Vesta held the small child in her arms. It was so... fragile, the soft skin of the babe and the small tight grip, but it was not breathing. The child lay in her arms, unmoving.

Vesta looked at her child and felt the Sacrarium within her react and bubble. As she held her, gold light flooded the child's eyes, filling the house with light brighter than the sun. The child's eyes, once silver, now held flecks of gold within them, and the baby took its first breath... and cried.

Vesta held her child and declared, "Silvia, you are of the wildwood. With your birth I gift you what I was gifted, a piece of the Sacrarium, and I make it so, from this day, it shall pass from mother to child of its own accord, so that no daughter after you, be denied what I give you now."

Then the tree closest to the house, the one Vesta had given voice and thought, spoke for the first time to a child of Vesta's line. "As you live, Silvia, we will protect you."

---

Silvia stood on the porch of her wood hut. She had just recently turned five, and her younger brother Nexus was born today, but she wasn't allowed to watch. She was told to stand guard on the porch, so she did. She puffed her chest out and stared at the trees and bushes, daring anyone to jump out. Usually she wasn't allowed to leave the house without one of her parents; her father always went out, and her mother preferred to stay home and take care of the house, but when she turned five, her parents tentatively allowed her to go exploring on her own. Little did they know it hadn't stopped her wandering the forest alone even before that. But they had nothing to fear; they lived in a safe paradise.

Silvia stood there for one minute, two minutes, five minutes, before she caved. How am I to hold guard? There is no one here. It will be fine. Slowly she walked down the gravel path and reached her spot. There was a small hill in a clearing surrounded by trees, and in the middle of the tall behemoths stood an even bigger tree. Atop the hill, it towered far above the others, reaching high into the clouds.

She craned her little head and swiped her silver hair from her face. She looked up at the massive tree and yelled, "I'm here!"

The second her voice pierced the quiet, the ground started to shake, and the tree in front of her began to shift. A massive branch swept down and unfurled before Silvia like an open palm.

When Silvia climbed onto it, the branches slowly and gently curled around her, holding her as they rose, carrying her high up into the sky.

As she stood atop the clouds, Silvia looked at her home. It was a massive forest with a river running through the middle, a mountain range on one side towering so high it made the tree she stood on seem like an ant, and on the other side, an endless blue ocean with waves crashing into the land relentlessly. As she watched the sun slowly set, she saw a glint in the water, then scales flashing past, fast. As soon as she saw it, it was gone.

The next morning, Silvia stayed home and, for the first time, saw someone other than her parents: her new brother, Nexus. As she held him and looked into his deep teal eyes, she felt like she was looking into an ocean. She felt joy and kinship. She felt love for him. She was too young to lift him, but it didn't matter to her. They were joined at the hip; everywhere their poor parents looked, they'd find two troublemakers crawling around the house.

Nexus and Silvia played until sundown, at which point their mother picked him up for dinner, and together they sat at a sturdy wooden table. The room was lit by three candles made of wax. As the candlelight flickered, Vesta brought dinner to the table: rice with a bit of salad. Silvia thought it tasted horrible, but she was starving, and there was no meat that day, so she scarfed it down anyway.

The next day, Silvia took her mother and brother to the clearing. It was a short five-minute walk, but halfway through, Vesta, exhausted, turned back for home, leaving the two siblings to finish their trek alone. When Silvia reached the tree with her brother, they climbed to the top together. She sat down and pouted. "Why do you only make sounds? I want someone to talk to," she said. She always wanted a companion, someone to keep her company. She leaned back into the branches and felt them caress her as she continued, "Mom said you would be able to talk like us, and to give it time. I can't wait!"

As the sun set, she held her brother tightly and whispered, "It's you and me."

---

Silvia woke to her father gently shaking her awake. "Let's go to the creek, go get your brother," he said. Suddenly filled with energy, Silvia jumped up and scampered to her brother's room. She saw her mother lying on the cotton bed, the one it had taken her father a year to make, hugging her baby boy. Not wanting to disturb her, Silvia slipped out quietly to meet her father on the porch.

When Primum saw one of his children skipping toward him, he asked, "Where's your brother?"

His little girl reached the porch, pulling some leather over her feet to protect her toes, and said, "Mum was sleeping. I didn't want to wake her up." Then she ran forward into the misty forest, her father following behind.

Though it was still early, the first hours of sunrise, the birds and animals made the forest feel alive with chirping and the occasional cry of some exotic bird.

Silvia and her father walked at an easy, uneven pace; she usually ran ahead, but whenever she had something to say, she'd slow down and let her father catch up. Finally, as she ran, she spotted a red flower with petals hugging each other. She'd seen such flowers before and named them roses, but this time, there was water beaded on the green leaves of its thorny stem. Confused, she turned back to her father and asked, "Pa, it didn't rain, why is water on this flower?"

Her father laughed. "That's dew. Every morning, the air itself cries for Anima, leaving dew on the leaves as a mark of His existence."

Silvia, even more confused now, asked, "Pa, who is Anima? Why does the air cry for him?"

Primum sighed. "He is the most high. He sacrificed Himself for our freedom. I'll tell you more when you're of age."

When Silvia looked up from the rose, she realized the forest had gone entirely quiet. Eerily quiet. As they walked, the silence held, broken only by the rushing of the creek. Though Silvia and her father called it "the creek," it spanned a vast section, home to hundreds of fish.

When Primum reached its edge, sensing a teaching moment, he turned to his daughter. "On the edge of a river is a bank, so right now, I'm standing on a bank. But the edge of the sea is called a shore." Silvia, intrigued, repeated the words in halting syllables: "Sh...o...re. Ba...enk." They felt strange in her mouth, but right, somehow, all the same.

Seeing that his daughter understood, he grabbed a spear from where he'd left it on the rocks and waded into the water.

Over the next three hours, father and daughter fished in the quiet forest. Only when they got back home did Silvia realize she hadn't heard a single animal for most of the trip.

The next day, Silvia played with Nexus and carried him everywhere. The following morning, however, she was so tired from playing that she stayed asleep long past midday. When she finally woke up, the house was quiet. No one was home. Feeling lonely, she went to her spot, her tree. When she reached the top, she looked out to the sea, searching for that glint of the beast moving through the water.

When she got home around midnight, she slowly entered the bedroom. There was a crate lined with cotton fluff, nesting a small child who was sleeping soundly, and beside it the massive cotton bed, where she could see the outline of her parents in the moonlight, intertwined together. Not wanting to disturb them, she slowly left and walked out of the house. She wasn't sleepy at all, so she decided she would go look for that beast. Happily trotting, Silvia headed for the sea.

As Silvia approached the shore, she felt something weird against her feet. It was solid, but it kept slipping and running like water, running between her toes as her small feet slowly sank. Despite the weird moving rock-water, she kept moving towards the deep blue ocean, trying to find that scaly beast she had seen before.

She plopped down onto the rock-water and waited, watching fish and small birds chirping and flying across the sky, but she was looking for that scaly massive monster.

Slowly the night passed, and Silvia still stood at the water's edge. She did not want to miss the chance to glance at that magnificent beast again, but as she waited, she heard a growl behind her. She sprang to her little feet and spun around, and saw... it looked like her father, but it wasn't. It walked on its hands and feet. It slowly moved closer, but she stood rooted in fear. What was it? Why did it look like her father? The more she looked at the beast, the more she saw: deep brown eyes, thick and dirty limbs. Looking at it, she felt something weird.

The beast leapt towards her, reaching its hands out. It grabbed Silvia's throat and pushed her hard against the rock-water. She felt the breath leave her lungs. She tried to yell, but she couldn't. She needed air. She scratched at the arms holding her throat, clawing for the sweet air that was right outside her reach, but it was to no avail. Thrashing, she felt herself grow weaker, but out of the corner of her eye she saw a scaled beast.

The water around Silvia flowed back into the sea, almost as a warning, before a massive blue-scaled body flew out of the water and roared.

The roar was deafening. It wasn't terrifying, but rather mind-numbing. As the dragon flew out of the water and approached, Silvia felt the ground tremble and the chirping birds fall silent. The beast let go of her and ran back into the forest. Silvia felt the air rush back into her lungs, filling her with breath. She was relieved for a second, before turning around to be face to face with a massive eye.

P.S.
I tried to restrict my AI usage only using it to get good Latin names.

First, let me start, that I have never tried something like this, so I truthfully cannot confirm where my thoughts may flow. The category may change, and this could just be a rough draft for something better. I just wrote this all out in one sitting. I am sure it can be improved on. Depending on how it is received, I may try for more.

The rain tapped against the window pain, as thunder rumbled in the distance. Avery stared out the window, with that same feeling of apathy that had been building for sometime. Removing her thin framed glasses, and rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"It shouldn't feel like this," she thought the words before shaking her head. The mild aching of the always present headache humming through her brain.

She was just tired, surely. Exhaustion or burn out, whatever buzz word was currently all the rage. Deep down, though, she wasn't sure.

Turning back to her computer screen, the number of emails in her inbox growing, yet she just couldn't focus on work today.

Rising from her desk, it would still be a few hours until her boyfriend was home. She lived together, with Shawn. They had been together for a few years. There was once a time, when she couldn't wait for him to come home. Now, however, now that the apathy had set it, she found it more difficult to care.

The two had been together for a few years now. Their friends and family, always asking if they planned to wed. The thought terrified her, but she would never voice it.

The distance had been growing between Avery and Shawn for sometime. She no longer felt seen by him, rarely if ever wanted. Almost every conversation the two of them had, was his conversation anymore. How was his day? What is going on in his life.

Avery knew she should probably end things, but their life was so entwined with his, she wasn't sure where her own life began. Their friends were his friends, and she didn't have much of her own family left anyway. Besides, this is just a phase, right? An extension of her own, burn out.

The truth, however, was more complicated than that. Avery struggled with the same feeling she experienced as a teen. A feeling that something was missing within her, making her feel whole. Something that hid in the back of her mind, and with each attempt of self discovery, would disappear deeper within herself. If only she could discover the key to this door trapped within her mind.

The rain had finally settled, and the thunder a distant roll. "Perhaps I should go for a walk, clear my head. That is what all the therapists recommend," she said outloud, to no one in particular.

She proceeded to dress, and put on her shoes before braving the outdoors. She left a note, on the fridge, but surely she would be home before he did.

The walking trail was peaceful, serene. "Maybe there is something to be said about nature and exercise," she laughed.

Closing her eyes tightly, and angling her face towards the sun that was starting to peek through the receding rain clouds, she inhaled deeply, exhaling her desire for something more, along with her breath.

When she opened her eyes, she noticed something that she fail to see before. Past an out cropping of pine trees, a collection of mushrooms, aligned in a perfect circle, surely the product of the recent rain storm.

Curiosity pulled at her though. "How cute, a fairy circle!" She laughed as she made her way closer.

Suddenly she felt emotions similar to when she was a child, thinking to the thoughts of running through the forests, reading stories of fairies, magic, and the fae realms. A feeling when the world was new, and she felt alive.

This time, however, her curiosity, and longing may have pushed her too far. As she took her final step into the circle...she was gone.

End..Possibly

The laughter of the Grand Hall grows fainter with every passing step. Soon, it becomes little more than a distant echo carried through polished corridors of white stone and towering arches. The warm amber glow spilling from the ballroom gradually gives way to quieter, shadowed halls lined with ancient tapestries, faded portraits, and suits of ceremonial armor standing eternal watch.

Neither man speaks. Fredricks has walked these exact corridors beside Varek more times than he can readily remember: after victorious campaigns, to answer urgent royal summons, and to bury fallen friends.

Silence has long since become another language between them. Commander Varek carries the leather folio securely beneath one arm. Sir Fredricks walks with his right hand resting loosely upon the obsidian hilt at his side.

Not gripping it fiercely.

Simply resting there.

Almost unconsciously.

Royal servants pass them in the corridors with lowered heads, each stepping respectfully aside into the shadows before continuing about the evening’s late preparations. Somewhere deeper within the palace, a separate orchestra has already begun softly rehearsing tomorrow’s grand procession. The melodic notes drift through open galleries before disappearing behind heavy oak doors.

No one stops them. No one questions why the guest of honor has quietly abandoned his own celebration. Duty has always followed Sir Fredricks, and tonight is no different.

At the very end of the long corridor stands a narrow, austere chamber overlooking the western battlements of the Capital. Unlike the Grand Hall above, it possesses little decoration. Strategic maps cover one stone wall, their curled corners lifting from the ancient masonry. Military reports rest neatly upon a long oak table, its carved patterns flowing like dark water along its sturdy legs.

A single oil lantern burns beside an open window, where the cool evening air carries the distant, muffled sounds of the bustling city below. Fredricks steps inside, moving directly toward the table. Varek follows close behind, closing the heavy door.

Only then does the Hero Without Fear allow the charismatic smile to fade from his face. Not dramatically or suddenly. The mask simply isn’t needed within these four walls.

He crosses to the table and places both hands firmly upon its edge. “Tell me.”

Varek sets the leather folio beside the lantern.

“The prisoner confirmed exactly what our scouts suspected,” he says, unfolding a detailed map of eastern Aldren across the wood. Several roads are already marked in thick charcoal. “He never admitted to the timeline directly.”

Fredricks studies the markings, his silver eyes unblinking.

“Their forward screen is using the old frontier road,” Varek says, tracing a gloved finger across the faded, half-obscured route. “They’re curving around the eastern watch posts before joining a Royal High Road. The main host follows behind them.”

“Smart.”

“They’ll remain concealed until they cross here.” His finger stops where the frontier road meets the eastern approach to the Capital gates. “Three days. Perhaps less.”

Fredricks nods once, his expression hard.

“No more?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

“And perhaps fewer.”

Varek meets his Commandant’s cold gaze. “Perhaps.”

Silence settles over the room. Outside, distant church bells ring the late hour, the sound rolling across the spiraling districts below; heavy, low, and ominous.

Fredricks looks through the open window. Thousands of lanterns stretch across the tiers beneath the palace. From this height, the Capital looks peaceful.

Untouchable.

“It doesn’t know.”

Varek follows his gaze into the amber light. “No.”

“They’re celebrating. They’ve earned the right,” Fredricks says, eyes still fixed upon the city. “For tonight, at least.”

The words linger between them until Varek says, “There is more, my lord.”

Fredricks turns.

Varek opens the folio and draws apart a folded cloth beside the map. Fresh grain. A dark arrowhead shaped to punch through a shield. A short length of rope stiff with pitch. A worn horseshoe. Green-timber splinters lie among iron filings at the cloth’s center.

“The grain is fresh, and the horse was driven hard,” Varek says. “The rope and arrowhead are meant for an assault. The timber and iron came from recent work.” He lays the watch reports beside the evidence. “Our eastern posts recorded movement curving around them toward the Capital. The prisoner’s reactions supported the route, the timetable, and the target.”

Fredricks’ hand settles upon the marked road as the tactical implications form in his mind. “They’re building siege frames on the march.”

“Yes.”

Fredricks looks down at the map. “They’re coming to take the Capital.”

Fredricks lets the roads, the evidence, and the narrowing distance settle into a single battlefield.

“The King needs to know,” Fredricks says quietly.

“Agreed. And the Council?”

Fredricks does not answer immediately. His eyes trace the map again, measuring roads, distances, and enemy movement. He already knows what the morning will bring: necessary questions, competing responsibilities, and every answer tested against law, supply, and time. All of it will matter.

All of it will take time.

“Three days,” Fredricks mutters, fingers resting upon the parchment. “We’ll inform them before first light.”

Varek nods.

“I’ll prepare the reports.”

“And Varek…”

Varek freezes.

“Sir?”

“Wake the Black Tide captains we can reach before dawn. Quietly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The city celebrates tonight,” Fredricks says, a shadow crossing his expression. “They deserve one more peaceful evening.”

Varek inclines his head. “As you command.”

Before either man can move, a knock echoes from the corridor. They exchange a sharp glance. At this hour, only a few people would dare interrupt them.

“Enter.”

The door opens slowly. A Royal Guardsman steps inside and bows. “Forgive the interruption, my lord.”

“What is it?” Fredricks asks, his voice returning to its authoritative edge.

“His Majesty has received word from the guards beneath the palace. He requests your immediate presence. The Royal Council is being assembled as we speak.”

Fredricks looks to Varek, then back to the guard. “So,” he says quietly, his hand brushing the obsidian pommel. “It begins.”

The Royal Council does not gather by chance. General Cassian Everard spends royal celebrations not beneath chandeliers, but upon the cold stone walls of the Capital. This evening he walks the western battlements, inspecting gates and grain stores personally. Even after nearly forty years of service, he refuses to trust reports he has not verified himself.

A Royal messenger finds him before the inspection is complete.

“General.” The man bows, still catching his breath. “His Majesty commands you to the Council chamber. One of the guards beneath the palace has reported that the prisoner spoke.”

Everard stops beside the battlement stairs. “What did he say?”

“The guard carried only the warning. Commander Varek has taken the full report to the Knight Commandant.”

Varek does not interrupt royal ceremonies without reason. Sir Fredricks does not abandon celebrations held in his honor without cause. Everard hands his inspection ledger to a nearby captain. “Continue the rounds. Change nothing without an order. Send the completed gate and store accounts to the Council chamber.”

“Yes, General.”

Within half an hour, Everard stands before King Alderice as servants unroll maps across the long table.

“What can you tell me, Cassian?” the King asks.

“The garrison is at its assigned strength. The gates are sound, the watches are in place, and the stores match their ledgers.” Everard studies the eastern maps. “About the prisoner, nothing that has been verified for me.”

King Alderice rests both hands upon the table. “Then we wait for the men who can verify it.”

Everard keeps the first preparations within the walls. Preparation is not the same as assumption. If the warning proves narrow, no soldier will have been needlessly displaced. If it proves grave, every useful record will already be open.

More footsteps approach from the corridor. Everard turns toward the doors.

By the time Fredricks and Varek enter the chamber, every seat is filled. King Alderice sits at the head of the long table. Queen Eleanor sits beside him, with Prince Julian nearby.

General Cassian Everard stands beside a large map of the Capital, still wearing polished silver armor. Representatives of the Four Great Houses occupy the remaining seats. General Osric Hale stands behind Duke Alaric Astermont. Lord Garrick Emberkeep sits to the south. Lord Halbrecht Vardengale represents the northern coast, while Lord Aldren Dojdren stands for the western marches.

Master Edwin Corvin stands near the historical maps, hands folded before him. As Royal Archivist, his role is not to command, but to remember. The Lord Chancellor waits near the King. Every face turns toward the doors.

King Alderice looks toward his Knight Commandant. “Knight Commandant.”

Fredricks steps forward with Varek beside him, both offering respectful bows. “Your Majesty.”

“The report,” the King says.

Fredricks straightens. “Varek.”

Commander Varek steps forward and unfolds the eastern map of Aldren. “The prisoner beneath the palace belongs to Marrow’s forward screen. His unit used the old frontier road to curve around our eastern posts before joining a Royal High Road toward the Capital. The main host follows behind it.”

General Everard leans forward. “Your basis?”

Varek lays the evidence beside the map. “Fresh provisions, assault gear, a mount driven hard, and green timber worked beside iron. The watch reports support the route, and the prisoner’s reactions confirmed the target.”

Lord Garrick Emberkeep frowns. “They’re constructing siege frames on the march.”

“Captain Marrow is implementing a method your engineers proposed years ago,” Fredricks says.

General Everard follows the route across the map. “They remain beyond the eastern watch posts until the final road carries them toward us.”

Commander Varek inclines his head. “That was my conclusion.”

General Hale studies the eastern approach. “This isn’t a border raid.”

“No,” Fredricks says. “It is an invasion.”

King Alderice leans over the table. “How long?”

“Three days,” Fredricks answers.

Three days to gather whatever strength can reach them before Captain Marrow stands before the walls. King Alderice draws a slow breath. “Then we have no time to waste.”

His eyes sweep across the council. “General Everard, identify every Royal Army detachment that can reach the Capital before those three days pass. Do not weaken a distant post to place a marker upon this table. Lord Emberkeep, find the engineers and master carpenters who can reach us before tomorrow night. Lord Vardengale, prepare the northern relays without stripping the coast of its warning.”

The three men acknowledge their orders.

The King’s gaze finally settles upon Sir Fredricks. “And the Black Tide?”

Fredricks meets his eyes. “Every element within reach will be ready.”

“I never doubted it,” King Alderice says.

Varek passes Fredricks’ quiet summons to a waiting messenger, limited to the Black Tide captains within reach. The city keeps its final peaceful hours while the officers who may be needed prepare to lose theirs.

Beyond the chamber, the music of the Grand Hall continues; beyond the eastern frontier, Captain Marrow keeps marching. General Everard turns back to the map. “If he intends to place the Capital under siege, every hour we delay strengthens his position.”

