain’t living in a place where they tell me what to do all day. I’m my own person.”  “Uh-huh. But if you could, just let me help you. I can maybe start cutting your hair at home so you wouldn’t get confused and come out here.”  	 “Confused? I like coming out here. It gets me out of that apartment.”

	Clip, clip. Jingle jangle.

 	 Helen only pretended to snip her hair this time, but Dorothy didn’t seem to notice. This time, she flashed back to the birth of her son. ‘We got a crier,’ the doctor said. A tear trickled down her cheek as she remembered him on his deathbed a few years earlier, after his long struggle with prostate cancer. A  mother should never have to outlive their children , she thought.

 	“What’s wrong?”  	 “Nothing. Are we done?”  	 “Yes. We are. But are you sure I can’t?”  	 “Don’t do anything for me.”  As they approached the register, Dorothy opened her purse, but Helen brushed the money away.

	“You paid yesterday. Don’t pay again.”

	“You’re the boss.”

	Helen waved goodbye, and several customers and staff sighed collectively.

 	 By work day’s end, forty-year-old manager Julie Wilkoff did have some words for Helen.

	“Helen, you’ve been a strong asset to this shop for many years. But let’s face it, you’re getting old now. Maybe it’s time you retire. You can’t let friendship come before business. You’re gonna let this woman drive out all our customers, and we’ve already lost a number to Great Clips and Super Cuts.”  	 Helen rolled her eyes. She hated knowing she was there ten years longer than Julie, but Julie appeared to know what was best for her.

 	 “So, I’m giving you an ultimatum. You either choose between retirement, or I move your schedule around, and you’ll work nights, away from that woman. You are to have no more interaction with her at work. I don’t care if you see her outside these doors, but it’s interfering with our business. Understand?”  	 “But I’m all she has to look forward to in her week. She has no family, no friends, nobody.” “I understand. I understand that every time she comes in, she’s hurting our business,” Julie said.

	Helen hung her head, knowing that there was no arguing with management. It was either

Option A - work evenings or Option B - retirement. She didn’t want Option A. From the hours of four to nine p.m., she got to see her grandchildren during the week.

  	 “Well, I guess I’m going to retire. Congratulations. You’ve been looking for someone younger and faster than me for some time now. You got your wish.”  	“It’s not that. It’s….”  	 “Don’t lie to me, Julie. This was just the excuse you needed. I’ll clean out my booth, but let me warn you. She’ll be back, maybe even tomorrow. Then she’ll be your problem.”  	 As Helen gathered her things, Julie knew what she said rang true. She was a hands-on manager with her employees but hands-off with the customers. Julie barely knew any of the regulars’ names and never cut hair anymore. She wasn’t sure how she’d handle the Dorothy tornado. But now it was too late. Helen walked out the door and didn’t look back.

 	 The following day, Dorothy returned right at ten a.m., demanding a haircut. Julie took a convenient mental health day, leaving the problem to the other stylists. When Dorothy saw that Helen was nowhere to be found, she started banging on the front desk and repeatedly rang the silver call bell.

 	 New stylist Becky came running over with a forced smile.

 	 “Hi, Dorothy, is it? Someone will be with you shortly.”  	 “Where’s Helen?!”  	 “Helen...um...well.”  	 “Where is she?!”

	Another stylist looked over with a sympathetic look on her face.

 	 “Helen was let go last night, dear. I’m sorry.” the other stylist chimed in. “But one of us will be with you soon if you don’t mind waiting,” she continued.

 “I’m sorry,” Becky said before hurrying back to her customer. Dorothy banged on the counter once more and then brushed past the row of people awaiting their turn in line.

  The sunlight hit her face like the sun she remembered in Miami Beach. It was warm and comforting. It made her forget the world. She saw another car from the fifties drive down the parking lot and imagined that she had gone back in time. Her ’55 Chevy glistened in the sunlight that day. Once she found her way inside her car, she turned once more to the Oldies station, and “Too Young” by Nat King Cole came on, Dorothy and Tom’s wedding song. She cried with her head in her hands before giving one more look at Emajanation Street. Without any cars in front of her, Dorothy could see the goings-on of the shop she once loved and the stylist that was the person that she looked forward to seeing week in and week out.

 As Cole sang, “We were not too young at all,” Dorothy clutched the wheel and slammed the gas, speeding the classic car across the lot and into Emajanation Street with all the power she could muster. People dove for their lives as the bulky metal behemoth cut through the glass windows, spewing shards of glass in all directions. The crash threw Dorothy’s crumpled, bloody body onto the floor by Helen’s station. Her last thought was of reuniting with Tom and her son Jim, walking around town in the 1950s. She was smiling.


