The letter had been delivered in the evening by a desperate courier with a cart full of casualty notifications and return mail which no longer had a viable address. Here, letters were rarely filled with happy news, and I watched with a heavy heart as my wife’s shaking hands tore open the envelope, which was dusted with ash and dirt.

She skimmed the first sentences -- looking for “regret” or “apology”, the words which dotted the letter framed on our mantle next to my eldest’s school photographs. She breathed out heavily. “Eileen --” I started, but she cut me off. “It’s Harry. He’s fine, Jacob. He’s fine. But he’s worried about the old Fuller property.” “If he’s alive, nothing else matters,” I replied with a gruff headshake. If this war had taught me anything, it was that anything in life could be regained but a beating heart. “No, there’s more -- he says Sherman isn’t finished with Georgia. The battalion has been asked to accompany the General south, with orders to destroy and redistribute land as they like, permission of the president.” “Eileen, they ain’t giving away loyal land.” “That’s what my brother’s worried about. How will they know it's ours if there’s no-one there to prove it? His lieutenant won’t grant him leave -- says it’ll be considered treason if he goes south without the rest of the men. They’re splitting the troops and not telling anyone which way they’re headed, for fear the rebels will get wind.” I looked my wife in the eye. “Eileen. Ain’t nothing we can do about it.” I could see the wrinkles around her eyes crinkle, the brown irises still the same ones I had fallen in love with decades ago. Suddenly, I was sick of seeing that constant look of hopelessness on her face. I stood up straight from where I had been peering over her shoulder at the letter. “I’ll go.”

“You can’t, Jacob. I’d rather have you than that place.” “No, I know what that old farm means to you. It means something to me too. And this war has taken too much from the both of us. Not this too, not if I can help it. I’ll come back safe, I promise.” I could see a tiny seed of hope take root in Eileen’s eyes. “I’ll go too,” she said. I smiled, reminded of the ferocity with which she had verbally defended the few livestock we had left from the army. “What about Jennifer? Or Ruby Belle?” My wife frowned and I thought for a second she was going to nag me for placing both our teen daughter and prize hen on the same level of concern. Instead, she said, “You’ll have to go now.” In the matter of an hour, I had layered every piece of clothing I owned, donned a backpack which Eileen had packed to the brim with food and a small home-made Union Jack, and set out into the November night. I chose to take the quickest road which carried south from the Carolinas all the way to Jacksonville. It was the merchant route, paralleled by the railroad bringing industrial products in exchange for sugar and cotton. I had taken this same path every summer in my youth, walking quickly among the traffic of people and listening for the train’s whistle. As a kid, my mother would put me on the Greenboro rail with a letter in case I forgot to transfer, and I would arrive at the Savannah station to a relieved pair of grandparents. But as I got older and wiser, she’d save the train fare and I would go by foot. The journey would take me over a week of constant walking until I arrived in Georgia -- this time I hitched a ride with the first wagon I met, carrying me past Atlanta in only a couple days' time.

The driver refused to carry me any further south, instead heading west to Alabama because his deliveries were no longer needed in the remaining remnants of Atlanta. I grimly understood and continued by foot, deciding to walk overnight instead. Walking in the dark, I couldn’t tell anything was wrong. So much had changed in the few decades since I’d taken this path in the summers -- the plentiful oak trees which I had used to rest from the sweltering sun were far and in between now, waylaid to build new tracks or make room for new plantations. The path was even less familiar with the layer of ice and frost layering the ground. As the sun rose late in the morning, I stopped with a shudder. The earth I was walking on was soft, which I had blamed on the light snow which had accompanied me through the night. But in the dim light, I could see that the road was instead marked by ash. The pasture fences had an unnatural smudge which transferred to my gloves with a touch. I kept moving, my joints not as content as they might have been years ago. As the sun rose higher, I could see people moving en masse down the road. In a different time, I would have met them -- but not now. I walked to the side, keeping my fur hat down over my face. As I got closer, I realized these were not soldiers or merchants but families, mostly women. Their faces were solemn, gripping small cases and wearing lighter coats than recommended in cold weather. They did not afford me any attention -- but I looked at the ragged hems of their skirts and the dark ash coating their shoes and was morbidly reminded of the prints depicting sinners marching into hell which were often included in our church bulletin. This picture of an icy hell struck me with a sense of despair. These people were desperate enough to be leaving their homes at dawn. I took a deep breath and quickened my step. If the army took my wife’s land, we could petition for it back. But if they were burning everything they set eyes on, there would be nothing worth salvaging. I trudged through the ice and snow, thinking of how broken my wife would be if that happened. The land itself wasn’t much to speak of, a crop field centered around a small farmhouse and a grain mill. Eileen’s parents had raised both her and her younger brother Harry there. For over a decade of summers, every morning I would come running over from my grandparents’ house across the road, ducking past my grandmother's magnolia to jump the fence. If the magnolia was still there, it would be many times my height. To the passerby, Eileen’s family and my own were simply neighboring farmers who had chosen to be far from the nearest town for their own peace. It’s true that the Fullers grew wheat and barley, some of which they would hand off to larger farms with silos. But the rest the Fullers would bind up and sell to my grandparents. I remember dragging grain from the Fullers back to my grandparents’ cellar, where it would be packed into barrels. My mother’s parents, lovingly called Pa and Ma Alder, had picked up the trade from a neighboring German immigrant family who had stayed with them for a few months before heading north. Unsurprisingly, beer proved a far more precious commodity than bread and drew customers from around the county. Unfortunately, beer-making was far from welcome in the public eye, mainly due to the church and anti-German sentiment. Anyone looking for beer from my folks would knock at the door and need to give both the name of a reference and a certain phrase before the Alders would even discuss selling. Mostly it was local inns who would send carriages to haul back a couple barrels to increase local business. But there was another reason the beer was kept so secret -- it was funneled through certain people throughout the town to the surrounding plantations. The landowners would never have bought our alcohol, but their servants and slaves, the same social status in their shared poverty, did and were sworn to secrecy if they were ever caught with their purchases.

And that’s how I was raised each summer, lying to any questions asked of me by strangers and not asking any of the visitors. I was too young to realize the gravity of our situation but I knew I needed to let Pa and Ma Alder do all the talking. Whenever some client would knock on the door, I’d shake Pa awake and then run out the back door to play with Eileen and Harry for the evening until Ma or Pa came to take me back. It was always too hot to want to do anything other than sit in the cool of the Fullers’ grain mill, even in the evening. My first summer I had been shy, sitting quietly next to the Fullers and waiting to be summoned home. But one day Eileen jumped up and offered me a small wooden spinning top, showing me how it could spin all the way to the other side of the room with a twist of her fingers. Looking back, I guess that was the moment I was bewitched. I was convinced Eileen’s one extra year of life experience meant I owed her undying friendship, even when she tried to climb to the top of the grain mill during my second summer. She fell off the first story and her parents reprimanded both of us -- Eileen for the consequentially sprained ankle and myself for not stopping her. As we got older, our meetings became less frequent. I could finally be of some use at the brewery and Harry and Eileen were always wanted for some farm chore or another. I no longer thought of Harry as the annoying kid who would spoil all of Eileen and I’s adventures with his tattletaling or whining. During the rare mutual break in the day, we would talk about our ambitions. Harry wanted to become a doctor and attend medical school in Montgomery, where he could stay with family. I had a smaller dream, one where myself and Eileen continued the brewery business when Ma and Pa Alder retired. By fourteen, I understood how profitable the bootlegging business could be. I kept trying to ask Eileen what she wanted, but she was determined to avoid the question. I spent the time in between summers constantly wondering if she had gone off and found some other sweetheart besides me. Neither of Harry or I’s dreams came true. Although Harry worked hard at a local school during the falls and winters, he didn’t get a place in medicine. At 22, he finally left the Fuller farm to go to Alabama anyway and apprenticed under his uncle as a shopkeep. When I was 25, Pa Alder passed away in a scuffle with a desperate alcoholic who misfired his gun in a drunken stupor. The man gave Ma Alder every last dime he had and disappeared. Instead of giving me the business, Ma Alder decided to sell the brewery and join my newly remarried mother in the Carolinas. One part of my dream did manifest. The summer I was 18, I bought myself a suit en route to Savannah and proposed to Eileen the moment I arrived. To my relief she accepted and we were married in a tiny church in the nearby town. I helped with the Fuller farm when Harry left and then Eileen and I followed Ma Alder up to the North Carolina border. The twenty-five years following our marriage were good and we were blessed with a son and a daughter. My new stepfather had his own farm, one which we slowly took over throughout the years and, while small, kept us happy and sustained. We felt like we were in a hurricane, whirling through life and being hit with bad luck or poor mistakes. But those times seem so golden now compared to the last few years, in which so much had been taken from us. At the start of the war, Harry enlisted into the 1st Alabama Cavalry Regiment along with a thousand other southerners loyal to the Union. His regiment, at the cost of over half of the men, would be almost too successful. Eileen and I felt the constant shadow of his involvement at every major battle and dreaded the knock of the courier. We were still grieving for our son, who had reached adulthood only to give his life to the army. Now still walking through the slush and mud, I felt the fabric tied around my wrist -- the piece of his uniform which had accompanied the casualty notification. Even a year later it sent a pang through my heart. The Fuller farm, unoccupied for the last few years while Harry was away, signaled a happier, sunnier time in our lives. Its loss would erase further ties to our roots. Remembering the summers I had spent in Georgia pushed me to move my middle-aged joints faster. I would reach the farm before Sherman or his men did, for the sake of Eileen, Harry, and myself -- or at least return to my wife knowing what had become of it.