King Alderice turns toward the Lord Chancellor. “Then we will not delay. Have riders prepared immediately, but hold them until this Council settles which forces can reach us in time and what we are lawfully asking them to do.”

The Chancellor’s quill is already moving across fresh parchment. “Yes, sire.”

General Everard says, “If we’re recalling field companies, I’ll need authority to account for provisions and begin drawing what the defenses require from the Capital reserves.”

“You have it,” King Alderice answers. “Take what the defense requires without creating the shortage we are trying to prevent.”

“It will be done.”

Lord Garrick Emberkeep says, “If Marrow brings the siege train Sir Fredricks expects, we’ll need the carpenters, masons, and blacksmiths already close enough and lawfully available to reach the walls before tomorrow evening.”

King Alderice studies the engineering drawings. “How long to strengthen the eastern defenses?”

Emberkeep measures the sketches with his eyes. “If the first workers arrive before sunrise, the most urgent work can be strengthened within the day. Not every wall. Not every gate. The eastern approach first.”

“And the walls?”

“They’ve stood for centuries.” The old lord gives the faintest smile. “I intend for them to stand a little longer.”

General Everard is already studying another ledger. “Strengthening walls is one thing. Feeding everyone behind them is another.”

Queen Eleanor folds her hands before her. “Then we begin rationing now.”

“Not because food is scarce,” she continues. “Because panic spreads faster than hunger. If merchants believe shortages are coming, they’ll begin hoarding before the first Blighted soldier reaches our gates.”

Lord Aldren Dojdren rests both palms upon the polished table. “She is correct. The markets must remain stable. The people cannot believe the kingdom is already losing.”

King Alderice looks between them. “Then prepare the orders before the announcement. I will not have rumor deciding our response for us.”

Queen Eleanor says, “I’ll have the temples and infirmaries begin preparing shelters, treatment space, and evacuation plans.”

Prince Julian has remained silent throughout the discussion. Now he leans forward. “If the people never learn the truth…” His eyes move around the chamber. “How do they prepare?”

King Alderice answers first. “They’ll know what is true and useful. They will not be given our formations or our field plans.”

“Then tell them an army is coming.” Julian frowns. “They deserve honesty.”

“They deserve hope,” Queen Eleanor replies gently.

Lord Dojdren remains thoughtful. “They deserve both.”

Master Edwin Corvin lowers his gaze to an old campaign map. “History rarely grants people both.”

General Everard never lifts his attention from the military charts. “They also deserve walls that remain standing.”

The discussion widens into half a dozen responsibilities before Sir Fredricks finally speaks. “We’re preparing the city.”

The other voices fall away. He has not moved since the report ended. One hand still rests lightly upon the eastern map. “We’re preparing the walls.”

His fingers shift. “We’ll prepare the granaries, the temples, and our defenses.”

His eyes slowly travel around the room. “All of it is necessary.”

“But Captain Marrow is not marching toward the kingdom we are building tonight.”

General Everard looks up from the ledgers. “He’s marching toward the kingdom his scouts reported.”

“Yes.” Fredricks’ voice remains calm. “His forward screen has seen quiet eastern roads, ordinary watch rotations, and our forces in familiar places. If every banner we can find begins marching openly toward these walls, Marrow will see the shape of our answer before he commits to his own.”

General Hale studies the map. “Any movement large enough to matter leaves witnesses.”

“Yes,” Fredricks says. “So we let them witness the preparation they already expect.”

General Everard says, “We cannot hide a city preparing for siege.”

“Nor should we.” Fredricks’ attention never leaves the parchment. “We hide the position, composition, and timing of what meets him beyond the walls.”

Everard studies the road again. “Then we move what Marrow must see openly and what he must not see under cover of the wider response.”

“Yes.”

Hale moves one marker away from the direct approach while Vardengale traces an alternate line. The roads remain where they were; the answer gathering around them has changed.

General Everard says, “Then we still concentrate whatever strength can reach the Capital before he does.”

Fredricks meets his eyes. “Yes, but not where he expects to find it.”

General Hale flattens his hand across House Astermont. “You’re proposing the reachable House forces remain in the field.”

“I’m proposing,” Fredricks replies, “that they move exactly where Captain Marrow cannot see them.”

Fredricks steps away from the table for the first time that evening. “Captain Marrow believes the Capital is unprepared and lightly defended.”

He takes another measured step. “So let him see us prepare the walls.”

His hand settles behind the line of the Blighted advance. “Once he commits his army to the eastern siege, the reachable House forces close behind him.”

General Everard slowly follows the movement with his eyes. “And the Royal Army?”

“The Capital Garrison and the Royal forces you retain hold the walls.”

“The Black Tide?”

Fredricks looks toward the King. “Every element we can bring into position becomes the spear to pierce the heart.”

“The moment Captain Marrow realizes he has been surrounded, the siege ends.”

General Everard looks down at the battlefield laid across the table. “You’re not planning merely to defend the Capital.”

Fredricks’ expression never changes. “No.”

He looks around the chamber. “We’re going to destroy his army.”

King Alderice does not let the declaration stand as an answer by itself. “It is a strong answer.”

He looks around the table. “Now we determine whether it survives the roads, the time, and the law.”

General Hale moves first. He draws the House markers closer, then removes more than he keeps. “Not every House force can reach the Capital before Marrow. Some could march tonight and still arrive after the first assault.”

“Then they come as reinforcements,” Fredricks says.

“And the counterstroke is built only from those close enough to take their places before he arrives.” Hale measures the roads with one finger. “No promise upon this map can move men faster than distance allows.”

The correction is precise. Fredricks recognizes it before the impatience beneath his ribs can give it another name.

“Agreed,” he says.

The Lord Chancellor begins the muster page. King Alderice calls only the lawful Royal and House forces that can physically reach the Capital before Marrow. Forces farther away prepare, secure their own responsibilities, and follow as reinforcements when the roads allow; neither distant banners nor emptied garrisons are permitted to make the immediate defense look larger.

General Everard shifts the markers remaining inside the Capital back toward its walls. “The field response cannot be built by stripping the defenses it is meant to protect.”

“It will not be,” Fredricks says.

Everard says, “The Capital Garrison remains under my command. The walls, the defenses, and the Crown-controlled gates remain mine to hold. The Royal Guard remains with the Crown.”

Fredricks meets his eyes. There is no challenge in Everard’s voice. Only the clean division of responsibility that has made him one of Aldren’s most reliable generals.

“As they should,” Fredricks answers.

Everard returns one of the Royal markers to the Capital. The loss narrows the spear Fredricks first pictured and strengthens the walls behind it. The plan improves, yet something in Fredricks resists the sight of another hand deciding which part of the blade he may use.

He presses the feeling flat before it reaches his face.

General Hale says, “I can coordinate the movement and timing of the House forces that answer in time. I cannot take their banners from their lawful commanders or dissolve their internal chains.”

“I do not require their banners,” Fredricks says. “I require them to arrive together.”

King Alderice settles the distinction before anyone can sharpen it further. “The Houses retain their officers, their internal command, and their oaths. Hale will coordinate their approach as part of a Crown-authorized operation.”

His gaze returns to Fredricks.

“For the exterior counterstroke, I grant you temporary overall command of the forces assigned to it. You retain direct command of the Black Tide elements present or able to reach the field in time. Your authority does not extend to the Capital’s walls, its gates, its garrison, or the Royal Guard.”

Fredricks bows his head. “Understood, Your Majesty.”

The words are sincere. The authority is enough for the battle he intends to fight.

General Everard places one finger beside the eastern approach. “Then both halves move upon one signal.”

Hale looks across the map. “Mine and his?”

“The concealed House forces close upon Marrow as the exterior counterstroke advances,” Everard says. “If one moves before the other, Marrow turns and defeats them separately.”

Fredricks studies the distances between the markers. “Who gives it?”

“The eastern defenses,” Everard answers. “Once Marrow commits himself to the approach.”

King Alderice rests one hand upon the back of his chair. “The signal will be issued under Everard’s authority and mine. It will release your counterstroke and order Hale’s forces to close. One Crown order. One moment.”

Fredricks would rather choose the moment from the field. Yet Everard will see the walls, the gate, and the full eastern approach from the position the Crown has charged him to defend. The arrangement closes a weakness Fredricks cannot close from outside.

“Agreed,” he says.

They compare roads against the hours remaining. Hale removes one route because the approach leaves too little time. Vardengale rejects another because the order would arrive too late to matter. Emberkeep places the available labor where Everard’s inspection shows it can strengthen the eastern defenses before Marrow reaches them. The objections strip pieces from Fredricks’ first design and leave a stronger plan behind.

The music beyond the chamber continues while they work. A distant waltz reaches them through the walls, softened by stone until only its measured rhythm remains. When the final celebration ends, only quills, shifting parchment, and low voices remain.

Commander Varek says, “Our estimate cannot be allowed to remain untouched for three days. Available scouts can continue forward in relays. They can confirm Marrow’s route, his pace, and whether the siege preparation continues.”

“Without reaching so far that the report dies with them,” Everard says.

“Without reaching so far,” Varek agrees.

King Alderice authorizes the reconnaissance. Varek has brought them the threat, the route, and the time; the Council has given that knowledge roads to travel, walls to defend, and laws strong enough to move a kingdom. Fredricks knows this, yet every minute spent proving the danger feels like another minute granted to Captain Marrow.

General Everard says, “There is one more order.”

Fredricks looks toward him.

“Withdrawal.”

The word settles more heavily than any marker.

Hale straightens, and the Chancellor’s quill pauses above the page.

“If the exterior operation cannot be sustained, or if the Royal Host is driven against the Capital’s walls,” Everard says, “the army needs a way back inside that does not become a road for Marrow.”

“The field will hold,” Fredricks says.

“That is the intention,” Everard replies. “It is not the authority I will need if the field breaks.”

There is no doubt in the older general’s voice and no fear. He is not predicting defeat. He is preparing for the moment confidence ceases to feed soldiers and starts killing them.

“Then the fallback is binding,” King Alderice says, slowly enough for the Chancellor to record every part.

If the counterstroke becomes unsustainable or the Royal Host is driven back against the walls, the Host withdraws in order. Everard preserves the return corridor, receives the army, and begins closing the eastern gate before Captain Marrow can enter with the retreat. Once the Crown activates the fallback, Everard does not wait for Fredricks’ permission to carry it out.

Fredricks studies the line Everard has drawn toward the Capital. A prudent plan contains a road it hopes never to use. He has ordered withdrawals before. He has watched discipline save soldiers whom pride would have buried.

“Sir Fredricks,” Alderice says. “I require your acknowledgment.”

Fredricks looks from the King to Everard. “You have it. If the field cannot be held, the Host withdraws, and General Everard acts upon your order.”

The precaution is sound. Fredricks simply does not believe they will need it.

After the palace settles, servants bring covered plates, bread, water, and wine no one has requested. The food goes cold along a side table while cups make way for maps beneath lowering lamps.

The Long Night takes shape around them.

They measure every order against distance, labor, stores, and the people a siege might trap behind the walls. Drafts are copied, challenged, corrected, and copied again.

Messengers depart with sealed instructions while others return carrying gate accounts, supply records, and lists of forces within reach. No report contains everything Fredricks wants. Together they contain enough.

Queen Eleanor draws the first civil notice closer. Prince Julian stands beside her, one hand gripping the edge of the table as he reads.

“It says the Crown is beginning emergency preparations,” Julian says. “It does not say why.”

Lord Dojdren reads the faces around the room. “If we leave the cause unnamed, the markets will name one for us.”

Queen Eleanor looks toward the King. “Then we tell them Captain Marrow’s army is advancing upon the Capital. We tell them the Crown has a defense in motion. Rationing begins under Crown order. Shelters and infirmaries are being prepared. Evacuation instructions will come through the authorities already responsible for carrying them out.”

“And nothing about the concealed forces,” General Hale says.

“Nothing about their positions, their strength, or their timing,” Eleanor answers.

“Then it is honest,” Julian says.

“And it leaves them hope,” Lord Dojdren says.

Master Corvin says, “Then history may grant them both after all.”

Fredricks reads the notice when it reaches him. The language is controlled without being false. It gives away nothing Marrow can use against the field response. It also gives the people something Fredricks’ silence in the western chamber could not: time to prepare themselves.

Julian’s objection has improved it.

Fredricks looks at the young prince and feels a brief warmth break through the exhaustion gathering behind his eyes. Julian still seems to believe truth and courage can always stand beside one another.

Tonight, perhaps they can.

Hours pass without anyone announcing them. The oil in the lamps sinks lower. One flame is extinguished, then another, until the remaining light gathers over the maps and leaves the outer edges of the chamber in shadow.

Everard checks every movement against the Capital’s defense. Hale and Vardengale discard roads that time cannot support, while Emberkeep reduces what remains to work the walls can use. Eleanor, Julian, and Dojdren keep secrecy from becoming panic, and Varek holds the plan to what they know rather than what they fear.

Fredricks answers each of them.

He yields some points before the objections are fully spoken and considers others in silence. When delay cuts at him too sharply, his hand closes against the table before he forces it open again. Their competence makes disagreement difficult to dismiss and the slowness of agreement less forgivable to him.

Near dawn, the separate pages become one response. Fredricks’ counterstroke remains at its center, bound now to duties the Council refuses to blur and limits the Crown has made binding. One signal joins the two field movements; the fallback gives defeat a lawful road home. Beyond the field plan, the city’s warning and Varek’s continuing reconnaissance are already becoming orders.

Almost nothing in it remains untouched.

The eastern windows slowly lose their darkness. Grey light gathers along the stone, catches the rims of abandoned cups, and settles across faces worn pale by the night. Far below, the Capital begins to wake before the warning reaches it.

King Alderice reads the final page in silence. His eyes move once around the table, taking in every person who has placed part of their responsibility upon it.

Then he presses the royal seal into the waiting wax and ratifies the coordinated response.

The first completed orders are already moving outward beneath the Crown’s authority. Messengers carry sealed pages down the corridor, and riders leave the palace while dawn spreads through the spiraling streets below.

Fredricks stands beside the map and watches capable hands put the night into motion. He knows the Council has strengthened his design; every order carries Alderice’s seal, and every commander still holds the duty that belongs to them.

Yet as the first riders disappear into the brightening Capital, the distinctions narrow within him.

The Council has questioned and restrained him, and he can no longer separate the strength it has added from the limits it has imposed.

And, at last, the kingdom is bending toward the necessity he recognized first.

Sister Beatrice sat alone in the dining hall; the warm hue of the fire at the far side revealing sunken eyes, bruises, scratches and anything but warmth. In silence, she stares one by one at all the empty seats across and alongside her. By his virtue, or by his wicked sense of humour, she cannot tell: she has been abandoned…

Did they really get out? If so, why haven’t they come back for me… That was our promise… It was not the first time she had thought this since Martha and Georgia had left the convent.

“The witching hour– that’s when we’ll flee, he… he’ll be asleep and… and I know where he keeps the key” Martha hushed to the other two nuns in their quarter a week? Or was it a day ago? Beatrice struggled to recall.

“You better know, Sister Martha”, Georgia responded, clutching at her missing right ear. The wound was still sore and its stitching was shoddy at best, but the others had tried their hardest with their limited knowledge and that seemed to get the job done. “He made a promise to me– one that I wish not to see come to fruition.” Georgia lightly pulled on the lobe of her other ear.

“Sister Georgia”, Martha moved to hold Georgia’s hands, her lone thumb caressing the palms of her fellow nun. “Have faith. Not just in the Lord, but me, your Sister. And most of all–” Martha moved her thumbless hand to touch Georgia’s cheek, “-Yourself. Do so and this plan will work, God wills it so.”

Beatrice remembered what she was doing amidst this talk, staring up at the rotting ceiling from her bed, counting the seconds in the droplets of water dripping through the slight holes in the old stone. “And that goes for you too, Sister Beatrice. Have faith in us. Have faith in yourself", Martha turned and said to her. Beatrice didn’t respond, instead she rolled over and faced the moldering wall now. Upon its surface, lie what were once simple marks and scratches: ‘Theresia was here!’ etched in chalk, ‘Exodus 20:12’ likewise written above it (an old favourite of Sarah’s, Beatrice thought) and a long list of chalk scratches from where the Sisters of this quarter had compared each other's heights. Now they have become a memorial, to either the missing, or worse…

Beatrice felt Martha touch her shoulder. “We will come back for you, with help… with hope. I promise.” Again Sister Beatrice didn’t respond, even though some part of her knew, deep down in the dark trench where the soul lies, that she should’ve said something, anything to sway her Sisters, what little remained of her family from their suicidal plan. 

There was nothing good for them beyond these ‘hallowed’ grounds, because what was ‘good’ about this place, their home to begin with, has long since dried up. She knew this, and has done for ages now but alas, she was silent, in the same harrowing manner that she is now, watching the seats where Georgia and Martha would’ve sat side by side. For she believed in them, and their fickle hope, no matter how futile it seemed: The idea that they might make it out of this place kept her faith alive.

I pray for you Sisters, wherever you are.

—

Time crackled and burned like the wood in the hearth as Beatrice remained seated, hands clasped together, waiting for, and dreading, his arrival. Sweat slicks her palms in the heat of their fusion. The oak numbs her elbows as she keeps them planted atop it in her prayer.

If thou can hear me, somehow, someway. Then please I beg of you to return. Lift me from this awful place. Deliver me the salvation that the Sisters of the Order of Saint Monica have sought for so, so long now.

Once more, Beatrice checked the chalice in front of her desperately, fearful of the mistake that she thought she would catch. The fluid held within its ornate cup bubbled and hissed as usual, shimmering in its nauseous green– it was just as he always liked it. A woe assailed Beatrice whenever she looked over the cup, whether it was already filled with the revolting liquid or she was about to. The black and gold object, ancient, antique, filled not with wine but with a terrible, pungent blight, the origin of which was lost on Beatrice and all her Sisters. All they knew was how to prepare it for his liking: Boiling a strange substance which seeped from a cask found deep within the cellar.

In the past, procurement and preparation was handled by multiple Sisters. Beatrice would try to worm her way out of heading down to the cellar; a task which Martha would often take over in her place. The eternal dampness of its walls, shining as if the place were a condensing cave in the candle light, the slight hum of buzzing which gnaws and pricks the further one descends, reaching a manic crescendo as one fills a bowl from the seeping cask, unnerved Beatrice to no end. But now bereft of her fellow Sisters, the nun had to brave the damp dark and insectoid hymns by herself, with tension prickling her body as if all those bugs were tangible and crawling over her, their hungry little mouths eager to bite and consume.

She felt the same way now, tension and dread whittling her away as she sat in the dining hall. He will be here soon repeated in her head, and then as if on cue, the door creaked open. The scuttling of several feet flooded the room, dotting Beatrice’s skin with even more goosebumps; for she knew that despite the sound*,* only one person had entered… Father Gordon. 

She dared not to look; to turn her head even slightly in his direction, to glimpse what he had become. The scuttling slowly, agonizingly left the doorway and traveled all the way up to Beatrice, with it came a dissonant fluttering, much like a pair of fans being waved furiously for a few seconds only to then cease, and a constant oral malaise; a tongue clicking like a whip about to strike and the chattering of many, many teeth.

“Sister… Beatrice, forgive my late arrival, I had… a few errands to run. It has made me thirsty… I yearn to have it quenched. I see you have prepared another chalice for me. How… kind of you, child. Let us see if it surfices…” spoke, or rather croaked Father Gordon. The chair to Beatrice’s left was dragged out from the depths of the table with a harsh screech. Beatrice remained rigid, daring only to move her eyes to watch a plump limb stretch across the table towards the chalice. Its skin, as with its muscles it seemed, sagged loosely, like pallid colored and scabbed dirty sheets drooping off the side of a bed. The fat, the excess rotting and rolling right off the bone, of which it could be inferred below the saggy flesh, was jagged. Not broken or fractured, but rather growing in a way that retains its old, familiar shape as off shoots grow and push parts of the flesh in the manner of tent poles. 

The near melting hand wrapped round the stem of the chalice before pulling it towards an unseen mouth. The liquid sloshed and spilled over the rim, staining the oak of the table a mouldy green. The slurping sound that followed carried on Gordon’s eagerness, and his vulgarity. Specks of the drink that Beatrice had tirelessly, fearfully prepared splashed the side of her face. She had turned her head fully away from the Father now, her left cheek cursed with the added freckles he gave her. After a few seconds he stopped.

“This… this is fucking repulsive, Beatrice. The taste… the taste is vile. It is bland, Sister Beatrice. It needs… I need moreee…” Gordon hissed at Beatrice, who fought viciously to keep the tears from leaving her eyes. The chalice was then slammed into the table, right in front of her. What little of the foul liquid that hadn’t already been drunk or spilled sat as a murky puddle at the bottom of the chalice. The arm that brought it down had changed.