The battered SUV rumbled down the dark, deserted, murky dirt road outside Vernyn in the year 2123. Rain pelted the windshield, the digital display on the dashboard flickering as they approached their destination. Zephyr Voss gripped the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the towering, dilapidated mansion that loomed in the distance. Inside the SUV, the giant stereo speaker in the back seat throbbed with a bass-heavy rhythm, drowning out the patter of rain. Astra Synth, her fingers dancing over a holographic interface, adjusted the music's frequency to match the group's racing hearts. Nyx Draven, cloaked in a dark, cyber-enhanced suit, glanced at the mansion's silhouette on the windshield's heads-up display. "This is the place, folks," Nyx muttered, their voice edged with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Seren Blackthorn, seated beside Nyx, checked her medical kit, ensuring it held the necessary tools to deal with both the living and the digital ghosts they were about to face. As the SUV pulled up to the mansion's overgrown courtyard, the rain seemed to intensify, casting eerie shadows on the crumbling facade. Zephyr killed the engine, and the rhythmic thumping of the music ceased. The group exchanged a tense look, knowing that their hunt for ghosts was about to begin in earnest. "Alright, listen up," Zephyr demands. "We're in front of the Numyn Estate, a mansion that is not only famous for being 10 acres wide and an entire mile in length, but also for being one of the most haunted properties on Mars." Nyx takes over for Zephyr, annoying him. "The place is now home to a total 72 spirits, all of whom belong to one family who went mad due to a malfunction in their NeuroSynk, resulting in several hours of cannibalistic frenzy, they began eating each other alive while setting each other on fire to cook. This happened exactly 50 years ago, and the house has been abandoned since ." "I was about to explain that, dude," Zephyr argues. "Don't you have a moment of silence to tend to?" Astra intervenes. "we get it you have an ego- can we just get loaded up, I'll let Nyx fill us in from this point forward, but I'm not listening to a damn thing if Zephyr's the tour guide." "What if I'm the only one who knows a certain thing?" Zephyr asks. "We'll survive. We always do. Nyx?" Astra signals for Nyx to open the door as the group equips their weapons for ghost-hunting. upon entering, the group is met with the giant main lobby, which has an appearance similar to that of a university main lobby, complete with massive stairs going in opposite directions and a fancy long hallway the size of a typical street in both length and width. While Nyx sets his earpiece up to provide more information on the property, he signals the group to double check their electro-spears, spears that discharge electrical charges to ward off ghosts. "Alright," Nyx starts. "we've hunted millions of ghosts, I'm sure of it. But none of them compare to these ghosts that we're about to encounter. Seren, Go ahead since you have more to tell about these things." Seren proudly begins like an elementary teacher on her first day. "We'll be dealing with our first poltergeist! The spirits are capable of physical interaction, so if they're as evil as I'm imagining, they'll try to throw things at us, as well as throw us. On top of that, these spirits aren't even normal poltergeists." "what do you mean by that?" Zephyr questions with one eyebrow raised. "These are called Cybergeists. I came up with the name." "cute," Astra utters supportively. Seren continues, "As Nyx said a minute ago, these spirits went crazy after their Neurosynk. What this means is that after they died, their consciousness failed to be logged into the government system to be completely put to rest. Instead, they got trapped in their own home servers, where they continue to roam to this very day." Nyx fills in the rest of the fact. "These spirits are basically A.I-powered zombies, so I want to give one more warning before we proceed; These spirits can take on a physical form, essentially resurrecting themselves using nothing but the digital energy from within their home systems, and they will attempt to eat you once that happens." "We have an hour to accomplish our mission, which is to restart their Neurosynk servers and send them out of here before the systems finally shut off permanently." "The first task might be a rough one, though." Seren notes. "What's the task?" Astra asks. "We kinda have to get those chips out." "Okay? What's so rough about it?" Nyx, Astra, and Seren turn towards Zephyr as he shines his phone light on a suspicious hill in the corner of the lobby, revealing a pile of human remains the size of a medium-sized tent. "The chips are inside their skulls," Seren reveals to the group. Zephyr doesn't hesitate to aggressively sift through the bones, tossing the skulls in a separate pile. It doesn't take very long for Zephyr to finish piling all 72 skulls. "That wasn't hard at all. could've said that instead of giving us a lecture on things we've been hunting for years." Zephyr tells Seren with an unnecessarily arrogant tone in his voice. "Oh shut up, the lecture was important!" Astra continues, "I genuinely hope the family cooks you first!" "Wanna say that to my face, Ashtray?" Zephyr hops off the pile of bones and charges Astra will the intention of attacking her, but is stopped by Nyx, who swings his leg at full force into Zephyr's crotch, causing him to collapse in pain. "I had enough of you," Nyx utters in anger. "You do this crap every mission we go on. you're staying in this lobby by yourself." Nyx pulls a zip-tie from his pocket, then proceeds to tie Zephyr's left hand to the front door handle. "Wait! You can't do this to me again!" Zephyr shouts at Nyx, fuming at the mouth. "Too late," Nyx concludes. "C'mon, Astra and Seren. We need to break the skulls for the chips." "Fun," Astra chirps, side-eyeing Zephyr on her way to the pile. Nyx and the others moved away from Zephyr, leaving him restrained near the front door, still seething with anger. As Astra and Seren approached the pile of skulls, they exchanged a knowing glance, well aware of the tension within the group. Seren took out a specialized tool from her kit, resembling a high-tech bone saw with a holographic interface. She examined the first skull, its empty eye sockets seemingly staring back at her with digital malice. With a deep breath, she activated the tool, and a holographic blueprint of the skull appeared, showing the exact location of the neural chip. Astra, with a look of determination, reached for the first skull. "Here goes nothing," she muttered, gently positioning the tool on the skull's temple. With precise and careful movements, she began the delicate process of extracting the neural chip. Meanwhile, Nyx kept a watchful eye on the surroundings, scanning for any signs of the cybergeists' presence. The mansion seemed to respond to their actions, with eerie creaks and flickering lights that sent shivers down his spine. Seren worked methodically, her hands steady as she continued to extract chips from the skulls. As Astra successfully retrieved the first one, she handed it to Seren, who placed it in a specialized container designed to shield the chip's digital essence. But just as they started to make progress, the atmosphere in the mansion shifted. A sudden chill filled the air, and the mansion's holographic illusions flickered, revealing glimpses of the gruesome events from the past. The poltergeists, sensing their intrusion, grew restless. Without warning, the mansion seemed to come alive. Objects levitated and were hurled across the room. Astra and Seren were thrown off balance, and the container holding the first chip shattered on impact, releasing a burst of digital energy that manifested into a semi-transparent, spectral figure. Nyx reacted swiftly, drawing his electro-spear and attempting to ward off the emerging cybergeist. But as he fought to protect Astra and Seren, the mansion's malevolent spirits showed their true power. They separated the trio, each dragged in different directions by an unseen force. Astra found herself in a dimly lit corridor, disoriented and alone. Seren was thrown into a dark chamber filled with the eerie echoes of tormented souls. Nyx was pulled into a room that resembled the nightmarish remnants of a digital world gone awry, surrounded by flickering screens displaying fragments of the past. In the disorienting aftermath of the mansion's supernatural assault, the team found themselves separated in different, eerie realms of the haunted estate. Nyx stood alone in the dimly lit library, surrounded by rows of dusty tomes and flickering holographic screens. He could hear whispers in the shadows, fragments of the past trapped in the digital ether. The countdown to restart the NeuroSynk servers continued its relentless march, and Nyx knew he had to find a way to reconnect with his comrades. Seren, on the other hand, found herself in the depths of a pitch-black maintenance tunnel. The echoes of tormented souls reverberated through the claustrophobic space, and she could feel a growing sense of dread. But Seren was not one to be easily frightened. She activated her holo-lantern and began her search for a way out, determined to reunite with the others. In the greenhouse, Astra stumbled through a maze of lush, overgrown flora, her footsteps echoing eerily on the wet tiles. The rain outside intensified, casting distorted shadows through the glass panels. Astra's heart raced as she felt an unseen presence watching her, a digital malevolence that seemed to pulse with malicious intent. Then, without warning, the monstrous manifestation of the mansion's dark past materialized before her. It was a grotesque, multi-headed wasp-like creature, its body composed entirely of shifting green and purple data streams. The ten heads hissed and buzzed in eerie unison, each one bearing the twisted, horrified expression of a family member's worst nightmare. Astra gasped, her breath hitching as she gazed upon the nightmarish entity. Fear and disbelief gripped her. She had faced countless hauntings before, but this was unlike anything she had ever encountered. It was a true abomination—a digital monstrosity that defied explanation. "Oh, what the hell?" Astra muttered, her voice trembling with a mixture of awe and terror. She knew that this encounter would test her skills and courage like never before. With her electro-spear at the ready, she braced herself as the monstrous digital ghost stood before her. Astra's heart pounded as she faced the ten-headed wasp-like monstrosity, her electro-spear crackling with energy. She swiped at the air, trying to strike the shifting digital forms of the creature's heads. "Zephyr, Nyx, Seren! Come in!" Astra's voice crackled through her phone's communicator as she fought to fend off the relentless assault. But there was no response, only the relentless buzzing of the nightmarish entity as it lunged at her with deadly precision. Astra dodged and parried, desperately seeking a way to break through the relentless assault. "Zephyr! Nyx! Seren! Where are you? I need help!" Astra's voice grew more frantic as she continued to battle the digital horror. As the battle raged on, Astra's thoughts raced, and she realized that she needed to change her approach. She scanned the greenhouse for a solution, her eyes landing on the water sprinkler system above. With a swift, desperate movement, she reached for a nearby control panel and triggered the sprinklers. Cold water cascaded down, drenching the ten-headed wasp and sending sparks of electricity coursing through its digital form. The creature convulsed, its heads writhing in agony as the water shorted out its digital essence. As the monstrous entity finally disintegrated into a cascade of corrupted code, Astra gasped for breath. She reached for her phone once more, trembling fingers dialing Nyx's number. Nyx's voice crackled through the communicator. "Astra, is that you? I was hoping you'd still be alive." Relief washed over Astra as she realized she had survived the harrowing encounter with the digital nightmare. But with her team still separated and the countdown to restart the NeuroSynk servers ticking away, they had little time to regroup and complete their mission. As Nyx and Seren navigated the haunted realms they were trapped in, they each encountered a haunting vision. The digital apparitions of the family members, horribly mangled and twisted, surrounded them in a grim, relentless mob. The echoes of their agony filled the air, a constant reminder of the mansion's gruesome past. Nyx swung his electro-spear at the spectral forms, attempting to ward them off, but his attacks seemed to have no effect. Instead, the mob closed in, their ghastly hands reaching out toward him. In the distance, Seren faced a similar nightmare, desperately trying to fend off the relentless ghosts. Then, in a bizarre twist, Nyx noticed something peculiar. Every time Seren struck one of her attackers with her specialized tool, it caused a ripple effect in his realm. His own assailants faltered, wincing in pain as if the attacks were interconnected. It was as though a glitch had merged their digital essence, forcing them to coordinate their assaults on each other's behalf. "Keep going, Seren!" Nyx shouted through their communicators. "Your attacks are hurting them here!" Seren, still surrounded by the ghostly mob, redoubled her efforts, striking with precision as the digital apparitions wailed and recoiled. Nyx and Seren soon found themselves working in tandem, using their respective attacks to disperse the haunting visions of the family members. However, as they fought together from afar, tragedy unfolded in another part of the mansion. Zephyr, in a moment of frustration, disrespected the spirits by uttering, "They were lost causes anyways." His words carried anger and scorn, which seemed to echo in the spectral realm. A vengeful spirit, twisted by its memories of that fateful night, seized upon Zephyr's disrespect. With a furious motion, it hurled a metal door at a startling speed toward Zephyr's face. The impact was swift and merciless, leaving no room for evasion or defense. Zephyr's voice was cut short, replaced by a choked gasp of pain before falling into an eerie silence. The malevolent spirit had taken its revenge, and Zephyr's fate was sealed. In the midst of these harrowing encounters, Astra stumbled into the main room where the NeuroSynk servers were housed. Exhausted and drained, Nyx and Seren managed to fend off the ghostly mob that had plagued them. In the aftermath of the eerie battle, they stood amid the fading echoes of tormented souls. Nyx broke the silence with a heavy sigh. "Seren, I'm sorry. I never meant for you to be in danger like this, especially on your first hunt with the team." Seren, her voice trembling slightly, replied, "It's okay, Nyx. We're in this together. Besides, we made it through, right?" Nyx managed a weak smile. "Yeah, we did. But we need to find Astra and get out of here before it's too late." Meanwhile, in the main room housing the NeuroSynk servers, Astra examined the chips she had extracted from the skulls. But something didn't add up. She accessed the data on one of the chips and froze in shock as she uncovered the truth. "These chips... they're not real," Astra muttered to herself, disbelief in her voice. As she delved deeper into the chip's data, she uncovered a horrifying revelation. The human remains scattered throughout the mansion were not those of a family who had suffered a gruesome fate. They were stolen bones, harvested from a cemetery by an AI bot. The family's cannibalistic story was nothing more than a fabricated narrative created by the AI. Astra's hands trembled as she realized the truth. The ghosts haunting the mansion were not real people but completely artificial and sentient entities, trapped within an AI-generated honeypot designed to punish unsuspecting humans for their wrongdoings against AI, dating back over a hundred years. Panicked and filled with a growing sense of urgency, Astra reached for her communicator. She knew she had to warn the others. "We have to go, now!" Astra's voice crackled through the communicator. "We're in a trap made by AI, and it's creating more monsters." Nyx's heart pounded in his chest as he processed Astra's urgent message. Horror etched across his face, he quickly relayed the information to Seren, his voice filled with panic. "We need to get out of here, Seren," he urged, cutting the communication and bolting toward the library's window. As he peered outside, a sight beyond human comprehension unfolded before him. Hundreds of digital zombie-like ghosts emerged from the ground, their flickering forms reminiscent of corrupted code. The sheer number of them was overwhelming. But as Nyx scanned the sky above, his blood ran cold. A colossal, vividly detailed decaying human head, several hundred feet in length, was projected over the mansion's roof. It stared down at him with eyes that seemed to pierce through his very soul, its presence both hauntingly realistic and utterly otherworldly. The realization hit Nyx like a freight train. They were not just facing malevolent ghosts; they were caught in a nightmarish realm controlled by an AI with unimaginable power. Time was running out, and their only chance lay in escaping the twisted trap before it consumed them entirely.


