The words on the sign didn't stick to her until after she had passed them at a clip. *NEED A LIFT ACROSS THE BRIDGE?* When she whipped her head over her shoulder, she hoped they might be etched on the back of the metal sheet just for her, shrinking as they drew further away like everything else left in the rear view mirror. It was only a few miles back that it had dawned on her how close she was to the bridge. The pit in her stomach had swelled some since then, but not enough to stir her from the trance one enters after an hour of driving through the wholly nondescript. It was because of this spell that she wondered if she had imagined the sign entirely. So, for what had to be the first time in her life, she pulled onto the shoulder with the sole intention of back-pedalling. The cars turned to rockets the way they always do when you’re still on the shoulder and after a slow roll through the celestial blur, she was able to crane her neck across the passenger seat and see, once again from the front, the bright orange sign: *NEED A LIFT ACROSS THE BRIDGE?* *DRIVE OVER SERVICE* *24/7 · 365* *EXIT RIGHT* *Since when?* She sat in her head for a second, probing the likelihood of a strange man getting in her car and never getting out. *LOCAL COMMUTER KILLED BY BURLY, BLADE-BRANDISHING, BAY BRIDGE BACKUP BOY.* She shook herself and moved her hand to switch the car back into drive. The morning glare felt especially prickly on her arm as she glanced to her left to join the other cars, shifting gears until she was one of them again. The lane lines began to blend. She thought of the bridge and its rails and the water below it and service pamphlets and liability waivers and kidnappings done in broad daylight and then the bridge and its tall beams some more until suddenly it was in front of her and suddenly she was turning the wheel. A gangly teen waved her over as she returned to the shoulder again, rolling the window down with her free hand. “Good morning ma’am, need assistance crossing the bridge today?” She eyed the boy for a beat before swiveling her head and coming to realize the flagrant sparsity of the operation at hand. No booth, no table, certainly no waivers, just four cars lining the grass and a gaggle of neon-vested youths to boot. She turned back to the twig who, in all his pubescence, had somehow managed to age considerably in the time it had taken her to assess the scene. The excitement in his smile said she might be the first of the day. “If you’re nervous or need assistance for any reason crossing the bridge today, one of our drivers can take care of that for you. We also offer general messenger and delivery services...for the delivery of your parcels, packages, and documents.” He stumbled slightly on the last line -- perhaps not enough sleep the night before. “Who paid for the sign?” The words rushed out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them. A pause. “They’re not as expensive as you’d think.” He and all his eagerness swayed slightly with the passing cars. “Would you like a lift today?” “I guess that’s what it’s going to be, isn’t it?” she said quietly, glancing back at the guys in the distance, trying to figure out which one seemed least capable of harm. She settled on the shortest of the bunch, though he was a bit stockier than she. The host had settled on a different one, however, and had already called him over. He saluted his friends and half-jogged, half-trotted over, awkwardly. “So, it’s going to be $20, you can pay your driver directly. And unfortunately we don’t take card yet, I’m sorry about that.” She rolled up the window and began digging through her wallet. **···** A muskiness followed the man into the car, but not the kind that assaulted the nostrils, rather the kind that felt familiar, the kind that made her want to lean closer to catch a stronger whiff, but she didn’t dare make that move in this tight a car. “Morning,” he said softly, earnestly. She hadn’t realized its tightness until her stomach unclenched slightly at his word. He was stocky like his friend but he didn’t look to feel squished -- in fact he didn’t bother to adjust the seat when he sat down -- of course she couldn’t’ve known whether or not he was just being polite unless she’d asked or maybe even offered, but they had already started driving. She’d adjusted herself enough so that she could look at him without being obvious. He was handsome but not overly so, more brutish with broad shoulders that she thought might be softer than they looked or at least softer than the bones in his face. The sleeves of his flannel were rolled to his elbows. The blond hairs on his arm matched neither the black mop on his head nor the thick beard he wore; an oddity she’d only noticed when he’d reached for the gearswitch to put the car into drive, but now with his right hand on top of the wheel and his left resting by the door handle it was unclear if this was actually the case or if the sunlight had just caught him at a funny angle. He seemingly toed the line between rugged and delicate better than anyone she‘d known. She was not intent on talking to him, or at least she didn’t think so. She would spend the whole ride examining him discreetly, noting the idiosyncrasies; the kind everyone has when they get in a car. A friend once pointed out to her that every time she turned the ignition, in that split second when the car calibrates, when all the icons on the dashboard light up and beep, she would place both hands on the top of the steering wheel and move them each in a half circle around the wheel until they met again at the bottom. Since being made aware of this, it had become ritual for her; an unskippable moment of caress, checking to make sure every rip and ridge in the leather of the wheel was exactly as it was supposed to be. “Have you done this before?” he asked sheepishly, interrupting her line of thought. Her eyes shot forward. Not only was she not interested in conversation at this hour, but bullshit small talk? She felt sick to her stomach. He followed up, hurriedly: “My bad, I don’t wanna, like, force anything. If you’re not trying to talk that's totally cool. Honestly, I’ve just found that if neither of us say anything at the beginning, we won’t say anything at all, so I guess I wanna give you the option, you know?” He seemed sincere enough. Though she wondered if he said something to that effect to everyone that got in the car with him. In some universe, he might’ve rehearsed the bit to a tee, calculating every word, perfecting cadence. How many “likes” is too many “likes”? He could gage each passenger’s reaction to every detail until he’d come up with the perfectly candid line. Although, then how candid was it really? “I appreciate that.” She looked back at him. “I think, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit quietly.” “Totally.” He stared straight ahead. She leaned over, resting her head on the passenger window. Had she been too terse in her response? She wondered how many people opt to conversate and how many prefer to sit in silence. Her eyes closed for a moment. Her shoulder blade pressed against the lip of the window, rattling in rhythm with the rest of the car. She never sat in this seat of her car, the standard shake that comes with speed actually felt slightly different on this side. Maybe she’d pumped more air into the right-side tires than she had the ones on the left. The air pump at the gas station near her house gave 2 minutes of air pressure for $1.50. If the last time she’d visited, she pulled up to the left of the machine, she’d have pumped air into the right tires first, leaving her running out of air by the time she walked around to the right side. Her dad once told her that it’s important to not over-inflate because tires can explode if they’re pumped up too much. Was that true? She imagined the horror as her body continued to vibrate. Her shoulders as well as her head felt fragile, rattling against the side of the car like that. She opened her eyes and glanced over at the young man’s shoulders once more. If he were leaning against the side as she was, his body might just absorb the shake, she thought as she watched him lift his arm and move towards his face to scratch his beard. It was full and dark and faded to a lighter red around the outs of his chin. She was really staring at it now. It must be so itchy. A type of itch she’d probably never know. His hand twitched suddenly as a drop of blood fell from his nose onto his knuckle. He quickly moved to cover it, cocking his head back some. “Shit.” He took his eyes from the road, searching frantically for something to cover up. “Do you have a tissue or something by chance? I'm sorry, I-” His voice shook some. Nothing disarms quite like a nosebleed. Like losing your balance -- human beings’ ultimate short-circuit, she thought as she reached for the glove box “I actually might, one second,” she said, rifling through strewn papers and ketchup packets. Her hand brushed over her window hammer. She grabbed a couple loose napkins and handed them to him “Thanks. I don’t know why I get these randomly sometimes…” He trailed off. “I don’t know how long those napkins have been sitting in there, I hope they’re not gross.” She looked back at him. He had leaned his head back so far she was sure he couldn't see the road. The bridge was straight enough. She looked out the window. The spot from which they’d left was already too far to see. She poked her head out some more and realized the end was also not in sight — a rare stretch where suddenly everything was suspended. They were floating, maybe 100 or so feet. She hoisted herself up some, lifting her butt off the seat, reaching for the best angle at the water but couldn’t know for sure. She sat back down and opened the glove box again. She reached for the window hammer and pulled it out. “Do you know what this is?” she asked, her eyes not breaking from the silver spiked head. The boy glanced at it for a second and shook his head, redirecting his gaze to the road ahead. A pause. “Oh wait,” he said, turning back towards her, “does that, like, break your window if your car goes under water?” “I wonder how many people have this, I can’t even remember where I bought it. I thought you might have a better sense…” She looked at him. The light streaming through the side window brought out new dashes of strawberry blond in his hair. He’d left weathered behind for elegance -- if just for a fleeting moment. “When I was little, I used to have this dream -- I didn’t get it that much, maybe a few times a year. Actually that’s too often, I don’t really remember -- Anyway, I would have this dream where I was in a car on a bridge and then, like way down the road, I’d see a car break the lane and drive right off. Like have you seen *Thelma and Louise?* It would just fly over the railing just like that. It was stunning. And in the moment it would take me to collect myself, I’d realize that the car right behind it had followed it right off the edge. And then the car after it and the one after it. And every time I was in the midst of all this...” she paused. “Have you ever had a recurring nightmare?” She said, turning to him. “I don’t think so.” It was unclear if he was really listening. “Well, I always thought what was weird about them is that at a certain point, you’d think that the imagery and the way it makes you feel in your gut -- all of which is the exact same every time -- you’d think that you’d start to recognize it. Like when you’re in one of those half cooked dreams in between alarm clock snoozes and you kinda know you’re dreaming the whole time you’re in it. Anyway that’s never how it actually went. I’d gotten so familiar with this dream sequence over the years and every time it happened It was just as shocking, just as appalling as the first time. I can’t even, like, properly articulate the emotions -- or I guess “dreamed emotions” -- I was just frozen in this car. I’m sure my body would probably even seize up if anyone were watching me sleep. And I’d just be watching car after car after car project itself off this bridge and I kept getting closer to the front of the line and out the window to the right, the cars are falling out of the sky like rain and pooling up below the bridge like some sort of floating junkyard and I’m in my head like ‘Am I doing this?’ And then it’s my turn but I’d always wake up before I had to make the jump.” She stopped for a second and caught her breath. “Anyway, I stopped having the dream eventually and I think it must’ve even been so upsetting that I removed the memory of it because one day I was watching TV and I saw this footage of a car that had fallen off a bridge and I burst into tears. I literally just sat alone in my living room and cried. Like for an hour or more even, I don’t quite remember. I didn’t even know the people. And the next day I went out and bought this thing but it’s so dumb because I didn’t remember I even had it until I opened the glove box just now. I don’t even think I’d know how to use it or work it well enough to actually save myself.” She looked over at him, waiting for a response, surprised at her own air-out. “That’s fucking crazy.” **···** They’d been sitting in silence for some time. She was back against the window, lulled half to sleep by the car’s hum when he spoke again. “Where are you going?” His words stirred her plenty. A story like the one she’d given not long before would’ve surely catapulted them past formalities, past common courtesies, and yet here they were: regressed to tedium. She looked back at him, he didn’t fill out the driver’s side like he had when he first got into the car. “Work,” she said dryly, hoping her tone might wrap up the forthcoming chit-chat before it could even start. “What do you do?” She couldn’t believe this was happening. What happened to ‘do you want a quiet ride or a loud ride?’ She looked out the window again, the end of the bridge was nowhere in sight. She turned back to him, unsure if her expression read as ugly as she envisioned it in her head. His eyes were locked on the road anyway. “I’m a consultant.” “Nice. So you work for, like, other companies?” “Kind of.”“What kind of things do you consult them on?” She paused. “I basically help brands think about how to better market themselves.” He sat quietly for a second. “Did you always want to do that?” Her face reddened. “What?” She said, unsure if she even had the energy to deal with him. A child. Who drives a car back and forth across a fucking bridge. “I meant, like, ‘they’re always going through that,’ like rebranding and stuff. Like companies are always...doing stuff like that. You must be in high demand.” “Mmm, yeah, it’s alright,” she said, praying her slight outburst wasn’t so nasty but mostly embarrassed at her own embarrassment. How easily he’d pulled back the curtain! She’d taken her job right out of college and never looked back. Though she wasn’t particularly proud of what she did the way some were, she was rarely made to feel bad about it. Only if she couldn’t sleep at night would she explore the rabbit holes of dreams deferred; just enough to make the mind race but not enough to launch a depressive episode. She attempted to replay the exchange a couple of times in her head before settling, somewhat reluctantly, on a delivery of her line that was somewhere between what she actually said and a version of what she said palatable enough to relieve her of some guilt. “Do you mind if I turn the fan up a little?” she asked, having realized that in her fluster, she’d gotten quite hot. “It’s your car.” She leaned forward to move the knob up two spots and was met with a blast of cold air. A long lock of hair fell in front of her face. She moved to tuck it back behind her ear and brushed past her chin. It felt rough. She moved her hand to her cheek and stroked down to the jaw. She took her other hand and did the same on the other side. Her breathing sped up some. She grabbed a napkin from the glove box and dug into her chin but nothing came off. Not dirt. Had she suddenly broken out in some kind of shame-induced rash? Her skin didn’t feel bumpy but more fuzzy. But it wasn’t peach fuzz either, it was more prickly. She turned quickly to the window to take a look at her reflection. Her heart jumped into her throat. *Am I hallucinating?* She thought, racking her brain for an obvious explanation, suddenly unable to remember if she’d eaten or drank anything since getting in the car. “You know what I like to do sometimes when I’m making this drive?” He interrupted. She kept scrubbing, feverishly. “Sometimes I just close my eyes and imagine the cars around me driving right off. One by one.”She snapped her head back to look at him, his eyes were shut. “I think about which drivers would be hopeless. Which drivers would panic. Which ones would remain calm. Which ones would know what to do...Like that red car behind us,” his eyes were still closed, “that red car behind us has been tailing us so close all day. I bet he just goes for it.” “What are you talking about, can you please open your eyes,” she said, trying not to let the shake in her voice take control. “What will we do?” He took his right hand off the wheel and then his left and held each up by his head. “What the fuck are you doing, this isn’t funny.” The car started to veer some. “Dude, what the fuck put your hands back.” The horn from the car next to them blared. “Seriously, Stop. STOP!!!” Her heart was racing. She reached over to grab the wheel but couldn’t. “What the fuck. What the fuck...stop it, what are you doing…” The right wheels popped the curb, jolting her towards him. Through the short strands of hair pulled over her face, she could see him stamping his right foot, flooring it. “Don’t!” She pressed her feet against the glove box, closing it and pushing all her weight through it, lifting herself and punching him. Her knuckles stung against the spikes of his shoulder blade. She hit him again. “We’ll die.” They were right up against the parapet now. Blows of scraping and screeching notes ripped into her ears. A dissonant symphony accompanied by the dizzying stench of burning rubber. She looked back over at him, his eyes were still closed as the wheel in front of him kept turning. She could feel the pressure of the car against the bridge, it would burst at any moment. And like clockwork, the rail cracked. She screamed. The car flew off the bridge, hurling itself towards the water, flipping in the air and pushing the two of them up against the roof. In the side mirror she could see the red car behind them, following them right off the ledge. Then she saw nothing. **···** They spent the rest of the drive in silence. She pulled her phone out for a stretch. Eventually she looked up and saw land. Relief poured over her. She put her phone in her pocket and turned to face him, no longer caring for subtlety. She stared right at him for those final minutes. She watched every itch and every blink. She counted his breaths. He’d traded rugged for ragged. He looked thin. She could snap him in half if she wanted to. When they pulled off to the shoulder right after exiting, he turned to her and looked through her, “Appreciate the company.” She took a twenty and a five out of her wallet and handed it to him. “Fuck you.” He fumbled the money before putting it in his pocket, pulled the lever and maneuvered around the hood so as to not get hit by the oncoming cars. And there he stood, shielded, waiting for a break in traffic. And when one came he jogged across the three lanes and onto the median, where he stood still again, waiting. Still sitting in the passenger seat, she could see across the road a set up identical to the one that had drawn her in before. A group of boys, a couple of cars. She wondered who he might pick up next. She climbed over to the driver’s side and buckled in. Her reflection stared back at her as she reached for the glove box, grabbing another napkin. She folded it, licked it, and put her tongue gently on the corner to wet it before moving to her face to wipe the blood stain running from her right nostril to the rim of her lips. She discarded the napkin and glanced back into the rearview, where there was nothing. The monotony of the work day was a finger trap and it beckoned like always. Off she went.


**It’s a small place in a suburban area of my hometown in East Germany. It’s peaceful with mostly senior citizens, polite yet quietly judging, well connected in the neighborhood; therefore, word travels fast, and people get cautious like a cat rotating its ears in unknown territory. I was already on my way back from the supermarket when I heard: “General personal control, ID, please.” coming from an officer standing inside the sliding doors of the police wagon, which had just rushed down the street screeching its tires. His flashlight still in my face, as bright as the sun on a hangover morning. I reached into my coat pocket, handed him the piece of plastic that told me I existed—Johannes Baris, 24 years old with grey-blueish eyes about 175 centimeters tall, born in the state republic of Germany.** **“Here you go .”** **“Have you ever been in trouble with the law ?”** **“No, I haven’t; mind telling me what this is about? “** **“Just a general personal control. “** **At this point, I already guessed that´s connected to recent burglaries in the neighborhood. Someone stole expensive gardening tools from a wooden shack nearby, and of course, they generally control the only mid-twenty-year-old in an eight-kilometer radius.** **“What’s in the backpack? Mind opening it for us? “** **“Groceries, bike tubes, and tools to fix it; I usually ride my bike, but the store is close by, so I just happened to walk there.”** **“Where do you come from? Where are you headed? “** **“ALDI, I´m heading home .”** **“No, where were you before ?” he asked with a particular annoyance in his voice.** **His colleague intervened, “You live around here ?”** **“Yes, just over there. “ I pointed my finger towards the pre-war build with a facade that looked like an overripe cantaloupe.** **“I see; mind if I check your wallet; do you have any forbidden substances, weapons, or objects that slice or pierce? “** **“No, I don’t, just a bunch of change and old receipts .”** **“I can feel that; why do you carry so many coins?”** **“They just pile up. I´ll get rid of it soon .”** **After their squad had a good laugh and made gestures about lifting my wallet like a dumbbell, they handed me back my ID, which they previously ran through a system to see if I had a felony or anything like that, suppose.** **My pulse was calm, and my blood pressure below average.** **I opened the door with my keys; I haven’t been living here for too long, so I always mix up which key is for the entrance to the hallway and the apartment.** **Phrases always help me, so I made one up:” Round for the ground, square goes up there .”** **I entered with the square, traded my shoes for slippers then put the product in the fridge. Dairy to the lowest compartment paired with vegetables and fruit, meat, and other processed foods in the middle row, beverages on top, it just looks right that way. I read in a magazine that the fridge cools different based on its compartments, that milk should be in the middle or top row together with ready to eat food or pre-cooked meat; raw meat, fish, and poultry to the lowest. This article made sense to me since they also mentioned veggies going in the veggie drawer, but bad habits die hard like a can full comfort, which I depend on more than I´d like. I go out on the balcony and reach for my pack of smokes, which I always place in my coat’s left chest pocket. The front shows a golden pyramid with a faded Marlboro logo on it, which seems relatively shallow below the graphic picture of a tumored tongue saying “smoking kills, “ a European standard to prevent people from smoking, yet I see the gas station clerk twice a week. It´s a treat for me, having a smoke during a work break, on my way to catch the last train, after I get home around 1 a.m. paired with a small glass of Suntory whisky, another habit I picked up after moving places.