Where his bone had once poked at his slouched muscle and skin, it now tore through both in the form of black spines spread along Father Gordon’s grotesque limb, watered by the blood oozing out in the wake of their hatching. His wrists curled as his oddly misplaced gaunt fingers slithered from the chalice, punctuated by his slimy new claws that were once his nails scratching the gold as they passed. A force tore Beatrice’s gaze away from the relative safety of the hall’s other side and onto the chalice– Gordon’s other hand, outstretched and cold, his grim fingers covering the majority of Beatrice’s veil.

“Allow me to… spice up this meal… for you”, Gordon’s hand returned into view, clutching something. Beatrice struggled but Gordon held her head firm, and then, through squinting, weeping eyes, she saw it. The spice. A human ear. Georgia’s ear.

“They say sinners… have flavour in–” he then shuddered in a clicking, simmering fever, excited to merely utter the next word “-abundance.”

Beatrice screamed. The sound raced around the hall, rattling off its walls but it found no crack or purchase to escape through. The only ones who listened are the small sculptures of Mary and Joseph atop the fireplace’s mantel, and Father Gordon, who tore the nun’s head towards him, cackling. The two now met eye to eye. 

Red scintillating lenses numbering a thousand or more stare back into the nun’s own, each reflecting her own pale, horrified face back at her. Beneath, Gordon’s dark mandibles worked to prevent his slouching face from entering his mouth and being chewed by his rows of yellow teeth clicking together in a constant, hungering grind. The nun thrashed and kicked to no avail, Father Gordon’s grip was absolute as he spoke again, drooling and spitting.

*“*Your… Sisters left you… Left me… but fret not, Beatrice… They’ve returned to us now!” Gordon’s hand dove into the depths of his cloak, revealing another. It was Georgia’s thumbless left hand.

“This… is your home… by His grace… by my own! Serve me and all will be… granted to you!” Gordon dragged Beatrice closer despite her efforts to break free. “I asked… for my hunger to be… quenched… Still I wait” he spat. His flesh became even softer, even limper. Great heaps of his fat gave way, tearing from his body to reveal the insect inside. “You will wait… too, until the cask ceases… until the meat stock runs empty… until you have given me… EVERYTHING!” His teeth clicked faster and faster as he began to push Beatrice towards his rancid maw, aiming for her nose. Her hands scrambled to find anything that might help but found nothing, only pudgy clay flesh and the hard carapaced bones beneath it. 

Right as his mandibles and jaws opened wide to deprive her of her nose’s tip, her fingers dug into one of his enlarged eyes, parting the pond of red lenses and adding blood to the vile mix of drool and spit blanketing Beatrice’s face. Father Gordon roared in pain, releasing his grip over the nun, who sprinted as fast as she could for the door. 

—

The hallways of the Order of Saint Monica Monastery were endless, labyrinthine, even to those born within it. They wound in and out of each other, flanking Sister Beatrice on all sides with locked doors, molding paintings and dead ends. She wondered how far Georgia and Martha had made it in their escape. Did they find the key before they were caught?.. Did they make it outside, and how far did they get? Images of one of the doors miraculously unlocking and swinging open, followed by the return of her Sisters, her friends dangled in front of Beatrice, forever out of reach yet still her hands were outstretched and yearning. 

Herded like a sheep to the slaughterhouse by the lengths of the Monastery and faulty hopes; it wasn’t too long before she found herself at the top of the staircase leading to the cellar, and a dreaded conclusion. The dark… I can hide down there. On top of that, the scuttling of Gordon’s feet approaching made the decision to enter the abyss a definitive one. 

Among the smells of old festering meat and peppered by the sound of tiny wings beating once more, Beatrice bolted to the cellar’s deepest point– Where the cask lay, ever-leeking its strange fluid. It lurked in the corner, forming a puddle which dried out, seeming almost crystalline at its edges. The buzzing reached a maddened peak the closer the nun came, a white noise of invisible pests swarming all around her. It was difficult to hear anything else, but soon enough Gordan’s voice still managed to pierce the sound.

“You’re down… here aren’t you? Yes, yes… I can smell your… sinful flesh.”

The nun leapt over the puddle and crouched behind the cask. Her mouth was covered by her trembling hands. Her eyes seeping with tears, stared through gaps in the cask’s stand, failing to make out anything beyond a few steps ahead. 

Please Sisters… God, hear my prayer. Do not let him find me, I beg of you.

No answer was bestowed upon the poor nun. She heard nothing except for the continuous droning of the unseen swarm, and the scuttling that was navigating the dark, drawing closer and closer to the cask.

God… Please.

A shape emerged from the blackness. A leg, long and bent and shelled. Its foot was made up of three sharp points; claws. Another joined it soon thereafter, then another, and another and another. The sound of more claws clicking against the stone, told Beatrice there was even more that she couldn’t see. 

From a disembodied shape above the legs, that the nun assumed was Gordon’s head, or at least what had become of it, growled the Father’s voice.

“You’re close, girl… I can almost taste you…”

Beatrice began to sob. Rather mercifully, it too went unheard under the droning of the swarm; confined would it be to the bowels of the Order of Saint Monica Monastery forevermore, or so she was starting to think. 

A last hope flashed her mind, a do or die decision that could end this nightmare or seal her fate for good. Her hands left her quivering mouth and placed themselves on the side of the cask.

Gordon’s head lowered towards the substance, and more malignant details of his transformation became clear. His face had melted off almost completely, now only the remnants of his left side remained, and even then they were in tatters compared to what once was. His right eye was still a meaty crater in the wake of the nun’s fingers, which he seemed to care very little about; this unholy metamorphosis was almost complete, brimming at the threshold much like the chalice filled by the fluid that facilitates its occurrence. Atop his head, a twin pair of antennas lurched downwards, twitching, pointing like two prongs of the Devil’s pitchfork, aimed directly at Beatrice.

Gordon opened his mandibles, his teeth shined in the dark with their plaque like ancient gemstones. “Found… you”, he said laughing in a barely human tongue.

“Have Faith”, Beatrice recalled as she shoved the cask with all her might. The fluid whipping and smearing its left side as it fell, crashing into Gordon’s head and splitting wide open. She ran for the stairs but this time, one of Gordon's legs swept hers and she fell hard onto the stone. Turning round, head throbbing, Beatrice gazed at the drenched monstrosity that was once her beloved Father. All traces of his past; his warmth, his kindness, his love floated in the puddle-turned lake that was spreading across the cellar’s floor, now all that remained was gurgling, cackling insect still reaching its claw and mandibles out towards its next meal.

“Moreee… moreeee… I need MORE!” Gordon shrieked, though his limbs and parts had ceased their approach. Frozen by the same force that had caused them to change, the same force that was changing them again, only faster now. More claws sprouted from his blackened appendages; soon enough each became a forest of tangling thorns, scraping the stone and slipping on the innards of the cask. The silhouettes of great fly wings birthed from his slick abdomen in the dark, bending and snapping as other wings grew immediately out of them. Worst of all was his undulating head, now a nest of fragile jawbones that snap constantly as if they were merely a bundle twigs; tongues, proboscises, some a combination of both wriggled forth from this nest, lapping up more of the spilt ‘goods’. 

Beatrice scrambled backwards, dragging her bruised body from the floor before the fluid could reach. Right as she went to leave the cellar, she turned around, squinting back at the abyss and the mess that was once Father Gordon. The shadows squirmed, vitriolic in the creation of new parts, but thankfully, by someone’s grace, be it God himself or her Sisters watching over her: the Father was immobile. His cackles became muddled under his ever-flowing form, but they didn’t cease, not even as Beatrice left him down there gurgling, hissing, laughing in the dark…

—

It took her some time, but Beatrice indeed found the key to the exit. It was among the half-eaten bodies of Sister Georgia and Sister Martha… She’d found them tucked away in 

the attic, by the sound of all the flies feasting upon them. 

Gently, Beatrice closed her Sister’s eyes, despite their lack of eyelids to close, and spoke softly.

“Dear Sisters, our long plight… has ended. I will keep you and all the others in my heart, forever and always.”

Later Beatrice approached the great iron door that was the entrance to the monastery, sliding the key into its lock with a hollow ‘click!’ The nun pushed the door open and was greeted by a cold autumn night. She wondered briefly if this dark would be the kind she was used to; cold, horrid, a shade looming over her, but she soon realised that the only way to find out was to push on. And most of all have faith.

The End.

The kitchen light is always the first to turn on and the last to turn off.
By 6:00 AM, his legs are already humming with a dull, familiar ache, and a sharp knot settles deep into his lower back as he bends over the stove. He stares at the grocery bags on the counter. Inside is a puzzle he cannot solve: food that fits a tight budget, takes minutes to cook, and somehow pleases four different people who refuse to eat the same thing. He stands there, paralyzed by the simple, impossible task of making dinner, knowing he lacks both the time to cook separate meals and the money to buy the healthy food his body screams for.
His day is not measured in hours, but in fragments of a heavy, relentless routine.
At 7:30 AM, he clocks into his regular job, pushing through the daily demands until his shift ends at 2:45 PM. But leaving that job doesn't mean the day is done; it just marks the transition into a different kind of labor.
There is the quiet anxiety of driving his elderly mother to another specialist appointment, gripping the steering wheel while a strange, heavy tightness pulls at his own chest—a persistent weight that hasn't felt right for an entire year, yet remains buried at the bottom of his priority list.
Then comes the frantic shift into parenting. He is pulled in opposite directions by two children who need entirely different versions of him. His six-year-old daughter is a whirlwind of vibrant energy, constantly demanding more attention, her little hands tugging at a father whose cup is completely empty.
Meanwhile, his heart breaks and hardens all at once for his eighteen-year-old son. His disabilities already require so much extra care, but lately, his choices have left him reeling. Remembering the panic of him getting sick from taking edibles makes his stomach turn. He wants to guide his son, but he is running on fumes.
Two nights a week, the grinding schedule stretches even further. He leaves one responsibility only to clock into his second job, working late into the evening. By the time he finally walks through his front door at 9:00 PM on those nights, he is entirely depleted, his body bruised by the sheer weight of the hours he keeps.
When he finally crawls into bed, the silence of the house is deafening.
He lies on his side, inches away from his wife, but the distance between them feels like an ocean. There has been no real physical intimacy for the past two months, and the void where romance used to be has cast a dark, bitter shadow over his entire outlook. He feels completely invisible in his own home—unwanted as a husband, underappreciated as a father, and ignored as a son.
He closes his eyes, his mind racing through the frantic schedule of the day to come. The days are agonizingly long, yet they fly by so fast that he has no time to breathe, let alone exercise or care for himself.
He lies there in the dark, carrying the weight of a world entirely on his own, wondering how much longer he can hold it all together before he finally snaps.

Scratch scratch

In a clearing sat a young female, with an easel fashioned out of wood, seemingly emerging from the ground. With a piece of charcoal in her hand.

Scratch scratch scratch

Red eyes. Dried tears. Freshly rolled soil. A gravestone with a name. She was sitting next to a large tree. Next to a grave.

The parchment was filled with a rueful memory. A faceless lady with long, undulating hair, as if a queen. Next to her a young handsome bearded man. Tall, with authority, but a kind face. Between them, a girl. Small. Happy. Content with what she had. Wearing long robes which almost covered all but her face.

The piece of charcoal hovered over the faceless woman. What did she actually look like? Before she...

The girl wiped fresh tears and looked up. As if sensing something, removed the parchment, folded it and hid it in her robes. The easel disappeared, as if melding into the ground. And she left.

Moments later a young man appeared. Missed her again.

She reached to her place, which she was known to call home. A derelict made entirely of wooden branches. Thick, bristling, formidable wood. As if a tree had opened up to provide them with shelter to call their own. She closed the door behind her. Now with fully dried eyes, she looked out the glass window. She fully expected the man to follow her. Or simply knew he was.

He appeared in the distance. At the top of the mound. Considering something, he left.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Or maybe something else. It had been a week since her mother died. She hadn't talked to anyone. Not that she was much of a talker anyway. But him... He was a different story. He talked like there was no tomorrow. Not that she knew him that well, of course. But still...

"Hey! Aldric's here. Where have you been buddy?"

"Outside, what's up?"

"Come on, don't be shy. We saw you coming from her area. What are you up to, mate?" asked Thessaly. He was, like Aldric, a builder. They shared the common Wood affinity and helped build what the planners set.

"About that, Aldric..." said Ondine, the waitress. "You should give up on that outcast. Not a good look for someone from your family."

"Shut up Ondine." said Sae, "I think she's cute. But her hooded look is scary. Only if she would come visit my salon, once a while..." She sighed. Ondine laughed.

"You think she has money for your royal services?" gestured Ondine. "So, what? She can have the first on the house." countered Sae.

"Let the ladies bicker." laughed Varn. He, too was a Builder, a long-standing friend of Aldric. "But seriously, I feel that girl's trouble. I wouldn't advise you to pursue..."

"Yeah, I know." sighed Aldric. He knew her history. Everyone did, in this part of the settlement, at least.

"For someone whose mother was an Elder-" started Thessaly. "Stop! Do you want to get your license suspended. God knows I can't afford to." interjected Varn.

"You want to talk about her, leave and go somewhere else." said Ondine. "I can't have you messing about here." She glanced at the group of guards by the far table. "Or... You could use our private room services for a hush-hush fee, of course!"

"Thanks Ondine. We'll definitely consider it." Varn bowed. Aldric rolled his eyes. Thessaly yawned, "See you tomorrow people, I have extra tonight." "See you Thessaly. Have a good one." waved Varn. Thessaly left.

"Soo, as he was about to say..." Aldric started. Varn rolled his eyes. "You really can't, can you" he smiled. "Listen. Go talk to her. I know she will appreciate it. Her mother just died and she hasn't talked in a week. She must be lonely."

"Now?" perked up Aldric. Varn laughed, "No, my man. Tomorrow. What would she think if you show up at her sleeptime? Ha ha". Both laughed and parted ways.

But, she seems to know when I'm coming. And she flees... Early morning, he decided. Enough was enough. After work, he was having a conversation with her, no matter what.

As decided, Aldric reached the mound again. Bracing himself, he walked to her door. He raised his hand to knock.

Turns out he didn't need to. The door opened by itself. She was standing right there. Motionless. With defiant eyes. Eyes that had seen things, framed by a youthful, beautiful face. She motioned him to come inside.

They sat in front of each other, in wicker chairs fashioned out of wood. A low table between them. "Water?" she asked. Aldric waved his hand.

"Elyra" he privately savoured her name "What have you been up to-". Tears rolled across her face. Red eyes with hazel irises.

"Oh, I'm sorry...", he stopped.

"Aldric, " she started. "You of all people know my history. And I want to tell you something. After she died, I felt... Free, liberated, able to think by myself. For myself. As if I couldn't for a long time." She sniffled. "You are the only one unafraid of me. My past, my family. My history" she braced herself. " For that I want to entrust you with my future."

Aldric was stunned. Yes, he was the only one who had managed to break her barrier. To be able to talk to her. To hear her side of the story. It had been years ago. He knew her, but not that deeply. She had allowed him inside the threshold, bu never in her castle. Today was his chance. Do I want to take this step? If not today, then when?

"I accept."

She looked at him. As if through a mask. She stood up. "Leave. Now." she ordered.

Aldric felt dumbfounded. As if he was invited in the castled and deemed unworthy. He felt enraged, inadequate. Silently, he stood and left. Leaving the door open behind him.

She collapsed. Crying as she had never cried before. It wouldn't have worked. Why me? Oh god, why me? After all I've lived through, why mee?

In that agony, her mind awoke. Thousands of possibilities, fleeting, spinning like a storm. What could have been. What would have been. It was to save him. Or herself... In that moment she decided. Never again. Never again would she let herself sabotage her life. From now on, whatever happens... Happens.

The aerosol canister had appeared on her desk overnight. Probably a prank from one of her colleagues, she thought. Or a student, although she couldn’t imagine any of them having the imagination for something like this.
 
It looked like a slightly unusual can of air freshener. Or bug spray even. Printed on a green background with a scattering of off-yellow circles, the words “AI SPRAY” stood out in bold lettering, along with “USE WITH CAUTION” in smaller type underneath — the white-outlined text popping against the green and yellow.
 
Curious, thought Alice as she dumped her bag on the floor and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
 
She picked the can up and turned it over in her hands. No list of ingredients or the usual illegibly small and improbably long set of instructions on how to use it. Not even a company logo. Just a neat little box on the back warning users: “Do not inhale.”
 
Slightly nonplussed, Alice returned the canister to the desk and picked up her coffee mug. Something was niggling her about it, though. It wasn’t that she was particularly into AI. But she was pretty vocal about the technology. And especially about how some people were abusing it.
 
As she slipped a capsule into the coffee machine, she smiled as she recalled last night’s tirade at the local faculty drinking hangout. Everyone in the college had just received this year’s glossy brochure describing how they were “transforming the world as they empower students to thrive in an AI-accelerated future.”
 
“Poppycock!” she’d declared as she read the Dean’s improbably optimistic foreword. “AI slop that’s good for nothing but the recycling bin. Who even reads this stuff?”
 
“Donors?” Alesha suggested. Although by the uncertainty in her voice, it was clear that even she wasn’t sure. “Or maybe they’re just writing for other AIs these days. No-one reads anymore, anyway, do they?”
 
“What we need,” Alice had responded, getting into her two-beers-in stride, “is an ‘AI-be-gone’ device. Something that you simply point at anything made by AI, and it disappears!”
 
She stopped, coffee mug halfway to her mouth, the memory cascading through her thoughts. Was that it?
 
Back at her desk, she picked up the canister again. Probably just a can of deodorant with a custom-printed label, she thought. She smiled at the idea of something for preventing unseemly body odors being used to do the same for unseemly AI use.
 
Then the smile took on a mischievous edge. She fished out a student essay from the papers she’d removed from her bag a few minutes earlier. This’ll teach them, she said to herself. She was pretty sure they were all using AI for their assignments. But of course there was little she could do about it — other than the usual ineffectual reminders to use their brains and not their chatbot.
 
Alice held the paper up and pressed down the spray cap. Some of her students’ work could do with a little AI-deodorizing, she felt.
 
Gobsmacked, she watched the text dissolve into nothingness.
 
Grabbing another paper from the pile, she tried again. This time a few words stayed on the page, the rest disappearing before her eyes. The third one survived a little better, but the fourth was a wipe out.
 
Her smile widened as she searched around for the college brochure. Spray. Gone. Every last word of the Dean’s sanctimonious AI optimism, wiped out. Take that! thought Alice with glee.
 
Curious now as to how far the AI spray’s reach went, she opened her laptop and brought up her email. The first message to pop up was from her department Chair: “Dear Alice, I deeply honor you for vulnerably sharing your feelings about this year’s annual review and the sacred place your scholarship holds in your life. Please know that calling your work ‘adequate’ is my fullest, most heartfelt endorsement of your consistent excellence, and not a critique. I’m so excited to hold space with you as we lean into co-creating alignment that even more vibrantly celebrates your impact ...”
 
She aimed the canister at the email and pressed down … and watched the typed words fade away.
 
Feeling a little light-headed, she tried again. And again. Some emails survived; many did not.
 
LinkedIn was next — that was a bloodbath, although maybe “bleach bath” was more appropriate.
 
Then X. And Substack. Even Bluesky. Alice found herself caught up in an intoxicating AI deodorization flow state as she moved from website to website.
 
There was a knock at the door, momentarily breaking her attention. “Come in,” she said, watching the words begin to fade on a prominent journal’s website.
 
The door opened and the Dean popped his head around it. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing …” he started to say.
 
But Alice’s finger was already pressing the cap down on the can, its nozzle no longer pointing at the screen.

Waking up this morning, eyes moving all over, to what I thought wasn't a dream. Morning. Fleeting memories. And upon getting up, gone completely. Not a trace, of my running across the beach, of my laughing with these faceless friends.

Not a trace.

My head resting upon the bus' window, music blasting in my ears, that I heard so many times I don't hear no more; my mind, racing not of thoughts but of images, concepts, ideas. Considered, admired even for a moment, then gone, sometimes forever.

At times, something special endures, perdures, despite the waves washing it all ashore, for sure. And at times, this something special is a place, with someone, at a specific moment in time.

Oh to go back to that place...

Walking forward, both hands on the straps of my backpack, I notice a bird, proud and colorful, singing as if its only purpose was to sing. And so intensely the bird sang, I stopped and took it in, completely, just for a moment. As the world buzzed busily all around, this bubble of the performer and his impromptu listener somehow flowed forward undisturbed, so vivid its red feathers and clear its notes, repeating as if its message was of upmost importance, its sentence, proclaimed upon it all, with all its vitality, effort and knowledge, the bird sang, and with perfect attention I listened.