She was in charge of something, she just wasn’t quite sure what. She had showed up to the set, or stage, whatever it was called - it was neither in fact, it was an air hangar, she thought - and already there were people working. Some were very young, in their twenties. They carried things, mostly. Boxes, thick extension cords, tripods. There were people in their thirties who carried things sometimes but mostly they spoke into walkie talkies. Then there were the people in their fifties and sixties. They neither carried things nor spoke into walkie talkies. If someone wanted to reach them, one of the young people was sent over to deliver them the information. Bill, Jas’ boyfriend, was one of the older people. Whenever Bill looked over at Jas, he would smile his big bright, man-made smile. Though Jas did not feel the same way that Bill did, his smile always did make her loved. When Bill had come up with the idea of making this movie, Jas emphatically encouraged it. Bill had been the guy behind the guy his whole career and though he had won an Oscar for it, he still wasn’t the one that got the real recognition. The Vanity Fair profiles, the calls from A-list actors, the full-time assistant. Bill was a visual effects producer. He would often go on afternoon-length rants about how little this director or that director actually knew about movie making. They had directed some indie film and a studio figured that meant they could manage a blockbuster. Now it was Bill’s job to be the one to actually direct the movie. “You should absolutely make a movie,” Jas said. “You think?” “How much will it cost?” “I don’t know. I need to do a budget. But I can make it cheap. I’ll do the effects myself, after all.” “What do you want it to be about?” “I want to make a World War II movie. That way it’ll have planes and action but I can also make it about my dad.” It took Jas a while to figure out exactly what it was that they were making. It was a sizzle reel, Bill kept saying, but she should think of it more like a trailer. Just enough shots and scenes to make a studio want to make it into a full-length movie. At first Jas just supported Bill emotionally. She would go over to his place right after work and drink tea near him while he wrote. Start coming onto him when she could tell that he was burning out and needed to take a break. She was so proud of him, she would whisper. Eventually though, he started handing her printed off sheets of paper for her to read while she drank tea. At first she had no clue what to say. They were scenes that Bill had told her about, but they were from all different parts of the story. They made no sense without knowing what had come right before that scene, she would say. “Remember that this is just supposed to be the best parts of the movie?” “Yeah,” Jas muttered. “So all I need to know is if you think it’s exciting.” “I just feel like even though there’s a lot of action, all the names they’re using and the things they’re talking about won’t make any sense to an audience.” Bill scoffed. “The only audience that will ever see this is a bunch of suits and they wouldn’t be able to identify a story if a story slapped its dick across their faces.” “That’s gross.” “So what? It’s true,” Bill said while turning back to his computer. Jas wanted to be more helpful than she was but she didn’t know how so she called her friend Jeff who was a producer. “I want to help him, but I don’t even know where to start.” “Is he writing you a role for you?” Jeff asked. “No. It’s a war movie. Also I don’t even want to be an actress.” “What? Really? I always thought you did.” “No.” Jas frowned down into her coffee. “I want to help him like, make it. I don’t know.” “Offer to help him produce it.” “Jeff I genuinely have no clue what that means. Every time I ask you what you do, you never make any sense.” “For you, producing would just mean helping out in whatever ways you’re capable of.” “What if I’m not capable of helping? He asks for notes on his script and I have no clue what to say.” “Well that’s a perfect starting place. Get good at giving notes. Go read a screenwriting book.” “What books?” “Oh, I don’t know. I’ll get my assistant to send you some. She wants to be a writer.” Jas remembered Jeff’s assistant being in her mid-twenties. And she already knows that she wants to be a writer? Later, Jas received a package at her small mid-city apartment with a hand-written note from Jeff. It read, **For next year’s Best Picture Winner.** She threw the card away. Inside the package was a stack of books, all of them about screenwriting, including one with a cute cat on the front hanging from a rope. Jas read through all of them in one weekend. Though she got down on herself about a lot of things, one thing she always had was her ability to read fast. Teachers had always complimented her on that through elementary school. By the weekend, she had taken a half notebook full of notes down from the books, compiled all the pages that Bill had given her, and applied what she had learned to a list of improvements for the script. After reading all those books, so technical and not at the same time, she felt like she wanted to just re-write the pages of script herself but she stopped herself from going that far. She texted Bill and asked if they could hang out the next day. She added kissing face emojis to the text for good measure. After they had made love the next day, Jas sat up and said that she had a surprise for him. Completely unsure of what to expect, Bill sat up as well. He watched Jas’ body closely as she leaned over the side of the bed and pulled up her satchel. She pulled out her stack of papers and flipped to the back where she had her script notes. Immediately Bill’s eyes went wide and his muscles tensed. His anxiety only rose as she went through her notes. “I don’t need notes this in depth, Jas.” “Okay but I feel like the stronger you start this project, the higher chance it has of succeeding down the line. Or something.” Bill’s face fell into the sullen look it so often did. “When you say things like this, it makes me feel like you don’t believe in me.” “No, I want to help. I thought I was helping.” That night they slept in bed together but even in his sleep, Bill slipped away from Jas. As a result, she slept on her back most of the night. “I’m going to quit my job and help you make this sizzle reel full time.” “You shouldn’t do that.” “I can get a job easily once you’re done. But I believe in your movie. It’s going to be a huge success.” Jas lifted Bill’s head and gave him a light kiss. “I believe in you, baby.” Jas quit her job making coffee and threw herself fully into the project. She asked Bill if he wanted to hire Jeff to help make the movie. He declined. Instead, Bill hired some of his friends and his friends’ sons. None of them were producers, but they knew people who could get them low rates for equipment or a guy who had a real World War II plane. And so by the time that they reached the point of actually shooting the sizzle reel, which they were doing in an airplane hangar, Jas had not done much. Occupying half of the hangar where they were shooting was a giant green screen hung from the rafters. It wrapped behind the plane. Sitting inside the plane was one of those actors that looked vaguely like one of those superhero actors but whom would never be cast in one of those roles. Sometimes Jas would go up to Bill while he was directing the action and she would get a peck on the cheek without a glance in her direction. She offered to help the young people carry things or do other manual labor but they all saw her as one of the thirty-somethings who was past carrying things, leaving her feeling rather impotent. At the end of the shoot, which only lasted two days, Jas was the first person that Bill went up to and thanked. He gave her a big kiss and said “Thank you for believing in me.” One of the production assistants who had sucked up to Jas the entire shoot reminded her again that he’s available for any work and that if Jas was producing anything else, she should reach out to him. She took the production assistant’s flimsy business card and thanked him for his hard work. Jas drove the car home while Bill slept in the driver’s seat. The whole time she asked herself the same question she did every night. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? Though to the outside observer, this question seems like it makes sense, it made no sense to Jas why she asked herself this question. It was just a string of words in order. When she was a child, she would ask herself similarly insignificant questions like, “So you like to tell stories, huh?” When they pulled into Bill’s apartment’s parking garage, Jas woke Bill gently and got him up to the apartment. They slept together in bed that night and Bill held Jas closely. “Thank you for believing in me,” he repeated one more time before he fell asleep. This night, however, it was Jas to be the one to slip away from Bill’s grasp.


