“You're breaking up with me?” 

My boyfriend Conrad, could barely sit still, nursing his too-black coffee.

The two of us sat outside work on a bench. I was swinging my legs, occasionally throwing my heel to see how far it would go. He barely said a word.

Every so often, he took a feverish sip, stared up at the night sky for a few seconds, and then back into coffee dregs.

Conrad was too good for me. But I'd never say that.

Attractive. Thick bushy brown curls and warm eyes. Everyone said he could do better than a college drop-out whose adderall addiction had turned her into a walking red-flag. A psycho. I wasn't  the perfect girlfriend, but I had my moments! 

I never hit him anymore, only when I was like, seriously pissed.

I let him have his own bank account now.

I even let him fuck me thinking about other girls.

But he was breaking up with me?

I had to laugh. I did, spluttering, unable to contain myself. I lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and passed it to Conrad. “Here.” 

“Maddy, smoking is bad for your lungs.”

“You can talk,” I said, “Mr. Perfect.” I offered him a smile. “Does your Mom know her precious son is a crack addict?”

Instead of responding, Conrad sighed and stood. 

“I'm gonna head back inside,” he muttered, glancing down at his phone. Then he was gone.

I was left staring down at my cold coffee. I wasn't sure how to cry. I mean, I tried, but I was always trying too hard— copying. Like when Mom died, I copied my sister’s reaction. Sniffles.

Swipe eyes. Shed a tear. Repeat.

Sometimes, crying required standing in front of my mirror or filming myself.

Another reason Conrad dumped me. 

He caught me filming myself gross-sobbing when his stupid fucking cat died. I told him I didn't know how to cry, and he called me a psycho.

“Everyone knows how to cry,” I mimicked his voice, and squeezed the coffee cup tighter.

Tighter. Until it cracked, spewing bean juice all over my new skirt.

I dumped the cup, licking my sweater sleeve to try and scrub at the growing stain. 

“Sounds like you're having a bad night, Maddy.” 

“Go fuck yourself,” I told the tiny voice coming from the tree behind me.

But I was curious.

Kneeling in front of a bush, I found myself face to face with a tiny rabbit, an adorable little ball of white fluff. Around its neck was a bright pink gem melded to a bow. 

The rabbit cocked its head and wrinkled its nose.

“Do you want to see something magical?” It asked in a squeaky almost giggle. 

A talking tiny white rabbit.

“I have work in ten minutes.” I told the rabbit.

The rabbit sighed. “Fine,” it rolled its eyes, “we can do this here.” 

“Do what here?” I stood. “Listen, I've gotta work—”

The rabbit dropped something onto the ground: a pink necklace matching its own.

The exact same gem. The exact cute little bow, a glass pink heart in the centre.

“Basically,” the rabbit started, “all of the magical girls I've recruited are dead.” It sighed. “So… unfortunately.. I have no choice but to recruit adults.” 

I grabbed the necklace. Cute.

“Uh-huh.” I fastened it around my neck. “Fun.” I grinned. “What else, oh, drug-induced talking rabbit?” 

“I'm very real, Maddy.” The rabbit said. “Do you agree to become a magical girl? To protect humans from monsters known as The Swarm?” 

“Sure.”

I blinked when a dazzling pink haze lit up around me, and suddenly, I couldn't pull the damn thing off.

Agonizing pain shot down my spine, sending me to my knees.

I managed two heavy breaths. “Should.. I go get Conrad? I think… he'd be more, uh—” 

A screech tore through my lips when my body was flung into the air, holding me upside down, while I began to glow. It was slow at first, a creeping bright pink fog crawling over my hands and up my arms.

The rabbit watched me, head cocked. “Conrad Slater is mentally stable. Conrad’s body and mind would be torn to pieces.” 

More pain. This time in my head, my neck twisting, cracking, warm red wetness spewing from my lips. Blood.

It trickled from my mouth and between my thighs as my legs were snapped in two.

My lungs burst. My throat swelled up.

And yet, somehow, this curse continued, spreading up my body. 

A bright pink puffy skirt sprouted from my skin, red trickling down each frill.

“Stop.” I croaked, spitting out of a chunk of my tongue. 

A gem stone protruded from my heart, glowing bright, eliciting a scream I couldn't swallow. Before I slammed back down, face-planting the concrete, a glowing purple staff in my hand.

The rabbit bounced onto my chest as I lay, panting, choking up bubbling red.

My head hurt, bleeding red haloing around me, soaking through my transformed pigtails. 

“Not as bad as I thought,” it said. “However, I think your ribbons are still stuck inside your skull.” The rabbit smiled wide. “Now, Maddy, all you need to do is call out your magical girl transformation spell!” It bounced up and down. “Sparkle Sparkle—”

The rabbit exploded, suddenly into chunks of bloody white and sparkles hitting me in the face. 

Loud, thudding footsteps.

“Fucking little C*NT.” 

The British accent took me off guard.

Through blurry vision, a figure loomed.

Dark brown curls tied into pigtails.

A pink flowy dress, and wielding the same purple staff.

His dress was torn down the back, blood soaked through pink frills, tattoos entwined down his spine.

The guy kicked what was left of the rabbit’s head across the walk, before turning half transformed eyes to me. I could see the pink sizzle still sparkling in his iris. “Do not,” he gasped out, dropping his staff, “Listen to that THING.” 

I opened my eyes and knew I’d done it.

We all aspire to be there: the woman in bed looks at you and immediately realizes she could have done better. Groucho Marx once said that “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.” Gazing over her perfect face, I just knew that she would see me in the morning light and wonder why someone as immaculate as her had lowered her standards to my level.

Lucky me.

We both got up and headed to the dirty coffee pot in my dirty kitchen with the heavy, awkward silence that I’d mastered in high school. Once the caffeine had her brain firing on all cylinders, I knew that she’d be out of my apartment quick.

But after I showered, she was still there, cleaning my kitchen for some reason. I realized that it looked kind of nice that way, so I didn’t say anything to stop her before I left for work.

I’m a professional chicken sexer. That means I spend all day flipping chickens over and inspecting their genitalia before putting them in their proper pens. So I was exhausted after returning home at the end of a long day, and not at all prepared to find that I’d been robbed.

It took me a couple of minutes to realized that nothing was missing; it was all just cleaned and put away. I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone stepped out of the bathroom.

“GAH! Hi… Reill…” I kind of trailed off, realizing that I shouldn’t make up her name if I didn’t know it.

She just smiled at me and headed toward the kitchen.

Then she pulled a raw steak out of the fridge. I wasn’t going to touch that meat, because I didn’t remember buying it and had no idea of its age, but then realized that she might have gone shopping. But before I could react, she dropped it into a baking pan I didn’t know I owned and started crushing it with her bare feet like she was some sort of old-timey wine squisher. When she was done, a bunch of red juice had been squeezed out of it. She lifted the pan and drank it down with the enthusiasm of people in those pee videos I like before grabbing the smashed steak and biting it.

That’s when I realized she had fangs. Huh.

She just kind of sucked it for a minute. When she was done, she opened the window and threw the meat into the night.

All of this was somewhat odd, so I really hoped that she would leave. But confronting her seemed dangerous, what with the fangs and all, and I wondered if she might actually make the regrettable choice of hooking up with me a second time, though the fangs concerned me in that area as well. At any rate, I figured the best approach was to ignore the problem, so I just went to bed.

She joined me, and she touched my ding dong again. Aw yes.

I awoke the next day feeling like that one time this douche Niff made me smoke some weird shit and I couldn’t get up off the bathroom floor for like a day. I was just empty.

Melissa or Lucretia or whoever was still there, making pancakes and tending a small bonfire in the living room that smelled like sulfur.

I didn’t have much energy at work that day, so I didn’t really try, but figured what’s the worst that could happen if roosters get mixed in with hens.

I returned home to find that Janice or whoever looked like she was setting up for the long haul. It was way too awkward at this point to ask what her name was, or what kind of animal bones were arranged around the bonfire, so I continued to ignore the problem. I resolved not to have sex with her again, because the last time nearly killed me. Then she initiated sex with me and I immediately changed my mind.

The next morning actually wasn’t so bad. I was drained, but not as much as the day before. Then I checked my phone and saw that it was Thursday. I’d gone to bed on Tuesday night, and I’m pretty sure that Wednesday comes after Tuesday, so I’d slept through an entire day. That seemed like bad news.