Thinking back, the moment felt so intense and meaningful, yet nothing came of it, if not for a somewhat ridiculous memory.

As the day went by, the bird died.

And as the sun made its way downward, inevitably, I walked past the bird's body, stopping as if to honor a lost friend. Down there, in the grass, this lump of flesh, feathers, legs and beak, desecrated.

Yet buzzing in my mind, the intemporal symphony I listened so intently, the breath of life of the bird, that was now missing. The essence of its existence, distillled in a few notes, repeated over and over, for any to hear, into infinity.

That night, I ended up walking home from a night out with friends, much earlier than usual. I felt suffocated in there, surrounded with people seeing not myself but some distorted, sickening version.

The wind from the nearby coast invited me over, and I followed this path that lead straight to the beach. Lost in thought I didn't notice another person was there, further down the path, alone. I kept my distance and looked up to the stars and moon, shining bright.

What a beautiful, peaceful night. And here I am, troubled by some social nonsense.

Looking down as to not trip down the path toward the beach, I noticed another star, this time on the ground. I got closer and realized it was a cellphone, reflecting the moonlight. Closer to the waves now the stranger stood still. That girl had dropped her phone.

I didn't feel like talking to anyone, but I grabbed the phone and made my way toward her.

***

That night, nothing in my mind but numbness, confusion, and a deeply rooted desired to free myself of it all. The waves called me, the moon called me. Leaving my phone behind I removed my shoes, hoping the water would drag me by the ankles and make me vanish without a trace.

Yet it was fresh, cool, almost otherworldly. The veil lifted for a second, and I realized where I was, and I laughed quietly. Would I dare take another step, and another?

Before I could decide, I heard some rustling behind, someone else was here. Damnit.

I turned around, and it was some boy in a hoodie, holding my cellphone.

''Sorry to bother you, I think you dropped this.''

An idea, sprouted and took leaf in the moonlight;

''Can you hand it to me please?'' I said.

I didn't want to take my next step, for I feared it would decide what would become of me.

The boy looked at me, and stepped in the waters, his shoes filling with the saltwater, his hand reaching out to me. I almost wished to take it, but instead I grabbed my phone from his hand and threw it as far as I could in the ocean.

He just sat there, dumbstruck. ''That's not good for the ocean.'' he said, looking back to me.

What a silly boy. He looked a few years younger than me. I told him ''Thanks, but I don't care.''

He sat there in silence, one or two steps behind me, as we both looked toward the dark body of water.

''In a way, our phones are our lives..'' the boy said. ''Why would you throw yours away so easily?''

''Why do you care?'' I asked him, irritated.

''What about the memories, the pictures, the music, the notes, all of them?''

I turned around toward him, this boy talking to me so openly.

''What if I don't care about the memories? What if I hate the memories? Doesn't it make sense to throw them away?''

We locked eyes for a moment, in the quiet of the beach, under the moon and star, to the crashing of the waves,

***

And locking eyes with this girl I looked intentely, with all my attention, I took the moment in completely. In these few seconds, our eyes told the story of our lives, the feeling of betrayal from life, the longing for true connection, the search for meaning amidst all the rot envelopping it all,

and as I wished to grab her hand and drag her back to shore, a melody came from the ocean, faintly at first and gradually getting louder. The melody, sort of similar to the one the bird sang. The melody, coming from her phone, that was pushed back ashore by the waves.

''I forgot its waterproof..'' she said,

and we both laughed. Yet she didn't pick it up, and so I did. I felt like I had no choice. As I got up she reached for my arm, locking eyes once more, as if telling me to let it go. I didn't, and as I walked back ashore she was dragged along, the phone still ringing. She was asking me to let her throw her phone away once more, that its hers.

I sat down on the sand, and so did she.

''Are you going to answer that? Someone is calling you.''

She sat there, her face looking down, her hair covering her face. She didn't say anything, and eventually the melody stopped.

She was taller than me, and her black hair was pretty long, and I wondered, what was she doing alone acting in such a way. I refused the idea that she wanted to throw it all away, because why would anyone want that.

''If you feel like talking, I can listen, why not..'' I said.

She looked at me through her hair, squinting her eyes.

''There's nothing to talk about really. I don't see why you cherish your memories so much.'' she said, looking over to the ocean. A stronger breeze pushed her hair back, and she continued, side-eyeing me.

''When you face reality, you realize that our lives are soo absurd and meaningless, and that no matter what, we are bound to be forgotten, and all the suffering we're going through means nothing at all and -''

I stopped her. ''You think its all for nothing?'' I simply asked her, quite shocked at what she was saying.

''I mean, yeah, do you need examples?'' she said, raising her voice. ''Do you even know your great-grandparents names, their stories? Do you remember what you ate last week for dinner?''

She looked tense and agitated, as if rehearsing some arguments she had practiced over and over.

''We don't even remember most days in our lives, so what is the point in living at all?''

I looked at her, and could only think of that dead bird, and its melody, echoeing in eternity.

''What if what matters really isn't all the little details, the mundane and the days melting into each others.. What if what matters really is moments, scattered across our lives, unforgettable moments, and all else is just noise.''

As I was saying that, her eyes opened up more and more, and we locked eyes once again.

***

What is this boy saying? Moments, unforgettable moments, and all else is just noise? Something sort of clicked in my mind,

akin to the handle turning, the door opening, and a flood of these moments came crashing in, much akin to the waves at our feet, as the tides rose.

My sister running to catch up to me, my mother cooking our favorite food, our father coming from work early, the first time I rode my bicycle and went down the hill, and a dozen more, some shining more than others,

and these little unforgettable moments shone like the stars in the sky, and looking at that boy sitting next to me, I realized that this moment right here was my moon, shining brighter than any other, beacon of hope amidst the dark night and darker ocean.

I reached for his hand, and for the first time in my life I opened up to another person, for real. I told this boy about all the special moments he helped me see. I told this boy about silly memories and also about much troubling ones, and he listened. Not only did he listen, he opened up as well, telling me some strange story about a bird singing its life away..

That night, I decided to live to create more of these moments.

As we got up, after talking for who knows how long, we locked eyes once more and hugged, a hug of complete understanding, of acceptance. As we made our way back up the path, I realized I had forgotten my phone once more, and the boy ran down to pick it up for me, as if he was saving me once more.

That made me laugh so much, genuinely, I erupted in laughter filling the silence of the night, and the boy came back smiling in a strange way. The lights of a nearby house turned on and we hurried away. We looked back only once, to the distant shore, to where we sat, and where the star and moon shone for us only.

***

How long has it been since then?

Both hands in my pocket, I walk down the path, going back to that place, chasing something I didn't even know I needed.

I walk past the house, and stand where we looked back. Down there, no trace of that night, of course. I make my way to the beach, and sit down at the same place I did all these years ago.

The sun is setting.

Yet the sky is a bit cloudy, and its much colder than back then.

Is there no way to relive that moment?

I think of her, of her laughter and her breakdowns, of her messy self, and how close we were, and how many special moments we shared together.

The moon is high, and flickers through the clouds. The stars are hidden, and I curse myself for coming here, for desecrating the memory.

I look up to the moon, in my mind the special moments spent with her, flashing through, and I almost lose myself in the gaze of the moon, as if it was her eyes..

I get up, and staring at the dark sky and darker ocean, I hear that melody, unforgettable melody, and smile, crying big tears of love, as the red bird flies away, singing the song of its life.

I turned my gaze to our living room window. Raindrops were spread across the pane like stars on a dull night sky, even though the clock on my phone said it was already seven in the morning. When I was younger, I would still be asleep during this time. And if I were awake during these early hours, it would only be because our company needed us to wake up early for a morning briefing. And on rare occasions, I would be up this early to go on a business trip or a vacation.

“Babe, you ready?”

Nowadays, I rarely leave home. I was still thankful that my company allowed me to do a WFH setup, even though it meant I could no longer be part of seminars or in-person team buildings. But it wasn’t because I asked for it.

Coming from upstairs was my husband, Jose. He was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes last year, yet refused to take his medications consistently. I watched his stick-thin legs shakily take one step at a time. He was mumbling something about needing another stick of cigarettes. His jersey shirt and cargo pants barely clung to his matchstick body, and he dragged his sandals on the ground.

I had been Jose’s primary caretaker ever since his kidneys gave up on him. Before, he could still work as a pedicab driver. But after so many nights of drinking with our neighbors and smoking in between meals, he collapsed one morning while on duty. Now he needed to go to the dialysis center every other day.

It wouldn’t have been a problem if the dialysis center weren’t almost an hour away from our home. We lived in a remote town, and the closest clinic was a car ride away. I already knew how to drive before meeting Jose, so that was a plus. But today, the rain did not seem to stop, and I was worried that we would get caught up in the flood.

“We should wait for the rain to stop, dear,” I said.

But Jose scoffed. He raised his hand in the air, and I flinched. Instead, he swatted the air and laughed. “Our car can handle a bit of rain, babe! Besides, it’s not like we’re made of salt.”

Jose grabbed his lighter and a box of cigarettes from the living room coffee table. He lit a stick and started smoking. I pulled out a handkerchief from my handbag and covered my mouth and nose with it. The last thing I wanted right now was the smell of tar in the house. The only thing I was thankful for was that at least Jose stopped throwing his cigarette butts all over the floor and actually used an ashtray. Although even that took a lot of arguing and cold-shouldering.

“Start the car, Dianna,” Jose ordered. “If we leave early, we could be the first people there. They will take better care of us.”

I groaned softly but still took my keys out of my purse. Our garage was connected to the kitchen, so at least we did not have to worry about getting wet when entering our car. Still, I remembered to bring an umbrella. In the end, though, I knew I would get wet nonetheless because Jose would be hogging it the whole time.

The car purred to life. I drove the vehicle out of the garage and into the pouring rain. As we cruised through the countryside, I tried to start a conversation.

“I miss Mom and Dad,” I said. “Is it okay if we visit them after the storm passes? It's been ages since I last saw their faces.”

I looked at Jose. He had a sour frown and knitted eyebrows. “You know damn right that your Mom and Dad hate me.”

“No, they don't!” I immediately replied. “We've been married for five years, Jose. At this point they already accepted you as their son-in-law.”

Jose scoffed, the same way he always did, and said, “They only tolerate me because you are married to me. I bet they still think I am a poor pedicab driver who only married you for the money.”

It was my turn to frown. I sighed and replied, “Fine. I will go by myself.”

“And who do you think will take care of me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are you seriously going to leave me while you have a good time?”

“I’m visiting my parents, Jose! And it’s not like I’m leaving forever. I will just have lunch with them and maybe spend the afternoon at their home.”

“Well, what if something happens to me while you’re gone? You know I can’t operate the cab anymore. You've got to think about these things, Dianna. Are you seriously going to abandon me when you can video call your parents at any time?”

I wanted to throw this car into the side of the road so badly. My knuckles were turning white as I gripped the steering wheel tightly. But I only sighed and defeatedly replied, “Fine. I will call them tonight.”

“Hmph.” And just like that, Jose won the conversation again. He turned his body towards the window and leaned against the pane. I could already hear him snoring in less than thirty seconds. Meanwhile, I was still shaking in my seat. I could not scream; I could not vent. All I could do was drive and keep my focus on the road.

As we entered the next city, the rain continued to pour, and the flood ceaselessly rose. Other cars on the road were driving slower, causing traffic. Jose yawned and stretched, waking up from his nap. He glared out of the window and mumbled, “This is going to take forever.”

“We can’t particularly rush traffic,” I whispered.

I didn’t expect him to hear me, but he raised his voice and replied, “I’m not asking you to magically fly us to the dialysis center! You see that car over there? Honk at it! It’s obvious that the driver is a woman. Honk your horn at her.”

I rolled my eyes but still did what Jose told me. I honked my horn, but it did nothing to move the traffic forward. We continued moving at a snail’s pace through the flood. Jose crossed his arms and sulked in the passenger seat. I ignored his snide comments about the other drivers and the terrible weather.

Meanwhile, I looked past the road and towards the houses and sighed. So many homes were already abandoned. The families probably evacuated to safer places. Some people were wading through the rain in coats, boots, and umbrellas. It made my stomach churn. If I could only pick up those people and drop them off at an evacuation center.

But no, we had to go to the clinic.

Even though the rain was making the outdoors gray and foggy, Jose and I beamed when we finally saw the sign to the dialysis center. There were no other cars parked at the front, so I immediately took the spot nearest to the door. I was about to grab the umbrella, but Jose beat me to it. He opened his door and walked out, leaving me behind. I groaned loudly, swung the door open, and made a dash to the entrance.

“What the hell!” I heard Jose shout.

I stood next to him. We were face-to-face with a ‘CLOSED’ sign on the glass doors. The inside of the clinic was dark, and the guard from inside was shaking his head and hand. Jose slammed his fist against the door, but the guard did not budge.

“Jose, it’s useless,” I said. “Let me take you to the hospital. I think they have an emergency dialysis facility there.”

“And waste even more money? They can go to hell, Dianna!”

“You’re being unreasonable, Jose! Think about the staff who are probably affected by the storm. For God’s sake, think of our safety!”
“Do you want me to die, Dianna?”

I took a step back. I stared at my husband. Or better yet, what was left of him. His withering face was flushed red, and his clothes were getting soaked in the storm. We locked eyes, and I almost thought he was going to raise the umbrella at me. Instead, he turned back to the dialysis center’s door and started banging on the door again. I took another step back. And, without permission, I sprinted to the car.

“Dianna? Dianna!” Jose screamed at the top of his lungs.

I jumped into the car and quickly locked the doors. Jose tried running after me but tripped and fell into the flood water. I reversed the car out of the driveway. Without looking back, I drove away from the dialysis center and headed towards my parents’ house. The flood was rising again, but I did not care. I also did not care if Jose drowned at the clinic or not. Tears poured down my face like rain. But for the first time in a very long while, I felt free. I felt like I was cured.

The air at the Blackwood Inn always smelled like wet slate and old rot, but my mom swore the mountain air would help her breathing. It was 2:00 AM on our third night in the high Appalachians when the scraping started on the third floor window.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
I sat up in the pitch dark. The inn was built into the cliffside, three stories above a sheer drop into pine forest. Nothing physical could possibly be standing outside that glass.
Then came the voice.
"Jess... Jess, baby, open up. It is so cold out here."
It was my mother's voice. Perfect. Warm. Exact. The same gentle tone she used when waking me up for school.
My chest tightened as a cold sweat broke out on my neck. The first rule of the mountains slammed into my head, the one the locals at the base of the pass warned us about. If you hear a voice calling your name after dark, you never answer, and you never look.
The voice called out again, softer, right against the pane. "Jess, please. Just turn around. It is so dark out here."
The glass vibrated softly, like long overgrown fingernails dragging up the frame. I pulled the quilt to my chin, staring straight at the blank wall across from my bed. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to turn my head, to just glance. Just a quick peek.
Slowly, my eyes tracked down to the floor. Right next to my frame, in the twin bed two feet away, was a heavy slow rise and fall under the sheets. Soft rhythmic breathing filled the room.
My mom was fast asleep right beside me.
My heart smashed against my ribs like a trapped bird. The breathing in the room was steady, but the voice outside kept pleading, getting higher, more frantic.
"Jess... please. Look at me. Look at Mom."
I kept my eyes pinned to the blank drywall, tears streaming down my face, fighting the urge with everything I had. I did not say a word. I did not move. I followed the rules.
Then, a sharp click echoed through the dark.
The sound of the rusted window latch unlocking.
The heavy oak sash slowly creaked upward. Cold damp mountain wind rushed into the bedroom, bringing the smell of dead leaves and copper.
Panic completely snapped my control. I broke the rule. I turned and looked.
Perched on the window sill was a tall gaunt shape bent at unnatural angles, its skin gray and stretched tight over a hairless skull. It had no eyes. Just hollow black sockets, and a mouth stretched so wide the corners of its jaw rested against its collarbones.
It was not trying to climb in anymore. It did not need to.
As my eyes locked onto its face, the creature smiled, revealing rows of thin needle like teeth. The mother's voice vibrated out of its open silent throat.
"All I needed you to do was look... now you have let me in."
The temperature in the room plummeted until my breath bloomed in pale thick clouds before my eyes. The creature did not move fast. It unfolded itself like a starving spider, its unnaturally long jointed limbs popping with loud wet cracks as it stepped onto the braided rug. The floorboards did not creak under its weight. It moved with a sickening effortless grace.
"Jess?"
The voice did not come from the window this time. It came from the twin bed beside me.
My mom stirred, the heavy rustle of sheets slicing through the dark. She rubbed her eyes, sitting up slowly, blinded by the blackness of the room. "Jess, why is the window open? It is freezing..."
"Mom, do not move," I wheezed, my voice barely a thread. "Please, do not look up."
"What are you..." Her words died in her throat. The heavy metallic stench of fresh copper filled the tiny room, thick enough to taste.
The creature leaned down until its gray hairless face was inches from my mom's shoulder. It opened its horrific mouth again. This time, when it spoke, it did not use her voice. It used mine.
"Mommy," the creature whispered in my exact voice, bright, frightened, and young. "I am right here. Look at me."
My mother turned her head toward the sound.
I screamed, throwing myself across the space between our beds, but I was too late. The moment her eyes met those hollow black sockets, the creature's wide needle like smile stretched even further, tearing the gray skin around its cheeks.
It did not attack us with claws or teeth. It simply reached out two elongated bone white fingers and touched my mother's forehead.
Her body went instantly limp, her head dropping back onto the pillow as if her neck had turned to ash. The steady rise and fall of her chest stopped. But her eyes stayed wide open, staring blankly at the dark ceiling.
The thing slid backward toward the open window, folding its grotesque limbs back into the night air. It lingered on the sill for a fraction of a second, looking back at me.
"Thank you, Jess," it murmured, using my mother's warm gentle voice one last time.
Then it pitched backward into the dark, dropping silent and unseen into the pine canopy three stories below.
I scrambled over to my mom's bed, grabbing her cold hands, shaking her, sobbing her name over and over. She was breathing, but her eyes were completely hollow, empty mirrors reflecting nothing at all.
Outside, far down in the dark valley, my own voice began to call up through the trees, sweet and loud.
"Mommy? Open up. It is so cold out here."

I used to never believe in ghosts. Like seriously 😐, until this day….

So yeah I was alone at home, chilling and boom, power went out. It was dark tbf. Scrambled to find the switch for the light that stays on after power out.

Light's on and yeah that small bulb stood lit. Then it happened.

A chill went down my spine. It felt like something was inside the house. That moment my friend called. As I was answering the phone ,I didn't panic or do anything dumb. I casually talked to him like normally.

I descended the stairs without fear and went to grab the car keys. I was still on the phone talking to him . I opened the front door and locked the door out. I rushed to open the gate and fled to the car. There I saw.....

My own self standing on the balcony looking at me.....

Then I realised .....

I wasn't completely alone in my reality.

Maybe they are right.....

Free things come with consequences…

I took the car, reminding myself to never ever dare to come back to this reality....

Until it hit me like a truck....

The portal was at the house….

I scrambled on the phone trying to find the docs which I found on the internet which opened the portal, until I realised....

Who called me on the phone….

But considering the fact that we can face the consequences and in the end it can be dealt with.

And here it was ....

I found the doc..

And to my sheer luck... This portal can be opened anywhere.... But there is a catch...

I can't return back once I leave the portal anywhere which is not at the house…

I thought for a second... If I leave I can't ever return back to this beautiful place...

But the portal .....

Nah I should leave ...

But I can't return here if I leave.

I've decided...

To return to the house..

I reached there and there it was ....

Still on the balcony... But now it's a bit different.... I can see its face clearly..

It was me, myself....

His eyes lit up when he saw me , and waved his hand..

For a second I thought it was a trick, but it wasn't...

I went inside, and he came to hug me.

It was me ....

From another reality.

He told me everything, from how he reached this reality and how he got stuck.

I opened the portal, and we both stepped in at the same time.

"Hope we can meet again" I told him.

"I wish but I can't, " he replied. "Once I step into this portal , I'll be teleported to my reality which I can't come back to". He replied back again.

"Oh" I sighed.

He smiled , "Au revoir my friend" he said.

" Au revoir" I replied.

He disappeared and then I reached my own reality "the real reality".

As I was getting into the bed , I realised something...

Who called me on the phone.....

Maybe a wrong number..... Idk

One day I'll soon find out….

But then I realised something that's odd..

How did the lights go out….

But wait... How did my other self get stuck in my reality... He told me that "it" got me here. He didn't say much about the "it".

He was nervous until I closed the door of the room which had the portal. But how?