** **I wouldn’t call it a home but a venue where I sleep, eat, spend my free time make the best out of what’s left. The theatrical play of my private life is moving. Drama, silent amusement, melancholia are the stylistic means that set the tone for whoever lives here. I stare into the sky while I blow smoke into the night, trying to remember the star constellations we learned in school. It´s clear, seven-degree Celcius below zero, crisp winter air replaces the nicotine while Duke Ellington plays “The Star Crossed Lovers.” A sound that calms my soul and reminds me of a naivety that I loved but lost, which used to set my world on fire but doesn’t light me up anymore, a real home, a reason that let me see things through to the end. What hurts me most is not the loss of her but the ability to love without questions, believe without asking twice, and be manic about shared time. It´s a beautiful feeling to love even more than being loved, communicating problems, being an outlet, creating experiences. I enjoyed clinginess more than independence, her happiness more than my own, serving instead of being served. Wanting to be needed made me thrive, led me out of my comfort zone successfully, created the blueprint for my happy ever life.** **It was a sleeping mask, and I woke up. I found myself by myself once again, which is the only constant in life, I know. Every morning when the sun rises, a new day begins, a new white canvas and billions of possibilities to create a new piece of art. Yet the same picture, resembling a Pierre Soulages. Not as refined, but brushes, color, perspective, and emotions are the same to an untrained mind. Sometimes I feel bitter like the green tee’s first infusion; I always pour away.** **I settle in my queen size bed for the night and try to read a few pages of Haruki Murakami´s “South of the Border, West of the Sun. “ while being wrapped up in my sage green covers. Marry lays in between my legs as she always did, curled together slightly tilted to the side. Her small paws are facing towards her well-fed stomach, her eyes are squinted, and her tail is stuck between her legs. Every time I move a bit for more comfort, she lets out a small meow as if to signalize that I should just go to bed.** **Among all the things I curse at for being present in my life, sleep and cats are what I´m thankful for having.** **After a night full of tossing and turning like usual, I wake up around 7:30 a.m. just in time to witness the sunrise this Saturday morning. The colors of the horizon play beautifully peaceful not even a bird can be heard over the sound of silence. Different facets of red, pink, orange, and yellow remind me of those display fruit baskets at malls. I check for emails or any other communication outside those four walls that make my bedroom, but there is nothing, just a blank sound that turned into white noise and an earthy taste in my mouth.** **Still somewhat dazed and tired from my night that was supposed to be restful, I walk towards my work desk to sip water from the half-empty bottle situated next to my computer tower. As I swallow, the taste gets worse and overwhelming. I can barely breathe. Am I having a stroke? “Should I call an ambulance ?” is what I thought, but all I could do was wave my hands as my mouth seemed to be sealed. I walked towards the kitchen to get on my balcony to wave for help, but it was already too late; the taste of moss and decaying acorns overcame me, and I released what wasn’t supposed to be in my system and threw up right over the ground as I held my stomach. My eyes were wide open as I´d just seen a ghost or had a near-death experience, which it really might have been.** **The floor was covered in soil and grass, not a single sign of half-digested food remnants. The pressure in my stomach had left, but the exhaustion was beyond what I would usually even feel after a long day of work.** **The last thing I remember are my feet slipping away; I must have passed out and fallen to the ground. Why else would I lay there in the middle of my spacious kitchen, surrounded by potting compost?** **I got up and looked around to spot the time, but I haven’t come around to hang up any type of clock in my kitchen; I rely too much on my phone. I hear a rustling sound and playful meowing coming from my bedroom. Marry must be playing with the screw cap that I had let loose while trying to get help. Well, and then there is just this pile; I have no idea how it even got into my system. I walk towards her with heavy steps holding onto the walls of the hallway. I can hear her playing under my bed. As I go down on my knees to take a peek, I realized that the cap, which I assumed she would dribble in joy, was lying right next to me; So I checked, and it wasn’t but a chestnut. In January, just two weeks after New Year’s eve, I moved in around November. Was it from back then? I can’t remember bringing any in, not even as a toy for her. I got up again just for a metallic shine to get my attention like I was some sort of raven or magpie. To the left of my vinyl player right next to the window, situated on an IKEA shelf surrounded by cacti, which I had carefully replanted a few days ago, laid a garden spade. I hadn’t put it there, and I honestly don’t even own one. I just use my hand wearing gloves when replanting.** **The tool looked relatively new, with no scratches, dents, or roughed-up edges, just covered with a thin layer of dirt that would be easy to brush off.


Hi, all this is my first time posting. I hope you like my story and I welcome any feedback. The rough sand beneath my cheek was the first feeling that came back to me. Slowly I pulled open my eyes. Where was I? All around was sand as black a coal. It was coarse and the putrid smell of rotting fish clung to the air. Turning I saw the coastline of the island I now found myself on. What happened? I searched for someone else, anyone else but I found no one. For over an hour I screamed my throat raw hoping someone would hear me but I was alone. The sun began to drop below the horizon and I knew I had to find shelter before it was too dark. I made my way inland hoping to find a cave or something in which I could wait till morning. As I made my way to the tree line, something was wrong. I couldn’t explain it but I felt a dread form in my stomach. There was something wrong with this place. For two hours I wondered threw the trees and bushes when I finally found something. It was a cave. I almost ran to the opening on the side of the hill. It was almost ten foot high and twice as wide and as I entered a warm air breezed passed over my weary body. The cave was darker than anything I had seen before. I fumbled in my pockets and pulled out the zippo I always carried. My mother told me that smoking would kill me but right now I thanked the lord I had never gotten around to quitting. The light from the flame was not much but it was enough to make my way deeper into the cave. I had to make a plan. I had to find out where I was and find a way to get home. I managed to get a small fire going using some dry wood I had found at the mouth of the cave. The dancing light warmed me and comforted me as I sat in my shelter trying to understand what had happened. The last thing I could remember was the plane me and Cassidy had gotten into, she had booked me some flying lessons and we were going up on our second lesson when a storm came in. It had hit us fast and hard and then lightning had struck the plane and the instruments died. I remembered to instructor trying to get the plane to start again then nothing. That was all I could remember until I woke up on the beach. Had the plane crashed? Where was Cassidy? I was so deep in thought that at first, I hadn’t noticed the noise. A rhythmic beating. Slowly it got louder and It drew my attention. The thumping sounded almost like drums but the rhythm was erratic and unearthly. I sat listening for a few minutes until I realised it was getting louder as if moving closer to me. Panic filled me and I was not sure as to why. I moved to the cave entrance and looked out to the moonlight night. There in the distance was a group of figures moving towards me. I was just about to shout out when something stopped me. There was something off about this group. Their movements were jerky and unnatural. I hurried back into the cave and stamped out my fire. Then I moved as fast as I could out of the cave and into a small gathering of bushes. I leapt into the bushes and pulled as many of the adjacent branches over me and covering my body. I had just gotten myself covered when the first of the group came into the opening where the cave lay. There were three of them, I could not make out their features as they wore a cloak-like garment with a hood covering their faces. I did notice the last one was carrying something over its shoulder. I moved slightly to get a better look when I saw the beautiful face of Cassidy. She was unconsciously bound with rope and slung over the shoulder of one of these people. They had found her and brought her here but why? The three took Cassidy into the cave. I sat in my hiding spot for longer than I am proud to admit but then I managed to pull myself together and I followed them into the cave. They had gone further into the cave than I had originally. I had to move pretty fast to try to catch up with them lest I lose them. We moved deeper and deeper into the cave. I always stayed just close enough that I could see where they went but not to close that I might be spotted. Finally, they came to a cavern almost fifty-foot wide, three times as long and almost thirty foot high. They took Cassidy to a stone tablet next to an underground lake and lay her unconscious body atop it. I frantically looked for a place to hide where I could see what they were doing. I managed to climb up to a ledge to the left of the entrance we had come from. The figures looked to be discussing something when one turned and moved over to an unusual looking stone. It then lifted a thick stick and began to beat the stone. A drumming noise like I had heard began to echo around the cave. The from the shadows grotesque figures began to emerge. Beings made from an amalgamation of hideous creatures from my worst nightmares. Slime covered tentacle-like limbs writhed around each one. Claws and bone protruded from their bodies in unimaginable ways. My mind felt like it was fraying at the mere sight of these damnable creatures. More and more of the horrific things pulled themselves from the darkest reaches of the cavern. They moved around Cassidy forming a circle around her. Cassidy slowly opened her eyes at this point and the scream she let off chilled my blood. The creatures lashed out tentacles wrapping around her arms and legs and holding her dow. Slowly one of the monstrosities moved up and slid a black pseudopod over her pale face down her neck and across her body. She thrashed at the things touch and in her wild movement her eyes locked onto mine. I could see the terror in her eyes as well as the pleading as treats ran down her face. I will never forget the look of betrayal as she watched me turn and run. Her screams followed me as I ran for the surface. I could not bring myself to look back as the screams finally stopped, I just kept running. Before I knew it I found myself at the beach once more. I ran for the water and swam out as fast as I could. I had no idea where I was but I knew I had to get out of here. I swam and swam until I found a bit of floating wood. I clung to the wood and slowly I fell unconscious. I awoke to the feel of rough sand beneath my face. Slowly I opened my eyes. Black sand surrounded me. I wept as I heard the rhythmic beating.