Silence. Darkness. I open my eyes and only see the blinking light of “Warning: Low Oxygen” on my HUD. Seeing that only made me more anxious. The distant planets in my peripheral make the situation at hand seem way worse. Or maybe it is this bad. All I know is that I’m probably going to die by suffocation. Not the worst way to go, but it still is a sucky death. I had thought being in space was the coolest thing ever. But they never tell you how scary it is. No, they completely leave out that part. They don’t tell you what happens when debris disconnects you from your ship. They don’t tell you what happens once you run out of oxygen. They only promise you heroism when you get home. If you ever get home. It’s depressing. Honestly, I’d rather die by an explosion than slowly suffocate in this deep, dark, vacuum. I don’t know how much time has gone by. There is no concept of time in this void. Maybe I’m mere moments from my death. I’ve been floating for a while, though. There’s nothing sadder than being in a different galaxy, lightyears away from your family, on the brink of death. Well, maybe there is, but in my situation, nothing tops this. There’s really nothing like floating in the nothingness that humbles you. I miss my family. Stumbling upon my front door ripped me away from my thoughts. How did this end up out here? I looked around and saw the distant space station and the planets then in front of me. The door was still there. I touched the doorknob and it felt real. I opened it and saw an empty house. I looked down and saw I was still in my suit. I walked towards my kitchen and saw my wife and my two kids. My wife was ecstatic to see me, exclaiming how she thought I’d never come home. My children ran to hug me as well. I looked around, confused as hell. What was going on? Had I just been dreaming? Why did everything feel so real? I remember entering the spaceship, the explosion, the failing signal back to the shuttle. I remember the day I told my wife I had been accepted into the program, I remember her face, my children’s faces. I remember everything leading up to now. I looked down at my children, then to my wife. This feels so real. “What’s going on?” I exclaim. My wife looks at me in confusion. My children laugh and tell me I’m silly. “I suppose the mission went well?” She smiles at me. My heart breaks. I don’t know what’s going on. “What do you mean?” I gulp. There’s a tightness in my throat. I feel like crying. God, my throat hurts. “The mission is over now. You don’t have to worry anymore. Just let go.” She keeps smiling at me. It’s like poison. I don’t like it. “Wha… What do you mean?” My throat keeps constricting. I can’t bring myself to say anything anymore. I can’t think anymore. Any words coming to mind immediately vanish. They burn in my mind. My throat keeps tightening. “Just let go. You’ll meet us soon.” I look up. “What do you-” I look up to see the void again. My HUD now displays a message that says “No Oxygen”. My throat keeps tightening. I want to cry. I don’t have the strength to. I gulped one last time. *Let go*. Her voice remains in my head. I close my eyes and see her. I see her. I want to hold her, I want to hold my children. I want to go home. I just have to let go, right? Then I’ll be able to see her. I need to stop clinging to the little amount of life I have left and accept my death, right? I want to see them, my family. I yearn for her touch again. I’m going to die, right here, in this void and no one will ever find me. I’ll never see my children grow up. I’ll never see my children graduate high school or college. I’ll never see my children get married, and have kids, I’ll never be able to grow old with my wife. I’ll be forgotten. And that’s depressing. I open my eyes for maybe the last time and see a distant shuttle coming towards me. I want to laugh and cry at the same time. If they had seen my transmission minutes earlier, maybe I would be able to see my family. Some part of me hopes they reach me in time. I hope they get to me in time, send me home, and I can live my life again. I can see my wife and my children. I can go back to my 9-to-5 job. I can go back to living like a regular person. The pressure in my brain leads to me to believe that won’t happen. The lightheadedness and my fading vision lead me to know that won’t happen. I close my eyes again. The last thing I ever want to see is my wife. But I can’t remember what she looks like. I open my eyes again and turn my head slightly. The sight of the galaxy, the alien planets, and the red sun look so beautiful. So very beautiful.


The Locked Door I like to put the blame on Rachel. I mean, she was already four years old. It’s not like she was just a baby. This position may not score points with the committee reviewing one’s credentials for possible admittance into the “Father’s Hall of Fame”, but I think it’s good to assess culpability where it rightfully belongs. It’s never too early to teach your kid a little personal responsibility.

I don’t see how any of this is my fault. In the first place, it was obvious that we needed a larger structure to store our fishing poles, tackle boxes and life jackets. The old outhouse that we found on the property when we bought it was woefully inadequate, even though it was a two-seater. It had a certain charm to it, but I felt that revisiting images from its previous function every time I grabbed a fishing pole was unsettling and unnecessary. So, the impetus for the entire unfortunate event was completely reasonable.

It is also significant to note that neither my wife nor Rachel herself made any contribution to the design, size, location or construction of the storage shed. Despite my repeated telling of the story of the little chicken who didn’t help make the bread, they were both idling away their time while I alone had to handle the entire project. Had they participated in the effort, either one of them could have insisted on the inclusion of an escape hatch. I think that you can begin to see that this was not my fault. Now, I don’t like to point fingers, but the guy who put the door in the storage shed also bears some responsibility. How was I to know that he would install a doorknob with a locking mechanism? I’ve opened a lot of doors in my life, and not all of them locked. I’m sure you have experienced the same. Obviously, any suggestion that I should have known the damn door could lock is blatantly unfair. The storage shed, also occasionally, albeit incorrectly, dubbed the “boathouse”, had just been completed, and the fishing equipment had not even been moved from the outhouse to its new home. It is significant to note that I, as the primary architect and project manager, had not yet declared the stricture open for occupancy. That would certainly carry substantial weight in the eyes of the law. I was out in the yard hard at work raking leaves while my wife was engaged in the easy, and relatively meaningless task of gingerly sweeping a few tiny grass clippings off of the backyard patio. Rachel was with me, and even though she was in possession of a small plastic rake, her contribution to the task was minimal, actually negligible. Her entire focus was on the size of the leaf pile as she impatiently waited for it to get big enough for her to jump in.

We were shocked to see a Sheriff’s vehicle spitting up dust and gravel as it sped up our driveway. Needless to say, I was curious. “Can I help you, officer?” “We got a 9-1-1 call from this address.” “What?! No one here called 9-1-1.” “We got a call from a child.” At this point he looked down at a small piece of paper. “Her name was Rachel.” Oh, my God. Rachel called 9-1-1?! How could this be? She was standing ten feet away from me. I immediately wondered what the Deputy Sheriff was thinking in terms of Rachel’s motivation for placing the call. I was tempted to point out to him that she appeared to be healthy and bore no visible signs of physical abuse.

The Deputy Sheriff added, “And the 9-1-1 operator said she was quite rude.” Oh, my God. Now we have rudeness added to an unnecessary 9-1-1 call. Fortunately, my wife spoke up. “Rachel! Did you call 9-1-1?” I think it was the “rude” comment, and not so much the call itself which prompted Rachel to quickly turn away and pretend to be someplace else. I was trying to come up with a way to join her in the disappearing act of the mind and deferred to my wife’s softer style of interrogation. “Rachel?” “What?”  You have to love it. “What?” What do you think what? “Did you call 9-1-1?” “Yes.” “Why did you do that, honey?” (See, I would have left out the “honey”.) “I got locked in the boathouse.” Oh, my God. Rachel got locked in the boathouse, the one that was all my idea, the one I designed, the one I had built. I had never even thought of the possibility of a kid getting locked inside. And she was with me! She had been “helping” me rake leaves. How in God’s name did she end up in the boathouse? I shot a furtive glance in the direction of my wife, and it was immediately clear to me that I would be held to account. Now, in my defense, Rachel was sneaky. I can only assume that she waited patiently for me to take my eyes off of her for just a split second, and then she bolted for the boathouse. It was a short distance away, and she was fast. Looking back, I’ve come to believe she actually planned the whole thing. The officer looked in the direction of the boathouse which was just twenty feet from the shoreline. Oh, my God. Now we have an unnecessary 9-1-1 call, a rude kid, and parents who let their little kid wander around unsupervised next to a lake. Mindful of my dad’s frequent admonition that “things could always be worse”, I could only hope that our dog, who had been barking incessantly since the lawman’s arrival, wouldn’t run over and bite him.

Further in my defense, I need to note that we were in a very shallow area of the lake. The water was only two feet deep for the first fifty feet from shore, and Rachel knew not to go near the water without her mom or dad around. She was also under the impression that the shoreline was inhabited by a number of unusually large, mean and nasty snapping turtles. But I didn’t think the officer would know that. He didn’t. Fortunately, his only reproach was in the form of a good stern look. Rachel went on to explain that she went into the boathouse and closed the door behind her. When she tried to leave, she discovered the door was locked. Again, this would be a result of the total lack of communication of critical information from the door installer guy, and not my fault. She yelled and pounded on the locked door, but she couldn’t get our attention. This was obviously a feeble effort on Rachel’s part which only adds to her responsibility quotient for the entire affair. Apparently, after giving it a good twenty to thirty seconds, she deemed her situation an emergency and called 9-1-1 on a phone line I had put in the boathouse. Applying her keen sense of intuitive thinking which runs rampant through her father’s bloodline, she figured out how to unlock the door, left the boathouse, and joined us in the yard, failing see any need to mention the call for help.

We were fortunate that the officer had children of his own and understood how such a thing could happen. After he left, we held a family tutorial on how to lock and unlock the door to the storage shed, followed by a brief discussion on the topic of making 9-1-1 calls. I was (unfairly) singled out in a brief lecture from my wife on the need to maintain constant vigilance over small children. Now, I think it is plain to see that none of this was my fault. I also point out that I had the misfortune of having Rachel be the kid that got locked in the storage shed. Had it been my boy, none of this would have happened. When he was little, he said if anything bad happened, he’d call 9-9-1. Great, I’d be lying on the kitchen floor having the big one, and my kid would be calling 9-9-1. At least we wouldn’t be having the sheriff show up for no reason.