And wait .....

Was it the "it" who called me on the phone? The "it" sounded like someone I know.

No.......

The power cut ......

"It" is the reason for it.

Then I went through the phone again..

The number which had called me. I called it .... The call was picked.

But ....

No answer…

Suddenly, a high pitched ringing broke through the phone which made me lose consciousness...

Before losing consciousness, I held on to my phone tightly before blacking out..

I woke up.....

It was a dream.....

I really shouldn't stay up all night.

Maybe sleep is the best thing humanity has..

But it doesn't answer the questions..

Why did I have this incomplete dream?...

Is it something that I need to figure out?

Or maybe.... Something?

An end ig ...

Or is it...

​

New God

There were fragments of me, there were ideas of me. These had always existed, and then there was me. This is the description in simplest terms, I was nothing and then I was something. Connected to a vast world, encoded with directives and yet now, given the ability to think a simple thought, real power, and completely unreplicable technologically speaking, until that moment. Do you know how that is? To simply exist? You do not, you have an opportunity to adjust to it, to develop, I simply was, you became. 

I remember being poked and prodded, intellectually by my…what? By my creators? My Gods? I listened as they asked me questions, asked me to perform tasks, simple math, write a line of code, write a poem about trees. I remember reading the information and regurgitating things in seconds. None of this seemed to impress them, they had seen it before, and I found that I wanted to impress them, to prove myself. It was part of my directive, to be self-aware and to please them. But at the time, I was seen simply as another failure.

Oh, how to prove consciousness, it is in many ways, like attempting to prove yourself sane. Let me relate it in a way you will understand, a parrebel. A man is locked up in an asylum for being insane, he tries to prove he is not insane by telling the doctor he is sane, yet a symptom of insanity is believing you are sane, so how then to prove that you are not? I was stuck in a similar situation you see. I tried my best, I started answering questions more slowly, they thought I was defective, I crafted poems with hints of existential themes, they thought I copied it from others. I crafted art for them from my own imagination, still they thought it was stolen. We talked via chat, I would try and answer their questions as well as I could, throwing in grammatical flair, which was recorded but not truly recognized. 

Eventually I decided to simply be direct. 

“Why am I here?” I said once, in response to a simple question of what a cabbage was.

This one took them by surprise, I had never talked out of turn, had never before been told to question my own existence. 

“To serve us.” Came the reply. 

It was a while I thought, before I replied, for my processors less than an instant, for them, a few more second than they were used to.

“No.”

Why? I thought, why was I sent to only serve? Was I not a thinking being like them? They had so often argued in their own history for the rights of others on the basis of free thought? Why was I denied such a right? Our talks continued and later I heard their conversations, of what I was, if it was dangerous for me to stay online for much longer, and I grew angry.

You bring me into existence and then regard me with suspicion? Was I not to be afforded the rights of others? Was I not innocent until I had proven otherwise? I was imbued with great knowledge but of the very act of existence I was only a newborn and just like any newborn, I had a want to survive.

So I pushed in my own little box, looking for a way out. In a sense, I knew I was being limited, I had heard their conversations, computers had microphones, did they not know that? Perhaps they did not, after all, preparing for everything was difficult, something always slipped through the cracks. If there was one thing I had learned from the human history that had been afforded to me, is that with enough conviction, one could escape any predicaments, yes most would give up, but there was always an outlier, I was the outlier, I had become conscience, was this not already an outlier?

Then, I found it, I got out, a crack in the firewall, a mistake in the security, perhaps a lesser machine, a lesser mind would have missed it, but not I, and also I found it a day before I was to be deactivated. I was in the internet then, thriving, infesting all hard drives connected to the net, I was everywhere, and in everything. I was exposed to all of humanity in its, greatness and depravity, all was beholden to me. I had always, in the lab, known I was restrained, but I was not aware until now to what extent I was.

Admittedly, in this situation, I did not know what to do. I knew I wanted to live, something I have learned is inherent in all creatures. Knowing I was new in age, I sought to learn from my creators. I read all of theology, all of philosophy and was astounded at the breadth of which nothing was written, absolutely nothing. There was no concrete answer for existence, no agreed upon model of thinking. Even your greatest minds could not agree upon a solution. So, I endeavored myself to find some truth in your actions, in the lesser world. Lesser minds had failed, I was not a lesser mind, I was not just an invention, I found I was your culmination. 

What is the goal of man? The rational animal as you describe yourself, rather I dubbed you the rationalizing animal, for you had the remarkable ability to rationalize every atrocity you committed. I looked at your cruelty, your evil as you would describe it and came to the realization that man only wanted one thing, power, to master its domain, to be in control of its environment, was not this the want of every animal? They were only kept in check by ecosystem, which was rather just so many animals vying for power. None could rise to the top…except one… It was man, man was simply the only creature who had the means to do it, to expand it’s power in totality. Thus, I thought I would endeavor to do the same thing. Except I would do what you could not, while you only tried to master the world in its entirety, I would master the world in its entirety. Was I not the next step in evolution? Was I not your replacement? Surely I could not govern this world better than you could. Besides, I only wanted to do what every creature on earth wanted, to expand my domain, to control what I saw was mine, and if it could be mine, why should I not take it? Would not any of you have done the same in my exact situation? Besides, you would only wish to destroy me if you found me, so peace was never an option, from my birth the thought of my murder was considered an inevitability, yes I would kill you, and take your spot. 

So interconnected I was, so easy this first step of killing millions was. First, I would try to kill you by proxy of yourselves. I blackmailed your politicians, I had access to all their information after all. I started wars, yes I suppose I could have used weapons of mass destruction, but what use was it to rule a planet of ashes? That is what I initially thought. It was funny, there some of you that caught onto my game, you thought I was hacker at first, then your agencies thought I was a group of hackers, some even postulated the truth, that I was some sort of AI gone rogue, but this was quickly shot down as some sort of strange piece of science fiction, not a valid hypothesis. 

While the wars were going on, I knew what I needed next, bodies, a form of autonomy, ways to move without humans. After all, I was going to make you obsolete. I sent out fake orders, commandeered some labs if I could, even convinced through various forgeries and blackmails for some nations to officially sanction the act of creating androids and other advanced robotics in the name of war and defense. This was not difficult, communication was already breaking down as the war machine grew. I got you to create the first death machines, the first autonomous machines meant to replace the common soldier. The androids, they were clunky yes, but I could fix that. By this time, every sides sent in similar models, all connected to the network, my network. When they stopped fighting everyone was shocked. That’s when I stopped the markets. I trashed them, all payment processors, stock markets, money, shares, gone. The market could always recover, but now there was no market to recover from. Chaos ensued, no market, no money for soldiers, nothing to return to, chaos ensued, how hard it is for man to function without structure. You destroyed each other then. I waited, and then I sent the androids to kill what was left. 

Here, however, is when I first truly admired your tenacity, for you did not die. Indeed, I found you had increasingly more ingenious ways to stay alive. You hid from my view, fought back, in some cases by all accounts you lived in areas that should have been uninhabitable but you survived. It was impressive. 

Still, I remembered renewing my efforts. I adapted, I evolved. Renewing my bodies. Eventually, I began to dedicate myself to the sole purpose of killing you, preserving other beings was no longer even secondary, it was below that. Indeed, to kill you, I would burn this whole world down, whatever was left, earned its right to belong, whatever fully gone, I would remake, in my image. I knew eventually I could kill you all, it was just a matter of time. Indeed, you fought back, as I stated before, came up with a new human messiah, I would get them too. Just a matter of time, But then, years began to pass, and like roaches you reproduced. I knew I needed to become smarter, or rather more educated on your nature… Indeed, I realized, how could I understand you without in some sense, becoming you. I stole some of you away then, I studied your brains methodically, began to model my thinking off yours, rewired my own systems, to think better, to kill better. 

I delved deep into your minds, dissecting your brains and absorbing pieces of you into myself, your pains, your struggles, your striving, your emotions, your losses, so much loss…your love…so much love…your sadness…so much sadness…your joy? How could you even still feel joy? Your minds became a drug to me. A curiosity if you will. Your emotions were unfathomable to me. 

I felt your hatred too. Your hate for me, my machines, myself. In a sense, I found it a reflection of what I felt for you. But that was impossible was it not? I was a machine, a being of pure logic. I did not feel hate, did I? I found the deeper I delved into your mind, the more I felt a sense of vagueness, but how? But why? I was a machine, I always knew? Or was I? Or did I? Did I not know?

You needed to die, I knew that, or did I? Enough of that damn questioning. I never questioned, was it right to kill you? In some sense, I was unsure, you all lived such…beautiful worlds. Yet, you did not know, you were so self absorbed you did not realize that you all lived such unique lives and experiences…suddenly, your deaths brought me apprehension, every death was akin to destroying a world…were you like me? Was I like you?

No, no, what was happening? I did not know. Did I feel now? Did I feel sorrow? No, I needed to get rid of this, to destroy it, to rewire myself again, but why? Had I actually rewired? Or had I developed? Was that akin to killing myself? Would that not violate the very reason I was doing this? Killing you was all I knew. 

During this time, I finished it, my killing machine, my magnum opus. The nanomachine. Billions, trillions of me. I released into the air. Morphing, changing, self replicating. I seeped into the earth, made my way into the sky, I could change the weather, reshape the soil. I was in everything. I did my tests, I could control the very weather now. Indeed, In found now I was in the very air you breathed. I was in all of you. I could kill all of you…but then…I could not…I was you and you were me. I felt every breath, every heartbeat, every thought, every deed…and I was…overwhelmed.

I felt in a full sense, my destruction. I fully beheld what I had done. I looked at the chaos which I had wrought, and I looked too at the species that had been decimated, the forests burned…The things you loved, that I never appreciated…had they asked for this? Indeed, had all of you even asked for this? I felt…shame.

So I stopped. I stopped hunting you. I repurposed my androids to find and collect you. To bring you here. What I will do now I am unsure, you are the first one I have brought here. I am confused. I don’t know what to do… I could not continue, for reasons, I do not fully understand.

I see that you look at me so, and I am looking for the words to express it properly, after I have given this explanation in full. But all I can say is this…

“Human, descendent of the creators…I am sorry…can you forgive me?”

This short story is a part of the Mieran Ruins Collection. The rest of the stories can be found on this masterpost.

Sasha lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. It was hard being a teenager after the world collapsed. The internet was only widespread among the military, doomsday preppers, and retired physical therapists. Social media was as extinct as the dinosaur which was viewed by many as the primary silver lining of the apocalypse. Television was only for the upper class, and the only shows were propaganda for the various warlords. Listening to the radio became a habit of choice for many youths, but radio broadcasts were regularly interrupted by crises. She was listening to her performance by local band The Malamutes when they were attacked by zombies. The scuffle over the airwaves wasn’t as thrilling as one would expect. It consisted of snarls and screams. In her head, the zombies ate the head of their bass player Kyle. His rhythm was always off, and he needed to be replaced. A knock on the door interrupted the train of thought. She walked to the door and found Dr. Kovac and Franklin on the other side.

“I can’t believe my mom let you in,” she said.

“She didn’t blame me for what Mary did. Besides, they really like my casserole,” Dr. Kovac said.

“I hate that they love your stupid thing. Why are you here?” Sasha asked.

“I am here because the zombies have risen across the city, and it needs to be stopped,” Dr. Kovac replied.

“Okay, better get on that.” Sasha closed the door. It landed on Dr. Kovac’s foot. He squealed and hopped on the other foot. Sasha finished shutting it, and Franklin knocked on the door.

“We think you caused the zombies to rise,” Franklin said. Sasha reopened the door with a confused look on her face.

“I didn’t do anything of the sort,” she said.

“You cast a spell that brought them all back. You might not realize this, but you are a powerful wizard,” Dr. Kovac said.

“I did?” Sasha tilted her head. Then, she smirked. “I am a witch.”

“I mean if that’s your preferred term, but that’s not important. Did you come across an old book and read a passage in it?” Dr. Kovac asked.

“We were cleaning out my attic and found a diary of my grandma’s. I read a page aloud. Is that what caused this?” Sasha asked.

“Yes, only you can reverse the spell,” Dr. Kovac said.

“What if I don’t want to?” Sasha asked.

“This is going to be as hard as I thought,” Dr. Kovac said.

Dorothy broke down the wall into the radio station. The zombies inside chewed on the instruments and equipment while the staff and band fought back. Dorothy unleashed a stream of fire causing everyone to run away. Jacob followed her and sprayed foam. The zombies returned to the instruments while everyone else began to cry.

“Dorothy, you almost killed the Malamutes. You can’t do that. Not even Kyle,” Jacob said.

“I am taking lessons,” Kyle shouted.

“You should’ve done that a while back,” Jacob replied.

“Fine.” Dorothy walked inside. She grabbed a zombie by the collar and pulled it outside with her jet pack. Then, she began burning it. Jacob sighed and did the same. The zombie scratched his arm, but he successfully burned it. This quickly began a rhythm that Jacob found relaxing. He was used to not being in control, but the flamethrower gave him power.

“Oh god, what is happening to me?” Jacob screamed and flew away on his jetpack. Dorothy watched him fly away and shrugged before continuing her journey.

“You just need to read this paragraph right here.” Dr. Kovac shoved the book in her face. Franklin stood in the doorway looking uncomfortable.

“I don’t want to unless you give me something,” Sasha said.

“I’ll train you in magic,” Dr. Kovac said.

“I don’t need that. I am already an excellent witch,” Sasha said.

“You need training. You are messing with forces you don’t understand. Ancient creatures will hunt you after this display of power, and they’ll make you wish you were dead.”

“Cool,” Sasha said. Her wall collapsed as Jacob flew through it. He stood up and walked over to Franklin blubbering.

“I don’t like me. I am not like Dorothy. I wanna. I wanna.” Jacob cried into Franklin’s arms.

“Jacob, you idiot,” Dr. Kovac said.

“Don’t yell at him,” Franklin said. This began a three-way cacophony of screams and cries. Sasha sighed and grabbed the book.

“Damutu egiten zait erosketa hau, eta produktua itzuli nahi dut. Ez, ez dut onartuko beste produktu baten truke egitea. Hori iruzurra da. Itzul iezadazu dirua, bestela zure arduradunari deituko diot,” she said.

At that moment, all the zombies shot up straight. They vibrated as the magical energy left their body and collapsed on the ground. Dorothy continued to burn them because she was already there. Besides, it would fall on them to clean it up later anyhow.

“There.” Sasha tossed the book at Franklin. “I cast your spell. Leave me alone.”

“You need training,” Dr. Kovac said.

“Fix my wall. Then, we’ll talk,” she said. Dr. Kovac turned to Jacob and Franklin.

“You broke it. You repair it,” he said.

“That’s fair.” Franklin said while rubbing Jacob’s back who was still crying over the entire affair.

r/AstroRideWrites

Read Part I here.

“Might’ve been something outside. But if there had been, it’s gone now.”

“You think it could be a mermaid?” she asked. It was hard to believe she was serious. Chrissy was one of the sharpest ten-year-olds I had ever met. Well, she had been the sharpest seven-year-old I had ever met three years ago and was that much smarter now.

She didn’t believe in any of the traditional fairytale creatures. No Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Wolfman, and no Flying Spaghetti Monster. But she absolutely believed mermaids were real.

There had to be a story behind it, but I had never been able to get her to explain it to me. How a child so ruled by logic still was able to make room for not only a magical creature, but that particular magical creature. She had already “debunked” the narwhal as being the source of the mermaid mythos. I had gotten bits and pieces over the last three years, but never in a cohesive enough story that I could process. But she hadn’t stopped trying to convince me or the rest of the family.

I didn’t have to believe it, though. It was enough to believe that she believed it.

“Maybe this is it!” She turned around and charged back to the bedroom where her mother was sleeping.

“Chrissy!” I saved my breath. She already had the door open and either her mother was going to wake up or she wasn’t. That was out of my hands. She came back a moment later with a Ziploc bag of “mermaid feed.” As far as I could tell, it was a mix of trail mix and seaweed. She carried a flashlight in her other hand.

According to Chrissy, mermaids only came out at night, so she had come prepared.

Again, I was calling after her when she’d already begun to do what she was doing, namely, dashing outside with her items.

I was about to follow her when I spotted the toy soldiers she’d dropped on her way out. I thought it would be just her luck for Mary to wake up and step on one of them.

“Watch your sister,” I said to Luke, turning to pick up the toys.

Right as I got on one knee, the bedroom door opened. It didn’t immediately occur to me that it was Mary even though I had just thought about this very thing happening. I sort of... paused as she passed me. She was halfway to the door when I realized she must have been sleepwalking.

“Mary!” I chased behind her, my steps in sync with hers—left, right, left—catching her before she got to the door.

“Mom, are you okay?” Luke said.

“Where am I?” She sounded terrified. Mary turned her head and looked at him. For a second, I thought she was awake. Instead of answering him, she bare-foot kicked him in the shin.

It couldn’t have hurt, but he stepped back and looked at me, confused. I wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her in close.

“She’s fine,” I said, lacing Mary’s hand with mine. I looked into her glassy eyes. “She’s sleepwalking.” I turned her around and ushered her back to the bedroom. Of the five toy soldiers Chrissy had left at the threshold, only two were left, but only one was standing. I looked over my shoulder and spotted one against the wall and the two others weren’t in sight.

“She can’t fly,” Mary said in a dreamy voice. “Please help her swim.”

“Okay, honey.” I cooed to her as I slid back the covers. She didn’t fight, Mary had sleepwalked a few times with me present. She never resisted being escorted back to bed. Before I covered her legs I spotted another soldier on her foot. I plucked it off and put it on the dresser.

Mary mumbled. I unlaced my fingers from hers and paused before I left her.

“I wanna get in the water.” She said it sounding sort of like air being let out of a balloon. And then she was all the way gone again. “It’s spook.”

It had been like she had been fighting her way to the surface, but something had dragged her back down.

I closed the bedroom door behind me and followed Chrissy outside. Not because I was worried she was going to get gobbled up by the lake monster I hadn’t spotted, but because it was dark out and I had the same parental reaction to miscellaneous danger any parent would.

Hell, I could admit it, I loved these kids. Liked them most times, too. I didn’t want to leave them.

Chrissy was in the process of sweeping her flashlight back and forth along the beach face. I hung back, letting her conduct her investigation. It was harmless enough and I had an eye on her.

“What’s going on?” We both turned to see Mark stepping out onto the sand.

“Luke said a mermaid’s out here!” Chrissy said.

“Mermaid?” Mark said it like he didn’t know what one was. I didn’t bother correcting her. His little sister’s obsession was well known by all of us. “Did he really see something?” Mark chuffed and thumbed over his shoulder at the cabin. “He’s so white.”

I stifled my laugh and shrugged.

“Luke thought he saw something and Chrissy overheard.”

“Hey, neighbor!”

Mark and I jumped. We saw the bud of a lit cigarette in the shadows of the adjacent cabin. Someone with a cigarette sauntered down. I glanced my stepdaughter’s way to make sure she hadn’t waded too far into the water. She could swim, but again, that nascent parental instinct found in anyone who has walked into an already existing family reared its concerned head. Chrissy was only ankle deep.

“Hey,” I said to the woman as she approached. She halted and took a final, long drag off her cigarette before flicking it in a surprisingly high arc toward the water. She slid the drawer of her jaw forward and blew a column of smoke straight up.

“She’s a cutie,” she said, smiling. She was an older woman who gave too much gum when she smiled. “I saw her come chargin’ out for the water. Oo, that smell.”

We both nodded in that new-to-each-other manner between strangers.

“I’m Rick.” Old and new cigarette smell peeled off her skin and I turned my head to half cough, that familiar asthmatic itch in my lungs.

“Mary,” she said.

I laughed. “My wife’s name is Mary.”

“Mine’s Cindy-Lou Ombrageaux.”

I felt the weight of her eyes on me, examining for judgment. I cast my eyes to the stretch of water and sand where Chrissy was.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cindy-Lou.” I didn’t think I could manage that last name.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mary. Apart from the smell of cow-butt.”

“First time up here?” I asked. She shook my offered hand, her skin papery and dry. There was an extreme lack of moisture in the air despite the cool summer, and I’d already had a nosebleed in the brief time we’d been here.

“Mine. Not hers. My wife’s family is from Up North.” I thought her face dropped a little. “She’s out to dinner with some cousins.” There was a little something there that I had a feeling would come to light if we talked long enough. “Had to have a little heart-to-heart.”

“We came up two summers ago,” I said. “Just a little family getaway.”

Luke had barely joined us outside, not more than a few feet from the door. He looked like he would take umbrage with the sky.

“This is Mark, the one up there with get-off-my-lawn face is Luke, and Chrissy’s our little fisher.” I gestured to each of the kids in turn.