I have always loved the man-made sounds that break the quiet of the night: passing cars, train whistles, the morning newspaper being delivered. These sounds, particularly in my youth, offered me comfort and safety, someone else was awake, alert, standing guard without any knowledge of their appointment to this powerful and protective role. My fear of the night was well-known in my family and lasted inappropriately long–well into my late teens–dissipating only when I entered college and moved into a dormitory that housed more than 500 wonderfully nocturnal humans. But before this Heaven-on-Earth housing assignment, deviations from my nighttime routine were rare: Fan, check. AM radio set to the staticky overnight talk shows that were broadcast from Cleveland, check. Corner lamp on, check. TV off, check. That last requirement may seem counter-intuitive but it was the 1970s, and to be awakened by the National Anthem and subsequent sign-off tone at the witching hour of 2:00 AM was the kiss of death for me. The parameters of acceptable waking times were rigid- to be awakened before midnight or after 4:00 AM were safe; after all, my dad got up for work at 4:30 and then dawn was close enough to allow me to slip back into my slumber. If, God forbid, I opened my eyes in that 4 hour window of terror, my fate was sealed: I would lay motionless, paralyzed, sweating from a combination of fear and now-suffocating blankets that I refused to come out from under, listening for unexplainable noises, and waiting for some unknown force to find me. I wanted to cry, but my silence hid my presence while I prayed for dawn to come. What was I expecting might happen? Who or what was I waiting for and hiding from? Many years would pass before I understood the cause. My sister, Heather, was my loyal companion throughout much of my introverted childhood existence. She was two years my junior and always included me in with her circle of friends. Her devotion extended into my nightly wee-hours requests for accompaniment to the bathroom, and it rarely took more than a light tap to get her to rise, without speaking, to join me on the trek down the 1970s avocado shag-carpeted hallway. On one particular night, timestamped only by the matching nightgowns recently sewn by our mother (Simplicity circa 1976), our nightly journey would quietly but profoundly transform the rest of my childhood. To set the stage, picture a split-level middle class Midwestern house that sat as the neighborhood anchor where all the tar-covered streets converged. We were the only house with a swimming pool in the yard, albeit an above the ground find from the local salvage store, but it was the summer yard where neighborhood bikes would lay as plans were organized for the day among the young riders, and neighborhood ladies would gather for some sun, cigarettes, and chatter. Inside, shades of orange and green dominated, with a velvet sofa and chairs in the living room, and a brown and yellow plaid couch that paired well with the fashionably-paneled walls in the den. All floors carpeted and all walls papered in florals, trellises or bicentennial charm. A black wrought-iron rail led up the stairs and wrapped around to a balcony landing on the second floor, with a spectacular mirror-tiled wall for the backslash. It was this mirror that reflected the image of my sister and I in matching nightgowns, ages 6 and 8, as we walked from our shared bedroom side-by-side that night. The first hint of oddity came from the flood of light that blinded our night eyes as we made our way to the bathroom in those still pitch-dark hours. The living room glowed. Every light was not only on but also seemed much brighter than usual. A child’s mind rationalizes quickly, and I dismissed the strange illumination as the result of forgetful parents. As Heather and I got closer to the wrought iron railing that separated the elevated hallway from the living room, I saw something moving… walking actually… from the living room toward kitchen. In sync, Heather and I kneeled down in front of the railing, our hands holding the cold metal rails while our faces peered through to see the creature that stood down below. It was a very large white rabbit, standing upright. It stood at least 7 feet tall and if I had stretched my hand out through the rails, I could have touched it. It stopped instantly when it became aware of our presence and turned its head quickly to meet our now-frozen faces. The massive creature had a colorful poncho of some kind over one shoulder and a sack over the other, amusing enough that I don’t remember feeling frightened; what I do remember were the rabbit’s large eyes–almond-shaped and onyx black, like the darkest waters of the ocean at its deepest point. The eyes were the whole of the creature, not the costume it had wrapped itself into. It communicated with us and the message was clear, “Get up. Go back to bed. Never speak of this night again.” I heard the message from somewhere in my head, but not through my ears. No sound was ever made and the rabbit’s mouth never moved, but I knew Heather had received the message too, because we stood up together and followed the clear instructions we had been given. It must have been something about the safety of that dorm, the distance now placed between my childhood home and this college town, that allowed the memory of that night to catapult from its hiding place and into my conscious mind some 10 years later. It was there suddenly and completely, and I shared it with my roommates–one of whom was an art major–and soon she had sketched, almost perfectly, the creature she named “Demon Bunny.” It was a vividly detailed memory without question, and my roommates and I brainstormed the rational and the irrational possibilities: a dream? a nightmare? an alien? a burglar? The weekend following my revelation, I headed home for a visit that included a shopping trip with my mom and sister. Demon Bunny was now alive and well in my mind but its message was still firmly fixed–”Never speak of this night again”–and I was fearful of the consequence that might follow if I violated that pact. I had decided to share my story with my mom and Heather, and I finally threw caution to the wind as we drove along on our shopping trip, “You know, I had the strangest memory come back to me recently. I think it was a dream… haha… but here it goes…” I told my story to my mom and sister, both with very different reactions. My mom’s concerned and confused stares alternated back and forth from the road to her narrating passenger and back again. Heather, who had been relaxing in the back seat now slid her body forward and leaned her whole head into the front seat space between my mom and I, her face drained of color. “That wasn’t a dream. I remembered it a few years ago. ” she said. My mom nearly drove off the road, asking why she hadn’t mentioned it before this moment. I already knew the answer. My sister, just inches from my head, and with a now deeply accusatory and worried tone directed her response at me, “Because we were told not to.” With the cat, or more accurately the rabbit, out of the bag we compared stories, matching detail to detail the events of that night–the lights, the colored poncho, the sack, the eyes, and the message. My mom, who had just finished the alien-based book Communion: A True Story, was convinced that the rabbit was an extraterrestrial. My sister committed to silence on the topic after that weekend and today remains hesitant to discuss it any further. I have done some research into the topic over the years and while I felt ridiculous entering the search words “big white rabbit in my house”, “rabbit with eyes that spoke to me”, and “do shape-shifters exist?” into my computer, I did stumble across a concept from Celtic folklore that seemed to check many of the boxes: the Pooka. The word “Pooka” is believed to have come from the old Irish word for Goblin (puca) or perhaps the Scandanvian word “pook/puke” meaning ‘nature spirit’. According to the lore, it appears only at night, enjoys creating mischief, and it is often inclined to conversation. They can take the form of any animal, although most commonly they appear as horses with glowing eyes. Pookas are credited with being benevolent, protective, and sometime havoc-wreakers. They often leave those who encounter them with a questioning of whether or not the visit was even real. One of the first things I ever read about Pookas was that when they appear to a child, they seek to forever alter the perception of reality for that child. Hollywood has borrowed the Pooka for now-famous films like Harvey (1950), Donnie Darko (2001), and Pooka (2018). I’m still not sure what we saw that night, but I don’t think was a “demon” and I certainly hope it wasn’t an alien. I can live with the idea of the Pooka so that’s where I landed.