Everything was easy when we were little, you were only a year or two older. We would dance and play all day, I never forgot how close we were, how much we dress like a Princess and a Prince. How mother would berate you for using Ethan’s old clothes. “You’re a girl!” She would say exasperated dragging you away to our room. “but Ethan won’t play princess and Princes with us so one of us has to step up,” would be your excuse but we both knew you felt more comfortable that way. Mother would always argue with Dad about us, saying we were too strange to be hers. That we should act like girls, that he should help her in correcting our wrong ways. They’d argue about it constantly. Until one day you and dad were gone. Mother had pretended you never existed. That I was a miracle child from God, the new Jesus. Everyone knew better. She was ill. But she wouldn’t accept that. She burned anything that belonged to you, to dad. She burned away the memories. I’ve longed for the day to find you, to hug you to talk to you but I never knew where to start and if I’d mention your names I’d be beaten and silenced. Ethan left to live with dads’ parents. I was stuck. All alone. Years went by I grew up alone. When I finally left home, I searched everywhere. I subscribed to many the ancestry websites but to no avail so why? Suddenly have I seen you in Spain. I cannot believe my eyes and surely you are the same. You don't look like you've aged one bit and yet you're taller and older. "Michelle?" My mouth moved without thinking, your eyes widen. "Vivienne? it can’t be, I was sure you were dead." she says almost quiet as a mouse. She is wearing the Hotels staff uniform and the desk manager does not look please that she is not moving. "I have many questions for you however your manager looks displeased. my room number is 278, come knock once your shift is over, please?" I plead; I don't want to let her leave, but I also do not wish for her to get into trouble. I am not that selfish. Michelle nods gives me a customer smile and briskly walks away. I grab my bags and walk to the lift. The angry looking desk manager approaches me while I wait for the lift doors to open. "Was there an issue with that woman ma'am you looked upset," her voice was higher than I expected. She had one bushy eyebrow raised and a mole under her left eye. "No, I just recognised her as a childhood friend I hadn’t seen in years," I said with a clam smile, Even though this woman hadn't really said anything or even done anything, she made me feel uneasy as if I was lying to her, luckily before she questioned me further the lift dinged open. "Well, I must me off" She smiled as I got into the lift and walked away, as the lift door closed, I tried to shove the feeling of unease away. Once I get to my room, I place my bags next to my bed and flop down on my bed with a sigh. Along plane ride and then bumping into Michelle the shock really takes it out of you. I assumed it would be a while until Michelle finished. Looking around the hotel room I find where the remote is and get up with effort to grab it. eventually finding suitable challenge I start to unpack my notebooks and pens. I cannot forget the main purpose of my trip to Spain, 'A tourists guide to the most gorgeous spots in Spain' a plain article. A few hours passed by, I'd meandered over the writing, had a shower and had given up on being any more productive and resigned myself to mindlessly staring at the TV while lying on the bed when a knock finally came from the door. I leapt up in a fluster and practically sprinted to open the door. "Viv-" Michelle began but was cut off by me dragging her into the room. "Michelle! You look the same as I remember, how are you in Spain? Is dad here too? oh I've missed you so much!" I bombarded her with questions. "Viv, you don't know what happened? Didn't you ever ask mother?" Michelle's voice was calm, but tears appeared in her eyes, "She forbade me from asking, of course that never stopped me but then whenever I'd start to talk about it she'd throw things at me," I said looking her in the eyes, her hair was in a cute pixie cut, she had dark bags under her eyes and she was holding her tears back I could tell. "You, you'll want to sit down for this." "What? what happened? I tried looking everywhere for you, I spent so much money on ancestry sights trying to find you," "Sit Viv," I sat on the bed and she followed. "Do you remember when those men came up to us one day in the park asking about mother?" I nodded unsure of what was going to follow. Michelle proceeded to tell me those men had been after mother for a while as she had done something bad in her youth which was still unknown. The day dad walked out with Michelle it was only to get groceries however, on the walk to the shop a small grey hatchback pulled up along side them and two men dragged them into the car. They kept asking dad where mother was but he refused to answer and he was killed. Michelle was taken as collateral to be a slave and shipped form country to country until she managed to get free and was found by a Spanish cop who took her to the orphanage at age 14. “Michelle, I-“ “Don’t go blaming yourself,” “Why did mother keep this from me? Why didn’t she just lie and tell me bad men were out for her as a kid.” “Shockingly that probably saved you.”


They danced along the walls. Ballerinas pirouetting and dogs chasing their tails. They would get big then small, and never stopped dancing and chasing. Molly had a wild imagination as a child- and it didn’t stop just because she turned 16. She put another log on the fire. Sparks rose up and added spots on the shadows of the flames. Molly picked at her nails. She was stressed. Why wasn’t Billy home yet? He left at 6 o’clock for a dinner date and it was nearing midnight. Molly was embarrassed that she was worried, but he was her only sibling. Her parents even went to sleep already.

“Molly, what are you doing?” She said to herself. She was 16! She shouldn’t be this worried about where her 18 year-old, adult brother was. Molly sighed and looked around the living room. Family photos decorated the walls along with her Mother’s wooden “Live Laugh Love” signs. The smell of the fire was calming. It reminded Molly of when she would go to summer camp. She hummed the tune to one of the songs from camp as she cuddled up next to the fire. Molly drifted off to sleep.

“Molly? Earth to Molly?” A voice said. Molly stirred in her sleep. A hand grasped her shoulder and shook her awake.

“What!” Molly yelped. She was disoriented. Her eyes snapped open and she sat up. She whipped her head around to see a woman looking at her with worried eyes.

“Honey, you need to wake up. It’s time to go.” The woman said. Her voice was calm- yet stern. She motioned for Molly to follow her and proceeded down a dark hallway. Molly had no idea where she was, but her body stood up and obediently followed the woman. The woman’s heels lightly tapped on the cool floor. Molly was still in her fuzzy socks. After a few minutes, they entered a dimly lit room with a single chair in the center.

“Wh-where am I? Who are you?” Molly said, her throat was dry.

“You are at Guardian Angel Central. I am Paula. You can take a seat. It will start soon.” Paula warmly said. She motioned for Molly to sit down. Molly hesitated, but took a seat. The chair was very soft and plush, she felt more calm already.

Suddenly, there was a loud boom. The lights shut off. Molly gasped and gripped the sides of her chair. Moments passed. Another light flickered on to unveil a stage with a dark red curtain in front of Molly. The same tune of her song from summer camp began to play. The curtain opened swiftly. A man stood in the center of the stage. He wore a ridiculously tall tophat and a tuxedo. He was tall with dark hair. And very fat. His shoes were slightly upturned… matching his creepy mustache.

“Hello, Molly. Welcome! My name is Nicolas. This is an exciting time in your life. Please- hold all questions until the end. Would you like anything to drink? Would you like any snacks?” Nicolas said, his voice booming. He was very theatrical as he gave this little spiel. Nicolas looked very sweaty- probably from the heat of the spotlight. “Uh, yes. Those things sound nice, thank you?” She said quietly. Paula quickly wheeled a tray in front of Molly with a plethora of different snacks and drinks. Molly covered her mouth with her hands in excitement. She began to eat and drink with pleasure. “Okay, okay. Now, let’s get started. You recently turned 16, my dear. Halfway between a child and an adult…what a strange age, isn’t it? This is when you are introduced to your Guardian Dev-Angels. There are certain things…you may have noticed. Maybe the fact that boys have cooties? Or the fact that no matter how hard you try, you’ll never like broccoli?” Nicolas said. He chuckled as he spoke. Molly exhaled and nodded in agreement as Nicolas gave his presentation. She still didn’t know where she was, but she felt safe. Paula brought over a pitcher and refilled her Sprite.

“Ah, yes. And you may have also noticed that some girls are just- mean. Emma Hiver, perhaps? She called you a “chubby pig” in gym class didn’t she? Didn’t she purposefully stain your dress with her markers? She also told the boy you liked that you had lice. And let’s not forget, when you answered 40*2 wrong and she called you stupid in front of your entire class.” Nicolas paused and stared at Molly with his beady eyes.

“Uh, um, how did you-”

“SILENCE. Do you remember when Emma turned your friends against you? Made the volleyball team, when YOU didn’t? Got the solo in the show choir?” Nicolas said. Suddenly, straps enclosed around Molly’s wrists and ankles on her chair. She no longer felt safe. Where was she? Who were these people? How did he know about these things?

“And your brother, Billy. Oh you love him, don’t you? You think he will always protect you? You had good times playing catch in the backyard, didn’t you? You had fun when he would tickle you and toss you around when you were smaller. Because, well, you are a chubby pig now. Speaking of Emma Hiver, you know that’s who he went on a date with…right?” Nicolas sneered. Molly’s heart sank. It couldn’t be true, could it? Billy knew about Emma’s bullying. A video appeared on the stage and began to play. It was Billy! Billy and… Emma.