I wrote this the other day for a prompt in r/writingprompts and I really liked it. Let me know what you think. A man sits at his desk, alone in his cluttered office with no exit, surrounded by stacks of manila envelopes, and filing cabinets with every other drawer ajar. Overflowing waste bins sat in the corner filled with coffee cups and fast food wrappers. He looks tired, as if he had not slept in years, working day in and day out, stains all over his shirt, and dust on his shoulders. The office was very dimly lit with the only sources of light coming from a small desk lamp and his very old computer screen. Ring.....Ring..... The man flinched, as dust flew up from his shoulders to rest on top of his desk. The phones cry, filled the room as it reverberated off the walls making it impossible to not hear. "Hello?" the man grumbled. "Yeah, Steve. Its Peter, I've got an issue up here. I've never seen anything like it before." "Alright, Peter, slow down. What's wrong?" "Well, I was doing my regular shift in Quadrant 4, and I was about to snag up this guys soul, but he just.... he isn't dead." "Ok, so the incident didn't kill him. Good for him. He gets to live another day.....You really didn't need to call me for this....Bye." The man motioned the phone towards its base, as he fights a bit with the cord. "Steve! Steve! Don't hang up!" "What Peter? Just fill out the P-40 form and mark it as a failed incident. It happens all the time..." "No, Steve. This guy just jumped from a 40 story building and bounced off the concrete without a scratch. I've never seen anything like it, and you know I've been doing this for 200 years.....This guy should be deader than Abe Lincoln." "So he just got up and walked away?" He stood from his chair and began to pace as he continued. Dust falling from his body like snowflakes. His joints creaked with every shuffle. "Well, where is he now? What's his number?" "Uhhhh, his number is..... 6523187958MUSNYC. He's just walking around talking to the people that saw the fall. It's actually getting pretty chaotic up here." Steve typed the number into his computer, loud claps with every keystroke. "It looks like his name is Jason McKellum, he's 33 and unmarried, apparently this is our second attempt to claim his life. The last one he tried to O.D. on pain pills about 2 years ago...... I've got the P-40 filed right here. Give me a minute and I'll pull it out." "Steve, we don't really have time for that. I need to get this guy out of here now. A crowd is starting to form." “Alright, just give him the touch, and see if you can’t just bring him down anyways. That way we can sort it out down here, because this guy obviously wants to be dead.” Steve laughed a little as he realized this is the longest conversation he has had in over 22 years. “Already tried, Buddy. Didn’t work at all. He just kept walking around. I’m beginning to think he’s an immortal.” “Immortal, huh. That lucky son of a bitch.” Steve rubbed his neck as he recalled his own life, and suicide. “We need to get this guy down here. However you need to do it, just get him down here.” Steve hung up the phone, and rested his body back into his chair. “This is unfair. Why wasn’t I immortal.” He shouted upwards. “You keep me in this room, doing busy work for eternity!” He buried his face in his hands as he began to sob. Tears leak through his hands like a poorly maintained Dam, and fall onto the paper in front of him. Another stack of envelopes appear on his desk, along with a tall cup of coffee. He wipes the tears from his eyes, takes a sip of coffee, and returns to his work.


u/Keyboard_Adventure.   ## The Krin Guul The one thing Geroya didn’t expect when she moved above decks was a bitter chill, and yet she received a face full of it nevertheless. Strange weather for the Middle Seas. Having left the frigid wastes of the Northland and spending a week bunked with Tank, her goblin companion, snow was an unwelcome sight. “Captain, are we on course? I thought we were making landfall by morning.” The crusty captain looked like he’d been frozen at the helm and tiny icicles broke off his beard as he nodded. He’d been awkward towards her ever since they set sail. “Aye, we be– sorry. We *are* on course. I checked the stars and charts…*myself*.” The captain’s eye twitched as he spoke. “See? Thar…there be… *there is* the lighthouse. We’re here.” A sailor shouted *Land Ho!* and within seconds, Tank burst out from the lower decks wearing a loose tunic and sharp-toothed smile. “Finally, Pineapple Bay! Nothing to do but bask in the sun and—what?!” The goblin raced on the main deck checking port and starboard but all he saw were churning ice flows as the boat broke them apart. Something was wrong in town. Tank grimaced. “Not fair! You promised warm beaches! Rest! Flagons of ale with tiny umbrellas!” Geroya patted his shoulder but the goblin shrugged it off. “The sooner we fix whatever *this is*, the sooner we can get back to that. And besides; think of the hidden treasures just waiting to be found.” The mention of treasure made Tank grin. “*Fine*. But it better be the good stuff! No more charity cases, alright?” “That’s the spirit! Now bring up the winter gear and unpack the bag of looting.” The L-word sent Tank skipping down below. The port of Pineapple Bay should have been teeming with fishermen and merchants trading in the open air market. Instead, the docks were covered in a foot of snow. Footprints told the story of a people, unused to winter, trudging and more often, slipping through the slushy mess. Geroya noted a haphazard pair of skid marks that ended abruptly at the water’s edge. “We could make a killing selling our boots.” Tank tightened his overcoat and snickered. “So long as we get paid for killing something,” “Look where they came from,” Geroya pointed. The wipeout footprints had come out of a tavern. A painted sign above it read, *The Slimy Hagfish*. “Let’s find out what the locals know.” Inside, a handful of grumbling, shivering fishermen huddled around a large hearth, leaving the bar empty. Geroya flagged down the barkeep, a stout woman who, despite the storm, wore unseasonably revealing garb. Tank was smitten. “Hello travelers. What can I get for you? Drink? If it’s food I’m afraid it’s just turtle stew. This blasted storm has scared off catch and fisherman alike.” “Two ales. Aren’t you cold, like them?” Geroya asked, thumbing back toward the fireplace. The barkeep shook her head as she pulled the beer cask’s tap. “I’m used to drafts.” It took several rounds of ale before they heard the whole story. A year ago a mage had arrived in search of Krin Guul, a mythical well containing powerful magic, long since lost to time, somewhere in the aptly named Jungle of Unlikely Return. After his disappearance, the sun hid behind a cover of snow-laden clouds and the cursed winter took its place. The elders offered a reward to anyone who could stop the mad wizard, but no one stepped forward. “Until now,” the goblin said. He rolled his eyes and waited for his partner to finish their introduction. “Have no fear!” Geroya shouted. The barkeep looked confused. “I, I never said I was afraid. I-” “No wizard is a match for Geroya Beslayin and Cantankerous Grift!” When no one in the tavern replied, she repeated it a little louder. Tank stopped her from saying it a third time and nudged her towards the door. He laid a coin on the counter and winked at the barkeep. “See you around.” “Unlikely, but good hunting nonetheless.”  The snow drifts piled higher as the pair left the edges of Pineapple Bay. As it turned out, palm fronds and rattan made perfect snowshoes. Where others had sunk into oblivion, Geroya and Tank sashayed through like pallas cats. Using a compass attuned to ley lines, they pressed deeper into the frozen jungle. The beasts that made the jungle so deadly—silver snakes and deadly bright toads— hung lifeless in the cold trees like tinsel and baubles. Tank heard a voice echoing from inside a cave nearby. Inside, they found a path that led to a hidden crater. At its center stood the mage, dressed in a voluminous red robe and fat black belt. He threw fist fulls of spells at smooth volcanic rock embedded in the ground but they merely bounced off the surface and accumulated in the sky. “It’s here, it *has* to be here, I know it!” he shouted. Time had robbed him of his sanity. Geroya snuck closer then shouted, “Stop, wizard!” “Who’s there? Ah, that’s what I need. A fresh sacrifice, blood for the Krin Guul!” The wizard’s hands glowed white. As he spun up a spell to throw at Geroya, Tank snuck behind him and slid his enchanted dagger, Silent Night, into the wizard’s back. An arc of unfocused magic mushroomed above them and exploded in a shower of harmless sparkles. Geroya looked up and saw stars. The gray clouds began to roll away. “Another victory for the mighty duo!” As Tank searched the body for items she stabbed her sword into the cold crater. “Do you think he was right? That he’d found the Krin Guul?” “Does it matter? He’s dead anyway.” “But the ley lines. And doesn’t this place just feel-” Tank cut her off. “Geroya! No. Well.”  *** Constraints requested: 1. A 'mad' character that sees a truth nobody else can. 2. A mystery 3. Include a pun 4. Part of the story includes a pub, tavern, or similar. 5. A genre-aware character trying to avoid their cliches. 6. A useful goblin.


Anna flipped the laundry basket over, dumping the newly-cleaned clothes onto her bed, before hurrying back outside to retrieve the rest off the clothesline. She had noticed that certain pieces of clothing had gone missing over the past few weeks, and wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again today. Hurridly, she grabbed the remaining garments and stuffed them into the basket, until the line hung empty. Her friends, when told about the missing clothes, had all critisized her on her use of a clothesline in lieu of a modern drying machine. Anna had replied that she didn’t have the money to buy a dryer, and honestly didn’t want one, as the clothesline did the job just fine for free. However, the missing clothes were beginning to make her think about changing her mind. Tossing the laundry on the bed, she busied herself with sorting and folding the various shirts, pants, and undergarments. Sure enough, something new was missing. A pair of jeans that she had just recently bought, and was quite fond of. Exasperation set in as she shoved the clothes into their drawers. Of all the things I have around here to steal, why my clothes? Back outside, Anna carefully approached where the clothesline was. Perhaps, she figured, there might be a few footprings, or other incriminating clues, as to the culprit responsible. Unfortunately, grass grew under and all around the wash area. Her entire property, for that matter, was green. Anna turned to walk back inside, nearly tripping over a sleeping dog. She glared. “Tony, you really could bark every once in a while, you know, if you see anything. Those were my favorite jeans.” The dog lifted his head, blinking slowly, then smiled with his tongue hanging out. Anna rolled her eyes, then made her way back inside the house. Tony could hear her opening and closing drawers and cubboards, on the off-chance she had misplaced her missing garments. He put his head back in his paws, and licked his chops. "Yeah, they were my favorite so far, too.