Cornelius walked out of his tent, ready to seize the day. The natives had kept him from his prize long enough. “Gerald, get the advance scouts ready. I want to know where the gems are today, and then the rest of the troop will march through the night to start packing them up tomorrow morning.” “Are you sure that’s wise, sir?” Gerald looked up, giving his misgivings in that timid voice the captain had learned to tolerate so well. “The troops have barely slept the 3 weeks we’ve been here, and we don’t know nearly enough about the jungle to be sure the scouts can find these gems today. And, even if they do find it, we almost certainly can’t get the whole caravan through the trees in one night.” Gerald was what some may call a voice of reason, but Cornelius called him a roadblock. He’d been saddled with the advisor after his last exploration lead to the decimation of the military forces, but the captain had no idea how this mole of a man was supposed to guard against bad luck, or how his ability to speak to the beasts was supposed to be useful when they didn’t seem to have a thought besides *kill*. *Swish* “But *he* can.” Cornelius pointed towards the savage that’d been strung up by his grotesquely long arms. “I’m sure you won’t mind leading us to your comrades at all, would you?”. The half man, half beast sneered at the men, but that’s all he could do now. The regulars had thought that stringing him up by his arms would be enough to make him cooperative, but his dexterous legs with hands-like feet became a problem. Now he swung from the pole with two broken femurs, not unlike how he’d swung from trees into the camp to begin with. Cornelius turned back to Gerald. “He can’t walk, but the native certainly knows his way around. If the scouts bring him along and pay attention, they’ll find the natives in no time. Then, the gems must be near, and we’ll be going home with those magic crystals withing the week. So, stop questioning everything I tell you and get the advance scouts ready.” “Y-y-yes sir!” Gerald scurried away to prepare for the advance. Cornelius turned back to his captive and stood onto the box that was needed to hang this freakishly tall creature from the pole. “I don’t know how you got to be like this, but I assure you I’ll extend you the mercy of ending your miserable life as soon as you’re no longer useful.” Cornelius walked away from the prisoner with a push, leaving the man to swing back and forth from his wrists. *Swish* A bloodied scout stumbled into Cornelius’ tent, not 2 hours after they’d left to find the gems. “What is the meaning of this! Do you not know to announce yourself before you even consider coming into my quarters?!” Cornelius slammed his book down and studied the young man, half of his face mangled beyond recognition. He also wasn’t saluting, which the captain quickly forgave after realizing the soldier didn’t have a right arm left to salute with. Instead there was a mangled stump right above his elbow with the bone jutting out , the flesh mangled and almost burned. “Good God, man, what happened? Where are the others?” “Only…one…left.” The scout coughed up blood between each word, then collapsed onto the floor of the tent. After fetching the medic and making sure the boy was being taken care of, Cornelius went to find Gerald. There was no way that soldier was the only one who made it back. Besides, what on earth could have caused him that much damage, besides jumping in front of a train? And there he was, the little rodent looking frightened as ever, staring at something just outside of camp. “What do you know about the scouting trip? The soldier said he was the only one left, but that can’t poss…” the captain stopped in his tracks. The soldier was wrong, he wasn’t the only one who made it back. He was just the only one still alive. Heads, legs, arms, and torsos were scattered just outside of camp. They appeared to be arranged to spell something in the native’s language, but Cornelius didn’t need Gerald to translate to tell him the message. “War” was universal. Then, a flash out of the corner of his eye. There, a woman, probably a meter and a half tall, with grotesquely muscular legs and knees facing the wrong way. She eyed Gerald and Cornelius, looking like a predator who knows its been seen, but is still deciding if it can go in for a kill. And then, nothing. *Swish* And then, everything. Cornelius stood in the middle of what appeared to be a town square, although unlike any he’d ever seen. The huts here were built into the trees, a combination of trunks hollowed out and branches laced around to create dwellings. A man and a woman stood behind him, both with the same diminutive stature and impossibly constructed legs that he’d seen on the woman back at camp just before he was whisked off here. Speaking of, he saw her standing off to the side next to the captain’s former captive, sitting down as a part of a much larger circle. Cornelius saw Gerald on the ground dry heaving. And then Cornelius vomited. After he was done with the worst bout of motion sickness any man had every experienced, Cornelius tried again to survey what was going on around him while staying on his knees. There were easily over a hundred of the natives gathered around him, but in reality he could only assume they were all human. There were a good dozen that looked like the captive, all hanging from their arms and legs 20 feet above the proceedings, and another dozen or so who had the structure of his unthinkably quick captors. There were so much more beyond that, though. Ones with webbed appendages and fins, others with rocky exteriors and permanently hunched backs, still others with thin limbs, padded feet, and huge eyes, and another half dozen one offs scattered about. Behind all of them were several children poking their eyes between their elders to get a better view of the strange man, although none of the young ones seemed to have any of the deformities of the adults. And in the center stood a man with no eyes. The man, shuffling forward with the grace of a king, stopped in front of Gerald and started speaking in the native’s tongue. Gerald stayed on his knees, gazing up at this sightless patriarch with all of the reverence shown to God. “So you’re the one in charge then? I’m the captain of my crew, you’ll speak to me first.” Cornelius got up to stand his ground, and then quickly found himself planted in it. One of the speedsters had her foot placed on top of his back and seemed likely to break his spine if he spoke out again. The blind man turned his attention back to Gerald and resumed speaking. After a while of Gerald’s eyes doing their best saucer impression, the old man gestured towards Cornelius. Gerald turned to him and, with much hesitancy, said “They all are given their changes by the gems. They grow up to look like you and me normally, but the gems change them to give them advantages in the jungle, according to what the tribe needs and what fits the individual. He wants to know if you would like to see the gems.” Cornelius stared at the two pieces of flesh where eyes should be and nodded like a man possessed. One of the rock-like creatures were brought forward, and the patriarch started talking again, with Gerald translating. “At their coming of age ceremony each member of their tribe gazes on the gems and holds them to cause the changes. If anyone except one with the strengthened skin touches them again, they will die a terrible death for their greed for more power. We are the first outsiders to ever see the gems.” The one with strengthened skin opened its hand showing two small, purple gems. Cornelius stared at them rabidly, when all of a sudden, he and Gerald were dragged into contact with the crystals. Heat radiated from the gems, a feeling of fire coursing over Cornelius’ skin from head to toe. The burning sensation grew and grew, both of them screaming out in pain against it until, finally, it subsided. The captain opened his eyes against the sweat coating his face and surveyed his new body. His eyes felt smaller, and yet the light was way too much for him. He closed his eyes and tried to ask what had happened, when suddenly he could see everything. He’d let out a small squeak and was able to see the patriarch standing over him, the rock creature waiting patiently, and Gerald lying next to him. Or, at least, what used to be Gerald. He had a long nose, tiny eyes, and absolutely enormous hands. Gerald, routing in the dirt as he was, had turned into a human mole. The captain turned back to his own situation. He could feel fur all over his body, except under his arms, where there seemed to be a mass of skin. With his eyes still closed, Cornelius stood up, extending his arms to their full wingspan, and tried to piece together what had happened to him. He had fur, he could see with sound, he had flesh under his arms that seemed like…wings. It hit him. Cornelius had turned into a blood sucker. With a few more clicks, Cornelius could tell that his former captive was now being brought over as Cornelius was being pressed into the ground. The man was still towering sitting down, although the being at foot level certainly helped with that. In his lanky hands he was carrying a long, thin piece of stone, a knife. As the man was carried towards Cornelius’ legs, the captain realized what was happening. This wouldn’t be an eye for an eye, but it was certainly close enough. *Swish.


“Get in the *damn* truck Logan.” I was scrambling down the laneway toward the 4x4 scared for my life, wanting to stop and run right back to the porch. The massive duffel I had packed in all of what must have been five minutes, almost as big as me, banged against my knee as I half-ran, half-fell down the frosted slope. Fog from my breath clouded my face and I tripped coming around the tailgate. I wasn’t tall enough to see over it yet. Dad lifted me to my feet, cursing under his breath, and tossed my life in the back of the truck, “Get in and start her up, like I showed you. I’ll be back.” Climbing in, I grabbed the keys from the glove box and tried to focus. Sliding all the way down in the driver’s seat I got my foot on the clutch, then pushed on the steering wheel to get my other foot on the brake with enough pressure to keep them both down. With a sideward glance, the shifter looked like it was in the middle, so I closed my tired eyes and turned the key. That busted farm tuck came to life like she didn’t want any part of it. I climbed back up and made sure all the blowers were going to get the thin layer of ice off the windows. Sitting on my freezing hands, I watched Dad and Mom become clearer through the windshield. He was yelling again, waving his arms around. She stood and listened, her own bag at her feet. That’s when I really remembered. I remembered summer nights when we’d come home and Mom would turn on the news, having some excuse or another for not wanting to star gaze. She’d stay there for hours, long after Dad and I went to bed. A few months went by before the arguments started. Trying to keep them from me was a challenge, even if I was too scared to interrupt. I was in my room reading one time when I heard yelling downstairs, a door slam, and then silence. I crept into the empty kitchen later, there were a few broken plates still on the floor, spread out, and thoroughly smashed. Dad was gone and Mom was outside looking at the sunset. Her tablet was still unlocked on the counter, a picture of a flag I didn’t recognize lingering on the screen. I went from worried to scared when the leaves started to turn. I came downstairs early one morning in my PJ’s to find Dad sleeping on our couch with a single blanket by the fire, his face pained. I’d never seen him do that before. I was so spooked I ran back to my bed and hid. It wasn’t long after that. The driver’s door swung open and I scrambled into the passenger seat, “GO THAN! GO WITH THE BASTARDS! BUT YOU WON’T TAKE HIM, NOT WHILE I’M ALIVE!” Dad was shouting back up at the house. My chin was trembling as he threw the truck into gear and got us turned down the laneway. I watched my mother lean against one of the porch posts and cry through the back window as we sped down the bumpy dirt road, faster than I’d ever been. Dad cursing the whole time. There was a sudden roar and rush of wind as shadows passed over us in the cold morning sun. Three grey helicopters had passed over us, heading back the way we had come, low over the trees. They were slowing down. My dad was quiet now and I looked at him as I was about to start crying, but he had beaten me to it. That big, burly, bull of man, clung to the steering wheel like it was the last thing he owned, tears rolling down his face. His flask was open, sitting in the center console. I could smell it already and it was fifty miles to anywhere. My name is Logan Rockton, and that was the last time I saw my mother alive. \ Thanks for taking the time to read my first post! I hope you enjoyed this brief glimpse from an early point in Logan's life. I'm hoping to use stories like this to build out some context for a larger arc, but I've always struggled with proper punctuation.