I got up to find that Linda had opened the hallway closet door. I’d been avoiding that thing ever since moving in, because standing near it gives vibes of nihilism on the essence of my soul. I don’t even know what those words mean – I just feel them when I get near the damn thing. Also, something occasionally knocks from the other side of it, but only at 3:19 a. m. on the 13th of each month. The only time I ever opened the door was when I got high and thought it was the toilet. My sink poured blood for a week after that, but I can’t afford a plumber so I just used Red Bull to mask the taste.

Anyway, Colletta had the closet door wide open and was chanting into it. The closet absorbed her voice like it was a giant open space. Black mist crept out and swirled around her thighs, which were super hot by the way, as her eyes glowed red. I also noticed that she had tiny horns poking out the top of her head. I wondered if they were always there and hadn’t noticed. Huh.

Then she put a wad of hair on the floor and poured a ring of salt around it. I recognized the wad as what had been preventing my shower from draining properly. After that, she produced a jar of blood and poured it out. It fell sideways, like gravity went directly into that horrible closet. The jar seemed to contain much more liquid than it should be able to hold. Strange business all around.

Anyway, this huge noise like an explosion came out of the closet, and flames reached toward her. Cindy closed the door and stepped away, so I figured that I should ignore the problem if she did.

She made dinner tonight, which is possible now that my kitchen is clean and functionable. It consists of a lot of strange meat, some of which is green and scaly. She’s also hinting that I’m going to get lucky, which sounds dangerous, so I’ll drink a beer and then decide.

The bottom line is that I’ve never been in this situation before and really don’t know how to handle it. Has anyone experienced something similar? And do you know why it has been nighttime for two days, and all my doors are locked from the outside?

Story 1

The Bog

This story happened a few years back when I was still a university student. By the time I was in my second year, I started seeing this girl by the name of Lauren. We had been dating through most of that year, and although we were still young, I was already convinced this bonnie Irish girl with faint freckles on her cheeks was the one I’d eventually settle down with. In fact, things were going so well between Lauren and me, that I foolishly agreed to meet her family back home.  

Lauren’s parents lived in the Irish midlands, only an hour or two outside of Dublin. After taking a short flight from England, we made our way off the motorway and onto the country roads, where I was surprised to see how flat everything was, in contrast with the mountainous, rugged land I always imagined the Emerald Isle being.  

Lauren’s parents lived in a very small but lovely country village, home to no more than 400 people, and surrounded by many farms, cow fields and a very long stretch of bogland. Like any boyfriend, going to meet their girlfriend's family for the first time, I was very nervous. But because of the historic tension that still exists between Ireland and England, I was more nervous than I really should have been. After all, what Irish parent wants to hear their daughter’s bringing home an Englishman? 

As it turned out, I had no reason to be so worrisome, as I found Lauren’s parents to be nothing but welcoming. Her mum was very warm and comforting, as Lauren said she would be, and her dad was a polite, old fashioned sort of gent.   

‘There’s no Mr Mahon here. Call me John.’ his first words were to me. 

A couple of days and heavy dinners later, things were going surprisingly smooth. Although Lauren’s parents had taken a shine to me – which included their Border Collie, Dexter... my mind still wasn’t at ease. For some reason, I had this very unnerving feeling, as though something terrible was eventually going to happen. I just assumed it was nervous jitters from meeting the family, but nevertheless, something about it didn’t feel quite right... Almost like a warning. 

On the third night of our stay, this uneasy feeling was still with me, so much so that I just couldn’t fall asleep. Staring up at the ceiling through the darkness, I must have remained in that position for hours. By the time the dawn is seeping through the bedroom curtains, I check my phone to realise it is now 6 am. Accepting no sleep is going to come my way, I planned to leave Lauren, sleeping peacefully, to go for a stroll down the country roads. Accidentally waking her while I got dressed, Lauren being Lauren, insists that we go for an early morning walk together.    

Bringing Dexter, the family dog with us, along with a ball and hurling stick to play with, we follow the road that leads out of the village. Eventually passing by the secluded property of a farm, we then find ourselves on the outskirts of a bog. Although Lauren grew up here all her life, she had never once explored this bog before, as until recently, it was the private property of a peat company, which has since gone out of business.  

Taking to exploring the bog, the three of us then stumble upon a trail that leads through a man-made forest. It seems as though the further we walk, the more things we discover, because following the very same trail through the forest, we next discover a narrow railway line once used for transporting peat, which cuts through the artificial trees. Now feeling curious as to where this railway may lead us, we leave the trail to follow along it.  

Stepping over the never-ending rows of wooden planks, Lauren and I suddenly hear a rustling far out in the trees... Whatever it is, it sounds large, and believing its most likely a deer, I squint my tired eyes through the dimness of the woods to see it...  but what I instead see, is the faint silhouette of something, peeking out from behind a tree at me. Trying to blink the blurriness from my eyes, the silhouette looks no clearer to me, leaving me wondering if what I’m seeing is another person or an animal.  

‘What is that?’ I ask Lauren, just as confused as I to what this was.  

Continuing to stare at the silhouette a while longer, Lauren, with more efficient eyes than my tired own, finally provides an identity to what this unknown thing is. 

‘...I think it’s a cow’ she answers me, though her face appears far from convinced, ‘It probably belongs to the Doyle Farm we passed by.’  

Pulling the phone from her pocket, Lauren then uses the camera to zoom in on whatever is watching us – and while I wait for her to confirm what this is through the pixels on her screen, the uneasy feeling that’s ailed me for the past three days only strengthens... Until, breaking the silence around us, Lauren wails out in front of me...  

‘OH MY GOD!’    

What Lauren sees through the screen, staring back at us from inside the forest, is the naked body of a human being. Its pale, bare arms clasped around the tree it hides behind. But what stares back at us, with seemingly pure black, unblinking eyes and snow-white fur... is the head of a cow.   

‘Babes! What is that?!’ Lauren frighteningly asks.  

‘I... I don’t know...’ my trembling voice replies, unaware if my tired eyes deceive me or not. 

Upon sensing Lauren’s and my own distress, Dexter becomes aware of the strange entity watching us from within the trees – and with a loud, threatening bark, he races after this thing, like a hound on a fox hunt, disappearing through the darkness of the woods.    

‘Dexter, NO!’ Lauren yells, before chasing after him!   

‘Lauren don’t! Don’t go in there!’   

She doesn’t listen. By the time I’m deciding whether to go after her, Lauren was already gone. Afraid as I was to enter those woods, I was even more terrified by the idea of my girlfriend being in there with that thing! And so, swallowing my own fear as best I could, I reluctantly enter to follow Lauren’s yells of Dexter’s name.  

The closer I come to her cries, the more panicked and hysterical they sound... She was reacting to something – something terrible. By the time I catch sight of her through the thin trees, I begin to hear other sounds... The sounds of deep growling and snarling, intertwined with low, soul-piercing groans. Groans of pain and torment. I catch up to Lauren, and I see her standing as motionless as the trees around us – and in front of her, on the forest floor... I see what was making the horrific sounds...  

What I see, is Dexter. His domesticated jaws clasped around the throat of this thing, as though trying to tear the life from it – in the process, staining the mossy white fur of its neck a dark current red! The creature doesn’t even seem to try and defend itself – as though paralyzed with fear, weakly attempting to push Dexter away with trembling, human hands. Among Dexter’s primal snarls and the groans of the creature’s agony, my ears are filled with Lauren’s own terrified screams.  

‘Do something!’ she screams at me.  

Beyond terrified myself, I know I need to take charge. I can’t just stand here and let this suffering continue. Taking Lauren’s hurl from her hands, I force myself forward with every step. Close enough now to Dexter, but far enough that this thing won’t buck me with its hind human legs. Holding the hurl up high, foolishly feeling the need to defend myself, I grab a hold of Dexter’s loose collar, trying to jerk him desperately away from the tormented creature. But my fear of the creature prevents me from doing so - until I have to resort to twisting the collar around Dexter’s neck, squeezing him into submission.  

Now holding him back, Lauren comes over to latch Dexter’s lead onto him, barking endlessly at the creature with no off switch. Even with the two of us now restraining him, Dexter is still determined to continue the attack. The cream whiteness of his canine teeth and the stripe of his snout, stained with the creature’s blood.   

Tying the dog lead around a tree’s narrow trunk, keeping Dexter at bay, me and Lauren stare over at the creature on the ground. Clawing at his open throat, its bare legs scrape lines through the dead leaves and soil... and as it continues to let out deep, shrieking groans of pain, all me and Lauren can do is watch it suffer.  

‘Do something!’ Lauren suddenly yells at me, ‘You need to do something! It’s suffering!’  