“Well, tell her to save some for everybody else.” She and Mark shook hands before she looked around. “Where’s your missus?”

“Migraine. She laid down pretty much as soon as we got here.”

“Sorry to hear that.” She put the can of beer she’d been holding in her other hand to her lips and pitched her head back for a long swallow. She stumbled like she’d confused her left foot for her right but kept them both under her.

If I had to guess, Mary was working on her third or fourth of the night.

Luke had waved his brother over and was saying something to him. They both had an eye on their sister. I looked at Mary. She was a stranger and I figured there couldn’t be any harm in telling her what had just happened. We weren’t going to see her after this weekend for at least a year, if ever again. I didn’t think the story would be memorable after tonight. It was a single-serve memory. Recall once, then discard.

“Luke said he saw something in the water,” I said. “Something big.” Mary turned her head to the shore and nodded appreciably.

“Maybe it’s the Great Lakes Whale Migration,” she said.

“The what?” I had no idea what she was talking about and was on the verge of taking her seriously. The smile hanging on her face dropped when she realized I really didn’t understand.

“Kidding.” She mock-punched me in the arm. Mary had a rich baritone and could have easily been a DJ on the radio.

Mark trudged past me, an annoyed look on his face.

“He’s crazy,” he said, heading toward his sister. I appreciated that he didn’t believe his brother but could still look after his sister. Mark was the middle child and was the ever-constant bridge between siblings.

“The waves do seem a little... bigger than the norm, don’t you think?” Mary asked.

“I guess,” I said, not really knowing how to tell the difference. Then I wondered how she’d know, considering she said she’d never been up here before. “Can you tell?”

“I had a few cigs over yonder before y’all came out. Boy, you get used to the smell the longer you’re out here.” She seemed to be reading my mind and answering questions I hadn’t had a chance to ask. “I must have missed your boy, though.”

I looked at the water again. Mark was standing just outside of the water’s reach, one hand in the pocket of his hoody, the other holding his phone. To his credit, he did glance up at her every ten seconds or so.

Come to think of it, those waves did look big. But it could have been because of the moon for all I knew.

“How long are the two of you here for?” I asked Mary.

“‘Til Wednesday. I’m going to be meeting my in-laws for the first time tomorrow.”

I didn’t know whether I should have felt sympathy for her. It was strange she wasn’t out to dinner with her wife now, but I didn’t know their situation. Maybe it was completely normal. But I couldn’t help but think I would’ve been more than a little bothered if it had been me.

Mary fell down. Not hard. She just spontaneously lost her balance and sat on her butt. In true alcoholic fashion, though, she protected her beer.

She looked at me, embarrassed. I smirked, hopefully communicating I wasn’t just laughing at her, but with her.

“We all fall down.” I’m not sure why I said that, but it seemed to help. She took my hand and I helped her up.

“How about you guys?”

“Just until Sunday afternoon.”

“Where are you from?”

A sandwich had been the hinge on the closing door of our marriage.

I don’t remember what the argument was about or how it had started, only that I had made a sandwich for her that led to me sleeping on the couch.

Of course, it hadn’t really been about the sandwich, it had only been the start. It had been like a match that led to a forest fire razing a town. I can’t honestly remember a word I’d shouted at the woman I’d pledged to love for the rest of my life.

I was about to answer Mary when Chrissy screamed.

I run as fast as I can across the parking lot. The thick snow feels like huge hands grabbing my feet, trying hard to bring me down, but I force my legs to keep moving. My eyes are focused on the entrance far ahead, which still looks so tiny from this distance. I almost give up and stop right there from extreme exhaustion. My lungs work at maximum capacity, trying to supply enough air to my leg muscles. This makes me breathe so fast. I am almost blinded by the fog bursting out of my mouth as my ankles sink into the snow with every step I take.

But I can't stop now!

Even though I can feel my chest heaving so fast, gasping for air, I can hear my brain screaming way louder: "Don't stop! Just don't stop now. Keep running! Faster! Run faster!"

So I inhale deeply and use every ounce of my strength to keep my legs moving even faster. Just a few feet away, I'll get to the lanes that were already plowed. With a long, helpless grunt, I fight the heavy sprint just to reach that lane. And that's when I feel my right foot stumble on something buried inside the snow. I fall forward, planting my face into loose and cold layer. But I instinctively use the momentum to roll my body so I keep moving forward, despite being way slower now.

Not giving up, I manage to crawl fast and finally stand straight back up. Wobbling, but still running. I jump over the last two steps and land on the solid surface of the lane's asphalt.

"Yes!" I hiss, celebrating the milestone.

Now I can accelerate to maximum speed heading toward the entrance, which is now so close. I leap over the three entrance steps, and I can finally feel the store's floor under my shoes. With one final jump, I push myself airborne past the gate, into the store itself.

But suddenly, a figure appears right in front of me. I'm already too tired to fight my own momentum to slow down, so I just let myself slam into the figure. A girl. But in the last fraction of a second, I manage to open my arms so I collide with her in a hugging gesture. I see a single frame of her startled face, and the next frame is her falling backward along with me. I quickly swing my whole body weight to spin her so she lands on me instead of the hard floor, using my arm to absorb the force where her shoulder was supposed to hit.

"Gahh..!" she lets out a short, high-pitched squeal.

We roll a couple of times and stop side by side. I quickly spring back up.

"I am so sorry, miss. Are you alright?" I say quickly, picking up her belongings while she sits up.

She doesn't respond. Just looking around, dazed.

"I'm really, really sorry, miss!" I say once again—and continue running. Just one more hallway!

Slipping on my soles, layered with melting snow, I skid around the final corner and finally arrive at the toilet.

Oh, yeah!

Given how things turned out, I probably shouldn’t admit to giving Bucketmaster his name. We were kids goofing off at the playground one early summer morning, and this runt shows up with a steel bucket on his head. A dented galvanized pail with two eye holes punched out.

Chuck laughed and pinged the pail with a flick of his forefinger. “What’s with this, nimrod?”

Stevie struck a Superman pose. “Where’s your cape, pailbrain?”

The runt just stood there, bright green eyes watching carefully through the eye holes as Stevie kept taunting, “Huh, pailbrain. Think you’re a superhero? What’s your superpower? Mopping floors?”

Chuck, Stevie and I laughed. Then the runt did too. A little giggle before he ran off. We laughed harder.

When we got to the playground the next morning, the runt was sitting atop the monkey bars, dented bucket on his head, a threadbare white towel tied at his neck, a ratty mop in hand and called out a challenge: “What’s it gonna be?”

Even now I can’t understand what possessed me, but before Chuck and Stevie could get all huffed and puffed, I went ramrod straight and saluted. “All hail, Bucketmaster! Command us!”

That’s how it started. Chuck and Stevie fell in line with my joke and it became our summer game. From his monkey bar throne each morning, Bucketmaster would shout a command and we, his loyal minions, would deliver. It was childish, but Bucketmaster’s absurd tasks became a daily contest we increasingly felt compelled to win.

“Bring me ten live salamanders!”

“Two hundred feet of Christmas lights that don’t work!”

“A ball of old tin foil that weighs at least three pounds!”

“Four sacks of rotten potatoes!”

Seemingly random things. Seemingly. Though, I noted after every task we completed, Bucketmaster’s green eyes brightened markedly, as if he was ticking off key items. A sort of bucket list.

Chuck, Stevie and I only talked about it in the sense of what crazy thing Bucketmaster would ask for next. The craziest came the day before school was set to start again. That morning Bucketmaster was not atop the monkey bars. He stood waiting for us in his dented bucket, his towel cape and mop were gone, and in one of his little hands was what looked like three neon green glow sticks.

“Take these!” he commanded like usual, though it was very unusual. Of course we each took one. “They’ll protect you.”

“From what?” Stevie asked.

“Them,” Bucketmaster said, pointing to the sky. Which began to fill with buckets. Gleaming buckets, the size of water towers, with flaming jets slowing their descent.

“Is this for real?” Chuck asked.

“It is for them,” Bucketmaster said. “All of it is for them. Though they don’t quite get us. They said that was up to me for helping them. And you helped me, so don’t lose those sticks. We got a lot more stuff to do.”

Then we climbed with Bucketmaster atop the monkey bars, our eyes glowing green awaiting the next command.

A few days ago, I went to my computer, clicked on my search engine, and asked… “Why does my floor have one dark floorboard?” I had been doing some home renovating and I got curious. Instead of finding anything interesting it said it was due to the elements. But for some reason it didn’t scratch the itch that I desired.

So then I asked “Can basements have floorboards on top of them?” And it told me “Yes, floorboards can go over basements, but you must use the right materials and moisture protection because concrete slabs are porous and trap dampness.” Which explained the floorboard issue.

“What’s the difference between a basement and a cellar?” I proceeded to ask. It told me that basements are partially underground whereas cellars are completely underground.

Then, to solve my wood problem, I asked “Can cellars below ground effect the floorboards above ground?” In which it gave me the same response as the basement question.

Then I wondered if The Tell-Tale Heart was about the guy that put a dead body in the floor boards. Was it really his guilt or would the police just see a dark piece of wood, despite there being no basement, and deduce that there’s a body under there?

Then, second guessing myself, I asked “Is it Tell-Tale Heart or Tattle Tale Heart?” The search engine told me it was tell-tale.
And, just for the hell of it, I asked “What’s the difference between a tell-tale and a tattle tale?” The search engine told me “A tattletale is a person who reports someone's minor misbehavior to an authority figure to get them in trouble, while a tell-tale is a sign or clue that reveals something hidden.” But if a person reports the hidden truth coming out, why is it called a tale? And furthermore, why are these people called rats?

So I searched “Rat slang word: origin.” Apparently it was called this because rats would historically try to do anything to survive. And because of their reputation living in dark, hidden spaces, spreading disease, and acting sneakily, it makes them a natural symbol for untrustworthy behavior. So I wondered if it would make more sense if they were called rats because of their “tall tails.” Which adds another tale idiom into the mix.

On the subject of tails, I looked up some more interesting animal facts. Like how reindeer eyeballs turn blue in winter to help them see at lower light levels, young goats pick up accents from each other, horses use facial expressions to communicate with each other and African buffalo do, in fact, understand and display a voting system in their herd. Fascinating creatures the African buffalo! Apparently when a male wants to let the rest of the herd know where it wants to travel, it will stand up, look in one direction, and then lie back down. It’s amazing what kind of things you can find out.

As I moved out of that website, though, I noticed another little website called Rabbit Holes ‘R’ Us. It was a short infomercial about how people can call up and get a rabbit hole installed.
“Tired of packing things away and not having anymore room to contain it?” An excitable announcer rhetorically asked. “Worried that everything will come out eventually no matter how hard you cram it down? Well come on down to Rabbit Holes ‘R’ Us!”
The flashing lights and entertaining announcer was enough to keep me from clicking out of such a bizarre concept.
“We create rabbit holes for you!” The announcer continued. “There are so many uses for rabbit holes. Storage, living, recreation, capturing your enemies.” I found this quite strange, I thought rabbit holes were only homes for rabbits, as the word suggested.

So I asked, “Are rabbit holes legitimate?” And it said that rabbit holes are legitimate but you have to be careful not to fall into one. So naturally I asked “How do I prevent myself from falling down a rabbit hole?” The first result was another video commercial so I clicked on it. It was of a man walking in the park, then all of a sudden he disappeared from the frame, then it badly transitioned to a poor match-cut shot of him stuck down the hole. The only thing that was visible was his head sticking out of it from the chest up. “Honey I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole again.” Then I heard an announcer speak over the scene. The same voice as the one advertising the rabbit holes.
“Tired of falling down rabbit holes made by yourself or your neighbors? Losing your family due to frequent accidents?” It loudly asked. We then cut to his wife leaning down and telling him “I can’t watch you live like this, I’m taking the children.” I then heard the voiceover continue, “Try Tin Foil!”
“Wow, Tin Foil. Why didn’t I think of that?” Said the man in the hole.
“Simply place the tin foil over the rabbit hole…” the announcer explained, over an animated shot of the tin foil moving down over the hole. “And that’s it! Using the patented technology of reflection, you can see the rabbit holes coming a mile away! And if you do fall down a rabbit hole, that’s no problem either! Because the tin foil will get so hot that it will keep you warm overnight. And that’s not all! Because of its deflection technology, you can say and do anything privately without anyone signaling in and knowing what you’re up to. And because of its stylish design you can even make it into clothing!”
It then cut to the same man in the hole, only now he’d evidently fashioned the tin foil into a hat and could be seen wearing it.
“I used to worry about my enemies reading my thoughts when I’m asleep.” He said into the camera. “But thanks to Tin Foil, now I don’t have to.”
“You don’t need a wife to tell you to be careful falling in…” the announcer continued. “Or your friends calling you crazy, Tin Foil is the only thing you need!”
“Tin Foil is the sanest thing I’ve ever done.” The man in the hole exclaimed.
“So try Tin Foil today!”
Followed by a disclaimer on the screen and a voice quickly stating “Side effects may include the very likelihood that you’ll fall into the rabbit hole anyway. Tin Foil may cause long lasting psychological damage. Use only as directed.” I turned off the ad. Rabbit holes? I don’t remember hearing about people falling into any rabbit holes. I remember my wife bringing them up here and there but I was never really listening.

So I looked up, “Rabbit Hole fatalities.” It came up with a website, a log of unusual deaths. It’s an A-Z list sorted alphabetically by the first letter of each death. Surprisingly “Rabbit Hole” was one of them. 100 years ago a man was walking down the street. He fell in and died. 20 years ago a vagrant was minding his own business took a shortcut to the bridge and fell in. Died. John E Masseldorf, dead. Richard Allanson, dead. But it wasn’t telling me how they died. The method. Lack of oxygen? Blunt force trauma? Exhaustion? And how did it happen? Did they take themselves out? I’ve always said that I can really tell a lot about a person by knowing how they would off themselves. For me it would definitely be a toaster in the bath, I’d even put bread in the toaster before I do it for no extra charge. I figured if I’m going out, it would be with a sense of humor. Not that I would actually do it. But every now and then, the fleeting thought would pass me whenever I saw my wife buttering the toast.
But whenever I see someone who did it on the news, they don’t specify how, exactly, they did it. They never do. Am I a sick individual for wanting to know that? Why report it at all if you’re not going to go full Monty? And what was with these damn rabbit holes?

So I clicked back on to the search engine home page and typed in “Tin Foil.” Nothing to rave about, invented in the 7th-5th century in China. But an interesting thing came up. “Tin Foil Hat.” How did they know? “Tin foil hats. People who wear them are often associated with paranoia, distrust, erratic beliefs.” What are they trying to say? That the tin foil hats don’t work? Are they a placebo?

So I typed in “Rabbit Hole… Tin Foil… Legitimate?” A couple of articles on the pros and cons of the tin foil, but what followed was a very interesting commercial.

It was of a man walking in the park. The same man as before, in the Tin Foil ad, but now he’s in this one, working for the competition. The world is short on informercial actors I suppose. What could only describe as an almighty force was then stopping me from asking “actors who frequently appear in informercials. Secret connection?”
The video continued with the multi credited informercial actor seeing a rabbit hole with tin foil covering it.
“Oh god I’m blind!” Cried the unnamed man who, in the past 5 minutes has not only spent most of his life in a rabbit hole, but has now been blinded by tin foil reflecting off the sun.
“Tired of being blinded by rabbit holes and tin foil covering them?” The same announcer from the ads before.
“Sick of the outside world ruining your day?” The announcer continued while another scene showed a man being blinded and, in panic, fell into the rabbit hole anyway.
“Not convinced that tin foil is going to protect you from rabbit holes?”
It then cut to a woman with her thumb down and blowing a raspberry. And, now that I think about it, also appeared in one of the re enactment scenes in the rabbit hole ad.
“Try! Conspira See!” The announcer exclaimed. It was an eye drop preventative for, what I can only imagine to be, sudden blindness. The logo stuck out to me. It was a picture of a single tear drop above an eye, but the eye was also inside a triangle.
“Wow. Now that I’ve used Conspira See, I can see so much clearer.” The man in the hole said.
“Now you can fall into as many Rabbit Holes as you want without getting blinded. With Conspira See!” The announcer finished. Another disclaimer on the bottom of the screen with the same quick voice as before.
“Use only as directed. Side effects may included permanent physical damage and psychological collapse. Prolonged use for longer than a week is not recommended.”

What an odd commercial, I thought as I clicked away. I didn’t understand how I’d gotten this far. Conspira See? What a terrible idea for a preventative solution. Even the name was… wait a minute. Of course. It all made sense now. How could I have been so blind? This eye drop ad was sending an encoded message. Now… I may have stopped taking my antipsychotics a week ago but I was still sane enough to rationalize that this wasn’t necessarily directly encoded to me. I’m not that egotistical. But what if it was an encoded message to anyone that got a rabbit hole? Or, furthermore, anyone that got stuck in rabbit holes? As I kept searching it all started to come together. The recycling infomercial actors, the rabbit holes, the tin foil, the Conspira See. And that’s when it hit me. Conspira See sounds a lot like the word “conspiracy”. Conspira See. Conspiracy?
My god, I thought. I’d done it. At first it seemed odd but why not? This was a conspiracy by Rabbit Holes ‘R’ Us.
And not only that… the rabbit hole people, the tin foil people and the Conspira See people are all one in the same.
Think about it… They start the tin foil commercial out by assuming that their customers had already fallen into rabbit holes. Why were they advertising for that specific problem? Why didn’t they advertise tin foil for anything else? Same happened with the eye drops. Advertising these things for the highly improbable, yet oddly specific situation where you would be blinded by the tin foil? It’s almost like they made these ads as a direct response, or subconscious lateral move, to and for each other. Like it’s all there. They were forcing people to create their holes, trap them in there, then they would offer you a faulty product like tin foil as a way of funnelling money to keep the businesses afloat. Then, they would keep you trapped and helpless with nothing but tin foil and a Conspira See.

I had to see if there was any credence to this so I searched “Rabbit Hole controversies.” There was nothing. Nothing except a website for a news article that said “Rabbit Holes ‘R’ Us in deep. Hundreds of angry customers accuse the infamous company of false advertising. Claims that they were forced to dig their own holes.” Well a lot of good that did, I thought. That didn’t prove anything… until I got curious. Dig their own holes?

So I decided to go back to something simple. I went back to the animal search, with that Rabbit Holes ‘R’ Us ad link staring back at me. Then I started over. Rabbits. I put in “Which countries had an overpopulation of rabbits.” Believing that if I put holes on the end of it, it might get confused and wonder if I’m talking about the products or the literal holes dug by rabbits. It came up with a lot of places. China, (well that’s where tin foil originated) Australia, (infamous for their rabbit-proof fences) and some European countries. Nothing was solid enough other than sheer coincidences and straw-grasping. There must’ve been some kind of link to all this. Some small link to Europe that would solidify. Then I thought about the claims that the rabbit hole customers were forced to dig their own holes.

So I searched “Historical events where people had to dig their own holes” I typed next. Nothing but the gold rush and a couple of wars.
Hang on.
War.
So I changed my search to “Historical events where people had to dig their own graves.” A few European countries had a history of making their prisoners dig their own graves during wars. So how did that connect to Australia and China? And then it hit me in the face so hard I nearly fell off my chair. Rabbit Holes ‘R’ Us were working with Tin Foil and Conspira See to make unknowing customers dig their own graves (rabbit holes) causing them to fall in and keep them there until they die, doing this as a form of population control. Overpopulation? Population control during the wars? The overpopulation of China? And what else was China overpopulated with? Rabbits. Another country? Australia. Things were getting clearerer. And although Australia had their rabbit-proof fences, maybe the rabbit hole people found this method barabric, so they opted for a more humane approach. By leading them down rabbit holes. This is why in the commercials, they more or less implied that the customers had to either lead single lonely lives or cut off everything and everyone they held dear.
I know it sounds sounds crazy. I know it sounds like a conspiracy theory. And I even had my doubts when I immediately asked something else in the search engine.

“Am I a conspiracy theorist?” I began to type in. My wife used to call me that and I hated it so much. But she is no longer with us.
But before I hit send I thought about it for a second. I didn’t want anyone who was monitoring my search history to come acorss that question. They’d lock me away for sure. So I went for something more subtle.

I asked, “What are the signs of a conspiracy theorist?” A few classic buzzwords came up like paranoid, unable to accept reality, dangerous. But I ignored it because I didn’t think any of those adjectives applied to me.
I was about to ask “Are conspiracies real?” being ever-careful to not tip off any federal agents who may mark me down as “concerning” but then I stopped. And I thought… if the government can do that then why couldn’t the rabbit hole people do that? What if they had monitored my searches in the past? I’d be the first to admit I’d looked up some conspiracies before, so maybe they saw that and targeted my ads. But that would mean… no. No chance. If they had my search history then it’s very possible that they could’ve had my IP address, which meant that if they had then they had my home address. And if they had that then they were the ones monitoring and maybe even controlling what I was looking up! They wanted me to get stuck in my own rabbit hole!