Cocoa Beach 1981 On January 14, 1981, I had twins, a boy named Mark and a daughter named Amanda. They were prom babies, nine months to the day of the prom. They were born in a military hospital in Jacksonville. When I graduated from high school in June of 1980 no one except my boyfriend Johnnie knew that I was pregnant. There was a reason for this as I went to a private Christian School. It was an Episcopal Church school which was more progressive than other Christian private schools but a pregnancy would have been grounds to be expelled. Johnnie came to my prom at my school and hated it. We were watched like a hawk, but when I went to the Cocoa High School Prom, two weeks later, we skipped the prom and spent the evening in the wealthier section of town at my parent's condo. They were away for the weekend. Johnnie had always wanted to be a professional surfer. He hated school and barely graduated from high school in 1979. My parents thought he was a beach bum. The more they disliked him and the surfing culture, the more I liked him. We got married two weeks after graduation and the whole town knew about it. My parents were very upset about it but grateful that at least when the babies were born, we would be married. In their generation, this was important on the birth certificate to have married parents. We lived in a cottage house that my parents let us live in. It was old and dated but at least we didn't live under their roof. After the babies were born, Mark decided he wanted to join the military to everyone's surprise. He was doing pretty good as a surfer which was why people were surprised. He joined the navy and we headed to Mayport which is near Jacksonville. I waved as the ship pulled out of port. The twins was a couple of months old. He would be gone for three months but I didn't know that this would be the last time that I saw him alive. Right before the ship returned to Mayport, Johnnie was found dead in his bed on the ship. The findings were that he had taken his own life but no one knew exactly how he did this. It couldn't be proven that he had taken his own life, so cause of death of undetermined. I was heartbroken and couldn't believe that Johnnie had taken his own life. At the viewing, he looked like he was asleep. My parents as much as they didn't like Johnnie, made sure that he had a proper funeral and burial. He had no family as his father had died in the surf when he was 5 years old, trying to save Johnnie's life and when he was 16 years old, his mom had died on cancer. His parents had grown up in the Florida Methodist Home in Melbourne and both had been abandoned by their parents. So here I am at nearly 19 years old, a widow with two infants under six months old. I went to Cocoa Episcopal College and graduated with a business degree. My son Mark looked like a clone of Johnnie and shared his talent for surfing. Mark though was much better than Johnnie ever was. Tears came to my eyes when Mark won the Eastern Conference championship. Happy for him and sad that Johnnie wasn't here to see this. With his long blonde hair and green eyes and thin body, Mark looked like Johnnie did at age 19. I had remarried a surfer who got along well with my kids. Actually my husband Keith trained my son. I knew him from Johnnie. We had two more children. Shortly after Johnnie died, I got a phone call from an unknown woman telling me that Johnnie's death was no accident. Then I got a letter telling me the same thing with no details. I ignored it and didn't tell anyone about it. I had suspected that something wasn't right especially when it was reported that Johnnie was depressed. Johnnie had no gunshot wounds, nor did he have drugs in his system. The autopsy stated that Johnnie didn't have any wounds on his body indicating a fight or indicating that he'd been stabbed. He had no known medical problems. 2021 Nearly 40 years after Johnnie died, someone came forward and admitting to killing Johnnie by poking him with something that caused the heart to stop. This person admitted to doing this to several other people while he was in the Navy. The Navy suspected something was up but dealt with the problem by moving him around. He worked at Naval base hospitals. He also admitted to killing others as well when he retired from the Navy and worked in a hospital. . This person was on their death bed (it was a death bed confession) so nothing could be done. Amanda and Mark never got to know their father personally. All they knew him from were pictures, footage of surfing competition, a few family movies. I gave an impact statement to military police. Since I really didn't know Johnnie's medical history, I know Amanda was concerned that he might have had heart issues, which thankfully he didn't have. I know my husband Keith was always suspicious that something had happened to Johnnie. He told me a scary story about his uncle who was in the navy who witnessed a murder while hiding in a closet. Never knew what happened except that the person who did it got away with it.


He burped. Not very loud, as he was struggling to keep straight, but the stench of alcohol made it clear he’s been here for a while.  “Ye know, kid, many a seaman think a capn’ should fight better ‘gainst his old ship, but every capn’ knows better. Some good sea dogs might think his captain pities the ship, but that ain’t it. Mates and masters start to get it, aye, but only capn’s fully grasp it: ships be jealous. They ain’t a little, no, they got pangs o’ jealousy, they’re wretches. Been a first mate meself, only twice I seen the hardiest men wet themselves over easy battles. Capitain Hecter himself got near dead when fighting old Margahole with the Gray Shroud. Now, Margarita at her prime was a sight to see, but even then it would hardly be a match to the Shroud – those gray sails were something else, and that fleetness while carrying those cannons was something uncanny. Margarita was abandoned after a successful raid got her slow and bruised.”  He took another gulp. Went down like water.  “We was ready and thinking none too stupid to face us, and that old tub showed up, more holes than a doily and not even all the cannons there. Capn’ knew it better than his own arse, so we thinking, eh, that should be easy. Then I saw ‘im piss heself, right there, white and frozen as if not in a hot Caribbean noon. What I wasn’t seeing was the nimble the Margarita got. I swear you she looked like the holes were fixed, though we could still see’em all there. And cannons fired far as we never could and damn, they got good too. Captain Hecter lost his left arm before we ploughed our first ball in her broadside. By the end of the day, Captain had lost his legs too, and the Gray Shroud took a beating like it fought a man-o’-war. And that’s why Sir Hecter got his rum company. The captain has always been good with rum, made his own stuff and knew what we seamen liked, and it was a better trade for one without legs. But I digress. Here, kid, I was to talk about jealousy.”  He spit at the ground and took such a large gulp it looked like he drank air.  “Thar be a ship called Ivory. Or was it? Nah, the Elephant. Ah, hell, what do we care. She traded in ivory, raided mostly, I be calling her Elephant. Thing’s worth a fortune. Ivory I mean. Done Capn’ Cyril filthy rich. But riches be good for none when ye time’s come. Mayhaps be bad, even. Make’em stop seeing. And when’em see no more, crap happens. See, Capn’ Cyril was a first class raider. Heard o’ some nice guns up in America and came for grabs. Sailed north all the way to the summer ice ‘fore ‘em, and found some nice ship flying the Union Jack there too slow and too protected for her own good. Had to be it. A damn bloody massacre ensued, ‘cause Cyril wain’t no brave fool. He got ‘em at night and rid himself of a few lighter scouts before they could even see ‘im. After hearing the boom, they ran, but none too quick. The Elephant sunk a frigate before all were at their posts, but the others got ready and sailing and shooting. Quite a load of iron flying everywhere, the frigates shooting and a galleon fleeing, but those dark sails made the Elephant nigh invisible at night. Cyril got a frigate to shoot the other, and mercilessly broadsided the survivor. The last frigate stood blocking the way to the galleon, or was it a carrack?, and was so violently rammed down when trying to shoot that even the cannons went flying. And that’s when the boom came”  He got the bottle again and started swigging like it was fresh water after he was stranded and rescued, and no one could tell if not for the smell of rum. “Whoa, easy there!”, I said.  “Bollocks. No use in easy, kid. Ye be no legend if facing easy, innit? And Cyril seen raining fire. Agh.Bloody mess, worst than me. Elephant be lit then, I’ll be damned, but wasn’t stopping none. No, none. Bloody sailors musta pissed’emselves. But shoot and boom and raining fire once more. Cyril seen mortars, but not that. That be witchcraft, thar be something in the carrack. So see he must and see he did. He was taking a beating, aye, but he was reaching her alright. A few well aimed angels and the main mast was down. Galleon was already slow, took all she had to keep moving, snail like and at all. Course they reach ‘er, and they beat ‘er, and they board ‘er. Bloody mess kept on and on and on, and gunpowder and steel were loud as a party, a damn long party. I know nay how many died from Cyril’s crew, but none Bretons live to tell, none but a prisoner kept there who thought a miracle she got released. She was a scoundrel, aye, but hell if any knows what she did to be locked. But Cyril, oh she got him good. He was flying high after that victory, but the wench made him forget all. ‘Course he got all that treasure and them guns, but the wench got to warm his bed every single day after. That’s when he made the big mistake. He told the whole crew they were to be wed. And the first mate would be the one to wed them. Now the first mate was a wary fellow, and though burly as can be, he was in no way a stupid man. He tried to warn off the captain against such a thing, saying he’s never seen a successful ship driven by a married couple, but Captain Cyril was having none of it. So it was, kid, and they wed. That night the mate sure as hell was the last one sober, and the only to see what looked like a gale starboard. He thanked God almighty they were anchored, and went to see the night’s watch. The crow’s nest was empty.”  He drank again, finishing the bottle. By the looks of it, there wasn’t much left.  “The watch was pissed drunk and passed out on the deck. Oh he was gonna taste some flogging, aye, but that was matter for the morrow. Some storm forming starboard and some dark heavy feeling made the mate as restless as he felt the sails to be, raised as they were. Then they weren’t. Ship was shaking and no one on the wheel, sails suddenly down and you could swear the anchor had never been dropped. Ship began to turn and sail windward, into the storm, and better than if the first mate himself was driving ‘er. Things happened fast, and no one could help but to hear a devilish cry, as if some angered, betrayed woman had just enacted her furious revenge. And right in the middle of the storm, it was all anyone could do to hold on. The mate was the first to be thrown overboard, as the Elephant used the very wheel he was struggling to control to overpower him. He surfaced and caught his breath in time to see the just married lass being hurled to nothingness, and the ship calming as if a furious beast giving up life after a rough hunt. No one could control the ship in that storm. The only one able was at water, now maybe half a league away. They crashed and sunk right there, cursed by their own vessel, and not a single one of those souls was free from her curse. The mate wrote it all in a letter and threw it in a bottle to sea, and that’s how me grandpa learned of the tale. Said he died soon after.”  He actually managed to sip something more from that bottle.  “So, kid, hear this: sail north of the Jack Bay close to Little Inagua at the wrong time and ye might still hear their screams in the storm. And don’t dare go near ‘em, else they’ll drag you with’em. There always a red lightning coming from that hellish ghost weapon they stole, and you can’t hide, as the captain’s always searching the sea around for that lass he lost. Now you know, kid. I’m getting another bottle. Wait for me here, ‘twas nice talking and I got a few stories more to share. Damn rum can’t keep me drunk for a full minute anymore. One day I hope I’ll remember the name of the ship.”  “Don’t try too hard,” I said, “or you might have a stroke.” Once he was gone, I walked away. He seemed indeed incapable of keeping drunk for long or ceasing to talk. Sure he’ll find someone else to bother with his lies and won’t even notice it’s not me. Captain Hecter’s first was actually called Slingshot, a quick and steady brigantine. The jealous ship was called Lady Margatia, after Captain Cyril’s mother. Good thing its name’s been forgotten. There were survivors from the galleon raid, else he wouldn’t have this tale to tell as I never wrote about it. He also got the shipwreck place wrong, but Lady Margatia is indeed jealous and never much liked waiting, so before she wondered, it was time I moved.