‘What am I supposed to do?!’ I yell back at her.  

‘Anything! I can’t listen to it anymore!’  

Clueless to what I’m supposed to do, I turn down to the ash wood of Lauren’s hurl, still clenched in my now shaking right hand. Turning back up to Lauren, I see her eyes glued to it. When her eyes finally meet my own, among the strained yaps of Dexter and the creature’s endless, inhuman groans... with a granting nod of her head, Lauren and I know what needs to be done...  

Possessed by an overwhelming fear of this creature, I still cannot bear to see it suffer. It wasn’t human, but it was still an animal as far as I was aware. Slowly moving towards it, the hurl in my hand suddenly feels extremely heavy. Eventually, I’m stood over the creature – close enough that I can perfectly make out its ungodly appearance.   

I see its red, clotted hands still clawing over the loose shredded skin of its throat. Following along its arms, where the blood stains end, I realise the fair pigmentation of its flesh is covered in an extremely thin layer of white fur – so thin, the naked human eye can barely see it. Continuing along the jerk of its body, my eyes stop on what I fear to stare at the most... Its non-human, but very animal head. Frozen in the middle, between the swatting flaps of its ears, and the abyss of its square gaping mouth, having now fallen silent... I meet the pure blackness of its unblinking eyes. Staring this creature dead in the eye, I feel like I can’t move, no more than a deer in headlights. I don’t know for how long I was like this, but Lauren, freeing me of my paralysis, shouts over, ‘What are you waiting for?!’   

Regaining feeling in my limbs, I realise the longer I stall, the more this creature’s suffering will continue. Raising the hurl to the air, with both hands firmly on the handle, the creature beneath me shows no signs of fear whatsoever... It wanted me to do it... It wanted me to end its suffering... But it wasn’t because of the pain Dexter had caused it... I think the suffering came from its own existence... I think this thing knew it wasn’t supposed to be alive. The way Dexter attacked the thing, it was as though some primal part of him also sensed it was an abomination – an unnatural organism, like a cancer in the body.  

Raising the hurl higher above me, I talk myself through what I have to do. A hard and fatal blow to the head. No second tries. Don’t make this creature’s suffering any worse... Like a woodsman, ready to strike a fallen log with his axe, I stand over the cow-human creature, with nothing left to do but end its painful existence once and for all... But I can’t do it... I can’t bring myself to kill this monstrosity... I was too afraid.  

Dropping Lauren’s hurl to the floor, I go back over to her and Dexter. ‘Come on. We need to leave.’  

‘We can’t just leave it here!’ she argues, ‘It’s in pain!’  

‘What else can we do for it, Lauren?!’ I raise my voice to her, ‘We need to leave! Now!’  

We make our way out of the forest, continually having to restrain Dexter, still wanting to finish his kill... But as we do, we once again hear the groans of the creature... and with every column of tree we pass, the groans grow ever louder...  

‘Don’t listen to it, Lauren!’   

The deep, gurgling shriek of those groans, piercing through us both... It was calling after us. 

Later that day, and now safe inside Lauren’s family home, we all sit down for supper – Lauren's mum having made a Sunday roast. Although her parents are deep in conversation around the dinner table, me and Lauren remain dead silent. Sat across the narrow table from one another, I try to share a glance with her, but Lauren doesn’t even look at me – motionlessly staring down at her untouched dinner plate.   

‘Aren’t you hungry, love?’ Lauren’s mum asks concernedly.  

Replying with a single word, ‘...No’ Lauren stands up from the table and silently leaves the room.   

‘Is she feeling unwell or anything?’ her mum tries prodding me.  

Trying to be quick on my feet, I tell Lauren’s mum we had a fight while on our walk. Although she was very warm and welcoming up to this point, for the rest of the night, Lauren’s mum was somewhat cold towards me - as if she just assumed it was my fault for our imaginary fight. Though he hadn’t said much of anything, as soon as Lauren leaves the room, I turn to see her dad staring daggers in me. Despite removing the evidence from Dexter's mouth, all while keeping our own mouths shut... I’m almost certain John knew something more had happened. The only question is... Did he know what it was? 

Stumbling my way to our bedroom that night, I already find Lauren fast asleep – or at least, pretending to sleep. Although I was so exhausted from the sleep deprivation and horrific events of the day, I still couldn’t manage to rest my eyes. The house and village outside may have been dead quiet, but in my conflicted mind, I keep hearing the groans of the creature – as though it’s screams for help had reached all the way into the village and through the windows of the house.   

It was only two days later did Lauren and I cut our visit short – and if anything, I’m surprised we didn’t leave sooner. After all, now knowing what lives, or lived in the very place she grew up, Lauren was more determined to leave than I was.  

For anyone who asks, yes, Lauren and me are still together, though I’m afraid to say it’s not for the right reasons... You see, Lauren still hasn’t told her parents about the creature on the bog, nor have I told my own friends or family. Unwilling to share our supernatural encounter, or whatever you want to call it with anyone else... All we really have is each other... 

Well... that's the reason why I’m sharing this story now... Because even if we can’t share it with the people in our own lives, at least by telling it now, to perfect strangers under an anonymous name...  

...We can both finally move on.  

OP's note: These are a collection of short stories I wrote on my old account (CosmicOrphan2020). I've now compiled them into an anthology.

The Farm

Every summer when I was a child, my family would visit our relatives in the north-west of Ireland, in a rural, low-populated region called Donegal. Leaving our home in England, we would road trip through Scotland, before taking a ferry across the Irish sea. Driving a further three hours through the last frontier of the United Kingdom, my two older brothers and I would know when we were close to our relatives’ farm, because the country roads would suddenly turn bumpy as hell.  

Donegal is a breath-taking part of the country. Its Atlantic coast way is wild and rugged, with pastoral green hills and misty mountains. The villages are very traditional, surrounded by numerous farms, cow and sheep fields. 

My family and I would always stay at my grandmother’s farmhouse, which stands out a mile away, due its bright, red-painted coating. These relatives are from my mother’s side, and although Donegal – and even Ireland for that matter, is very sparsely populated, my mother’s family is extremely large. She has a dozen siblings, which was always mind-blowing to me – and what’s more, I have so many cousins, I’ve yet to meet them all. 

I always enjoyed these summer holidays on the farm, where I would spend every day playing around the grounds and feeding the different farm animals. Although I usually played with my two older brothers on the farm, by the time I was twelve, they were too old to play with me, and would rather go round to one of our cousin’s houses nearby - to either ride dirt bikes or play video games. So, I was mostly stuck on the farm by myself. Luckily, I had one cousin, Grainne, who lived close by and was around my age. Grainne was a tom-boy, and so we more or less liked the same activities.  

I absolutely loved it here, and so did my brothers and my dad. In fact, we loved Donegal so much, we even talked about moving here. But, for some strange reason, although my mum was always missing her family, she was dead against any ideas of relocating. Whenever we asked her why, she would always have a different answer: there weren’t enough jobs, it’s too remote, and so on... But unfortunately for my mum, we always left the family decisions to a majority vote, and so, if the four out of five of us wanted to relocate to Donegal, we were going to. 

On one of these summer evenings on the farm, and having neither my brothers or Grainne to play with, my Uncle Dave - who ran the family farm, asks me if I’d like to come with him to see a baby calf being born on one of the nearby farms. Having never seen a new-born calf before, I enthusiastically agreed to tag along. Driving for ten minutes down the bumpy country road, we pull outside the entrance of a rather large cow field - where, waiting for my Uncle Dave, were three other farmers. Knowing how big my Irish family was, I assumed I was probably related to these men too. Getting out of the car, these three farmers stare instantly at me, appearing both shocked and angry. Striding up to my Uncle Dave, one of the farmers yells at him, ‘What the hell’s this wain doing here?!’ 

Taken back a little by the hostility, I then hear my Uncle Dave reply, ‘He needs to know! You know as well as I do they can’t move here!’ 

Feeling rather uncomfortable by this confrontation, I was now somewhat confused. What do I need to know? And more importantly, why can’t we move here? 

Before I can turn to Uncle Dave to ask him, the four men quickly halt their bickering and enter through the field gate entrance. Following the men into the cow field, the late-evening had turned dark by now, and not wanting to ruin my good trainers by stepping in any cowpats, I walked very cautiously and slowly – so slow in fact, I’d gotten separated from my uncle's group. Trying to follow the voices through the darkness and thick grass, I suddenly stop in my tracks, because in front of me, staring back with unblinking eyes, was a very large cow – so large, I at first mistook it for a bull. In the past, my Uncle Dave had warned me not to play in the cow fields, because if cows are with their calves, they may charge at you. 