“Your sister is kind of… you know.” Emma’s voice filled Molly’s ears. “Molly? Kind of what?” Billy replied.

“Kind of weird! Oh my god she’s so foul! I heard that she didn’t start showering everyday until 8th grade!” Emma said. Her voice was full of disdain.

“Oh, yeah. Molly is so gross. I don’t know why my parents let her act like that. She still acts like a child, always waiting up for me.” Billy said.

“Haha! Let’s stay out extra late then, what a weirdo!” Emma cackled. The video clip ended. Molly’s face fell. That must’ve been from the date. “How did that make you feel, Molly? Billy can’t protect you anymore, but WE can.” Nicolas asked. The silence in the strange room was loud.

“Is that r-real?” Molly’s voice broke as she spoke. She began to cry.

“Yes it’s real! That’s why I am here. Would you like to…take revenge?” Nicolas said. He seemed to have grown 3 more feet and was towering over Molly. She looked up at him and couldn’t speak. She was scared.

“N-” Molly tried to speak but realized she couldn’t. She began to have trouble breathing.

“Molly, I know your deepest desire. You aren’t afraid to kill, are you? You HATE Emma. You stare at her from across the classroom and just wish she didn’t exist. Emma stole your friends, your spot on the volleyball team, your solo… are you going to let her take your BROTHER? We know you deserve better Molly! We care about you! Take the revenge you deserve!” Nicolas growled. He held up a knife. The knife had a long sharp blade with Molly’s name engraved in the handle. Molly screamed. She looked at the stage and saw Emma strapped to a post- also looking scared. “No one will ever know! Go! Take what’s yours!” Nicolas hissed. Molly noticed her wrists and ankles were free and she bolted out of the chair. She looked down at her hands to see the knife already in her right hand. Shocked, she dropped it and raced to the door from which she came from. She was met with Paula. But Paula wasn’t Paula. Paula had also grown a couple feet and had the face of a dog and the body of a ballerina. Paula was maniacally laughing and tried to entrap Molly.

“Molly help! Where are we! Help!” Emma screamed. “Emma!!” Molly cried. She ran to the stage to try and untie Emma, but tripped and fell. Suddenly the room began to shrink. Nicolas and Paula leapt towards Molly and trapped her.

“Kill her! No one will know! Now is your chance!” They said in unison. Molly screamed and thrashed. She couldn’t breathe.

Molly couldn’t breathe.

“Molly! Molly!” Another voice yelled. Two strong arms wrapped around Molly and picked her up. She began to cough uncontrollably. Molly grabbed her throat and tried to regain proper breathing control. Her eyes were blurry and stinging. Minutes passed. “Billy?” Molly was able to squeak out. She looked up at her brother who was worriedly looking down at her.

“Molly the house caught on fire, are you okay? The fire department just got here. I carried you out. Mom and Dad are safe, are you okay? Thank god I came home.” He said. Billy scrambled to find water for Molly. She weakly sat up and drank it. She began to cry and fell into Billy. He hugged her.

“I-I’m okay. I think I hallucinated from the smoke or something, I had the weirdest dream.” Molly said. She felt very relieved that it was all fake. There’s no way that Billy would go out with Emma- or that guardian angels were real. Or that she would kill someone! More like guardian devils, Molly thought. “Molly, are you okay!” Her mother said. She rushed to hug Molly and covered her in hugs and kisses. Her father was following quickly behind. They all hugged each other for a long while. “Billy, thank god you came home later than normal. We could’ve died if we were all asleep when the fire started.” Their Dad said. Billy, still in shock, nodded in agreement.

“How was your date?’ Molly said after a few minutes. She lightly laughed.

“Oh, it was good, I guess. I don’t think we’ll go out again. Even though she was the reason I got home late- I don’t think it’s a good match. You’re the most important girl in my life for now, Molly.” Billy said with a weak smile. He gave Molly a noogie and she playfully slapped his hand away.

“Well that’s okay, you have plenty of time to date Billy. Who was she, anyways?” Their mother asked. “Emma Hiver.” He said.

2 WEEKS PASS

“Any news, Billy?” Molly asked. She walked into their Grandma’s kitchen where Billy sat eating breakfast. They were staying there while their house was being repaired. “Yes, they found her. Thank god. But she says she doesn’t remember anything about who took her. It’s just weird, I saw her go inside that night.” Billy sighed and laid down the newspaper. The headline read: EMMA HIVER FOUND AFTER TWO WEEKS OF KIDNAPPING 15 YEARS PASS, Molly’s Wedding Anniversary Party

“Oh congratulations, honey! You look beautiful! 5 years is a big deal. ” Molly’s mother cooed. She swept Molly into a hug. “Thanks mom. What a night! Always nice to celebrate.” Molly said while embracing her mother. She sighed and looked around the nearly empty party room. Her husband was off chatting with some family and Molly was cleaning up. “Oh, Molly, look. What is this?’ Her mother asked. She held up an oddly shaped music box. It was about 6 inches long and 2 inches wide. Carved on the box were dogs in ballerina costumes carefully painted with pink. Molly picked the box out of her mothers hands and quizzically looked at it. “I said no gifts! I didn’t notice it earlier. Oh well, I’ll open it tonight. Why don’t you head home? It’s late, mom.” Molly said. Her mother embraced her again and gave her a kiss goodnight. After her mother left, Molly’s attention returned to the music box. Looking to see that no one else was around, she slowly opened it. She twisted the key on the back and it began to play a familiar tune. It reminded Molly of something from summer camp. Inside, there was a folded photo and a knife. Molly’s heart skipped a beat. She slowly turned the knife handle over to see her name deeply engraved in it.

“Oh my god.” Molly said. Terrified, she picked up the photo. She slowly unfolded it, and much to her horror she saw Emma Hiver… kissing HER husband. Signed, “Last chance, XOXO Nicolas and Paula.”


Down the street, only three blocks away from mine, lies a big dark house with windows that are always shrouded in shade, even when the sun is out. All the kids on the block avoided it. Except on Halloween night, when all the kids dare each other to ring the doorbell. I never accepted the challenge, even when my friends called me names. I knew better, there was something off about the place, some kind of weird smell hung around the place like a molding blanket you wrap around a poor child. Plus I’ve seen the signs that others haven’t. The kids who do ring the bell, seem to suffer some kind of accidents in the next weeks after. Like the tall blond boy my friend Giulianna was dating at the time, he accept the dare with great zeal, but in the few days after he ended up in the hospital for a month. Something about intestinal rot, something that at his age shouldve been impossible. He’s not the only one to suffer some kind of horrid accident, there have been others. When I told my friends they just laughed at me and told me that it was just my imagination. Which could be a logical explanation, since they knew me during my “seeing things that don’t actually exist” faze. But I know what I see this time, is real. I’m not imagining anything. Those accident don’t happen at random. It’s not normal for a perfectly healthy teenage boy, to suddenly have a fatal illness, three days after he just had an appointment. Anyway, it was this creepy house that I avoided. That is until I decided to earn some money.

A year ago, my mother told me that if in a years time I didn’t have a job she’d kick me out. My mother isn’t the kind of person who jokes around. I spent a while in classes so I could become a legal sitter. Then like every teenager I posted my job proposal up on the electricity poles. For a while, no one accepted. Then about a week ago, I got a call, from one Serenity Lane, at 1245 Amber Road, asking if I would sit her daughter. It didn’t take long for me to recognize the address. Of course, just my luck. The creepy, dark, mysterious, ominous, I can come up with many names for it, house.

So here I am. Waiting on the front porch, not daring to ring the bell. I almost feel as if all the kids in the neighborhood have their eyes on me, waiting to see what I will do. They know, of course, that I never ring the bell, no matter how many people dare me, double dog dare me, even triple. They must be wondering what in the world I am doing on the front porch, my fingertip inches from the doorbell. As the minutes tick by the pressure builds, my stress amounts until it is almost a fisical pain in my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and Will my finger to press the ivory colored button. I feel my finger press on the doorbell and I wait for the world to end, I wait for my body to order come with some sudden and untreatable illness, but nothing happens. Just the quiet ring of the doorbell from inside the house. I let my eyes flutter open. I’m okay. For now at least, anything could happen in the next three days. While I’m marveling at my continued existence, a tall woman opens the door. Her long dark hair is braided back in a high ponytail. The hair is pulled so tightly it stretches her face unatuarly. Her lips are bright red and her lashes extremely long and bedecked in miniature jewels. She smiled when she sees me, an unnerving thing when her face is already pulled upwards.

“Emma!” She exclaims as though I were an old friend she couldn’t wait to see. From what I could tell from our conversation on the phone was that her husband had died a few years back and she had been living with her only daughter since. She’d been looking for a sitter for her daughter so she could go on this business trip and finally I had been the only one to accept.