Sorry for cutting the last post short. I had someone come in that needs a special kind of attention. For starters, I don’t even know what they are. For the sake of easier typing, they will be referred to as Emmett. Mainly because the name Emmett just gives me weird kid vibes. Kind of like that one kid that sat in the back of your third grade class and always drank the glue and got yelled at for sneezing into books? Maybe? A little more about Emmett, I have no clue if they are a guy or a girl at this point. Emmett has always piqued my curiosity whenever they enter the library. They stand five-ish feet tall, always clad in all black, and wear an all white mask. The only reason I know that Emmett has an all white mask is because they ran head first into one of our doors when they first started coming to the library. I was just sitting at my desk drawing and I heard a dull thud. When I looked up, I first saw Emmett. By body language alone, I could tell that they were super confused as to what had hit them. It was more a feeling of sheer awe and wonder than anything else now that I think about it more. I found it quite cute, actually. The experience was like watching a monkey play with a smartphone for the first time. This kept happening over the course of a few weeks, but they learned that whatever it was that hit them each time was there to stay. I’m honestly surprised how long it took Emmett to figure out how to open a door. I wonder what their home life is like... Emmett comes in normally around 9:30 to 10 o’clock. To add to that, it's normally right on the dot for those two times. Pretty impressive if I do say so myself; But, I have never once seen Emmett leave the way they came in... Hell, I don’t even know what Emmett does here. Well, obviously they might read or check out a book, right? However, they have never once checked out a book. Yeah, I know that what some people do is they come to the library, find an interesting book, and read it in a lounge area. That has never really bothered me because I just chalk it up to me being deep into drawing or writing and I don’t notice when they leave. To me, Emmett seems harmless enough. Hell, I would take them over many other patrons of mine. At 10 o’clock, Emmett walked through the doors of the library. So far, pretty normal. I was getting deep into a text conversation I was having with a friend so when I saw some movement out of the corner of my eye, it kind of scared me, not gonna lie; but, since it was Emmett, I was fine. Just gave them a nod to acknowledge their presence and watched where they went. It doesn’t really bother me that they never acknowledge me back simply because I don’t even think Emmett can see me half the time. They always have a hood up, plus the mask I mentioned earlier so I wouldn’t put it past them if they just can’t see me. As I watched Emmett stroll past the desk, I peaked my head up a little more and saw that they went into the romance section. To each their own I guess. After a while of sitting and texting with periodically doodling to my heart's content, I decided to start my rounds. The way I like to do it is, I snake my way up and down the aisles. I continue this until the very end of the hall, then I walk right down the main aisle that separates the library into its two halves. The romance section was only 3 aisles in and on the right side. So I could very clearly see Emmett enter the aisle. I knew they were there; however, once I reached the aisle, it was completely vacant. Given I am still a somewhat logical person, even after working here for so long, I thought it was completely plausible they had just gotten a book and walked over to the lounge area. Upon reaching said lounge area, Emmett was nowhere to be seen. Now, I was absolutely perplexed. Kerfuffled even. Where in the hell could this person or thing or whatever they are go in such a short amount of time? I even double checked the section Emmett had gone into. Not a single thing was out of place, except for one book. Now I knew for absolute certain that Emmett was still around, but I had spent way too much time away from my desk. If I wanted to start keeping my pens, I absolutely had to keep an eye on them at all times. Pens aren’t that cheap you know, especially when you had to buy a new pack seemingly every week. As far as tonight goes, there hasn’t been too many things out of the ordinary. I have done my opening rounds, unlocked the doors, checked, and even double checked that our resident creepy *thing* was present for the night. Y’know I’ve started to just accept its presence here. Like... it doesn’t even do much aside from just sit there and stare into my soul and eat my thoughts and memories. It doesn’t even look like a person most times. I am genuinely starting to believe that it just doesn’t even exist and it's just a bunch of shadows. That is actually the perfect name for whatever the fuck I am currently staring at, Shadow. Edit: Okay, so a night that I thought would be boring turned out to be not so boring. I just had an incident in one of the sections of the library. Normally I deal with situations in the same vein as this...but this turned out to be a lot different than normal. I was sitting at my desk, drawing as usual. I wanted to be in a happy and peaceful mindset, so naturally, I was drawing a butterfly. As I was adding details to one of its wings, an absolute monstrosity of a scream came from the book section. Now, I’m no stranger to screams; especially when the library is in question. But this chilled me to the bone. It was as if the scream itself penetrated my ears and carved away at my mind. Kind of like when a cat yowls, I guess? I genuinely don’t know how to put it. I stood in the main aisle, waiting for it to happen again. That way I would know where exactly it came from and I could deal with it accordingly. After a few more moments, I heard it again. It came from the paranormal section. Now me being the only person in the library, meant I had to deal with anything and everything that came through that door...or from inside the library itself. The paranormal section was about six aisles down from the main entrance. I carefully inched my way down the main aisle. After a short while, I ended up right next to the aisle with the screaming. Hell, even the ghosts and demons that decorated the shelving unit looked terrified. I stared at one of the demons very closely. The engraving slowly moved one of its ghastly arms to point to the entrance of the section. Now you know some fucked up shit is going on when the decor is in distress. Right as I began to peak my head around the corner, I heard the scream again; however, this time it was from deeper within the library. And this time it wasn’t stopping. It started as a faint and dull cry which started to grow into a painful and jarring scream as if it were coming straight for me. With a quiet, “Oh shit” and a new wet and warm stream flowing freely down my leg; I dove into the section just as a glowing orb shot past me. This was a completely new thing. Wormholes? I can deal with those. Teleporting entities that love romance books? I got that covered. Randomly disappearing writing utensils? All good. But screaming ghost orbs? Hell no. The wails of the orb became quieter, and then grew increasingly louder once more. As this was happening, I tried scrambling to my feet so I could run to the other end of the aisle; but once as I managed to get into my sprinters position, I ended up slamming head first into something. Into someone.


One morning, there was once an old man who woke up in a daze on a snowy winter morning. He stumbled towards the window and exhaled as to remove the frost. As he peered out of the window, expecting to see the neighbors' houses and cars that were always slightly better than what he had. Prior memories made him bitter and made him hope to take their belongings away. As he peered out and saw not the same miserable life that consumed him, he saw snow. Snow and more snow, as far as the eye could see. Bone shattering winds scattered from east to west, removing the possibility of any thought that life was out there. As the old man smiled in glee that he was finally alone and what he had was the best that there could be as far as the eye could see, he felt a sharp frost over his entire body. His muscles tightened and his movement slowed to a crawl. He then forced his way to his bed, where he grabbed his blanket and wrapped it tight around his body. Still shivering, he inched closer and closer to the shower. A turn of the knob and nothing came out. He stared up at the shower head and as he did, an eerie creaking pinged throughout the house. Mere seconds went by and then pipe after pipe started bursting at every weak point. The old man who was still bewildered by what was going on, still with his head below the shower head, looked up at the shower head just as the shower head came flying towards his face. Blood rushing from his nose and freezing water soaking him and the blanket sent his body into shock. What seemed cold before was now 10 fold. He began crawling down the stairs and towards the phone. Barely able to grab the phone, he began to shakily press each number in extraordinary pain, as if his fingers would break right off. He waited for a dial tone, but nothing happened, no noise, nothing. As a last ditch effort, the old man, barely able to move, inched his way to the front door, in hopes of calling out to anyone that could help. His hand reached up to the frozen door knob and twisted it open with all his might. As the door slammed open, the wind burned his face in frost. As much as it hurt, he screamed out for help, but no one was there. After his voice went horse and the cold became unbearable, he closed his eyes as a single tear drop froze under his eye. Then, all of a sudden, he woke up in his bed, with the sun shining on his face. He ran to his window and smiled maniacally at the neighborhoods that he once despised. He jumped for joy, ran to the shower and turn on the hot water. As the water rained down on his face, his worries washed away and all that was left was his grin of appreciation and relief.


Waking up I felt odd. It was dark. *It must still be night.* I feel light-headed and nauseous. *Maybe a glass of water will help. Wait a minute. Why can't I move? It feels impossible. I don't understand...* Suddenly a voice started talking somewhere near me. It's close but I can't figure out what it's saying. *Why can't I hear what it is saying?* It feels really close, right next to me, almost on my shoulder. Wait. There is something on my shoulder. Something touching me. *What is it? Why can't I take a look?* There is another voice now, somewhere in the room I'm guessing. I can't feel my body. *What is happening to me?* The voices are clearer now. I can make out some of the words. "... small chance... terribly sorry... can't do..." *What are they talking about. And who are they? I'm so confused. I don't understand.* I feel very tired. I don't know why, I mean I just woke up. I struggle to stay awake but it's too difficult to fight it. I fall back asleep. \_\_\_ I woke up again. My mind feels clearer than it did before. However my body feels numb. I still can't move a muscle. It feels super weird. It can't possibly still be dark so why can't I see? I can hear clearer than yesterday, so at least that's something. I still don't understand what's going on. Wait. Someone is talking again. A woman. "Don't worry, everything will be okay. It's going to work out." That voice sounds familiar but I can't place it. *Wait. Are they crying? Why? What's going on?!* "We should go talk to the doctor now." That's a different voice. "Don't you think we should wait? Give him a chance? Maybe he will get better. Maybe..." "You know what they said, dear. There's no chance for him to get through this. We need to take action." "He'll make it, he just needs a little more time. If we could just wait for a bit..." "It doesn't matter how long we wait, love. He's not here anymore. He's... not himself." *Wait what? Are they talking about me?* "Come on. Let's talk to the doctor now." I can hear their footsteps fading away. *Who are those people? And why are they talking about me like I'm not even here?! Why can't I remember anything?! Not a single thing! I don't know where I am or why or what is going on. I don't remember anything from before this.* I can feel the panic taking over my body and there's nothing I can do. I can just lay here. Wherever here is. Eventually I calm down but the panic attack had exhausted me and so I fall asleep yet again. \_\_\_ I wake up hearing multiple voices. They are talking quietly so I can't make out what they're saying. I can hear that the woman from before is crying again. I would like to know what upsets her so. And why is it that I can hear her. I'm getting used to not moving. It is how things are for me now I suppose. It's quiet. They're not talking anymore but I can sense they're still present. Suddenly I feel nauseous and a fatigue takes over me. I have an urge to fall asleep but I just woke up. *What is happening to me?* This time the urge to sleep is overwhelming and it feels different. It's almost comforting. *What could happen if I drift to sleep one more time, right?* And so I do. I let go. I let the darkness consume me.