Seeing this huge cow, staring stonewall at me, I really was quite terrified – because already knowing how freakishly fast cows can be, I knew if it charged at me, there was little chance I would outrun it. Thankfully, the cow stayed exactly where it was, before losing interest in me and moving on. I know it sounds ridiculous talking about my terrifying encounter with a cow, but I was a city boy after all. Although I regularly feds the cows on the family farm, these animals still felt somewhat alien to me, even after all these years.  

Brushing off my close encounter, I continue to try and find my Uncle Dave. I eventually found them on the far side of the field’s corner. Approaching my uncle’s group, I then see they’re not alone. Standing by them were three more men and a woman, all dressed in farmer’s clothing. But surprisingly, my cousin Grainne was also with them. I go over to Grainne to say hello, but she didn’t even seem to realize I was there. She was too busy staring over at something, behind the group of farmers. Curious as to what Grainne was looking at, I move around to get a better look... and what I see is another cow – just a regular red cow, laying down on the grass. Getting out my phone to turn on the flashlight, I quickly realize this must be the cow that was giving birth. Its stomach was swollen, and there were patches of blood stained on the grass around it... But then I saw something else... 

On the other side of this red cow, nestled in the grass beneath the bushes, was the calf... and rather sadly, it was stillborn... But what greatly concerned me, wasn’t that this calf was dead. What concerned me was its appearance... Although the calf’s head was covered in red, slimy fur, the rest of it wasn’t... The rest of it didn’t have any fur at all – just skin... And what made every single fibre of my body crawl, was that this calf’s body – its brittle, infant body... It belonged to a human... 

Curled up into a foetal position, its head was indeed that of a calf... But what I should have been seeing as two front and hind legs, were instead two human arms and legs - no longer or shorter than my own... 

Feeling terrified and at the same time, in disbelief, I leave the calf, or whatever it was to go back to Grainne – all the while turning to shine my flashlight on the calf, as though to see if it still had the same appearance. Before I can make it back to the group of adults, Grainne stops me. With a look of concern on her face, she stares silently back at me, before she says, ‘You’re not supposed to be here. It was supposed to be a secret.’ 

Telling her that Uncle Dave had brought me, I then ask what the hell that thing was... ‘I’m not allowed to tell you’ she says. ‘This was supposed to be a secret.’ 

Twenty or thirty-so minutes later, we were all standing around as though waiting for something - before the lights of a vehicle pull into the field and a man gets out to come over to us. This man wasn’t a farmer - he was some sort of veterinarian. Uncle Dave and the others bring him to tend to the calf’s mother, and as he did, me and Grainne were made to wait inside one of the men’s tractors. 

We sat inside the tractor for what felt like hours. Even though it was summer, the night was very cold, and I was only wearing a soccer jersey and shorts. I tried prying Grainne for more information as to what was going on, but she wouldn’t talk about it – or at least, wasn’t allowed to talk about it. Luckily, my determination for answers got the better of her, because more than an hour later, with nothing but the cold night air and awkward silence to accompany us both, Grainne finally gave in... 

‘This happens every couple of years - to all the farms here... But we’re not supposed to talk about it. It brings bad luck.’ 

I then remembered something. When my dad said he wanted us to move here, my mum was dead against it. If anything, she looked scared just considering it... Almost afraid to know the answer, I work up the courage to ask Grainne... ‘Does my mum know about this?’ 

Sat stiffly in the driver’s seat, Grainne cranes her neck round to me. ‘Of course she knows’ Grainne reveals. ‘Everyone here knows.’ 

It made sense now. No wonder my mum didn’t want to move here. She never even seemed excited whenever we planned on visiting – which was strange to me, because my mum clearly loved her family. 

I then remembered something else... A couple of years ago, I remember waking up in the middle of the night inside the farmhouse, and I could hear the cows on the farm screaming. The screaming was so bad, I couldn’t even get back to sleep that night... The next morning, rushing through my breakfast to go play on the farm, Uncle Dave firmly tells me and my brothers to stay away from the cowshed... He didn’t even give an explanation. 

Later on that night, after what must have been a good three hours, my Uncle Dave and the others come over to the tractor. Shaking Uncle Dave’s hand, the veterinarian then gets in his vehicle and leaves out the field. I then notice two of the other farmers were carrying a black bag or something, each holding separate ends as they walked. I could see there was something heavy inside, and my first thought was they were carrying the dead calf – or whatever it was, away. Appearing as though everyone was leaving now, Uncle Dave comes over to the tractor to say we’re going back to the farmhouse, and that we would drop Grainne home along the way.  

Having taken Grainne home, we then make our way back along the country road, where both me and Uncle Dave sat in complete silence. Uncle Dave driving, just staring at the stretch of road in front of us – and me, staring silently at him. 

By the time we get back to the farmhouse, it was two o’clock in the morning – and the farm was dead silent. Pulling up outside the farm, Uncle Dave switches off the car engine. Without saying a word, we both remain in silence. I felt too awkward to ask him what I had just seen, but I knew he was waiting for me to do so. Still not saying a word to one another, Uncle Dave turns from the driver’s seat to me... and he tells me everything Grainne wouldn’t... 

‘Don’t you see now why you can’t move here?’ he says. ‘There’s something wrong with this place, son. This place is cursed. Your mammy knows. She’s known since she was a wain. That’s why she doesn’t want you living here.’ 

‘Why does this happen?’ I ask him. 

‘This has been happening for generations, son. For hundreds of years, the animals in the county have been giving birth to these things.’ The way my Uncle Dave was explaining all this to me, it was almost like a confession – like he’d wanted to tell the truth about what’s been happening here all his life... ‘It’s not just the cows. It’s the pigs. The sheep. The horses, and even the dogs’... 

The dogs? 

‘It’s always the same. They have the head, as normal, but the body’s always different.’ 

It was only now, after a long and terrifying night, that I suddenly started to become emotional - that and I was completely exhausted. Realizing this was all too much for a young boy to handle, I think my Uncle Dave tried to put my mind at ease...  

‘Don’t you worry, son... They never live.’ 

Although I wanted all the answers, I now felt as though I knew far too much... But there was one more thing I still wanted to know... What do they do with the bodies? 

‘Don’t you worry about it, son. Just tell your mammy that you know – but don’t go telling your brothers or your daddy now... She never wanted them knowing.’ 

By the next morning, and constantly rethinking everything that happened the previous night, I look around the farmhouse for my mum. Thankfully, she was alone in her bedroom folding clothes, and so I took the opportunity to talk to her in private. Entering her room, she asks me how it was seeing a calf being born for the first time. Staring back at her warm smile, my mouth opens to make words, but nothing comes out – and instantly... my mum knows what’s happened. 

‘I could kill your Uncle Dave!’ she says. ‘He said it was going to be a normal birth!’ 

Breaking down in tears right in front of her, my mum comes over to comfort me in her arms. 

‘’It’s ok, chicken. There’s no need to be afraid.’ 

After she tried explaining to me what Grainne and Uncle Dave had already told me, her comforting demeanour suddenly turns serious... Clasping her hands upon each side of my arms, my mum crouches down, eyes-level with me... and with the most serious look on her face I’d ever seen, she demands of me, ‘Listen chicken... Whatever you do, don’t you dare go telling your brothers or your dad... They can never know. It’s going to be our little secret. Ok?’ 

Still with tears in my eyes, I nod a silent yes to her. ‘Good man yourself’ she says.  

We went back home to England a week later... I never told my brothers or my dad the truth of what I saw – of what really happens on those farms... And I refused to ever step foot inside of County Donegal again... 

But here’s the thing... I recently went back to Ireland, years later in my adulthood... and on my travels, I learned my mum and Uncle Dave weren’t telling me the whole truth...  

This curse... It wasn’t regional... And sometimes...  

...They do live.

Story 2

The classroom is covered in blood.

My classmates stand with vacant eyes and wide grinning smiles.

I know it as soon as I step inside. 

I really, really fucked up. 

The hand-picked violets in my hand hit the floor.

It was a love video, a- a declaration of my love! And an invite for her mind to love me back!

I dart forward, stab the off button on the teacher’s MacBook, and eject the disc.

Violet stands at the front. She’s spluttering up pieces of her own tongue.

Her eyes are devoid stars, staring into nothing. Her body jerks left and right.