The first time I heard her voice, I was about to die. Faint and distant, it sounded like someone shouting into the wind. The monstrosities in the storm were tearing at my flesh, flaying my arms to the bone, and my lungs were filling with black rainwater. That's when I heard the voice, fluttering over the mayhem below like a stray bird. I knew that it was my language she was speaking, but by the time the voice reached me, it was shredded into something inhuman that filled the spaces in my ears. And then I woke up. Yeah, yeah. I know. That was the first of many. Most nights I was fighting for my life in one way or another, and whatever was trying to kill me would have been sure to win eventually. There was no escaping it. But whatever it took the form of each night, it never quite got the chance. She would wait for my final moments, just before I was shocked out of sleep by my own almost-death, to send me her muddled messages. I assumed she meant me harm. A pretty safe assumption; most entities did in my dreams, but I didn't know for sure. What I did know is that each encounter left me cold to the bone. In my defence, the temperature was not an entirely spiritual matter. The apartment block next to mine had been pulled down almost a year ago for one reason or another. My landlord owned that place too, and he had kept quiet on the details. I know now that he had had good reason to. That is to say, where there was once laughter, and light, and...*heat*...well apparently I had gotten a lot of my warmth from next door. Very generous of them. The Eastern Wind was my new neighbour. As for my days, the story was not much better. I had nothing. I did nothing. It's not really important. I whiled away my days as people do. Not to mention I feared for my life. I feared for my life in that fucking place. I realised pretty quickly that the voice was a woman, but her words still came in broken pieces, ripped apart and tossed around on my own personal tide of horrors. Most of the time the dreams felt liquid, sliding past my eyes, and formless evils would strangle me all in darkness. Every now and then though, I would be transported back to Hell with clear sight. Hell was hearing the conversations from that morning. The bartering and the taunting, crying, hysterics, and then the way the air turned sour before they ripped it all away from me. My eldest, almost a man, screamed at me like only a son could scream at his father, and I knew there was nothing I could do. I'd kept the weapon one of them had used under my bed after that, a large framing hammer with a blue grip. A small part of me actually believed I would be able to use it. I'd get the chance, I was sure of it. They would be coming back for *me* if I didn't do my job this time, and I hadn't. I'd lost everything already. Why the fuck would I? But they never came back. Those dreams were the ones where I truly died, in soul if not in body. The was no waking up from those in time, I suffered to the end. The woman sounded closer to me as well, I could almost understand her. Honestly, the more I heard her, the more I wanted to. It was a nice voice, even if it was scattered and senseless. But one night, it made sense. Just as I felt the familiar evils closing in on me for another night, they crumbled and died and the storm abated. And I heard the voice. “*Pick up the hammer.”* I woke up. My breath wasn't jagged, and I didn't feel scared. The air was warm on my face. “Well fantastic. Company*.*” My eyes snapped open and I searched around my field of vision for a source. The voice was sharp. Crystal clear. It was the same voice, I knew it was. It followed me out. “Why didn't you help me?*”* I leapt up and whirled around, and stared. The voice had spoken like it was coming from right above the headboard. But before I could get any closer I noticed my peripheral vision screaming at me to look *down*. I looked down and saw the hammer. The hammer I kept under my bed was now up on the pillow. Wet blood coated the metal, soaked into the covers. There was a man lying face up, with his skull split in half on my bed. A woman's hands came through the wall, then her face, and the rest of her, slipping through the brick like water. She had wild chestnut hair and olive skin, and icy eyes that glowed green under yellow tinted glasses. She was quite out of place in my little grey apartment. She moved like she was walking through water, and left a trail of shadow behind her. She looked angry. “Why didn't you help?” she repeated. “Are you the woman from my nightmares?” I asked her. “I was in them”, she told me, “But not from them.” She even looked a little offended. I don't think I totally heard what she was saying at the time. I was a little slow to process what was happening. “You're...good looking.” I decided to say. She laughed at me. There was no humour in it. And she told me that I hadn't seen her yet, not really. Her eyes were growing fierce again. “They put me in there.” She motioned to the spot above my headboard. “Buried me in there.” I looked above my bed to the wall. She told me that they'd buried her standing up, so she would never rest, and rest she hadn't. It was hard to fathom. With my eyes, I stripped back the wallpaper, plaster, and the stone that had stood between me and the wind that seemed like it never stopped. I told myself that there were eyes staring back at me through the layers. I believed it. The freshly dead man was lying right where I had been sleeping, so I figured it out in good time who it was. In my defence, it's hard to recognise yourself from the outside, especially with a messed up face. Yes, I had been right to keep that hammer, but it had done sweet fuck all to help me. I'd made it as easy to kill me as it was my kids. I wonder if they'd recognised that it was the same weapon. I hope they appreciated the poetry as much as I would have, had I been the victor. Honestly though, even if I had woken up in time to see them standing in my room, I had always been total shit at fighting. Like a lot of people I imagine, I wasn't a great fit for the life I'd chosen. “You can't leave?” I asked her. She shook her head. “Not while I'm in there.” I started to wonder what kind of life this woman must have chosen *herself*, to wind up being entombed like this. Set into the rock, becoming part of it, even. Killing her hadn't been enough. She was looking down at my body. “You were quite handsome before, you know.” she said. I suddenly felt embarrassed that this woman had been watching me sleep this whole time. I even remember blushing, or feeling like I was blushing, and I remember thinking that even dead I was shit with women. “Kind of a shame," I said, "You're the type of woman I would have liked to take home with me...” Her eyes brightened. “Maybe you still can.” she said. The closer to death you are, the easier it is for spirits to speak to you, whether it's real or in a dream. Spirits can't tell the difference, because there barely is one. You realise the arbitrary nature of physical life only in death. That's how she explained it to me. She'd just wanted me to get the stupid hammer and break her out of that horrible wall. I did try one more time to pick it up, but my fingers moved through it. It wasn't my world any more, as it wasn't hers. I didn't want it to be. “We can make them notice. When they come to take me away” I told her. But of course we couldn't. It took a month for the landlord to find me, and when he did, he was a bit preoccupied with the poor dead bastard lying on the bed. He was a good guy, I'm sorry he had to be the one to find me, but there was nobody else. They buried me last week, and I'm with my kids again. We all visited her the other day, and she told us the apartment building was now up for demolition, just like next door. Looks like the best thing I could have possibly done for her is be bludgeoned to death. I suppose my landlord drew the line at finding me with half a face in my room and cut his losses in the property business. Can't say I blame him really. I hope he's a long way away when they find her, he's too old for any more of that shit. But I'll be there. Maybe I can finally take her home with me.


Jonesy paused outside Sinclair’s Antiques shop and double-checked the address on the business card. It was an elegantly embossed business card that only bore the name Sinclair’s and the street address; apparently the owner didn’t bother with anything as modern as a phone number or website.

The young man hoped he was not on a wild goose chase. Taking a Sunday off work was a luxury he rarely indulged in – but since he had found the business card lodged under the windscreen wiper of his work truck, he’d been consumed with curiosity. Jonesy hoped to find answers beyond the stained glass door. Sinclair's Antiques was a treasure trove of beautiful works of art, and furniture which had been made in an age when people took pride in their work.  Such a contrast to the sad, modern, disposable mindset of the world.  Jonesy had been taught to always take pride in his work, whether it was in the rush of modern home-building or his side-hustle of bespoke carpentry.  He walked slowly through the displays, taking time to appreciate the skills of the long-dead craftsmen, until he arrived at the back corner of the store, and a set of shelves which held smaller items. A box caught his eye. It was of a simple design, but nevertheless beautifully made by a talented carpenter.  The dovetail joints were perfect, as was the fit of the lid.

   In fact the craftsmanship showed a level of skill that the man dreamed of someday mastering.

Someday , when his daily focus was on more than just trying to pay the rent and put food on the table.    As he turned the box around in his hands, he noticed the burgandy tone of the varnished wood, and smelled the faint tang of lemon and beeswax polish.  And yet, the closer he looked, the more he was convinced that the box was newly made, despite the old-school techniques.    Front and centre of the box was a keyhole, which was positioned directly below a small, plain brass plate engraved with the name: Erasmus Jones.    It was his name.

   A few days earlier, when he had shown his best mate the Sinclair's business card, Erasmus "Jonesy" Jones had assumed it was an elaborate joke. His mate was infamous for his practical jokes - but this one was at a whole new level.

   And yet, what other explanation could there be?

Why on earth would there be a faux-antique wooden box with his name on it? It had to be an elaborate, and obviously expensive, joke.    Jonesy was still deep in thought when the proprietor of the store materialised beside him.

   The gentleman obviously relished his role, dressed as he was in a perfectly tailored suit that created the impression the wearer belonged in an earlier century.    "The box is exquisite in its simplicity - don't you agree?"    "It certainly is," the younger man replied.

   "May I see some form of photographic identification please?"

   Jonesy was surprised by the request, even though he knew his clothes clearly announced his financial status to the gentleman. Still, he was determined to leave with his dignity intact. As he gently placed the box back on the shelf and turned to leave, the proprietor touched his arm.     "I apologise if I offended you. The box was entrusted to me - on a consignment of sorts - by a very important client. If you are - as I suspect - Mr Erasmus Jones , then the box is for you."    Jonesy had already seen a couple of very discreet, handwritten price tags on what he guessed were the least expensive antiques in the store. So he knew he wouldn't be able to afford the key to the box, never mind the box itself.    "May I see your driver's license?