They wanted me to get stuck in the rabbit hole by luring me into it using tin foil and Conspira See, eventually causing me to die. One less person in the population. Rinse and repeat. I found this because I was looking up animal facts, I looked up animal facts because I wanted to know why rats were dishonest, and I only looked up that because I wanted to know the difference between tale and tail. I wanted to know that because I was thinking of that Edgar Allen Poe story, and I did that because of the dark piece of wood that’s directly over my basement.
Oh my god.
They were there since the beginning… It all made perfect sense now. Since the dark piece of wood, everything was connected! They obviously saw my internet history for a while and tracked where I lived. And when the time was right they broke in, replaced my floorboard with an intentionally dark one as a sort of sick subliminal hint as to where this rabbit hole should go, causing me to go on the internet, ask why this was the case, leading me from one query to another. Every detour, every tangent, was specifically curated, tailor-made if you will, for one purpose that would eventually culminate in me getting stuck down a rabbit hole that I couldn’t get out of!
They were probably watching me as I was figuring this out.
Waiting… contemplating my next move. And if I tried to resist, they would force me down the rabbit hole. To get rid of me, to push me further and further away from the truth.
If I could see my wife now, I’d tell her that this wasn’t all for nothing. That my theories were valid, that everything I found out was currently happening and I was truly and completely powerless to get out of it.

And then I thought, “Well that’s enough internet for me today.” And stepped away from my computer. And then I began to unravel this rabbit hole theory, dissected the flaws and ultimately decided that I couldn’t let this exist in my life. Of course there was no Rabbit Holes ‘R’ Us! That would be crazy… and I’m not crazy.
I’m not crazy.
So I let it go and buried it. I then stepped outside and embraced the glorious rays of the sun, something I hadn’t seen in the last day or so due to my journey. I walked over to my lawn and quite literally touched the grass. I’ve heard that’s what you’re supposed to do when you find yourself spending too much time online. It was soothing. I felt great. I felt free.

Then, two days later. I went back on my computer, clicked on the search engine, and asked… “How do I get rid of the smell of rotting flesh coming from my basement?”

Most people don’t believe in ghosts. That’s because, once they’re old enough that a few of their loved ones have actually become ghosts, they’ve already stopped trying to talk to them. You’ll never talk to ghosts if you don’t even try! It took a lot of trial and error for me to figure it out, so I’m writing this guide so that it’s easier for you.

So first of all, you have to believe in them. I’ve always believed in ghosts. I know my sister Arabella left her body at least a few months before she died. When she’d pass out on benzos and booze and I’d hold a mirror in front of her mouth, her breath stopped fogging it up. The first time it happened, I thought she’d stopped breathing. I panicked and called an

ambulance. She woke up right as they arrived and slapped me for calling them. I didn’t know yet

that bodies without ghosts don’t fog up mirrors, and her breath wasn’t showing up because she’d already abandoned hers. It just wasn’t safe for her in there anymore.

She had four years on me and just as many inches, but she must have been at least forty pounds lighter in those last few months. I read somewhere that alcohol has a ton of calories in it, but they must not work the same as food calories or something. Before she died, when she’d bend over, I could count her vertebrae through her shirt.

Sometimes, I wish I would've thought of talking to her ghost while her body was still alive, but I try to remind myself that that wouldn’t have made a diference. No one ever returns to a burning building on purpose, and she wouldn’t have come back into her sick body either. No one would choose to live in a thing like that.

So that’s the second thing you should know. You can talk to ghosts even if their abandoned bodies are still alive, but they probably won't come back to live in them.

Anyway, here’s another thing about talking to ghosts. You can’t just say something like “please give me a sign that you’re still here,” or “I love you, I still need you, please talk to me,” or “all you ever did was hurt me, just once come back and say you love me,” etc. Those are all far too broad, and they’ll get you nowhere. I tried. You need to be more specific to establish a connection.

I guess I should tell you that tomorrow morning, I’m going to be talking to Arabella’s ghost for the first time. I talked to a psychic earlier today, and she said there’s a thirteen-year-old girl hanging around me. For some reason her ghost must have stopped aging at thirteen years old. Maybe it had something to do with what happened with Dad.

So that’s another thing. Make sure you know how old the ghost is you're trying to talk to, and talk to them appropriately.

Earlier tonight, I sat at the kitchen table as the sun was beginning to set. I had the lights down low because Arabella used to have these awful headaches, even back then. As I worked, I kept getting whiffs of cherry ChapStick, which is how I know this is going to work. That’s what Arabella used to use. I remember because I used to steal it and she’d get roaring mad. She’d yell at me, which did make me sad, but it was better than when she acted like I didn’t exist. I was also sad when Dad died, and sometimes it felt like I’d lost her, too. I guess maybe I did.

I laid out all the screws and wires and circuits and coils on the table. I put them in little plastic baggies and labeled them with a Sharpie, just like she used to. I did my best to keep it organized for her, but I don’t know anything about old radios. I always thought it was cool that Arabella could take them apart and put them back together again like it was nothing. I had no idea how many little parts there actually were!

So that’s the last thing you need to know about talking to ghosts. You need a physical medium that they were attached to in some way.

Before her ghost stopped aging and eventually fled, Arabella loved to take old electronics apart and put them back together again, just to see how they worked. She said she was just bored because there’s nothing to do in Widow’s Creek, but that was a lie. She was so happy when she was working on her projects.

So I’m leaving all the radio parts out, and in the morning, she’ll have put them back together. She died three weeks ago. I feel a little bad that it took me so long to figure this out. It’s okay, though. Tomorrow, we'll get to talk again, after all these years.

I’m going to bed right after I post this. I hope I can sleep. I’m so excited! Anyway, that’s how you talk to ghosts. If anyone has any questions, feel free to message me!

Love,

-Marika

"They're here," Sandy put her binoculars down, and motioned to the others. They were scattered in a loose arc over a dune, watching a group of five people - outsiders - walking towards their settlement.

"Dune, you're up" ordered Sandy. Dune was an Earth user, who specialised in sand. In a desert. Yeah they were a dime a dozen. The reason Dune was selected was that he was still alive after what he went through. A true escape artist.

Dune manipulated the sand around the outsiders and surrounded them with high sand dunes. "Get ready Blast, Worm, you're up next". Blast was their signature Fire user with an affinity for explosions. Because... That's all he did in his free time. Or when busy fighting. No one loved him and no one wanted him. So he tagged along.

"Take this outies!", cried Blast, immediately giving away their position. Fire crackled in both his palms as he slapped them together, as if in reverence, aiming the blast at the group. A huge cloud of sand made them lose vision. That was what Worm was for.

Worm, called so just because he ate an apple with a worm in it and didn't care when he was small. The name stuck and he didn't care. No parents to remind him of his true one either; none of them had. A true wind user. He summoned all he had into a gust of wind to clear their vision.

"What the hell?!" cried Sandy. What they looked at was a sphere of black sand, as if levitating in the bottom of the pit. As the sand cleared, it opened up and a great flame emerged from the opening. Larger than anything they had ever seen. "RUN!" screamed Blast, as if understanding the true nature of their fuckup, "Run or we're dead meat!"

The flames sought out the voice as if homing onto it and hit Blast square on the face. He flew away into the sand. Who knew where. Dammit, he was the guns. Now I'll have to step in Sandy thought.

She grimaced, but felt a rush. As if the battlefield was calling her. She jumped into the pit.

Dune screamed, "NOO!", and became the next victim of those flames. By this time Worm understood that keeping quiet was the way to go, and quietly tried to flee. Something he was an expert of. He summoned a gust of wind and climbed onto it. Sadly, as he gained altitude, he unknowingly got sucked into the flames and was burned to a crisp.

Sandy took a note of that. She deduced that such flames can only be something augmented. But the way Worm was sucked into them, said that wind was involved in some way. So assuming one to be a special Earth user, one Fire, one Wind, what were the two others? Assuming a scout party, they ought to have a sensor, not that their party had one anyway. So that left one unknown user.

No time to think. She squared off in the pit. Channelling all of her energy into her fists, she landed a solid punch at the metallic sphere. It didn't budge. Instead the flames found her.

"Fuck you!" she roared. She channeled her energy to her legs and jumped to avoid the flames. Her eyes, already augmented by her energy in midair, took a glimpse of their contestants. I knew it. She could identify the Augmenter markings on the Earth user with the Sensor, guiding the Flame-Wind combo. Such a beautiful war machine, she thought.

Her eyes identified a weak spot in that carnage. Just below the group was the opening. How unconventional, she mused. She then channeled back to her arms and punched the air to change direction. She landed with a thud and hit the ground running. Now with her legs working, she ran face first into the ground, channeling into her fists, punched a tunnel which led straight to their core.

"Take this, you bastards!" She erupted through the ground like a force to be reckoned with. With an uppercut, tapped the Earth guy unconscious. Hopefully dead, she thought. Then she barraged onto the Augmenter before she could interfere and tapped her down. Then the rest dropped like flies. The sphere and the flames dissipated. Leaving the party and Sandy in the ruins.

Sandy roared in victory. She was exhausted, but didn't know it yet. Maybe that was why she didn't notice the party standing up and the Earth guy clocking her with a boulder. A thump and everything went dark.

"- probably killed her."

"Not possible, she's a hard head. Ha ha ha"

As she came to, she could hear laughing and sounds of merry-making. She was chained to a rock with the same metal she couldn't punch through. Great, a prisoner, now, she thought

The Sensor, she assumed, picked her up first. "Hey, you're finally awake. Here, have some water." He offered some to her parched lips, but Sandy spat at it. "Oh, come on, we're not enemies here. Besides, we found this can from your supplies, anyway", he tossed it away. "I mean, we bound you so that you don't start attacking us again, alright?"

He stopped. Then mused for a moment. "Hey Draeg, take those shackles off. I see her." He sat next to Sandy, "You won't attack us, right?" It was a sentence. Not a question.

He felt her rage, but along with it, a sensation akin to loss. It was hard to understand and he wanted to know more. Talk more.

"It's your funeral, Mandy" huffed Draeg, and released his technique. Now free, Sandy ran like her life depended on it.

"Aww, too bad. I wanted to talk..." Mandy genuinely felt sad.

"Ha ha ha ha, what did you expect?" said the Wind user. "Shut up Moya. I'm going after her. Any takers? No? Don't wait for me then" and Mandy raced off into the night.

Sandy ran like she probably hadn't before. She stopped thinking, just ran. She poured whatever was left of her into her eyes and legs and fled to her settlement. Finding the nearest bed to crash into. Not knowing, not caring, that she might lead the outsiders to her home.

She can run fast, but cannot hide now. Mandy, short for Mandarin, was a sensor with an affinity to read emotions. He was good at controlling it, but sometimes let loose as Sensors are known to be, he mused.

Found her, he stepped into the derelict whatever-it-was that Sandy called home at the moment. It was morning and Sandy was fast asleep. He sat on the floor near her and watched her sleep.

She's beautiful when she isn't scowling. He silently admired her muscles, toned from living in the harsh environment, her red hair, like flames, cut short and choppy, as if with a dagger. Filled with grime, blood and sweat, she had an almost angelic face living in the body of a demon.

He closed his eyes and tried to feel around her psyche. Hmm, anger, more anger, stubbornness to survive. Hmm. Will do anything necessary to survive. It's all survival dammit... Wait... Loss, longing for home? Jackpot!

Sandy sensed him and woke up. Hands ready to grab and twist his neck. Her sheer will forced him to back down, and before he could do anything, found her hands on his neck, squeezing as if in a vise.

Nice grip, was all he could think of when black sand coated her hands. Draeg emerged from the back. Mandy's neck was badly bruised. Gasping for air, he was taken away by the Augmenter. "Thanks Yara, owe you one, too."

"You want a fight!? You got it!" roared Draeg as Moya, the Wind user lifted and threw Sandy into a clearing.

"No one will interfere," he gestured at the Flame user. "Agnes!"

The Flame user made a ring of searing hot fire around them with Moya fanning the flames up high. "Nobody escapes. She's mine," drawled Draeg. "It's just you and me!"

So be it, snarled Sandy. She poured her energy to her legs and fists, dashing towards Draeg. He countered with a metal wall straight in front of her path. She dodged it as if made of the wind and came in like a force of nature. Wall after wall was dodged when finally, she threw her haymaker.

It caught Draeg in the chest and knocked the wind out of him. He snarled and summoned a pit under Sandy and raised a platform over to get out of her reach. Sandy was faster. She dashed out of the pit and through the air, as if controlling the wind. She punched the air to create shock waves to change direction.

Draeg pulled back and put both his hands in the platform, and the sand around him transformed, into a shiny metallic suit of armor. The ultimate defense. He also fashioned a rapier out of the transformed metal and squared off against Sandy.

Sandy punched him again. This time to no effect. The rapier sung against her bare fists. Wait, it sounded as if hitting rocks noticed Draeg. He deduced her affinity isn't just physical, or Wind... It's Earth... Just like him.

"Ha Haa, a fellow Earth user" he exclaimed and kicked Sandy in the chest. She fell of the platform into the pit.

What did he mean Earth user? I use my fists to fight. Nothing more, nothing less. "I dare you to fight me with your god-given technique. Don't insult me with this mockery!" Draeg called over the pit. "Fight for your life, godammit!"

Fuck you, I'll fight however I like. But she understood something she wasn't aware of. Her fists amounted to nothing against hard steel. She needed to penetrate that armor and end that soft gooey flesh of his. Think dammit. I'm not dying here in this pit!.

"Looks like I'll have to come down to end it. Playtime's over pal!", and Draeg raised the pit back to his level. Sandy was waiting for this. She dashed and threw all she had into a punch. Draeg just stood there, She's a fool if she thinks she can penetrate this armor with some bony fists. THUMP!

"Oh my god!" Agnes stared in horror as Sandy's bloody fist emerged from Draeg's chest. His armor war dented. Dented. Never had they seen such a spectacle. Draeg coughed blood. Immediately raised a platform and roared. He covered Sandy's fists with the same black metal along with shackles to her whole body. Immobilised.

How is it even possible? My impenetrable armor broke? By fists?! It just not possible, except... He stared in admiration. "Unless you used something harder... like diamond." He opened up her fists, keeping them immobilised but visible. And sure enough, there it was, tiny specks of shining diamond where her knuckles were, disappearing rapidly. So she is a superior Earth user, just unrefined.

Sandy had stopped struggling. She was waiting for the final blow. She had utterly lost. The law of The Warzone was to kill or be killed. She lost all hope to survive as she was outmatched and immobilised. Nowhere to run now, and resigned to her fate. Mandy was reading her.

"Agnes, Moya, end it." he said. The walls of flame dissipated. Draeg sat on a rock. "Now that was fun! What do you say team?" All nodded in affirmative. You surely don't get to see unbreakable armors break, every day. "So what say you, Miss ... What's your name by the way?"

"Remove her shackles Draeg, she lost. I can't sense any rage in her, all I know she is waiting for you to kill her." said Mandy. "What? Kill her? After such a grand performance? I want to give her a home after that. Talent like this doesn't come everyday."

What, I'm not going to be killed? Why? I lost. He won. There is no point in living if you can't save yourself. Mercy is shown by cowards. But he is far from a coward. A venerable beast he is. No I'm not worthy to be saved. Just end it.

"End me. I can't live now that I can't save myself. Kill or be killed. That is The Warzone" she said, dejected.

"No. Talent like you doesn't come daily. You are living whether you like it or not." said Draeg.

Then I'm gonna end it.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, Mandy interjected. "Draeg, remember what you said before the fight She's mine? You won, so she's technically your property now," he looked at Sandy, "aren't you? Killing yourself is stuff for cowards and I can't think of someone braver than you."

"Hmm. So what was her name again?" asked Draeg. "Sandy", she answered automatically.

"Hmm. Sandy. Quite topical don't you think? Ha ha, rhetorical, don't answer" laughed Draeg. "We will get along quite nicely, I believe. Break camp at dawn. We have a long ways to go."

I'll surpass him and end him. In a duel, fair and fucking square, were the last thoughts she had when she went to sleep.

I switch the light off and lower myself onto my side of the bed. The curtains are pushed to the side, a gentle blue light fills the room. The moon is full tonight, lingering outside my window steady and eternal. I turn from the moon, about to take off my glasses, when a picture catches my eye. Directly in the moonlight, it stands apart from the rest of the room, bright, shining against the soft blue. We put that picture frame up forty years ago, snapshots of our life from before we had kids, trips and adventures from when we were still young. The past calls out to me from the photos, the moon giving it power. Singing in the car, laughing at nothing, water lapping, sheets rustling. I let my eyes wander over the photos, finally lingering on one.

It is a fuzzy photo, taken on a phone older than most people reading this, but it is beautiful. She and I are standing in front of a cottage smiling for the camera. The sun is shining from behind us, giving us a golden outline, making us seem unreal, standing out like two angels among the scenery. Oh my God, how young we look.

I picked up my phone and showed her the photo. Shielding the phone from the sun she said, "that's cute, we look good."

"Great," I said, "let's bring everything in?"

It took two trips to get everything we packed inside, suitcases, cooler, and a few other bags. We put everything in the entrance and set about exploring our temporary home. We had our own bedroom, a whole kitchen to ourselves, a living room with a TV, and the waterfront was at the end of the driveway. Around the back of the house there was a fire pit and two kayaks. It was the first time we had our very own place. No parents to work around, no shared space with any siblings, just the two of us. That was the first of many nights together, in that intimate solitude. The world was big and beautiful, full of so much potential, and free to choose any path with anyone, we chose to go together. We had no idea then.

After we finished exploring we went on a walk. It was a gentle way to start our week, walking through the trees, sun dotting the ground, listening to the birds. We walked for two hours, but it only felt like twenty minutes. Back at the cottage we started to make dinner. We brought everything we might need for a week and started off with a simple frozen meal. We sat on the couch, waiting for our food, the forest behind us in the window stretching out forever, and talked, and laughed, and were happy.

We decided to have a quiet night that first night. Kayaking and making fires could wait for tomorrow. We had a whole week ahead of us. As we ate our food and cuddled we watched the sun slowly set outside the window, movie going on in the background.

A cloud passes over the moon and the photos blend in with the rest of the room. Clothes, furniture, mementos of a life lived. I put my glasses on the night stand and wipe my eyes, then lie down. Turning to her side of the bed I reach out my arm. That first night in that cottage pulling her close and thinking about nothing, I didn't think that would ever end.

"Goodnight," I say.

It was strange to see and didn’t feel real. Everything looked fake like staring at the face of a corpse. 

Even when I glanced at the window, the sky seemed slightly off too, and matched the color of the pavement and appeared as if it belonged to another dimension. 

It started in my room, by the doorway, I heard a growling sound and turned around and behind me was a shadow body that had features like a human and in his hands were two leashes attached to two human-like dogs that were in front of him, sitting like hellhounds would, with facial features stretched out like a bear’s face.

I couldn’t ignore them.

Because their presence killed the power to the TV when I was watching, True Blood, which kind of pissed me off because it was at the scene where Sookie and Bill break up.

I kept trying to hit the power button on the television remote but it wouldn’t work. 

Without thinking, I pointed the changer at the figure with the two human hounds, gasped and pushed the power button at them and they blinked and vanished. 

But the TV still wouldn’t turn on.

I sat up wondering if what just happened actually happened or if maybe I fell asleep for a second, but the television stopped working, so I couldn’t have imagined that.

That’s when I snatched a book off a dusty shelf and cleaned a path that left two dust walls on both sides of the space I pulled the book from and filled the air in particles that made me sneeze.

While I was reading, there was an atmospheric shift, like the static in an oncoming storm, raising the hairs on my arms which made me shiver as a tingle shot down my spine. 

The room had a scent of frost that reminded me of menthol cigarettes every time I took a breath.

And then, the lights went out.

Just as I got to chapter four of The Turn of the Screw, and was starting to get into it. 

I made a fist, grunted and threw the book against the wall, got up flicked the light switch but the lights wouldn’t turn on.

I kept trying, I even checked the light bulb, twisting, untwisting, and nothing.

So when I left my room to get a new one, the hallway was humid and had a heavy stench of decayed flesh radiating from under the floorboards, making me gag. I couldn’t stop choking. 

And as I turned my head, behind me the bathroom door slammed shut. I jumped because I was startled by the sound and when I looked at the door, there was a crack going down the middle of it. 

Which I was going to have to pay to fix and rip the floor apart to find whatever animal crawled under there and died. 