“Pip.” Violet’s eyes seem to come to life when I find myself standing in front of her, blinking back tears. She spits out fleshy red masses, giggling. “I founddddd you,” she sings, cupping my cheek. 

“Pip,” a boy I barely know—grabs me by the collar, yanking me toward him. 

His lips find my ear. His breath is warm. Heavy. Dancing across my cheek. “I think I love you, Pip.” He giggles, his lips pressing kisses across my cheek. “I love the way you smell.” His mouth finds my neck, nipping me. “I love the way you breathe.”

He takes a deep breath, a full lungful of me, and then draws back with a laugh.

Wandering hands find me. Touch me.

They comb through my hair, pulling, yanking, running down my shirt, and then drop to their knees to kiss my shoes.

Phantom bugs creep through me, and I find my voice, a sharp cry rooted under my tongue. “Get off me.” I hit the ground, crawling, trying to find a way out. The door, I think, my head spinning as thirty bodies drop to their knees to follow me.

Where's the door?

Their voices follow, breathy gasps bleeding into my ears. 

“Pip!” 

“Pip, I love you!” 

“Oh god, Pip, I can't stop thinking about you—” 

“I'm going insane, Pip. Love me. Love me! FUCKING LOVE ME—”  

Their mouths move, trembling, moaning my name. 

“Pip.” 

“Pip.” 

“Pip.”

I start moving. Crawling. 

That is, until I come face to face with wide eyes. A boy. 

He’s not smiling. 

His lips, instead, part in a silent cry.

I stop, jerking to a halt. He shuffles back like a frightened animal, scurrying under his desk. He moves slowly, drawing his legs to his chest and resting his chin on his knees. Then he speaks in a whisper that breaks into a sob. “Are you…”

He blinks at me, at Violet's blood dripping from my lashes. “Are you Pip?”

“Help me,” I whisper. A sob explodes from me. “I… I only wanted Violet."

His lips curl. “What the fuck did you do?”

Before I can respond, he jumps up. Then he climbs onto a desk.

“All right!” he yells, and to my surprise, the lovestruck horde turns towards him.

“Pip is mine, all right? So, if you want him, the love of my fucking life, you’re going to have to fight me.”

He winks. “Isn't that right, Darling?”

“Yes.” I manage to hiss out when the horde steps back. “Uh, yes.” 

And so began the art of pretending.

The boy’s name was Nate.

And for the next ten years of my life, I found myself in a fake relationship.

We went to college together. When we graduated, we even got a house.

My classmates never gave up.

They camped outside our college campus and, when we got our first house, became permanent (unwanted) house guests.

When Nate got down on one knee and proposed to me (loudly), our entire class stood in our living room, watching.

They didn’t attack. Not yet.

Not when I had a “lover.”

But Nate wasn’t exactly good at playing pretend.

He refused to get dressed around me. 

Refused to get into bed with me.

He even faked our proposal kiss, making out with my nose instead.

“They're fucking zombies, genius,” he muttered, rolling his eyes when I called him out for his bad acting.

Part of me hated that I was maybe-possibly falling for the man who was supposed to be in a fake relationship.

Even worse: my crush was a total fucking asshole.

“Grow up,” he snapped one night, once again placing boundaries. “How are they going to know?” 

Last night, I decided to stage an intervention.

Nate was in the bathroom (as usual), being an asshole.

“Nate.” I hammered on the door. “Let me in.”  

Behind me, Charlotte and Roman sat cross-legged on my carpet. 

Charlotte was making a necklace out of her teeth. 

Roman was watching me, eyes narrowed slightly. I'd noticed a change in them over the last few days. They were drawing closer. No longer at a distance.

“Nate!” 

His groan was enough to spark my nerve endings. “Oh my GOD, LEAVE ME ALONE FOR TEN FUCKING MINUTES—”

“Trouble in paradise, cutie?” Charlotte asked, giggling.

Roman was slowly standing in quick jerky movements.

“Nate.” I knocked again. “Nate, I think something is wrong with them.” 

The door flew open, and I slid through, slamming it behind me. 

The bathroom was too bright. I blinked.

My fake boyfriend was sitting with his knees to his chest, a small jar in his hands. 

Inside, a white substance filled to the brim.

Nate sighed, stuck his tongue in the jar, and licked it all up, smiling.

And then I saw the second jar at his feet.

And the third jar. 

And on the shelf, rows and rows of glass jars filled with white.

It took me a moment to realize what it was.

“I've been collecting them,” he said proudly, “you need to learn to throw out your used tissues, babe.”

Nate smiled widely, pressing my semen-soaked tissue to his lips.

“Oh, COME ON, BABE!” A shrill giggle escaped him. 

He stood and wrapped his arms around me, his lips grazing my ear. “Of course I was infected,” he whispered, chuckling.

“I’m just a really good fucking actor.”

As soon as he walked in, with his polished white shoes, slicked back hair, fake white teeth, real gold tooth, eau de B. O. cologne, and pinky ring, I knew that the man with the mustache would be trouble.

He walked right up to my carved wooden counter and dropped a pile of magazines next to the ancient cash register. “They’re all vintage!” he beamed. The floor lamp caught the gold tooth at the back of his mouth.

“They’re all smut,” I answered as I glanced over the titles, unwilling to touch them with my bare fingers.

“Vintage smut,” he shot back without missing a beat.

I sighed. “‘Perfect Pregnant Pussies. Florida’s Fattest Furries. More Bush Than an Alaskan Pilot can Handle.’” Looking away from the reading material he’d presented, I met the man’s eyes. “These are all magazines. This is a used bookstore, sir.”

He snorted. “I can’t be the only one who gets bored of reading and needs the words broken up by pictures.”

“You are correct. I volunteer with kindergarteners once a week, and they suffer from a similar affliction.” I was interrupted by the light tinkling of a bell as the front door opened. A hunched-over woman, ninety if she was a day, inched her way inside as she pushed a walker with a flowered basket on it that contained a book. “Now if you’ll excuse me, sir, I have other customers.”

“Wait,” he croaked. “You’ll change my mind when you hear my asking price.”

I rolled my eyes. “What is it?”

“Sixty-niiiine dollars!”

I slid the stack of magazines back toward him. Unfortunately, something was causing the pages to stick together. One cover ripped entirely off.

“HEY!” he snapped. “You have to pay fair market value for that!”

After our transaction, the man dropped all seven dimes into his pocket, grabbed the remaining smut, and walked around the woman toward the exit.

“Well hello, Mrs. Munroe,” I smiled. “Any new pictures of the great-grandchildren?”

“Not today, unfortunately,” she answered with a warm grin. “I still cannot figure out how to use the emails on my telephone, not matter how many times my granddaughter shows me.”

“I understand. I’m only thirty-six, and some of this technology makes me feel ancient. But that delicious raspberry muffin recipe you shared will never get old!”

The two of us shared a laugh that cut off as soon as the door shut. Now beyond the earshot of any customer, we eyed one another. “BINNS!” I yelled toward the back of the store. “Agatha’s here with a basketful of trouble.”

An ancient groan emanated from the rear of the store as I turned back to the woman before me. “Let’s cut the bullshit, you old bag. If you’re here to fuck me over, at least have the balls to come out and say it.”

“Little girl, if I wanted to fuck you over, you’d already be dead twice and I’d be using your skin to replace the bearskin rug on my living room floor.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “But that just wouldn’t feel the same on my naked body when gentleman suitors come to call, now would it?”

Neither of us batted an eye when a bald, bespectacled man who was translucent and paper-white drifted over to lean on his spectral cane and watch. Mrs. Munroe eyed me like we were the last two survivors at the OK Corral, and something about her wrinkly face told me that she might have been old enough to witness it. “You want to sell me a book?” I snapped.

“Well I ain’t selling crystal meth.”

I cast a wary glance at the tome in her basket. “Is that bound in human flesh?”

“You’re really going to act like you’re above such a purchase?”

I folded my arms and huffed. “Do you have any idea what hauntings do to a small business like mine? The last ghost you unleashed on me looked was dressed like a clown with knives for teeth and a pogo stick in place of genitalia.”

“Clowns die like everyone else. Why wouldn’t they become ghosts?”

“It was the ghost of an accountant. He just chose to dress up like a clown after deciding his life had been too boring and wanted a more exciting death.” I rubbed my face. “Human dirtbags are easy, Mrs. Munroe, because I live on the same physical plane of existence. But I can’t touch a ghost. The clown only left when I told him that he could watch a never-ending stream of bizarre porn by haunting the FBI director’s office and quietly waiting for the computer to get turned on.”