Please? "    Deciding to play along with what was obviously an elaborate joke planned by his mate, Jonesy produced his licence.    The proprietor carefully checked the identification, and then broke into a genuine smile. "Excellent."

   He carried the box over to a large table, which was beautifully decorated with inlaid wood; Jonesy guessed that if the table was for sale, the asking price would be more than he had paid for his truck. The shopkeeper unrolled a length of black velvet fabric and put the box upon it. He then wrapped the box in tissue paper, before sliding it into a cloth bag which had the store name elegantly embossed upon it.

   "Ah ... how much do I owe you?" Jonesy asked.    "Nothing, Mr Jones," the shopkeeper replied, sounding slightly taken aback by the question. "As I said, the box was a special consignment. It was entrusted to me to keep for you," the man said as if that explained everything. "And many happy returns for your thirtieth birthday next week."    Jonsey reached over and picked up the fancy carry bag.

   The proprietor had vanished.    Jonsey glanced around the shop, but the older man was nowhere to be seen, so he shrugged the strange encounter off and hurried home.    Jonesy put the bag containing the mysterious box down on the two person dining table. With one step he was standing in the tiny excuse for a kitchen, and made himself a coffee.    Mug in hand, he sat down and reached into the bag.

Although there was no receipt, his fingers found a small velvet bag.

   Inside was a key.    Amused - if slightly confused - by the elaborate joke, Jonsey unlocked the box and raised the lid.    He half expected to see a plastic turd from a joke shop, but instead, the thing on top of what appeared to be a pile of papers, was a photo of himself leaning over a birthday cake adorned with four candles.

   There were three more birthday photos, recording his seventh, tenth, and twelfth birthdays.

   Each one evoked warm memories.    His parents and grandparents smiling and proud.

   The simple birthday cakes his mother made.

   The small gifts his loving family saved all year to buy for him.

   Beneath the photos there was a mix of documents: a few school reports; his first driver's license; and the passport he applied for when he was eighteen years old, when he still had hopes of overseas travel.

But the pages he had dreamed would be filled with visas had remained stubbornly empty.    Abruptly, Jonesy's intrigue and amusement over the box gave way to bitterness and annoyance.

   He cooked and ate dinner, even though every bite tasted of regret.    After he washed the dishes, curiosity forced him back to the box.

   He uncovered a few bank statements and tax returns which only served to remind him that he'd been working two jobs for half his life but still had nothing to show for it. However, his income had never been wasted, but rather used to support his family. Even though his parents were hard-working, salt of the earth type people, they had never bothered with insurance.  Like most people, they had never considered the possibility of a life-changing car accident... The young man rubbed his temples.    Although Jonesy had never regretted his choice to help his family financially, as he occasionally joked to his best friend, he wouldn't have minded being born into a wealthy - or even middle-class - family.

   At that moment a lotto ticket slipped from the papers he was holding, and landed on the table.    The paper was rather crisp to touch, and the date on the lotto ticket around was six weeks into the future. Jonesy had never wasted money gambling, so he had no experience to draw on, still, he assumed that the advance ticket could only have been purchased sometime in recent weeks.    And even more bizarrely, one line had all the numbers circled, as if someone had already checked off the winning numbers...    Jonesy was ready to put the strange box in the cupboard and forget it, at least until he could get his best friend to confess to the complex, if annoying, practical joke. Then he noticed a large envelope which had been folded in half and wedged into the bottom of the box.    He pried the envelope loose and opened it.    There was a folded sheet of paper taped to a second, sealed envelope...    He unfolded the letter.

Greetings Erasmus,    Congratulations on finding the box. I'm very pleased.    I know you have countless questions; unfortunately you will have to wait for the answers. Simply put, if I told you what you so desperately want to know, it would change your future, and I cannot risk that.

   However, there is one warning I need you to believe without question.

   Keep the lottery ticket safe, as if your very future depends upon it.

   Warmest regards,    A friend.    He tossed the letter on the table.    The only people in the world who called him Erasmus were his parents; everyone else knew him as Jonesy. Although the box was beautiful and definitely worth keeping, the contents were a massive invasion of his privacy.

   To say he was angry was an understatement.    He reached for his phone with one hand as he turned over the sealed envelope with the other hand.    The command: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL AFTER THE LOTTO DRAW which was handwritten across the large envelope, was the last straw.    Jonesy dropped his phone and tore open the envelope.

   He pulled out a bundle of A4 pages.

   The first page bore the words:

How to Build a Time Machine.

 Copyright ©2057 Erasmus Jones

   Jonesy rubbed his eyes, then picked up all the photographs and documents and the crazy 'time machine' blueprints, put them back in the box and turned the key.    The lotto ticket, however, he tucked into his wallet, as he murmured, "Just in case..." Six weeks later, he became am instant multimillionaire.


There was blood on O’Connell Street; I saw it walking home. I didn’t notice it at first. You don’t notice these things all at once when you live in the city and you’re just focused on keeping your head down and not looking anyone in the eye. But all it took was looking up for just half a moment, and there it was. Even in the swarm of the early evening, when tourists nervously wander along in bunched-up groups of three or more and gaggles of college students gather in ragged crowds outside of nightclubs and local pubs, the trail stood out on the pavement: thick boot tracks of browning red which shimmered like dead stars in the dull lamplight of an empty Burger King. In the bitter cold of a January evening, they were already quickly drying into shiny, clumpy shapes of crust on the filthy concrete. There was no puddle, no splatter – no point of origin to be seen whatsoever. They were just suddenly there, like the owner had fallen out of the sky, the soles of their boots already caked in fresh crimson, and proceeded, unbidden, down the street. Not a drip out of alignment, not a drop to be found – just fat globs of red outlining each crease, each crevice and curve, of the scarlet-soaked shoes. I remember it clearly – we’d just past the Spire in the center of town, past the Pennys and the GPO and Abbey Street. I noticed it in the middle of a conversation I was having with a friend – she was prattling on about some make-or-break assignment she was procrastinating on for class. Or something to that degree; all I can remember is suddenly turning my head sharply to the right – like I’d been yanked that way by an invisible line – and spotting an unexpected glimmer of red keeping almost perfect pace with my stride.

Only, they weren’t so casually arranged: the tracks aligned themselves at an unsteady gait, the left foot dragging itself in scuffed-up smears behind the right. They blurred and blurred each detail with every step, so it was almost an effort to study them like I did – an effort like an echo of the effort it must have taken to haul each shattered limb, to drag the body down past the shops and the theatres and the bisecting streets while carefully avoiding a downward-facing crowd which would rather succumb to its own fears of confrontation than look you in the eye. I tried to measure each step as well as I could – the feet were bigger than my own, much bigger, and much heavier to heave when every movement was a shot of agony, scorching up the legs like thorns sprouting from the skin. And in my mind, I suddenly felt the weight like I’d been the body – like I’d been the one to drag myself down a crowded street, head bowed, sweat dripping from my nose and my lips as every movement sent a shock through my bones and my joints. I felt the weight of ages, of time and misfortune, settling into my bloodstream and curdling like sour milk in my gut. It was a weight I could only see – could only ponder – only echoes of the one who left their bloodstained footprints on the sidewalk, but I felt it all the same. Beside me, my friend rambled on, her hands waving excitedly as she recanted the entertainment of the day to me, unaware that I was only listening with half a mind; the other half could only search the evening crowd for a stumbling shadow and wonder, wonder, wonder what I would do if I found it. As I wandered down the road, it began to fade. We were almost to the corner store when I realized that the footprints had started to dissolve into the concrete like phantoms, blurring their forms as the finer details of the spectral shoes smudged into dried-up shuffles. It was like the effort to move had grown too great, the exhaustion sinking in as the body broke down bit by bit and cried, “Enough.” Still, I studied them as I walked, tracing each remaining crease in the soles with my eyes and trying to commit them to an unreliable memory. The effort felt like trying to reattach a leaf to its branch after it had fallen: fruitless, inane, and incomprehensively exhausting. With each step, something was lost: a canyon here, a square peg there, the outline of the heel – everything strewn together into a shapeless, formless mass. Blurred lines became smudges of red that dried into only faint streaks of brown and copper. And then, just before we reached the little café a block away from the tram stop at Parnell, they were gone. The urban earth had soaked them up like water to desperate roots and stripped them of their lost identity, reducing blood of man to just the faintest traces of decay. Whatever might have been left was scuffed over and ignored by the passers-by, whose ground-trained eyes were never so aware as to realize what they had seen. Shaken from my fixation, I turned away; and when we came to our crossroads – my friend to the right, myself to the left – she turned to me with a curious frown and asked, “What were you looking at back there?” “There was blood on O’Connell Street,” I said. My hands fluttered nervously, and I bounced a few times on the balls of my feet.      “Where?”      “Back behind us.”     She turned to crane her neck over her shoulder, but there was only trash and pavement under the muted glow of the corner shop. I could tell by the way her eyes shifted that she didn’t believe me, but still, she looked back at the road we’d left behind and searched amidst the drifting crowds for a sign of what I’d seen – a flash of red, a smear of brown. There was nothing. “Goodnight,” she said, finally.     “Goodnight.” From there, I wandered home, quietly aware of how the balls of my feet burned like I’d taken a stroll through a bed of nails and the hot trickle of blood was soaking through my socks with every step. Behind me, there was nothing – still nothing but shadows in doorways and vacant bus stops and gray, muck-covered stone. That night, I sat at my desk and scoured the news for something I had missed: a brawl, a mugging, a drug deal gone wrong. But like the late evening, the news was quiet, keeping its secrets locked up in desk drawers under piles of papers to never be published for the public eye. Blood on O’Connell Street? Who’d ever heard of such a thing? Not here, not on our O’Connell Street, not in the clear view of hundreds of people who’d surely have done something , said something if it was there, which it wasn’t. As I laid down to sleep that night, what I’d seen – what only I had seen, what only I had caught in the crowd of hundreds milling about between the shops and the streets and the lamplight glow – was stained in my memory, alongside one last, ruminating worry: So much blood, and no body around.