“Come in, come in.” She says gesturing for me to enter. The house is awesome on the inside. The dark wooden floors accent the heavy black chandelier that hangs high on the carved wooden ceiling. The tall windows are swathed in thick red fabric, providing darkness that only the dim light from the chandelier penetrates. The woman, which I assume is Serenity, leads me down a red carpeted hallway lined with dark doors. Finally she pulls up in front of the only door that is marked. Etched in the rectangle of brass is the carefully crafted letters spelling out the Little Bird. This must be her daughters room. Serenity knocks once, but when no one answers she turns the metal doorknob and enters the room. I blink a few times when we enter, the room is much brighter than the rest of the house. The curtains have been thrown open, the Crystal chandelier on full brightness. The room is large, the walls splattered with crude paintings of multicolored birds in flight. The large canopied bed takes up at least half the room. It’s much bigger than my room at home. I find myself looking for the girl I’m supposed to sit. Serenity looks calmly at the room as if I should be seeing something that I don’t. Then I see her, sitting in a nook close to the window. Her small hands are pressed to the glass, as if she can’t get enough of the heat. Her frail body I’d curled in a ball, she looks as if she hasn’t eaten in a while, unlike her mother who looked like she’s never missed a meal in her life, on the contrary she’s probably had one too many. From the back the only resemblance to her mother that I see is the long dark hair.

“Palila, your sitter is here.” The girl doesn’t move, nor does she answer. Serenity doesn’t look the least bit concerned about this. “I’m going to leave, then. Emma’s going to be here for the next few days.” Palila drops her hands from the window and wraps them tightly around herself. Then whispers in a low voice.

“Goodbye mother.” Serenity looks satisfied. She turns to me and hands me half of my pay, promising to pay the other half when she returns. Then she leaves. No hugs for her daughter, no “I love you” and no instructions for me to follow. With no clue as to what I’m supposed to do I sit on the edge of Palilas bed, watching as her pale hands trace careful circles of the backs of her arms. I fold my hands in my lap, encasing the crisp money Serenity gave me. The silence is so thick it’s almost tangible. Palila makes no noise, it almost sounds as if she isn’t breathing. It takes me a moment to realize I’m holding my breath.

“So, what would you like to do?” She doesn’t look at me, just sighs and rests her chin on her forearms.

“If in some way I benefit from you, I suggest you tell me now. It’s not to late to call my mother and tell her you quit.” She says calmly, reciting almost as if she’s had to say this many times before. The way she says it is eerie, and I can tell most people would probably have left by now. But not me. I refuse to give up. “I’m not going.” I say firmly. I can see in the dim reflection of the window that Palila raises her eyebrows. I’ve passed a test. I can’t help thinking. Although this girl is much younger than me she seems wise, or at least knolagedable. She knows things I don’t. My friends would tell me I’m being ridiculous. That there is no way a skinny girl looking out a window would be testing me. “Your not here to take care of me, are you?” The question takes me off guard. It rings with truth, though. Although I’ve told myself I’m coming here for the job, and the job only. I know that the only reason I didn’t bail out and run instead of pressing the doorbell is because I want to know this house. I want to find its secrets. I’ve had actual dreams of entering this house, actual visions of what might be awaiting me inside. And here I am. It might all just be a fantasy I made up so I could solve a mystery, but I need to know. I don’t know how Palila knew this, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of telling her she was right. If I’m going to be in charge I need to start acting like it. “I came here for the job and the added bonus of getting payed.” I try to look annoyed at the question, or indifferent, or anything but guilty of a lie. But for all my best efforts, she doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it drop. “Okay, then I want you to read to me.” For some reason it seems like a strange request. I look around the room, then realize why. “There are no books.” I say. Palila has shelves lining two of the four walls, but instead of volumes stacked high on them there are only birds. Not real ones of course, but figures. Some clay, others folded from paper, some even look like taxidermy. It’s an odd choice of decoration unless you are completely obsessed with the winged creatures. But I don’t think Pilala is. Despite the name on her door and the birds lining the shelves, there is no other thing in the room that has any indication to the fact that Palila is a bird fanatic. “Of course there aren’t. We have to go to the library.” That makes sense. I feel a bit disappointed. I hadn’t even realized I been hoping for a mystery. I’m about to voice the question of where the library is, when Palila jumps up from her place on the ground and she makes her way out of the room. She makes an effort to keep her face turned away from mine, and as I follow her down the hall I can’t help wondering why. Down the hall, a right, a left, a pair of staircases, another left, stop. Palila pushes open the heavy oak door to the library. I gasp as we enter the big room. Every wall is lined with bookshelves along with six rows of them down the length of the room. Every available space is piled with books. Books of every color and shape, every size and thickness. The titles varied in font, color, and language. I can’t help thinking how much my father would have loved this. Then I shut down the thought, remembering I’m not to speak, hope, or even think of him anymore. As I follow Palila down one of the isles she instructs me on the kind of book she wants to read. “A big book, not to big. A red book but not shiny. One with a long title but no T’s.” The requirements seem weird and unnecessary for picking a book. But I scour the boom shelves anyway, for one that fits the bill. After what feels like an eternity, when I feel like even a book lover will have gotten tired of looking at book spines, I see one. It’s a beautiful matte red, like the color of blood without the shine. It’s about as thick as my three middle fingers out together and the title is five words long, with no letter T. In small golden letters it reads. When in darkness calls bird. I put my fingers in it to pull it out, but Palila grabs my wrist. I look at her, and she doesn’t hide her face this time. Her eyes unnerve me, sending a shiver up my spine. They are darker than any eyes I’ve ever seen, and they glimmer as the light reflects off of them. They’re unnatural. Almost as if they are holes that lead to nothing, or maybe they lead to everything but there’s no light to see what lies there. I want to scream, I want to run, I want to go home as fast as I can, but I regain my composure and give Palila a questioning look.

“Not that one.” She says sternly. I begin to object, but she takes my face between her hands, staring me down with those endless eyes. “Never that one, never.”

End Of Part One


“ You gonna stab me with those scissors ?” “ Yes. Yes I am ,” I quipped.

“ I’m going to puncture your flesh with dozens of wounds. I’m thinking I’ll fashion a very large and extremely conspicuous pattern on your torso. Maybe a pentagram. Maybe a peace sign. I haven’t decided yet. Then I’m going to cut you up into tiny little pieces with these very same scissors. I’ll do it slowly. One tiny hair or fragment at a time. I’ll really relish the process. Then I’ll dispose of each individual specimen in a solitary and extremely isolated location. A random bear or wolf will pause briefly for a sniff. But they’ll mosey on when they realize there’s nothing notable to snack on. And why will I do this? Simply because I’m bored. And mostly because you’re annoying .” Lars squinted at me suspiciously, like he was fully expecting me to launch my attack imminently. I stared back for ten, maybe fifteen, seconds awaiting a verbal response. But he said nothing. We’ve been together for two years and it’s like this man doesn’t even know me at all. “ Jesus Christ, Lars! Obviously, I’m not going to stab you with these scissors. It couldn’t be more obvious that I’m cleaning up and putting things away. And one of the many things you left out on the counter…for the millionth time…was this pair of scissors.” Lars shrugged and walked away. Presumably, he was off to make a mess in another room that I would have to clean up later. Lars never tidied up after himself. Not the grease he splattered all over the stove when he fried a pound of bacon. Not the towel he dropped on the bathroom floor after his shower when he no longer had any use for it. Not the dozens of pebbles he carried in via the deep treads in his running shoes every single day, several times a day, when he took the dog out. No mess ever seemed to faze him.

Lars had clearly picked the wrong girl when he chose me as his girlfriend – a woman who is constantly aggrieved by filth and chaos. Actually, maybe he had chosen exactly the

right  girl. I started folding the mound of laundry Lars had hastily dumped on the couch three days prior. At this point, he was just using the living room as his dressing room, discarding dirty clothes on one end of the couch, then picking up something from the pile of clean clothes on the other end of the couch to wear each day. He had a system. It worked. For him. “ Are you going to come out here and help me fold your damn laundry?”  I yelled, then added, “ Or am I going to have to throw it all in the fire pit, douse it with lighter fluid, and toss in a match?” Under my breath, I continued, “ If I accidentally spill some of that lighter fluid on the deck, the whole house is going up in flames, with you in it. Just thought you might want to be aware of the potential consequences of your actions. ” “Y ou say something ?” Lars asked as he passed through the living room to take the dog out. “ No, I didn’t. I didn’t say anything at all. You’re amazing honey. I love cleaning up after you so, so much ,” I responded. “ That’s what I thought you said ,” Lars said distractedly. He raised the pitch of his voice a couple of octaves and squealed, “ Come here girl ,” followed by a whistle and several taps of his hand on a thigh. He was taking our puppy, Clara, out for her afternoon pee.

“ By all means, get her so excited she starts tap dancing and peeing all over the floor I just mopped. I live for that ,” I snapped. Lars ignored me and picked up a wiggling and writhing Clara, mid-pee, ensuring that her pee not only got all over the floor, but also on the living room rug, the corner of the couch, and the new door mat on the way out.