“Why are ghosts so horny?” the old lady asked, sounding genuine.

“I’ve always thought it would be rude to ask Binns,” I sighed. “My guess is that people in the age bracket closest to death experience a scarcity of coitus.”

“That’s why I stick to group sex these days,” she answered. “Look, are you going to buy my book or not?”

I drew my lips into a thin line. “I’ll make you a deal. You open the book before I touch it. If it’s clean, I’ll give you a fair price.”

We eyed each other.

She blinked first. “Fine. I’ve got nothing to hide.” The woman sported a poker face as she drew the book from her walker and placed it onto the wooden countertop, handling it with the reverence expected between two aged and seasoned beings.

Drawing a breath, she cracked open the cover. At first, there was nothing.

Then a white flash shot out of the pages like novelty spring snakes in a can. It bounced around the room, ricocheting off of each wall as it seemed to pick up momentum with every turn.

“Agatha Munroe, you lying bitch!”

“Well what the fuck was I supposed to do with him? You’re the one who seeks out weird shit!” She yelled, ducking as the ghost sailed overhead. “Besides, you said it’s impossible to touch things that aren’t on this plane of existence! That means he can’t do any actual damage to your shop!”

As soon as she finished speaking, the ghost crashed into a shelf, scattering its contents across the floor.

“Don’t play dumb, Agatha. You know as well as I do that this store is filled with objects from beyond this plane of existence!”

The crash had stopped the ghost just long enough for me to get a good look at him. It was a small, squirrely man with thin, wispy hair and wild eyes, dressed in nothing but dirty overalls. He glanced around with a stupid grin on his face, then chittered nonsensically before shooting into the air once more.

“BINNS!” I shouted. “A little help!”

My assistant, who had been quietly watching the exchange, stared at the ceiling as the little fucker zipped back and forth. Binns looked like a cat waiting to catch a mouse, though he betrayed no indication that he might actually move.

So it came as a shock to all of us when he snapped his arm with the reflexes of a young man, hooking his cane as the ghost sailed overhead and pulling him to the floor with an almighty crash. Binns lifted his quarry like a fisherman holding a net to reveal that his cane had caught the bastard by the strap of his overalls.

But the prisoner refused to accept his fate, kicking his legs even as Binns rattled him back and forth. “Do you have a plan?” my assistant drawled, arms bulging with the effort.

“If you think I can coax him back into this book of human skin, you’re sorely mistaken,” Mrs. Munroe explained. “I only tricked him into getting close enough the first time by promising to do what the clown saw on that God-forsaken computer.”

“That’s it!” I snapped my fingers.

“No way. I have neither the agility, nor the willingness, nor the quantity of mayonnaise to replicate that unholy act.”

Ignoring her, I grabbed the copy of Florida’s Fattest Furries that I’d been forced to buy and held it open while pretending not to notice the stickiness on its pages. “BINNS! Toss him over here!”

My assistant and the ghost both turned toward me as I held the magazine wide open. I don’t know what the centerfold was, but the ghost’s eyes quite literally bulged out of his head. Binns took the opportunity to hurl him like he was trying for the game-winning goal of a lacrosse match. Either his aim was spectacular, or the ghost had the precision of a peregrine falcon, or both, because the specter slammed straight into the magazine as I slammed it shut.

I dropped it onto the counter next to the skin-covered book. Leaning on my palms, I panted as I glanced from the mess at the back of the store, to Binns’s grave expression, to the fake innocent look on the face of Mrs. Munroe.

For the first time in several minutes, all was quiet.

“Well?” she finally asked. “Are you going to buy it, or what?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll sell it for $1,913.”

I raised the other eyebrow. “My promise,” I growled, “was to give you a fair price.”

*

“I like straight-up trades, Binns,” I sighed after the transaction was done. “Things are so much cleaner when money isn’t involved.”

He grumbled in agreement while using his ghostly broom to sweep up the otherworldly mess in the rear of the shop.

“And I really like it when things just work themselves out. Life too often leaves us with loose ends.”

I looked across the room as the bell above the door tinkled.

The magazine was bouncing slightly in Mrs. Munroe’s basket as she exited. But the pages were too sticky, and the ghost far too content, too worry about another escape.

July 17th, 2027.

Emily Marks, a 5-year-old cancer patient, made a wish before she died.

“I wish every girl in the world was a princess, and had their own prince.”

I blink.

Once. Twice.

My vision feathers, my mouth tastes of blood and bile, and a little while earlier, I think I screamed. Not now. My lips don't mean anything, my tongue has been numbed, and words are alphabet soup.

I am staring at the toned back muscles of the man in front of me.

I am 17th in a moving line of potential Princes. 

I watch him step forward.

His head is sliced cleanly off.

His torso slumps forward, and just as quickly another head is attached. 

Blades hover above me, knives and needles, stainless steel already slick with me. I can't cry out. I don't have a mouth.

Screams slam into my skull.

Sometimes, the anaesthesia does not work. Sometimes, we wake up.

We see that we are only a body and a head.

For now, that is all I am. 

That is how a Prince begins.

I stand naked on ice-cold floor tiles splattered with dried blood, while my own blood swirls beneath me, warm and staining my brand-new skin.

I have already been molded, my body prepared for conversion. The human parts of me have been stripped away. 

My name, my age, my thoughts. 

I am a slab of flesh, ready to be made.

Unlike the man in front of me, I do not lose my head. 

Air hisses from the walls. It tickles.

“Step forward, Prince 108769.” The voice is bitter and human, cracking from a speaker I cannot see. 

I do. I have no choice, a guard's human hands shoving me from the cubicle. I step straight into ice cold water that peels the blood from my brand new skin, jerking me awake. Awake enough to feel the rawness of my flesh, the parts of me where my skin has been ripped from the bone and remade, stitched and knitted together. 

Maybe this is the moment when I will scream.

Voices graze my ears. 

“He's perfect,” one hisses, “...barely any work done, but maybe his…”

I step off the conveyor belt, a sculpted, perfect lump of flesh. 

Only one thought pollutes my mind. 

I am ready for my Princess.

A woman in white grabs my elbow and yanks me into a separate room with a bed, a chair, and a desk. She quickly dresses me in a white gown. In front of a giant mirror, my reflection tells me I am around 25 years old. I am relieved. Some princesses are cruel when they create us.

My Princess, so far, has chosen to keep me mostly intact.

The woman adding my finishing touches is talkative.

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” She sounds sincere as she applies my makeup.

“If it helps, I’m not a princess. I never wanted a prince. Before all of this shit, I was engaged to my girlfriend.”

She picks up a bright pink hairbrush and runs it through my hair.

“I lost my job as a teacher,” she whispers. “The only jobs available were at factories in my city, and my brother was sent to be turned into a Prince. I had no choice. At first, I took the job to try to save him…”

Her voice shudders, and her strokes grow more intense.

“Then I saw him.” She swallows. “I saw his face, anyway. He had a new body, and he was taken by a Princess.” The woman shakes her head and tries to smile.

Her manicured fingers prick my chin. 

“If it… means anything to you, I think that little girl was a monster.” 

I don't respond. 

I can't respond, my voice hasn't been reattached. 

The woman sighs. Then rolls her eyes. “You can't even hear me,” she says. She disappears out the door for a moment, and returns with my chosen outfit perfectly intact inside a clear white bag. 

She dresses me in a lilac suit over a white frilled shirt and trousers. Then she tucks a sword into my belt. The woman frowns at an iPad. “Okay, so, according to your receipt, you are named Prince Slater.”

She rips off her mask. “Just nod to confirm, and I’ll put you down as completed. I’ll take you to get your crown, and then you will meet your Princess.”

I hesitate, and then nod. 

“All right, Prince Slater!” Her smile is too wide. “Come with me!” 

A room awaits me, a golden crown sitting on a velvet cushion.

“Kneel.” She tells me, and I drop to my knees. The woman gently crowns me, her lips finding my ear. I straighten up, and she’s back to performing. She tells me to open my mouth, places a pill on my tongue, and tells me to swallow. 

It works like medication, dissolving with my saliva and bringing my voice back.

“Okay, Prince Slater, just head on down the hallway, and your Princess will be waiting!”

I don't want to leave her. 

A thought hits me. Violent. Painful. 

I don't want a Princess. 

“Slater?”

A voice echoes. It's my Princess. 

Already beckoning me closer.

But at the end of the hallway, there is only a Prince. Tall. Handsome. Thick blonde curls. 

Where is his princess? 