When I was little, I always thought my friend Billy was a police officer on account of the blue uniform he wore. It wasn’t until the fourth grade when I first learned about the Civil War that I realized he was a Union soldier. By then, though, my family had moved, so I never saw him anymore. I met Billy when my family moved to the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia in the late ‘90s. I was six at the time, so when I first told my parents about my police officer friend Billy, they assumed he was my imaginary friend. I never needed to use my imagination to see him though; he would always be sitting, clear as day, under an old, gnarled oak tree in the woods behind my house. Billy wasn’t much of a talker–it took me a good three months to get him to tell me he was from Lowell, Massachusetts–but I didn’t care. As an only child, I was just glad to have someone to talk to. I’d climb that old oak tree and talk, while Billy just sat there, with a faraway look in his brown eyes. He once told me I reminded him of his kid brother. When I asked Billy what his brother’s name was, he wouldn’t respond. He just sat there, with that eternal dreamy expression on his face. After I saw a picture of a Union soldier in my fourth-grade history textbook, I told my parents that Billy hadn’t been a police officer after all–he was a Union soldier. They exchanged questioning glances, and my mother replied, “Is that so?” We had moved to northern Virginia, near Washington, D.C., so I asked them if we could go visit the old house near Richmond. I wanted to talk to Billy again. My mother responded, “Sorry, sweetie, maybe another time. That’s a far drive, and Dad and I are really busy.” I didn’t visit the old house again until I was in my mid-twenties. It was a bit awkward knocking on the door and asking the current owner if I could have a look around. I explained that I had spent some of my childhood there and wanted to see the woods behind the house for old times’ sake. The owner agreed, if reluctantly, and I made my way around the house. The woods had changed a fair amount since I had left, but that old, gnarled oak was still there. I looked around, but there was no sign of Billy. I swear I could feel his presence, though, so I stood there for a good ten minutes, waiting. Nothing happened, so I made my way back to the house. I knocked on the door to let the owner know that I was leaving. When he opened the door, his daughter was standing next to him–she couldn’t have been older than six or seven. Before I could say anything, she asked, “Did you see Billy?” Her father looked at her with a frown and said, “Please, don’t mind her. She’s always talking about her imaginary friend Billy who sits under that old oak tree.” I smiled at the little girl and replied, “Not today.” Turning to her father, I said, “Thanks for letting me have a look around. I’m going to head out now.” As I turned to leave, I wasn’t quite sure how to feel. The six-year-old inside of me was happy to hear that Billy was still around. However, another side of me was saddened to think that he was still stuck here, after all these years, far away from home.


Little 9-year-old Lucy Henderson laid awake in her bed for the fourth night in a row. She knew two things: She needed a better nightlight and there was a monster under her bed. Her arm clenched around her stuffed teddy bear, Charles. The tree outside clawed against the glass of her window with every gust of wind. Ghoulish faces formed from the streetlight casting shadows on her ceiling. Lucy’s eyes shut tight. Every time she did, she felt the bed stir - sure that the monster beneath it was reaching up to grab her. “Janice down the street had a break-in last night. They’re happening on our block now. What are we going to do?” She heard her mother say through the crack in her door one evening. “Keep your voice down, we don’t want Lucy to panic.” Her father responded. “You know how she gets. It’ll be alright.” She spent the following two weeks waking her mother up in the middle of the night. A flashlight next to her bed became the agreed-upon solution. Her eyes opened at the sound of a loud thump and she looked around. The dim nightlight made it difficult to make out anything in her little room. She grabbed the flashlight and scanned the darkness. The beam of light brought clarity. She saw that the tree outside was only a tree. Toys she forgot to put away cast the other shadows underneath her crummy nightlight. Lucy knew there was no such thing as monsters. The tension in her muscles eased as the light crossed the foot of the bed. At the edge of the light, she watched a white, boney hand recoil out of sight. Immediately she turned the light to get a better look. It was gone. Lucy protested the flashlight as a reasonable solution. Her father reminded her that she would be 10 years old soon and she needed to be a brave girl. She clasped Charles tight around the neck and crawled to the foot of her bed. She followed the beam and peeked over the edge. To her relief, nothing. She let out a big sigh and laid back in bed. She turned her head to look at the clock on her nightstand. Instead, a white face cloaked in a dark robe stared back at her with large, hollow black eyes. It neared closer to her and she let out a bellowing scream. Moments later her Mom burst through the door. The light from the hallway filled the room and the creature vanished with the darkness. “Oh Lucy, not again.” “It’s under the bed Mom, I promise!” Her mother, frustrated, sank to her knees and checked under the bed. “There’s noth- wait,” she said as Lucy leaned in. “I can’t quite get a grip on it. Here it is.” She pulled a candy wrapper up into view. “What have I told you about candy before bed? It’s driving your imagination wild. There are no monsters under your bed.” “Yes, Mama but what about the break-ins? I heard you and Dad talking and-” Her mother pulled the girl close and held her. “You’re too young to be worrying about that. Me and your dad will protect you. Promise.” Defeated, the little girl put her head down. Her mother laid a soft kiss upon her forehead. “I love you.” She picked up Charles who had fallen on the floor and placed him back into Lucy’s arms. “You’ll get out of this phase. Remember it’s only your imagination.” She got up and clicked the lock of the window shut before exiting the room. A wave of darkness crossed the room as her mother pulled the door shut. As it closed the white face crept from behind it. She gripped the blanket tight and covered her head. Her eyes shut and she covered her ears with her hands. She repeated “It’s only your imagination,” in her head over and over again. A few minutes of silence passed. The pounding in her chest quieted. Charles was in a headlock under her arm, the stitching around his neck close to ripping. Her eyes opened. The flashlight was gone, she felt around but couldn’t find it. She could see through her blanket and scanned the room. It made the shadows from the nightlight even more confusing. She dared not look toward the darkness so she kept her eyes toward the window. The wind calmed down and the branches outside were still. The closet door creaked as it opened. The silhouette of a body appeared in the light of the window. It lunged toward her. Her eyes shut tight. She abandoned Charles and grabbed her pillow, wrapping it around her head. She didn’t want to see, she didn’t want to hear. She kept repeating “It’s only your imagination.” Tears welled in her eyes waiting for the nightmare to be over. The blanket ripped off and she drowned in the cold of the room. The pillow tore from her face. She turned to look. There was no monster. Only a man in a ski mask. Before she could scream his large hands covered her mouth. He held her to the bed with one hand. His other hand brought a finger to his lips signaling for her to stay quiet. The nine-year-old struggled as the man peered around the room. He stared at the door for an instant making sure there would be no interruptions. She could hear the faint noise of her parents watching TV in the living room. Hand still on her mouth, he swung his backpack around and pulled some duct tape from the open pocket. He leaned down close to her and whispered in her ear. “You make a sound, I’ll kill you.” Tears rained down Lucy’s cheeks. He ripped a strip from the roll and spread it across the little girls quivering lips. As he pulled another strip of tape, Lucy noticed a shadow rising from behind him. Her eyes fixated as it grew. Broad shoulders sat beneath a deep hooded cloak hovered above the man. The creature’s boney arms reached from under its cloak and crept closer. Lucy’s heart stopped. The man pulled Lucy’s arms up in front of her but stopped when he noticed she was no longer resisting. Her eyes were wide and fixed behind him. He turned around, still on top of the girl. Inches in front of his face now stood the white, lanky monster. The man froze as a chill washed over his body. Before he could scream the monster wrapped its bony fingers around the man’s face. In an instant, the monster dragged him under the bed. The legs of the bed slammed and scratched against the hardwood floor. Muffled screams got quieter and more distant. Lucy jumped in fear and landed on Charles. She pulled the teddy bear to her chest and scattered away against the wall. The man lunged out from underneath the bed. His grasp reached inches away from the little girl. Blood covered his hands and face, now exposed between rips in the mask. Startled, she threw Charles toward the man. “Help me, please help me,” he groaned as blood spurted out of his mouth. Lucy looked up and saw the monster hovering over the man. It was waiting. The little girl stood up and looked into the man’s terror-filled eyes. Then shook her head as her monster dragged the man back under the bed. The bed shook until the echo of screams died and the room fell silent. “Lucy! What’s going on in there?” her mother called from the living room. The hollow-eyed face slid out from under the bed. It put one long, boned finger to its mouth. Lucy pulled the tape from her mouth and yelled, “Nothing Mom! I was going to check the lock on my window and I tripped on some toys!” “How many times have I told you to clean up your toys before you go to bed?” Her mother yelled back. “Put them away and get your butt back in bed. I don’t want to hear another peep out of you tonight.” “Yes, Mama.” The traumatized nine-year-old said. The face sunk back into the darkness under the bed and appeared on the other side in one smooth movement. It lifted her blankets and signaled with its demonic finger for her to come closer. Lucy stood and wiped the tears from her eyes. The monster then raised Charles from the floor. Its white hand shook the bear, enticing the child. She made her way onto the bed as the monster pulled the blanket over her.