Back to the kitchen I went to get the broom (for the incoming pebbles), the mop (for the floor pee), the laundry basket (for the wet throw rug and doormat), and a wet rag to wipe down the couch. “ My life is so amazing ,” I muttered, “ I get to clean the house all day long, every single day. What could possibly be better than this?” Abruptly, an out-of-breath Lars ripped open the front door with the puppy squeezed tightly in his folded arms, stepped inside, and slammed the door shut behind him. “ That wasn’t at all dramatic ,” I quipped. “ There’s a huge raccoon out there, eyeing little Miss Clara for lunch ,” Lars replied. We live in a rural area, so an occasional wild animal never surprises me. They never fail to surprise the hell out of Lars. He’s a big-city boy, born and raised. I smiled, “ Raccoons. Yes. They are terrifying. Did you know they can actually murder humans? ” Lars looked at me quizzically, but my ensuing laughter gave me away. He put Clara down. Then he hung his coat up on a hook and, without removing his shoes, walked through the living room and into the bedroom to lay down and rest from his

exhausting  encounter with the wild kingdom. I sighed and got to work on the new round of pebbles scattered all over the floor. Forty-five minutes later, when I was finally relaxing on the couch, remote in hand, and mentally buried in a true-crime mystery show, Lars strolled out of the bedroom. “ I’ve been thinking …” he started. “ Oh no. How did that go for you?"

“ Actually, it went quite well. I think. I think...we should get married ,” he said with a smile as he got down on one knee and produced a ring box from his pocket. “ Of course we should get married ,” I responded. “ I can’t think of anything I’d love more than cleaning up after you for the rest of my life and protecting you from gweat big scawy wild animals .” “ That’s what I thought you’d say ,” Lars replied as he slipped the ring on my finger and kissed me on my forehead.


Anna smiled at Euan and Euan smiled back. An inexplicable wave of emotions rushed through her, like a dangerous torrent crashing through a riverbed. At first, she thought she imagined his smile but the wink he gave her after cast away any doubts. Trying to compose herself, Anna cleared her throat and shyly turned away from his crystal blue gaze but knew deep down that there was no fooling him.

They sat across one another in a circle with three other friends who were happily chatting away, oblivious to the flirting going on under their noses.

 The afternoon was beautiful and warm in stark contrast to the day before where it had rained throughout. Emerging from the confines of the previous day, The Meadows was packed with crowds basking in the last days of the clear and glorious sunshine while they still could. The vast park was filled with people playing golf on one side and tennis on the other with a few amateur funambulists between the trees.

Not too far away, Anna noticed a homeless man lying on the neatly trimmed grass, his hands behind his head and eyes closed as he bathed in the summer sun.

Smiling to herself, Anna’s playful imagination began working its magic by trying to concoct a story- his story. It was a childhood habit of hers to come up with ludicrous and often far-fetched life stories of strangers she deemed interesting. This habit had carried on into her adult years and showed no signs of stopping. The fedora he had on, coupled with his imperial moustache made him look like a detective in the likes of Poirot. She imagined he was undercover right now, pretending to be asleep whilst secretly spying on someone a few feet away. He was probably a loner who socialized only out of necessity, not need and his abode was probably cluttered with books and other oddities. Also, his puffer jacket screamed eccentricity while his-.

He scratched the side of his nose and as if a spell had been broken, Anna came back to reality. Undeterred, she averted her gaze to a boisterous group of college students who had a posh air about them. Anna couldn't tell if it was the clothes they wore or their accents that made her think this way. There was an uptightness to their behaviour which she found abhorrent but also quite comical. One of them was shirtless, clearly flaunting his toned body to whoever would pay attention. He caught Anna looking at him and gave her a sly smile. In response, Anna cocked an eyebrow and turned away deciding not to come up with a story for them.

         Her eyes went back to Euan, who had joined in on the conversation with the rest of the group. They were finalising their plans for tonight to view Collie’s comet which had been the talk of the news over the last few days.

        Cited as the ‘event of the century’, it would be the closest a comet had come to Earth in a hundred years and visible to the naked eye.

         The hype surrounding it was unbelievable. Gatherings and events were being held all over the city because of it. Even schools and offices were closing earlier than usual.

           "Anna?"            "Huh?" Anna looked up to see her best friend and the rest of the group facing her.

         "Are you alright there, darling?" Charlotte asked with a slight frown.

         "What do you mean?" Anna asked.           "I’ve asked you three times already if you’ll be joining us, babe!”            Anna felt herself turn a deep shade of red and looked down. The group burst into light laughter while Euan looked on, amused. She quickly collected herself after her initial embarrassment faded.             Surely she could go with them to the beach to view the comet. She hadn’t been out for a while due to her hectic work schedule and could use some downtime. Plus, Euan would be there.

             “I guess I could. Or wait-.”              She stopped short and her heart sank as she recalled the promise she made to Jo the previous day.

             Jo was an elderly woman Anna befriended over a year ago. They met while volunteering for a charity and struck up a friendship which continued well after Jo’s knee operation had left her inert.

              Jo was no ordinary elderly lady: born in Ethiopia and brought up all over the world, she still had the spunk of a teenager and could swear like a sailor when angered. Her life story was fascinating as well- from backpacking alone in Egypt in the 1960s as a young woman to meeting the likes of Freddie Mercury as a roadie, she was truly one of a kind. Jo’s husband had passed away two years ago and her sons were down south with their own families. Unable to discover and explore the world as easily as she once could, Anna had become her main source of friendship.

            Anna felt guilt overcome her like a crashing tsunami. She thought of how disappointed Jo would be if she cancelled their plans to have dinner and view the comet together. On the spot, she decided there would be a compromise. She would have dinner with Jo and join her friends at the beach just in time for the comet. Surely Jo would understand her decision.

"I'll probably join you guys but I need to check in with someone first," Anna responded after a while. "Ohh, who are we talking about here?" Sibo asked, jokingly. His big frame jiggled with every word he said. He had to be the first one to learn the latest gossip.

"Just a friend," Anna replied succinctly. She checked her watch to see it was already past six in the evening. If she planned on hanging out with her friends, she couldn't afford to be late for dinner with Jo. "Right guys, I have to run. I'll keep you posted-," "I'll walk you to the traffic lights," Euan announced and got up just as she did. The group looked at one another in bemused silence, then broke into hysterics. It wasn’t that hard to tell what was going on.

Anna blushed but Euan remained composed, a wide smile spread on his chiselled face. His blue eyes sparkled as his eyes rested on Anna and with a slight head tilt, beckoned her to follow him. She did so obediently, with a small goodbye to the rest of their friends as they teased them from behind.

They walked in silence for a few meters, trying their best to avoid stepping on the people enjoying their summer afternoon. A dachshund rushed past with a ball in his mouth and did a small circle around them before racing back to its owner. This jovial sight was enough to break the ice. "The red dress suits your brown eyes, you know," Euan remarked, as they reached the outskirts of the park. "You look quite lovely today, actually. I thought I should let you know that." Their flirting had been going on for a while now, but nothing had happened so far. She assumed Euan was just as shy as she was but that thought changed in a second. Before she knew it, Anna's back was against a big oak tree, inches away from Euan’s tall frame.

He bent over and kissed her gently. He was a good kisser, probably one of the best she’d ever locked lips with. He smelled of citrus and vanilla, one of her favourite combinations.

He’s perfect. A few more seconds passed before Euan broke away. They looked into each other’s eyes, smiling. Euan was about to reach in for another kiss when he felt something light and wet touch him. He pulled back and looked around, and couldn’t believe what he saw.

“Is it snowing ?” he asked puzzled. Anna opened her mouth in shock. In their moment of bliss, they hadn’t noticed the sun hiding and the clouds darkening above them. The snowfall was gradually becoming heavier, forming a white carpet on the earth. A chilly wind blew against them and immediately, Euan protectively wrapped his arms around Anna. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Yes, thank you. I can’t believe it’s snowing in the middle of August!” “Neither can I.”

He looked down at her, a dashing smile still on his face.

"Please come tonight?" he whispered. Anna nodded. She wouldn’t miss tonight for the world.                                                     * Jo had been more than understanding about Anna’s change of plans. In fact, she scolded her for still coming to dinner when she should have been on her way to the beach. “Anna! I’m grateful for all the time you spend with me but my dear, never do that again! You’re young. Live your life to the fullest!” With Jo’s blessing, Anna headed down to the beach and joined the others just in time to see the comet. The beach was just as packed as the park had been. The weather turned chilly and people were dressed in a combination of summer and winter clothing, still in shock from the sudden weather change. The snow was still falling and small bonfires were ubiquitous. Anna was silently grateful to Jo for the winter jacket she’d gotten as she left. It fit her petite figure perfectly.

“Took you long enough babe!” Charlotte said happily as she saw Anna making her way down the snow-covered sand to join them at the shoreline. “You made it just in time for the start!” Anna smiled but her mind was elsewhere. Where was Euan? Just then, she felt an arm around her shoulder and looked up to see him beside her. “You made it,” he said. “I did,” was the response. They were just about to kiss when a sudden squeal of astonishment made them look up to the sky.

The comet had arrived right on time and was making its way boldly through the starry night sky leaving a trail of glitter in its path. Anna watched it wide-eyed and marvelled at its astonishing beauty. It felt surreal looking at it and even more so sharing it with someone special.

All around, people gazed in wonder at the sky. The ‘wows’ formed a chorus everywhere.