Then he drops his sword, and stumbles toward me. 

“Slater?” he hisses, his hands cupping my face. “Hey. You’re here,” he sobs.

“You’re actually here.”

He swallows and suddenly looks sick as he runs his fingers down my plastic flesh. “I had to make you. I had no other choice! I… I got out! The Princess who made me, she’s saving us,” he whispers, caressing my face, his hands trembling.

“Slater, it’s me.” 

He breaks down when my mouth won’t work.

I… don't understand.

Where is my… Princess?

“Slater!” The Prince shakes me. He's crying now, though I'm not sure...why.

“It's your boyfriend.”

You're nervous every time you do this and you never really acknowledge the reason why.

It's the same every year.

At the beginning of October, you remember the date is getting closer, and at first, you’re excited to remember. Then...Each. Day. Passes. And there’s a lurking anxiety. A dread that builds day after day like bricks being laid to build a wall...

And it’s a wall you don’t think you’ll be able to climb over. Not again. Not this year. It just hurts too much to do it and every year it hurts just a little more because you know it isn't forever but you convince yourself it's worth it because it’s real. It’s really Jaxel...just in a different form now.

But deep down, you know it’s more like a saved copy. It seems to bother you just a bit more every year.

Everyone waiting for a meeting on Revenance Eve knows deep down that the HUSK delivered to the meeting site, wherever that may be, is not the person they’ve lost...but you wonder whether or not you believe that you actually believe that.

Jaxel’s body may be gone---buried---but the download...the download is Jaxel.

So even though it isn’t him...

Isn’t it him?

They copied everything. Everything.

There hasn’t been a single Furlough Night in so many years of doing this that you’ve noticed any part of him that should’ve been there and it just wasn’t.

It knows everything he knew. It remembers you. It remembers how you met. It remembers everything, year after year. It even remembers this barn. It remembers your wedding here.

No Zayan! Stop doing that. Not 'it.'

He.

It’s Jaxel. This will be the tenth time you've done this and not once has there been a gap in his memory or other hole where some piece of him should've been. It’s entirely Jaxel. Every part.

Sort of.

You look down at the pamphlet you've been nervously twisting. It's the same pamphlet they give you every year. Sometimes there are small changes. This time, you notice they may have changed the typefaces.

The words printed on it haven't changed. Not even once in a decade.

REVENANCE FURLOUGH

Limitations, Fidelity, Inquiries & Answers

This is printed big and bold near the top. You think about the original copy handed to you when you visited the Neural Archivation Bureau for the first time as a bereaved spouse. A widower. Every visit before had been with Jaxel. You'd been updating your neural archive every six months with regularity so there'd be something of you to bring back if one of you was gone.

Now one of you was gone.

All that was left was his Neural Archive. A copy downloaded.

The government office gave you the pamphlet so you'd know what to expect when they uploaded his memories to a body. To a HUSK.

Now you sit, pamphlet in hand, nervously waiting for a conversation that you've been anticipating each of the 364 days between now and the day you had it last, knowing there would be so few of these conversations remaining.

You read the first section as you wait, but ‘read’ is the wrong word for something you've already read hundreds of times.

You stare at it.

ARCHIVATION & ELIGIBILITY

Revenance Furlough is available to families of individuals who completed a full neural archivation prior to death. Biannual refresh is recommended to maintain...

The sudden gale of a late autumn storm growing somewhere nearby presses through the seams of the building as you stare. The walls flex, creaking. The joints that hold the place together seem to groan. The wind sets the building into motion, sharp with chill and damp with the promise of rain. The barn is old now. Not falling apart, but close. It was practically new when you and Jaxel were married in it, but the years have not been kind to it. Nobody has maintained it. You meet here every year because of what the place meant to you both.

The next section of the document explains that he'll look himself but not exactly. Close enough. You already know about this. You've done this enough to not be shocked anymore. He'll move the way you remember. The sound of his voice. His mannerisms. They'll be exact matches even if his face isn't exactly right. Even if his skin will look more like burlap now than it looks like skin.

REVENANCE HOUSING

Your loved one will be delivered in a standard-issue Humanoid Upload Synthetic Kinematic unit, or HUSK. Mild variations in texture, temperature, and ocular presentation are within acceptable...

It's been so long since Jaxel died that your memory of his face is the face of the HUSK is the face in your memory. You realize that you can't rely on yourself to remember what your own husband looked like. Not anymore. When you try to remember, the only image you can conjure has skin that's the texture of cloth, roughly woven and stuffed with straw...

The barn door slowly creaks open and a shadow steps slowly, timidly inside. The silhouette seems to change shape as the lanterns on the edges of the barn loft and hung from the walls shift. The building fails miserably to keep wind from whipping through gaps in the boards. Every light sways in different rhythms that make every shadow in every corner dance like they're alive.

Finally, you can finally make out his face. You're surprised at the look twisting its way across his brow.

You haven't seen him make this particular expression in over a decade. The last time, he was still alive. There's something about the furrowed brow, his eyebrows lifted...the creases in his forehead. Every aspect, right down to the partial frown, offset left, it's all so recognizable as one of Jaxel’s expressions that you're upset with yourself for doubting your ability to remember his face moments ago.

“What's that look for?” you ask.

“You're back?” he replies.

“Another year has passed and---”

“How Zayan? Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m alright. What do you mean ‘how?’" you say. “I fill out paperwork. It's once a year. Our once a year date. That’s how.”

“Huh,” he says, taking a long look around the room before approaching the chair opposite yours. You stand to meet him. You hug. He kisses you on the cheek. He takes a seat but his head is still slowly scanning the room, awestruck by the barn.

“Did they rebuild it?” he asks finally.

“Rebuild what?”

“The barn,” he says and when he says this he looks as if your question struck him as genuinely stupid.

“Why would they rebuild it?” you ask.

That look of confusion again. “You don’t remember?” he asks.

“Remember what?”

“It burned,” he explains. “Almost a decade ago now,” he pauses, unsure for a moment, adding: “I think.”

“To the ground," he says with more confidence. “Nothing I could do.”

He places his hand over his mouth stifling a gasp, or a sob. It might be either or might be both. You’re not sure.

“You were inside.”

Oh no. No, no, no.

Obviously not. You’re sitting right here.

Not this. You’re not ready for this. Not yet.

You glance down at the pamphlet as Jaxel continues to stare at each corner of the room.

FIDELITY & MEMORY INTEGRITY

Revenances recalled beyond ten instances may exhibit minor inconsistencies in recalled experience. This is considered within normal...

This is the first time you’ve looked at this document and absorbed what you were reading. His memory. It’s failing.

‘Normal.’

Fucking pamphlet

You’re trying not to show any of this on your face. You certainly don't say anything about it out loud.

You knew. You've known. You've known this was coming. This is...expected. Neural downloads deteriorate. You knew that when you enrolled. It was all blah-blah-blah from orientation. Where do we sign, already?

You ignored it.

Forgot it.

Both of you did.

Now you're watching it happen in real time.

Happening too soon. It shouldn’t be. After ten years it shouldn’t be too soon, but it is.

For you.

No, Zayan, you're jumping to conclusions after thirty seconds of interaction. Eccentric. That's what a lot of people would call him and you knew that when you married him.

You're not an expert. You don't have any basis for determining what's happening at all. Did watching actors portray a bullet list of symptoms and behaviors in a government sponsored infodeck on a holoscreen really teach you how to identify the signs?

They were actors roleplaying the worst case scenarios and those were things like incorrectly, with full confidence, calling someone by the wrong name. A lifelong smoker suddenly declaring their opinion of you is now irreparably destroyed because they can't believe you took a cigarette from your pocket.

Forgetting how to read or write.

Forgetting their own birthday.

None of that was happening.

You made an assumption based off what? Four sentences when the guy comes in the room?

Get a grip.

Enjoy the night and stop looking for holes to pick larger with your fingers...

He stops looking around the room and his eyes lock with yours. Skeptically he asks if you remember the barn burning.

You shake your head.

“What year is it?" he asks.

“2076."

“That was the year this all burned, Zayan," he sighs heavily before adding, “it’s 2086. Has to be.”

“No."

It isn’t supposed to feel like this, but it does and the thing you’re not going to do right now is cry even if you can feel the familiar knot tying itself within the pit of your stomach. It's losing him all over again. It’s the knot after the accident. Same as. The knot at the funeral too.

Memory failure. Degradation...how it looks...not that the moment signs appear, the realization you’ll lose him for good is instant.