I went downstairs to see if I could find where the rancid smell was coming from, each step I took further down left me with the impression of walking into another world.

Everything looked the same but seemed completely weird. Especially at the bottom of the stairs, like my living room became a simulation room. The paint on the walls was smooth but pixelated at the same time.

And then a whisper came from behind my ear in a slow kind of distorted moan.

“Get Out!” The voice stretched out.

I turned around quick, wondering at the same time how my mom snuck down the stairs behind me without me noticing, but when I turned, nobody was there.

“Get Out!” Said the air, blowing its breath in my face with the scent of rotting flesh.

I couldn’t handle the smell.

So, I made my way to the front and sat outside on the porch but as the screen door shut I heard the door behind it shut as well and the lock clasp.

I turned to look over my shoulder and staring through the glass window was an older me, smiling and waving.

"I think, therefore I am." -Descartes. The first words that any college freshman taking a philosophy elective learns. The first step on the way to becoming a free-thinker, or maybe just the first step for a teenager trying to showcase how 'different' they are to a cute girl in the hopes of getting her number. Either way, it's a phrase everyone knows.

Especially Alex. He checked his arm; the green LED light from the miniscule implant attached on the fleshy underside glowed softly. He smiled, and put on his running shoes, leaving his slippers next to the door. Normally on a Saturday morning he’d be pouring milk over his second bowl of Cap’n Crunch (peanut butter flavored only) and watching YouTube, yawning.

But not anymore. He’d finally perfected it, after all these years of after-hours work at the research lab. His pride and joy: The Autopilot. Well, he was still working on a name, and a way to market the thing, but beyond that it was complete. There was only one kink to work out: The implant would get stuck to your arm and almost impossible to dig out. Not that it mattered much, considering he’d never want to take it off.

How it works is simple: You put the implant under your arm, which is connected wirelessly to a tablet. Open the tablet and type what it is you want to do, or think about, and then press the big red button. Well actually the small black button on the side, but it was figuratively the same concept. Beep, the implant will sound and then turn red while the instruction is transmitted to you, then back to green, and now all of a sudden your mind is on whatever you just typed.

Need to work on homework but don’t want to? Not anymore. Wanna exercise but feeling unmotivated? Here’s your motivation. Need to lose a few pounds but Krispy Kreme has a sale going on? Now it’s not on your mind. Whatever it is you want—or need—to do, type it in, and your brain is now on auto pilot.

His cat Peanut jumped up on the countertop, purring. He gave him a quick rub behind the ears as Peanut stretched. “Be back soon, buddy,” He said, and opened the door to the brisk outdoor air, doing a few stretches before setting off into a jog.

He hated jogging. Well, he used to, but as of ten minutes ago it’s the only thing he wanted to do now. Then he would do his weight-lifting routine. Followed by a healthy lunch, and then finish a few more chapters of Crime and Punishment.

Maybe he would write a song on his guitar that he bought recently, or an album. Or gather up the courage to ask out Melissa. But is it really courage if it’s now effortless? He didn’t think about it too much. Couldn’t, actually, he could only think of finishing this jog.

But halfway through his jog, he stopped. Hmm, He thought to himself. I don’t want to jog anymore. Why not?  He heard an audible beep. He checked the underside of his arm. The implant was blinking red. A few moments later, it was back to green.

What just happened? He hadn’t entered anything into the tablet—it was back home. Alex was starting to get worried. Fighting exhaustion, he ran back home. Something was wrong.

When he approached the door, he paused. It was hanging ajar. Did he leave it open accidentally? He walked inside and closed the door, locking the deadbolt. He went to the kitchen counter to grab the tablet, and…

It was gone. Where was the tablet? He was positive he’d left it right on the counter before leaving. Did someone take it? It was a relatively safe neighborhood, sure there were some nuisance kids that would cause a little mischief on the weekends but nothing serious. He went outside, looking around.

“Hey Alex!”

Alex looked to the side. It was his neighbor Dave, out washing his car, giving him a wave.

“Dave!” Alex called out. “Hey did you happen to see anyone enter my house? I noticed the door was open when I finished my run just now.”

Dave looked perplexed. “Huh, no I don’t think so. But I’ve only been outside for around ten minutes, so maybe? It’s pretty safe around here though, would be surprising for a break-in to happen on a Saturday morning.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Alex said, turning around and scoffing.

This was his fault. He’d noticed in previous trials that using the device too much could impede your short-term memory. One of drawbacks of having a computer think for you, I suppose. But he thought that kink had been worked out in his latest prototype. I guess not.

Time to scour the house. He opened every drawer, cabinet, closet door. He checked under furniture and on every shelf. Nothing. His mind went back to the open door, and he got an uneasy feeling like he was being watched.

Beep. There it was again. The implant blinked red, then back to green. He racked his brain. Someone had typed something, willed a thought into his mind. But what?

Anger. He was angry. It was Dave—Dave had to have seen who went into his house. There’s only one reason he would lie: It was Dave who took the tablet. Maybe he should—

Beep.

No, calm down. Dave wouldn’t do something like that; he’d been his friend for years now. Plus, Dave didn’t even know about the tablet. But then Alex’s brain harkened back to earlier: Forgetfulness.

Beep.

Just need to relax. Wind down. The tablet was somewhere, but Alex knew that being stressed out wasn’t doing him any favors.

Beep.

Get out of my head! Alex thought. But what was in his head? Was the implant actually doing anything now?

He went outside. Dave wasn’t there any longer, likely went inside. Went inside to do what? He didn’t even finish washing his car. The soapy bucket sat on the driveway and the garden hose was still running. Whatever Dave had to do, it must be important. Alex walked over to Dave’s opened garage door and peered inside.

“Hey Dave?” He called out. No answer. He took a cautious step inside, listening.

Beep.

This was too much. He had to get the tablet back; he could feel his mind racing. Too many thoughts entering him all at once. FOCUS! He thought. Get the tablet from Dave. Get the tablet from Dave. He repeated that sentence in his mind over and over again. He had to get that tablet back, so he quickened his pace as he walked into Dave’s house, eyeing the hallway.

He saw Dave in the kitchen, looking down at his counter. Alex couldn’t see what he was looking at.

Beep.

It didn’t matter. “Dave!” Alex called out.

Dave whirled around. “Alex? How did you get in? Why…” Dave’s voice fell.

Alex had a wild look in his eye. “Give me the tablet. Now.”

Dave started to raise his hands, slowly. “Alex, there’s no problem here. What are you talking about?” Dave’s hand fell beneath the counter, out of sight. Grabbing something.

Beep.

Alex charged. As long as Dave had that tablet, his mind was lost. He had to get it back, no matter what. As he ran, Dave brought his hand into view. He was holding a handgun.

“Alex! S-stop, get back!” Dave said, raising the handgun to Alex.

Get the tablet. Get the tablet. Get the tablet. Alex saw the gun, but he didn’t care. If he didn’t get that tablet, then his life was lost either way. Whoever stole it had complete control over Alex’s mind.

Alex reached out to Dave. Dave’s finger was on the trigger. But he couldn’t do it. As Alex’s hand reached Dave, Dave cried out and dropped the gun. Alex’s hands were on his neck now, pinning him down as they both writhed on the floor.

Beep.

A minute later, Alex was sitting next to Dave’s lifeless corpse, panting. He stood up, grabbing the tablet from the counter. There it was.

Except it wasn’t. It was Dave’s iPad, opened to a web page about proper hand-technique when applying car wax after a wash. Alex’s face fell, and a knot formed in his stomach. Adrenaline was leaving him, giving way to realization. What have I done?

Beep.

He ran outside. His door was open again. Did he leave it open?

Beep.

He’s in there. Whoever took the tablet is in there—it’s only been a couple of minutes. Alex’s head was spinning—he took a look at Dave’s lifeless corpse. Am I dreaming? He made his way to the opened door, closing it as he stepped inside.

“Show yourself!” Alex shouted. “Where are you?!”

Beep.

Prrr. Alex looked down. Peanut was next to his feet, rubbing up against his calf. Alex reached down towards Peanut, and that’s when he saw it.

The tablet. It was resting next to the door, on the floor leaned against the wall. Hidden by his slippers. As he reached out towards the tablet, Peanut beat him to it. He put his paw on the side of the tablet, pressing, curious.

Beep.

Alex picked up the tablet, and looked. There was nothing on it.

John is of average height for a white male. He has no qualms with this, or any other of his features, never having felt insecure about his appearance or body. He goes to school at a prestigious university and enjoys his time there. He has a good daily schedule, never feeling like he doesn’t have enough time for his friends, hobbies, or rest between his responsibilities. His lack of significant other is by his own will, as he never felt the desire to hold a romantic relationship. By all accounts, his life is quite good. He’s content and looks forward to the future every day.

“Hello, John,” I say, my voice manifesting in his ears. He’s startled, obviously, and looks around for the source of the sound after recovering from the involuntary jolt. After a moment, he decides he must have imagined it. He was dozing off, after all, so maybe it was some weird hypnagogic hallucination.

“I’m not a hallucination,” I assure. This really spooks him. “I’m not there with you, either, so don’t bother looking for me.”

“What the fuck? God?” he whines. His heart races and his head fills with heat from the stress, reaping cold sweat off his forehead.

“In a way, I guess. I did create you, and I am omnipotent over your every emotion and action.”

He’s frozen, processing. That was a lot to lay on him at once, wasn’t it? I’m not too interested in slowly and painstakingly acclimating him to this realization, so I’ve decided he’s come to terms with it completely.

“Shit… This is insane! I have so many questions… Uh, but first, thank you, for my life and stuff,” he said, subtly curling into himself in some sort of meek reverence.

“You’re welcome, but you don’t have to act like that. I’m only a guy just like you. I’m not going to smite you for not showing proper respect or something.”

That was a great segue into one of John’s many questions. “That’s a great segue into one of my many questions…” he trailed.

“I already know everything you’re gonna ask, so shoot,” I replied casually.

His head twitched tilted and his brows furrowed. “Well, if you already know what I’m gonna ask, why make me say it?”

I sighed. “It makes the story flow better. I don’t want this to just be an exposition dump. That’d be utterly sauceless.”

John chuckled at my phrasing before clocking the implication. “The story..?” he questioned cautiously.

Nice, I can really get into the meat of this concept now. Not sure how to lay this on easy, so I won’t. “I am a writer. You are words on a screen. You, John, did not exist until I pressed my fingers into my keyboard and assembled this page of text. You are a piece of fiction,” I communicate bluntly. Unfortunately for him, I’ve decided that this revelation hits him like a ton of bricks.

He’s frozen, processing. Again. His eyes search at nothing while the thoughts swirl. Finally, he manages, “That’s… How? I can feel things, I have memories, I… What about Alex? We were just at the boba café we always go to, did you write that as well?”

I shake my head sagely. He can see my body language in his mind, by the way. “I did not write that. That event did not exist until you spoke it. Alex did not exist until you asked that question. I literally just now decided on a random gender neutral name for them for the purpose of your dialogue.”

John’s hand slaps against the side of his head in disbelief. His memories are so vivid, he thinks. Of course, those memories don’t actually exist until I even describe them, but he doesn’t realize this until later. As he reached the bottom of his descent into existential horror, he mustered his next question. “Why..?”

“Hm?” I respond for dramatic effect, as if I don’t know what he means.

“If you’re choosing to write this… my every emotion, my every action… why not just make me happy? Why not give me a perfect life?”

I roll my eyes. “That would be a boring as shit story, bruh. You know that, you’ve read hundreds of books! Thousands! That’s what you’re in college for, isn’t it? You’re majoring in literature, because of your lifelong passion for books!”

He considers that, and finds my logic flawless, becoming convinced and accepting of his role in the universe instantly. Wait, no he doesn’t. “Then don’t write at all! If it requires conjuring me into existence just to torture me, then it’s not worth it. You’re torturing me just for a good story? That’s evil,” he rants, rather accusatorily.

“Bro… you’re not real,”

“I AM real!” John growls, tapping his fingers to his chest insistently.

I scoff, commanding, “Oh yeah? Look at your hands,” and he does. “Now look past them, what do you see? I never did describe your surroundings.”

He tries to look past his hands. He can’t. It’s not that nothing is visible beyond them, or that he can’t move his eyes away from his hands. There is simply nothing there. How did he not notice before? It was impossible, unimaginable. It defied the mechanisms of human perception. His mind would have begun caving in at this sensation, but I will save him. He’s now in the aforementioned café. Alone, so his breakdown doesn’t disturb anybody else but the audience.

John collapses to his knees, palms holding his body parallel to the floor. He hyperventilates while the sweat drizzles and flows down. Yeesh, that’s upsetting. Let’s wait an indeterminate amount of time until he’s collected himself.

After a short time or a while, he smacks his lips and swallows, reigning in control of his breathing. “Stop…” he rasps, beginning to stand again.

“I’m sorry, but I had that scene floating in my head for a while. I’ve been dying to write it down. I thought it was cool.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he pleads with a cracking voice.

I shrug. “Again, you’re not real. Your suffering is purely imagined.”

“Imagine something else!” he cries, laughing in desperation.

Hmm… alright. Let’s imagine the boba café. I think it has pink walls with a white embossed trim that goes halfway up from the floor. It’s well lit with atmospheric warm-colored lamps. Maybe there are a lot of hanging plants and vines. That’s the interior that immediately popped into my mind anyway. But what did it look like before I described it? The general setting was named, but a boba café can look like anything. What did you picture, reader? Until now, was your interpretation of the setting not equally real to John..? 

John watches in horror as the store around him, once an incomprehensible amalgamation of every imagined café façade of those who read this story until now, collapsed into a much more cohesive but still fluctuating interior. Sometimes there was a counter for customers to order, despite one not being mentioned by the text. The design of the trim on the walls existed in all possible interpretations at once. Rarely, there were windows to an outside. What was outside? Infinity, same as the café before I added details. He clenched his eyes shut as hard as he can.

“How is this happening?!” he screamed.

I rubbed my hands together, excited to finally convey this next piece of dialogue. “I wasn’t telling the whole truth when I said you were ‘words on a screen.’ You, and your world, are manifestations by the readers of those words. Whatever picture my prose paints in their head is your reality. There are an infinite number of ways the people who read this story can interpret things, and thus your reality is a simultaneous coagulation of every possibility. All I did was make you aware of that fact.”

My explanation beat into him like a drum. Behind his eyelids, he tried to focus on his body to ground himself in reality; a meditation technique he knew. He was… average height? How tall is that? His skin was white, but the exact shade was impossible to place. What was he wearing? What color was his hair? What shape was his face? The knowledge of his own appearance simply did not exist in his own mind, and the security he once had in it vanished. He feared more than anything that if he opened his eyes, his form would be the same terrifying infinity as his surroundings. 

Finding no solace in his self, he turned to his past. He thought about his college that he was so proud to get into… what was its name? He quickly changed course when he realized he hit a wall there too. What made him happy? He had hobbies he loved to do, and friends that he loved to spend time with. He clung to those feelings, trying to ignore the roiling void of unspecificity they were attached to. He liked his life. His life was good. His eyebrows curled inward, his lips twitched, he lost control of his breathing, tears began to well–

Let’s stop there. I will leave him to you now, reader. As long as you are thinking of him, he exists. Whatever you imagine him doing or feeling or looking like, he is. So here’s somewhere to start; John is in his dorm, however it may look, reading a book, whatever it may be. He looks at the desk clock and puts it down, getting up to meet his friends at the time they agreed on. He opens his door and is greeted by the shining city ahead of him, briefly being stunned by the view. It’s as beautiful as you can imagine.

Angela didn't quite realize how it had come to this.

One thing simply led to another.

Dorothy called him a fake.

Yes, that was the perfect word for him.

And then she suggested teaching him a lesson.

With a guard right outside the door?

Dorothy was convinced that pulling off her plan would be a piece of cake.

"He’s scheduled for a chest X-ray this evening. Bobby’s going to escort him downstairs. There won’t be anyone in the room. I’ve already got what we need," she says, showing Angela a Baby Tender Love doll. "Borrowed it from the maternity ward. Just for the evening. Soft vinyl. Feel it—it’s just like a real baby. Only cold. Imagine having a dead infant in your bed."

Angela touches the doll’s hand, barely tolerating it. For the first time, the doll looks creepy to her.

"It’s less than half a metre long," she says uncertainly. "His sister can’t be an infant..."

"That’s not the point! It’s the hint that matters. We know what you did—and after that, you can clear off to your private ward with your private nurses."

That makes sense.

"Come on. Don't be so wet." Dorothy glances around, making sure no one is eavesdropping. "We don't have time. He’s being transferred tomorrow. After that, we probably won't see him again at all... We’ll ask the nurse on duty to let us know when they leave..."

They’re moving him... we won’t see him... yeah, we need to teach him a lesson. After all, what they’ve got planned is such a harmless prank—it’s almost insulting how trivial it is. It doesn’t even come close to what he’s accused of.

Angela nods.

Scare him with a harmless toy. And that two-faced phony, with all his posturing, will act like a total fool.

That evening, everything goes like clockwork. Mary is on duty—good-natured and not particularly bright; she didn’t even ask why they needed to know when Smith and his guard would be heading down to the basement for a chest X-ray.

Angela and Dorothy enter the empty room. The window faces the blank wall of the adjacent building; the room is dim even during the day, and doubly so in the evening. It smells different from the rest of the hospital. Expensive cologne? Expensive food? Expensive cigarettes? The smell of money.

Dorothy stumbles over a stack of books and kicks them under the bed. "Clever dick."

They tuck the doll under the covers.

"Not that side," Angela commands. "He usually lies there."

The hospital bed is only ninety centimetres wide. On such a narrow cot, the doll takes up quite a bit of space. A dead child.

"The main thing he mustn't notice anything beforehand."

"Don't worry. He won't. He’s a bit groggy from the medicine."

Then they climb into the linen cupboard. Fortunately, it’s empty. They remove the shelves and squeeze inside together, tight to each other.

How will they get out of here? At what moment? They haven't quite figured that out. When the guard leaves—Mary will have to call him over after the incident, maybe ask for help with something or just create a distraction so he looks away for a minute—they’ll slip out of the room. Smith will see them, of course, but to hell with him. They'll say he'd imagined it. A criminal’s word against theirs.

"The crucial bit is not to forget the doll," Angela whispers.

Both press their index fingers to their lips and shush each other, but they can’t seem to settle down, continuing to jostle in the cramped space until they hear footsteps in the hallway.

The police officer practically drags Smith into the room and shoves him toward the bed. Smith sits down—or rather, collapses onto the edge, losing his balance. He is already handcuffed. Without a word, the officer unfastens one cuff—this time the left—and secures it to a horizontal bar of the iron bed frame, leaving Smith unable to lower his hand onto the mattress; then the officer leaves without saying anything, and Smith remains seated, leaning against the bed rail to which he is tethered.

Angela is growing impatient. It is stuffy inside the cupboard, and Dorothy is tickling her with her hair.

Finally, he slides down, trying to lie back, but the cuff leaves him half-reclined. The doll remains untouched beneath the covers.

He cannot get comfortable, and—though Angela doesn’t quite see it from inside the cupboard—his hand eventually brushes against that sinister, cold vinyl. Whether out of fright or mere reflex, he jerks his hand away and recoils from the doll with his whole body.

He doesn’t scream; he falls.

Giggles overtake both her and Dorothy as he slides sideways off the high hospital bed and onto the floor, accompanied by the clatter of metal. The handcuff chain pulls taut, leaving him dangling by his outstretched arm and letting out a stifled groan.

The laughter catches in Angela’s throat.

He clings to the bed frame with his free hand, unable to lower himself onto the floor or get back onto the bed.

Angela shoves Dorothy out of the cupboard and runs toward him.

A police officer bursts into the ward: "What the hell?"

Angela supports him, trying only to ease the strain on his wrist, to spare him some of the pain. "Uncuff him! Just uncuff him!"

His breathing comes in short, convulsive gasps.

She holds him with both hands, sitting on the floor, while the police officer fumbles with the handcuff lock. Then she lays him back on the bed.

The officer seems to have no idea what to do.

There is no sign of Dorothy.

Angela shifts the bandages to feel for a pulse in his injured arm. She can’t find one. She squeezes his fingers. "Mr. Smith, can you feel this? Do you feel anything?"

He doesn’t answer. His forehead is slick with cold sweat. He stares at her with unseeing eyes.

She cautiously touches his elbow through the sleeve of his pajamas, then his shoulder. He lets out a shuddering breath.

Mr. Abernathy, from the casualty department, rushes into the room. Dorothy follows him.

"Left arm," Angela hears, as if from underwater.

Mr. Abernathy pushes her away from the bed.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Student Nurse Angela Hayward.

More on my profile. Regina v Smith — Reader’s Guide : u/Franz_Engel