But then, something happened. The comet made a sharp turn from its original route and was coming closer and closer towards them. At first, the astonished voices grew louder but soon turned into shrieks of horror as people realised what was happening. Anna was too shocked to move until she felt Euan pull her away.

“Anna! Let’s go!” he shouted. It can’t be , Anna thought. “Anna! Come on!” It really can’t be real: Euan, the comet, the snow. It just can’t be real. All of this has to be a dream.


As always, Claire stopped by her favourite café to get her morning coffee. When she gets into the café, she thinks she saw a familiar figure. She was sure it was him, even though his back was turned to her. She wished she was wrong, that her mind was playing games to her, but then he turned around and their eyes met. She would recognize those eyes anywhere she saw them. That was really Marcus. After all these years she never thought they would meet again, but here he was right in front of her. She stood there for a while not daring to move a finger. They looked at each other then Marcus slowly walked towards her. She thought maybe he would talk to her, but he passed her by and get out of the café. She brushed it off and ordered her coffee.

Claire was disappointed when Marcus didn’t talk to her at the café, but now she was angry with him and also with herself. She was angry with him because years ago he pushed her away without any reason. He distanced himself until they were two strangers. She tried so hard to save their friendship, but the more she tried the more he distanced himself. After a long time, Claire got tired of being the only person who tries to save their friendship and she gave up on him. She was angry with herself because even after years she still wanted him to be her friend again. Even after everything he had done, she still cared for him. She felt so stupid for thinking he would talk to her.

She wondered what had gone wrong between them. They were close friends once. They met at school. Both of them had different friend groups, but somehow, they got close. What brought them closer was that both of them hid behind their masks when they were with their friends. They drove each other mad, teased each other, and told each other things that they told anyone. She can spot him anywhere even in the crowd. They were two peas in a pod. It was impossible to see them apart from each other. She believed they will always be friends, but now she knew it wasn’t true.

Claire wondered every day after the end of their friendship, if he thought about the times, they were friends. Did he miss her like she missed him? Did their friendship mean anything to him? He was the one who ended their friendship without any explanation. Maybe, he didn’t care about her at all or their friendship. Whenever this thought come to her mind, she brushed it off. That can’t be true. They have shared their deepest darkest secrets. Why would he tell her the things he hid from everyone if he didn’t care about her. Since the day he started to ignore her, she was driving herself insane. She was lost in her mind, and that didn’t change even now.

Sometimes she wished they never met because if they never met, she wouldn’t be hurt and confused. She hated him for ignoring her and distancing himself from her. She hated even after all this time she still loved him. She hated being able to spot him anywhere she saw him. She hated everything about him. But that was a lie, and she knew that. No matter how many times she said she hates him, she still loved him and missed their friendship more than anything.

It was unfair when she was so broken, he continued his life like nothing happened. Every time after that day, she saw him, he looked so unaffected by the end of their friendship. It was still like that. He broke something in her and it didn’t heal. Even now she was still broken. He moved on but she didn’t. How could she? It was easy for him. He was the one who ended their friendship. He made up his mind and that was it. But it was different for her. One day the person she can tell anything, started to ignore her and treated her like a stranger. It was hard for her to accept he didn’t want to be her friend anymore. Why did he stop talking with her? Did she do something wrong? Was he just using her? There were a million questions on her mind, and she couldn’t answer any of them. There was one person who can answer them, and he didn’t say a word to her. The question she wanted to know the answer was why? That was the question that drove her mad. The only question she never had been able to answer. She hated that question, but also, she wanted the answer to that question.   Claire left all of this in the past. Now she had a good life. She was doing her dream job. She had a nice place and good friends. After years she was really happy, and everything was great in her life. She never thought about Marcus until this morning. Out of the blue, her past decided to haunt her. Seeing Marcus brought old memories back. The memories started to fade away.   Isn’t it strange sometimes the person you loved most and who you thought will always be there for you becomes the person who hurts you most and leaves you all alone when you need them, she thought. When Marcus came into her life, he made her happy and helped her to be proud of every part of her. When he walked out of her life it broke her. Claire thought she will never be happy, but she put herself together. She took every part of her life and put it together. She still loved Marcus and missed him, which she will probably always do, but she realized she didn’t need him, and she will never need him in her life. She was thankful for the good times they had. She knew they will never be friends again, and that was okay. They weren’t meant to be friends. She would never forget him like he would never forget her. Sometimes the beginning and the end are the same. You start as two strangers and end up as two strangers.


As it turns out, leaving was the easy part. When my not exactly beloved husband confided that he was going to take the considerable funds the Vatican had endowed him with to go and slay the heretics in Protestant Europe (in God’s Holy name, of course), I agreed to follow him into hiding in Italy for a lack of better options for myself.

When I asked him about the undoubtedly elaborated ruse he’d devised to sneak me off the estate, he burst out laughing and took several long and deliberate moments to compose himself. “Are you serious?” he gasped with what I felt was an unnecessary and impolite amount of mirth.

‘It’ll take them days, if not weeks to realize you’re even gone! We'll probably be well settled in Italy before anyone even thinks to check your chambers for signs of life.” He wiped his eyes and took a long sip of his wine. Even as the wife of a dashing knight off to slay the heretics, my standing in our household and the kingdom ranked somewhere below the dogs and (possibly) above the hogs. And so it was that I found myself on the open road with my renegade knight, traveling under the cover of darkness to some mysterious underground world in Italy that he had yet to fully explain to me. That's how I came to make the acquaintance of Father Ferro, one of the first fellow refugees and purest souls I’d meet on our adventure. As a young cleric, Father Ferro had displayed the type of blind idealism and bottomless empathy that had made him both a joke and something of a subtle threat among his fellow Jesuits. Unlike the vast majority of his brothers in the Church and members of the flock, Father Ferro saw love, peace, and joy as the deep heart of the Gospel - where the rest saw war, violence, and conquest. Father Ferro, bless his poor misguided soul, was a true believer.

His unwavering faith, and unwillingness to "just shut the fuck up about it" as his Bishop had informed him, was the catalyst for a cosmic chain of events that had put us together in an errant fugitive camp in search for safety and freedom in Italy.

Father Ferro’s problems started when he decided to speak up and suggest what he thought was an obvious solution to the ongoing bloodshed between the Catholics and Protestants. “So what you’re saying is that we should just be cowards and let the heretics win?,” his superiors had roared when he opined that retaliatory murder was probably not what Jesus had in mind when he asked us to turn the other cheek. He’d had the sense to bring it up at the weekly card game, wrongly assuming that the wine and Church sanctioned usury and money changing might have softened their spirits towards a gentler view of their neighbors and fellow Christians (even if they were “sour faced Germanic fucking blasphemers.")

But before Father Ferro could ask for penance and live to preach his heresy to another congregation of God’s bloodthirsty little lambs, he found himself on a ship bound for the New World. “He’ll be perfect among the savages,” the Cardinal laughed, “they won’t understand a word that comes out of his mouth!” As Father Ferro quietly told me his story over the campfire that first night, I struggled to imagine how such a gentle and earnest soul had managed to survive the wrath of the Church, let alone the New World. He had the soft, delicate voice of a healer and deep, warm brown eyes that suggested they had once brimmed with light and joy which had since been snuffed out by sadness and terror.

“The truth is I wanted to go to the New World,” he said, shyly taking a sip as I passed him my jug of wine. “I saw it as a fresh start, and a real opportunity to spread the Gospel in its truest form.”

As a boy in Portugal, Father Ferro’s young soul had been consumed by two things: fishing and the Bible. He saw himself as a fisher of men, a humble apostle modeled in the image of our Lord himself. Poor bastard. I instantly knew that his story wasn’t going to end well.

Despite a difficult journey, full of stormy seas and darkness which Father Ferro obediently and joyfully accepted as an obligatory passage through Purgatory (of course), his Faith and obedience was confirmed when he first set eyes on the shores of the New World - nothing short of paradise on Earth, the manifestation of God’s master design and love for His people. However his shipmates and fellow clergymen saw it differently of course. Despite the fact that what little of what I’d heard about the New World suggested that the heathens possessed mathematical, design, and construction skills far superior to our own, the pilgrims saw such inexplicable (to them) technological and cultural advancements as a sign that the New Worlders were surely in cahoots with the devil. But even Father Ferro’s idealism had its limits, and he soon came to realize that his vision of a community of believers sitting together at one table breaking bread and wine as equals in Christ, was not in line with his companions' own ideas about their place in this new land. Father Ferro didn’t view his role so much as a conqueror, but more as a humble teacher, willing and eager to welcome his new brothers and sisters to the faith just as Jesus Himself had done when he broke bread with the whores and tax collectors.

Sickened to his soul by what he was witnessing, Father Ferro took to the shore one afternoon to take a walk to pray and be alone with God to gather his thoughts. He found a spot by the sea where the shade of the strange new world trees were punctuated by angles of sunlight, giving the water a glistening, celestial effect. He took out his precious rosary beads, which were as priceless in sentimental value as they were in worldly value. They were made from precious antique pearls, a gift from his beloved grandmother and the only person who hadn’t treated him with contempt and slit eyed suspicion when he’d shown more interest in prayer and women’s jewelry as a boy than in boyhood games of war and domestic violence. (What Father Ferro didn’t know was that the only reason he’d been admitted to the priesthood in the first place was because his beloved grandmother had struck a quiet deal with the parish to bequeath her impressive jewelry collection, which was rumored to include a few royal gifts, on the condition that they accept her Francisco and allow him to keep his pearls).