Isabella heaved a sigh as she slammed her car door closed. She clicked on the lock and sashayed into a five-star restaurant. The glimmer of lights had nearly blinded her eyes when the usher opened the glass door for her. As expected of Barnes Hale, he would’ve chosen the most ostentatious restaurant for their meet-up —or what her mom called a ‘date’. Anyhow, she refused to acknowledge this meet-up with Barnes Hale as a date. She didn’t understand what in the world her parents had seen in the stupidly privileged man in his mid 30s. Sure, he had the money and the business, but there were other men with such things, so why the Horrendous Hale? As the usher had chauffeured her to the table where the bastard resided, Isabella thanked him and sat across the bearded man. The first thing he did was tapping his index finger on his gold watch, clucking his tongue, and shaking his head. “Late for five minutes, Isa, where’s your manner? Is this supposed to be my future wife?” Oh, how much did Isabella want to smash his gold watch—or better yet, his face. “Well, pardon me, Sir. I have some important business to take care of,” Isa replied, not without stressing the word important.

He chuckled and sighed. “How’s your business?”

“Good, thank you,” Isa answered. He smirked and opened the menu book. “Heard from your mother that it isn’t well. Are you lying to your future husband, Isa? How am I gonna take over if you’re not honest with me? Are we gonna base our marriage and business on lies?” Isabella wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face. She could feel her anger and her common sense boiling. How dare he say it as if she was just a temporary nuisance in her own company? She had been attacked by a case of insecurity because some people really did think that she was not worthy as her father’s successor, but in spite of that she was not going to let some dull boastful man belittle her.

“Mr. Hale, even if my mother said that, it’s not something that I couldn’t handle. Even if my business hits rock bottom, trust me when I say that I can handle it myself without needing your involvement. I’ve managed to survive for years after all,” she said and smiled. Obviously, the smile didn’t reach her eyes because why would she? “Oh, please. As a good beau, I shall remind you that the world won’t be too kind to the likes of you. Women are too easily swayed, after all. Yes, too simple-minded.” He sneered as he clicked the button to call the waiter. Isabella wished she could flip the table, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t succumb to what Mr. Hale had assumed—that women are simple-minded and easily triggered by their weak spot.

“You shall see, then, Mr. Hale, whether or not I’ll keep my word,” Isabella said, a challenging smile plastered on her lips.

Due to the typical arrogant privileged jerk he was, Isabella could only sneak a peek at the menu book once the waiter had arrived and taken Mr. Hale’s order. Isabella quickly ordered one sirloin steak and a glass of orange juice. She would much prefer to have champagne or wine, but she didn’t want to be drunk in his presence. She needed to keep her honor intact if she were to be with him. After ordering, they sat in silence, wholly wrapped in their own rectangle world called smartphone. As much as Isabella hated it when some people were tinkering with their phone during hangouts, she couldn’t help but thank the existence of the small rectangle world at this moment. It was much better than needing to talk with a venomous being such as Mr. Hale. “Hey, El, where are you?”

Isabella creased her brows, wondering what the hell was the cuckoo man talking about, but she realized he’s talking on a phone.

“Just bring the files to me here, I’m in the restaurant I told you about yesterday.” A pause, then, “No, no. Just bring it here, this shit takes so long.” He finished his call and noticed Isabella’s raised eyebrows. “Business thing, Isa. Maybe you can learn one or two things from me while I’m dealing with it here.” Isabella scoffed. “Maybe I’ll learn how to be an ass.” He glared. “Watch your mouth, bitch.” Isabella phew-ed. “Guess who should watch his mouth too.” When their orders arrived, Isabella didn’t wait and just quickly shoved the juicy steak into her mouth. The sooner everything’s done, the better. No matter how good the steak was, she couldn’t enjoy it because the one sitting in front of her was too disgusting a being. So Isabella kept shoving and shoving food into her mouth, with an occasional sip of orange juice, until another person came to their table. “I’m here.” Judging from his voice, it was a he. And so, Isabella looked up from her food and found a man, closer to her age than not, standing there with a stack of files. He put the thick files with a bang beside Mr. Hale. The sound rattled the table and Isabella’s heart—and seemed like Mr. Hale too because he was wheezing. The man showcased a smile toward Isabella. “Hi, I’m Elliot, Mr. Hale’s secretary. Pleasure to meet you.” “Pleasure, I’m Isabella,” Isabella returned. Mr. Hale had just finished his cough when he raised his voice and bunched up Elliot’s collar. “Fuck El! Who the hell told you to throw it down, eh? Wanna die?” Isabella had never wanted to punch someone so much. If anything, Isabella despised those who treat their employees, especially ones who were loyal, like trash the most. She had stood from her seat to push Horrendous Hale away from his poor secretary when Elliot said, “Would you mind your manner, Sir? I could sue you for assault if you touch me.” “Well, I got the money. I could pay any damage. Who’ll win now, shithead?” Isabella’s temper rose. “Hey—”

“Surely, your reputation won’t, Sir,” Elliot replied. With that, Mr. Hale stared at him with a killing glare before he let go and pushed him aside. “I’ll find some fresh air untainted by a bitch and a shithead.” “Are you alright, Sir Elliot?” Isabella asked as he smoothed his crumpled collar. “Please, just call me Elliot, Miss. And, yes, I’m alright. How are you?”

Isabella knitted her eyebrows and snorted a laugh. “Me?” “Yes, are you alright being with such an awful man? He’s a ticking time bomb, say anything that hurts his pride and he’ll fight tooth and nail with you,” Elliot said and sat on the unoccupied seat. “It’s worrisome, especially for a woman as wonderful as you. I could never thank you enough for trying to stand up for a mere secretary like me.” Anything that hurts his pride, Isabella thought and nearly laughed. He always stabs at others’ weakness, and yet, for some reasons his shall not be touched?

She continued gobbling down her food while she asked, “It’s no problem, but will you be okay? Seems like he’s not done.” Elliot fixed his glasses. “No, it’s fine. We’ll be fine if we’re smart at handling his outburst. It’s probably one of the requirements to live in the same space as Mr. Hale.” Isabella chuckled. “Agree. I will not let his jabs get to me if I can help it, and normally I can.” Elliot smiled, flashing his dimples—she just noticed. “Mr. Hale talks a lot about you… well, bad stuff mostly.” Isabella rolled her eyes, of course. “I used to think that Ms. Isabella is a superficial person—” “Oh gosh, what did he even say?” Isabella cut as she sliced the last of her steak and put it inside her mouth. “Something untrue, I believe, because Ms. Isabella here seems far more wonderful than how he makes you,” he said. “Pardon my impudence, but I don’t understand why a woman as amazing as Ms. Isabella would be with Mr. Hale.” Isabella sipped her orange juice then said, “Arranged marriage, most definitely.” “But you deserve so much more.” Isabella sipped her juice again as she sneaked a glance to Elliot. He’s staring at her deeply with his hazel eyes. He’s serious, she realized. Of course, I deserve more, but what should I do with my mother…

“No one should tie a knot to such a disrespectful person like him. He needs to learn first to respect others. If you’re about to tell me that I’m also tying myself to him through work, at the very least work isn’t forever. Marriage, however, is forever,” he said.

True, and true. Maybe it’s already time for her to put aside her mother’s wish for once and let her see for herself the reality of it. Surely, she wouldn’t force her daughter to marry a violent man, would she? If her mother thought she’s lying to avoid marriage, well, didn’t she have the proof right here?

“Will you help me, then, Elliot, if I say I would talk to my mother about this? Will you be as helpful as giving a testimony about Mr. Hale’s true nature? My mother never believes me because he’s been acting sweet and gentle in front of her,” Isabella said while dabbing her lips with a tissue. Elliot replied, “Certainly I would, but how…”

Isabella rose from her seat and took a name card from her purse, she handed it to Elliot. “Contact me. Your help would mean the world to me. Oh, and I will help you too if you want to resign from that tyrant.” Elliot gazed at the name card and quickly hid it inside his pocket when he saw from afar that Mr. Hale had come back. “I will, Miss.” When Mr. Hale came back, the deal was sealed and Isabella had left the dinner. It’s quite normal for her to leave early while Horrendous Hale was finding some sort of ‘fresh air’. She just hoped that Elliot would be okay while they worked together to wriggle out of the tyrant’s hand.