Caught up in a state of near rapture at the memory of his beloved grandmother and the feel of the beads through his fingers and the familiar words of the Rosary on his lips, Father Ferro failed to notice the arrival of a young native man who stood and watched him with what looked like amusement (though the knuckles on the hand grasping his spear were white with anticipation). Father Ferro jumped up and brushed the sand from his frock, bending to pick up his beads in a swift movement that the boy must have mistaken for a bow. Father Ferro held out the beads as something of a symbolic peace offering, hoping for the Virgin Mother’s intercession on behalf of himself and his new friend.

The boy reached out for the beads and ran them through his fingers with clear admiration (in addition to building complex cities the “savages” were also expert craftspeople with a keen eye for finery.) He handed the beads back to Father Ferro and motioned for him to follow him. He told me that he felt great shame for the instant of panic that consumed him as he considered that the boy might harm him. But as our Savior entered the leper colony, so too would he, Father Francisco Ferro, a mere servant of God. The boy led him to what looked like a massive outdoor banquet, the likes of which Father Ferro had never seen back on the continent. Men, women, children, old, young, and in between were celebrating together, without obvious demarcations of rank, wealth, or status. Some eyed Father Ferro warily, but he felt no malice or danger.

The boy held out his hand for the rosary and showed it to a poised older woman wearing several elaborate pieces of her own. They passed the rosary beads around, shaking their heads with what Father Ferro interpreted as admiration. He couldn’t believe his luck!

This could be nothing but divine intervention, a sign that the table of God’s banquet was set here on earth and open to all of them, Christian and heathen alike! At this point in the story, Father Ferro’s demeanor changed and he took a deeper sip of the wine, without bothering to apologize or feign temperance. He handed it back to me and stared into the fire, as if the next part of the story was dancing inside the flames. “That’s when they presented me with the gift,” he said, his voice cracking as if he was choking back tears. “They call it cacao, an almost mystical type of bean plant for its value as both a delicacy and a form of currency they used to trade. It was unbelievable! Some pieces were carved into exquisite mini artworks, while it was also drank as a dark and creamy nectar. It was the closest I’ve ever come to witnessing alchemy firsthand." He crossed himself for good measure. “But I knew that God led me to my new friends for a reason, and the cacao was a gift, and as such accepting it as their humble servant was a sign of respect." He took another long sip of wine. "And that’s when the first wave of torches appeared.” Father Ferro broke down in tears, and it took great patience and more wine to coax the rest of the story out of him. Unbeknownst to him, the Jesuits were having him followed for evidence that his loyalties did not lie with the Crown (heavenly or otherwise).

Father Ferro was charged with “fraternization with heathens” and immediately arrested. His new friends appeared confused at first, and barely had time to run as Father Ferro was dragged away and the torches began to burn everything in their path. He was dragged back to their camp through a wave of black smoke, and eventually put back on the ship back to Spain, where he would undoubtedly face a smoky and fiery death of his own. (The irony of what was probably the only two actual virgins in our camp being sent into exile for fraternization and fornication wasn’t lost on me, but I decided to keep that to myself.) Tossed below deck like a common criminal, Father Ferro told me that he cried so hard and so long that he thought he’d flood and sink the ship with his own tears.

He had actually believed for a moment that he and his new friends had found the recipe for utopia in the New World, bringing the peace, joy, and brotherly love of the Gospel to life with a pair of rosary beads and an exotic sweet liquid bean plant that could also be used as money.

He had touched it; he had tasted it. He was so lost in his grief and consumed by longing that he swore he could actually smell the cacao. How could something so sweet, so unifying, be “tokens of the devil’s currency” as his accusers had called it? How could his soul "already be in hell” simply by touching and tasting the cacao? After a short and fitful sleep, Father Ferro woke up to find that the smell of cacao was stronger than before. That’s when he noticed a wide crack between two of the wooden slats in the floor where some hungry rats had attempted to fill their bloated stomachs. He peeked through the slats and couldn’t believe his eyes. Hundreds if not thousands of cases of the cacao stacked three and four deep! It seemed the “devil’s currency” was not too evil or corrupting to be relieved from its rightful owners and put onto the ship for passage back to Spain. Or maybe they were just transporting the evidence back for Father Ferro’s trial? I took a very long gulp of wine and silently passed the jug back to my new friend.


Henry doesn’t remember how he ended up here, walking in a forest at night, without a phone or anything. Being led by an orange tabby cat, with the sense he should follow it. He was going somewhere; he knew that much. Where or why, he has no clue only that he needs to get there, urgently. He scans his surroundings, pine trees stretching over him menacing, their branches giving off shadows that resemble hands reaching out. No moon in sight, but the shining stars in the midnight blue sky, with enough light that he's not walking blindly in the dark. And able to see the cat clearly to notice the whites of his paws and chest leading to his under belly, his dark orange stripes on his body and around his face. The cat is not his; he knows that too, he also knows it's a boy cat. The forest and the orange tabby are not familiar to him. The cat struts ahead, his movements fluid and dainty, as cats are, with an air of superiority and in no hurry. His orange tail is down, swaying back and forth. Henry wonders if he died or is hallucinating to be expecting a cat to rescue him out of the forest. He tries to rack his brain for information, but comes up blank, can't even remember when the cat first appeared. He blows out a sigh, running his hands through his hair, glancing around him. Henry shakes his head, chuckling to himself, wondering why he's still following this cat. As if he's in a child's fairy tale, on a quest to save the world. He stops, turning back around- Stop. Henry spins around, searching, but finds no one. He cast his eyes down, blue eyes staring back at him. The orange tabby tilts his head, unblinking, the black pupils thin vertical lines. Henry frowns, squinting back up into the forest. He heard someone; it was male's voice, it sounded close by. The person said stop. "Hello? Anyone there?" Henry asked, walking past the tabby. "Can you help me? I'm lost." Yes. I can help if you follow me. Henry doesn't need to look back to know who’s talking to him. His stomach drops, his blood turns to ice, and his heart speeds up. He closes his eyes, telling himself he's not crazy. That this must be a dream. Yes, surely a dream, or he had too much to drink and passed out. Except he's never been a big drinker, or does drugs, besides eating a few laced brownies as a teen. Are you going to stand there all night, or do you want me to lead you out of here? Henry gets the overwhelming feeling he should keep following the cat. But why? He holds in the urge to shout, to burst out laughing, and slap himself. He's gone crazy, or maybe he was already crazy. Either way, he decides that if he is crazy, or this is a dream, he might as well follow the orange cat. The orange talking cat. Before he turns around, Henry inhales, clenching his hands, his feet scraping the dirt as he turns. Two sets of glowing eyes stare back at him. The cat is sitting on his hind legs, his head still tilted, unblinking. An irrational sense of fear and danger hits Henry straight in the chest. Henry feels as if his soul is on display, being judged by a cat that doesn't blink, unnaturally still. Henry shifts from foot to foot, unable to tear his eyes away, the tabby's own sucking him in. The blue glowing eyes unnerve Henry, causing him to take a step back, but then tells himself that it's normal. The darkness makes it seem like they're glowing, but it's just the light reflecting on them, because the cat is a nocturnal animal. Nothing creepy about that. Yet, the feeling doesn't leave him, and he doesn't understand why he has the feeling. The tabby gets up, blinks once, twitches his nose and makes his way towards Henry, who is holding his breath, still as a statue. The cat rubs against Henry's leg, from his head to his tail. His tail wraps around Henry's ankle before letting go. He glides past Henry, staring straight ahead. Follow me. Henry unlocks his muscles and follows the cat, shaking his head for being freaked out by a damn cat. But, he keeps his distance between them, half of his brain telling him the cat is dangerous and the other half, that the cat is helping him. If only he knew how he got here and why. Henry rubs his temple, a headache coming on. Great, he thinks, what else could go wrong? Passing by a tree, he stretches his arm, knocking on wood. At least it's not cold, wearing only jean pants and a t-shirt. He frowns, realizing he should be, it was autumn. Henry stops in his tracks, eyes wide as he remembers something. It was autumn; the leaves should be shades of brown, orange, and red, not green. He looks around him, seeing green everywhere. The leaves, bushes, and grass. The air is warm and filled with fragrance from flowers that have bloomed too. It's springtime here. Something else, he realized, spinning back to the cat. He wasn't talking out loud. The cat was talking in his head telepathically. Henry groans, shooting pain exploding in his head. He shuts his eyes, pressing his hands to his forehead. Don't stop. Keep walking. Henry opens one eye. The cat is watching him, unblinking, the pupils of his eyes becoming thinner against the sparkling blue. His left ear twitches, turns his head and continues. Henry goes after him, the heel of his palm on his forehead, pressing down. Henry squints in the forest, keeping his eyes down. It's darker in this part of the forest, he could barely see the trees. Nothing more than tall dark shapes. He glances at the cat. The urge to run from it still yells at him. "Where are you taking me?" Henry asks. The cat keeps walking, not acknowledging Henry as he steps over a twig. Henry watches his tail flicking back and forth, getting distracted. Does it matter, as long as he gets out? Goes home, to his one bedroom, small, expensive apartment in New York City. Noise from all directions, honking and shouting in the streets below, footsteps above him, and the muffle sounds from his neighbor’s next door. To walk down the corner of his street, avoiding getting trampled by a hoard of people in a hurry, oblivious to others around them, their mind set on arriving at their destination. To wait in a line in a coffee shop to buy an eight-dollar cup of coffee. All he wants is to go home, to the city that he loves. Henry halts, his heart increasing. He lives in New York. In the city, miles from a forest. Something shouts at him to run from the cat. The cat will only lead him to danger. The pain comes back, hitting him like a boulder. We're almost there. Don't stop now. Henry clutches his head, almost collapsing from the pain. He gazes up; the cat sitting and staring at him again, his tail curling around his legs, lifting and falling. His yellow eyes unblinking. Doesn't his eyes ever blink, Henry wonders? They just stare at him, through him, luring him. The cat sits up, studying Henry, before he bolts. His shape disappearing in the shadows. Something compels Henry to run after the tabby. The cat will bring him back home, he's sure of that. He runs after it, before a feeling tells him not to. Henry screams, standing still, looking between where the cat went and behind him. Henry doesn't know what to do, who to trust, where he is. He knows nothing. He just wants to leave this place. Henry burst out laughing suddenly, running his hands through his hair and tugging them. He's insane, that's it, none of this is real, it's all his imagination. He's in a coma, this is a dream, he's high, imagining this all. Follow me. I will lead you to safety. Henry twists his head to see the cat walking away from him, his orange tail swaying. Henry numbly goes after him. He follows a few feet, narrowing his eyes to see the ground in front of him. He trips on a rock, catching himself on a tree. Henry rights himself, and stares into the dark. He gasps, realizing the forest has not just become darker to see from the trees blocking out the sky, but that the forest is darker. The green from the leaves is the color of ebony, the trunks are blending from brown to charcoal, the brown dirt grows darker. And they changed not only the color, the forest is morphing into an empty pitch black space. Follow me. The cat is standing in the middle of the darkness, the orange and cream color of his fur sticking out, calling Henry with his eyes. Henry's feet inches forward, his left hand drops to his side, but stops. He steps back, his face pale, the sound of blood pumping in his ears. He bumps into the tree, gripping the trunk, his chest rising and falling. The cat walks forward, his eyes burning through Henry. Henry turns away, running. He looks back to see two pairs of yellow eyes chasings him. Yellow eyes that were blue. The cat had blue eyes. The pupils are gone too, only yellow glowing eyes. Henry pumps his legs faster, twisting his head back every often, dread washing over him. The tabby chases after him, paws pushing him forward, his movements agile. Henry trips over his feet, hitting the ground hard, his right shoulder taking the blunt. He lifts his head, watching behind him as the orange and white of the fur turn jet-black, his limbs disappearing, losing the cat shape of his body. Transforming into a shadow, growing and becoming solid. But the eyes stay the same glowing yellow. Unblinking. Holding Henry in place. Henry shakes his head, breaking the hold on him, and scrambles to his feet. Eyes darting around, he watched in horror as the forest transformed into an abyss. Henry screams, but they get swollen up into nothingness. He looks over his shoulder in time to see the shadow reaching out, scratching Henry's left leg. Henry falls over, crawling to his hand and knees, getting up. He runs faster and faster, not looking back anymore. He could feel the shadow on his hills, he could feel the intensity of his eyes locked on him. Henry is in an abyss, running with nowhere to hide and no way out. Tears fall down his face, mixing with his sweat, his legs burning, panting for air, shouting that he wants to go home. The shadow lashes out, shedding his shirt, and nothing else, missing him. Henry loses his balance, though, falling over again. He keeps falling and falling and falling, darkness all around him, yellow eyes glaring down at him. Henry wakes, taking a sharp intake of breath, jolting up. A car horn blares in the street below him. Henry gasps, rubbing his face with shaking, clammy hands. He glances around him, running his hands through his sheets, gaining comfort, and slows his accelerated heart rate. He breathes through his nose heavily, searching for the shadow or cat in his bedroom. Morning light coming through his curtains banishes the shadows, easing the nerves in Henry. With his adrenaline slowed down, he finally notices the stinging pain in his left calf. He pulls his sheet away, twisting his leg over to see three deep scratches. **** There is an orange tabby cat with blue eyes that turn yellow. He lives in people's dreams, in their nightmares. Leading them deeper into a forest to kill them. A way to survive him is not to look into his eyes, which is how he tricks people, or a fast runner.


"Everybody get down on the ground! Put your hands on your head don't make a move." I remember that day clear as blue sky, that day that condemned me to a life of incarceration. I had gotten out of my van with two assault rifles, thinking that nothing could go wrong, and then it did. As soon as I made a move on the vault, the police burst in to shut it down. It was as if my entire life flashed before my eyes, as they handcuffed me, and I knew at that moment that I had made a mistake. The next few weeks went by in a blur, from the trial to the sentencing. I almost didn't notice anything until they locked me in the cold, dark, cell. I can still smell that now as if I was being chastised by the prisoners that came before. Not that I don't have anything to regret, because if anything, I deserve all this and more. Still, there's no way that I would ever do something like that again. I've learned my lesson, and that's why I deserve parole. That was 3 weeks ago, and since then, they released me from the facility and granted me parole. I was never happier in my entire life. Darn it, I wouldn't have been happier if I actually succeeded in robbing the bank. Now, I get to go home, to see my wife and kids for the first time in five years. I hope Margaret's doing fine. She's the most loyal person I know, and I love her more than I love myself. I hope that she's still willing to take me back. "Kingston, you okay? You're being super quiet." Martin, my best friend who was in the area, inquired. "Yeah! I'm fine, I'm a little rattled, that's all. I've been inside that place for longer than I could've been president!" I was saying with a smile. I need to practice my interpersonal skills more. In the slammer, you only ever talk when you're trying to face off with someone else. "So how's Margaret? Have you talked to her at all?" I asked with a hopeful gaze. "Nah, man, I haven't seen her. I was only in the area for this job interview and thought I'd drive you back." He said, "Why?" My answer's the same as before. "I haven't seen her in five years!" He doesn't seem to understand the effect that much time in prison could have on a person. We started pulling into the driveway of my house. I thanked Martin quickly and ran up to the front door, knocking as hard as I could. The person answering the door is a shriveled, pale, old lady. "Who are you? Where's Margaret Stevens?" I asked, in shock. "Oh honey, you must be the husband. Margaret died three years ago. They put the child up for adoption." She said, her voice dripping with sympathy. ______________________________________________ I can't believe it. I just can't. That's not the Margaret I knew. The Margaret I knew wouldn't have done this to me. I don't know what I'm going to do now. What can I do? Sweet Lacey is up in a foster home right now, without her father, and what can I do? Nothing. I can't do anything to stop it. Never before have I felt so helpless. Not when I first broke a bone in a prison fight. Not when I got thrown into prison in the first place. "Are you okay, mister?" I can hear the voice, but I don't care. I run out into the street and I walk away. I walk wherever my feet take me. Sometimes I punch lampposts, kick the trash cans, but I can't get over it. Why did I have to rob that bank? I took myself away from my wife, away when I should've been there, by her side, even in death. I have no purpose. No family. At least in prison, I had something to live for. Now I don't even have myself to fight for. _____________________________________________ "Time of death, 8:30 PM. Take him down to the hospital." Officer Wilkes said. I was starting to pull the man into the ambulance when I see his face, the face of Kingston Fisher. I was his prison medic back in the day, back before I got transferred to the City Hospital. I never thought I'd see him again. "Come on, Emily, move it." my partner said, and I finished hauling him into the ambulance. Jeez, I haven't seen him in forever, and now he was dead! I was standing in the ambulance, thinking as it was driving. Kingston always seemed like he never belonged there. He just wanted to go back to his family. I had heard about a Margaret Fisher dying in the Oncology Unit, so that could've been why. We started driving up the intersection, I got into the passenger's seat, not willing to face my former ward. I hope that he died fast and painless because he was a good man. "Which road are we taking today? Merrill or Lynshire?" I asked my partner. "The interstate, Emily. We gotta get him there as fast as we can, because we may not be able to preserve his body for a funeral." I know he has no family, but I still don't object when he says this, because I want it to be true. I want him to have a good funeral. It is getting so commonplace for released convicts to commit suicide. I'm not surprised, since they have to go back into the world a mark on their record. I know firsthand from convicts on their second offense that they find it easier in jail. Easier because you have a stable flow of food and a roof over your head at night. I'm not surprised that Kingston chose death over life. It can't have been easy for him. I only wish that my daughter Lacey turns out okay. The last thing that I want is for her to think adoption makes you lesser than. We sped down the interstate highway, and I sent a prayer for Kingston, hoping that whatever comes next for him is merciful and that they recognize his pain.