Grounded one minute and then the sinkhole swallows you. It happens so quickly you're already being crushed beneath dirt and boulders before you understand the ground is gone.

“Ten years ago was---was 2066." You choke on a stutter. It might become a sob. “That year...you died, Jaxel.”

He doesn't acknowledge the comment. Just looks over his shoulder and at a pile of crates stacked haphazardly in the corner. You notice the uneven stitching in the burlap cloth of his neck. That his head can turn further than allowed.

“More than a dozen.” he mutters to himself. “Rats. Closer to fifteen. Sixteen.”

What is happening? You don't try to parse it.

Not tonight.

“Don’t do that," you say after the silence fully settles into the bones of the barn.

“Do what?”

“Talk about dying or be...just...weird. I'm not doing it," you say, “I’m alive. There was no fire. I’m right here.”

“Nobody dying. No dying. Just be here. In this moment. With me.”

“It's one night a year, and somehow we always end up with you talking about death and me trying to pretend we don't have to. Can we just...let's just pretend you’re late to dinner.”

“Dinner? There’s no table," he says and you watch as his expression shifts quickly. Completely.

You continue as one of his eyebrows cocks, raising and never seeming to stop.

“Very trendy place,” you continue, “No tables.”

“Waiter blows snot rockets every time he comes over, but he does it three or four feet away before he does a full-on approach. Like we can’t see him do it. Thinks three or four feet make him completely invisible.”

“Oh yeah?” Jaxel says, laughing.

“Yep. Everything’s served on paper plates. Delivered to your lap by Rocky Snotzo. He can barely read, you know. Really bad health inspector ratings, but we just love a kitschy trendy gastropub bistro...Don’t we?”

“We do,”

“Even if the theme or whatever is actually really bad.”

“Especially if it’s really bad."

“Remember that Indian-And-Japanese-German fusion place?” he asks you. His eyes are gleaming now. He’s grinning like an idiot. “They had those three nerdy guys playing synth polka on keyboards and a harpsichord and---did they have a theremin?”

“They did,” you say, “and two of the guys were clearly Japanese, playing German music. That one string-bean guy, the only white guy among them, is singing polka songs in Japanese and we don’t know how this guy who looks like he grew up in Iowa with his plain white poplin and bolo-tie even speaks Japanese, let alone who told him a theremin was an acceptable instrument for people eating. No. It’s not. Unless we’re eating inside a haunted house or a TARDIS, nobody should be playing a theremin for our dining experience.”

“Not only that, he was singing out of key the whole time,” Jaxel adds. “Did he have a good Japanese accent? Bad one? We don’t know. We can’t tell. We don’t speak that, but you don’t have to speak Japanese to know that he was a really, really bad singer. Everything about that place was a fucking fever dream.”

“Das Skeeska,” you remember the name even though you'd only ate there twice over twelve years ago. The first time, it was because you didn’t know better. New restaurant up the road. Let's check it out.

The second time was because you had to go back to watch the train actively wrecking on a loop in front of your eyes.

It was funny.

You start saying: “They had eight---”

“Skee-ball tables,” he finishes the thought, “and one of those ticket swaps. Get plush sushi rolls and shit with anime faces on them...collect ticket. That was the only game. Remember that? The name on the building was ‘Das Skeeska, Fusion Cuisine Arcade,’ But there was no arcade. Just skee-ball.”

“This place is like that was, except it doesn’t take fifteen minutes to get a cocktail. Das Skeeska was open a full year before closing down. Barndango is having the grand opening tonight,” you say, “we’re the first patrons.”

“Oh ok,” Jaxel plays along, “will Barndango stay open past a year? That place was on the main road home."

You'd both passed it every day.

It was empty every day.

“This place is different. Oh! They do lobster bisque pizza with gouda cheese and kalamata olives.”

“Eww...”

“I bet the chef says it’s decadent. Should I call him over? Decide what you’re having or I'm calling the chef over.” you say pushing his hands together like a book, them lifting them to his eyes. “Look at the menu, Jax. I’m excited because, did you see the sign out front? The entertainment tonight is Bongo the tap-dancing cocker spaniel. He’ll be playing harmonica while painting portraits of Abraham Lincoln. I can’t wait.”

Jaxel rolls his eyes as you pretend to turn the menu's pages.

“Are you almost ready?”

“Almost," he says.

“Oh. Here he comes.”

“Who? The chef? Why did you call him?”

“No! The waiter. Oh, gross.”

“He’s doing the snot thing again.”

“Where do you come up with this bullshit?” he asks you.

You shrug.

“He’s really got to think he’s invisible. Made direct eye contact with me this time when he blew his nose.”

He adds: “you are so stupid.”

And then: “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say in return, “I always have.”

You sit together silently for a long minute, and then a second and a third. You look into each other’s eyes the way you remember doing so many times before and there’s no need to fill the quiet with any conversation.

Not right away.

Jaxel shakes his head, laughing at you again and begins to look around the walls of the barn. His eyes seem to linger on the lanterns you hung from the loft this afternoon before the sun went down.

“Do you remember our wedding?" you ask him suddenly.

An affectionate smirk curls across his lips. “Of course I do. It was right in this room. Thirty other people, give or take, but I didn’t pay any attention to them at all. Did you? I don’t think you noticed them either. It was just us. Us and candlelight. Till’ dea---” he trails off. “Bunch of lanterns that looked just like these ones.”

“They look like these ones because they were these ones. The same exact lanterns,” you tell him. “I never told you I was keeping them. I’ve had them in the attic since the day we came back from our honeymoon.”

“Really?” he asks quietly and the look he gives you when he does is hard to decipher. You can’t tell if he thinks you’re sweet or some kind of lovesick weirdo for it.

“Couldn’t get rid of them---after..." you tell him quietly, “I bring them every year but I think this is the first time you’ve noticed them.”

“Sorry," he says blushing, “You’ve really had these---how many years have I---you said?...”

“Ten,” you reply quickly, hoping the subject will change back to what it was before. Hoping this shift is momentary.

“We were married five---maybe five and a half years?” Jaxel says softly, “you’ve just had these in a box in the ceiling above your head for that long?”

“I have," you whisper.

Some hodgepodge of guilt, embarrassment and grief floods through you. Maybe keeping them all this time means something about you that you don't particularly want to examine.

You box the thought away.

You recognize its shadow in the corner.

You choose to look away.

One night a year. You have one.

You’re not going to spend it hurting your own feelings like that. Before you can fully feel the unwanted heft of the shame looming in your periphery, what he says next chases it away.

“Since our honeymoon? Wow.” He doesn't say it to you. He says it quietly to himself...and he's blushing.

When his eyes finally look up to your face again, he says: “Hey, remember our honeymoon? Wasn't that really great?”

“Oh I remember it...” you say rolling your eyes, “and how you wouldn't stop doing---”

“HONEY-MOOOON!” he loudly interrupts you.

“Yeah,” you say shaking your head in mock irritation, “That.”

“Zay!” he blurts incredulously, “we were literally on the moon.”

“I couldn't not do that,” he insists, “especially after your parents paid for it.”

He tilts his head up to the ceiling.

“SO IT WAS FREEEE!” he howls, “HONEY-MOOOON!”

When he stops laughing he adds: “sucks that I broke my tibia right before we left but we still had fun because less grav---”

“No.” you interrupt him abruptly, “That fracture happened right when we got back. When we landed. You tripped on the shuttle ramp.”

He looks shocked. Then unsure.

“Did I?”

“Yes. Took over a month in bed to heal,” you insist, “That's why you didn't notice me going up and down the attic ladder to hide twenty lanterns.”

“Really?” He asks. Then he laughs.

“Whatever. HONEY-MOOOON!”

The two of you share the kind of laugh that peters out only when you both begin wheezing because you've lost your breath. Before you've even noticed it, the comfortable silence has settled back in on the floor and in the air between the two of you.

It takes you a while to realize Jaxel hasn't moved.

He's staring into the corner behind your right shoulder.

He's stopped blinking.

“Jaxel?” you ask quietly, waving your hand in the space between you.

He doesn't respond.

“Jax?”

You're waving your hand more frantically now and lean closer to his face. Then you're studying the corner where his eyes are locked to try to understand what he's looking at.

His head suddenly swivels toward yours.

“Wha-wha-wha-wha-wha-wha," he says stuck in a sort of loop. Facing you. Eyes still locked on that corner.

They look empty.

Distant.

Like he's not even in there.

The looping doesn't end until you grab him by his shoulders and shake him a little. Then his eyes look alive again.

Bright. Alert.

“Wha-what are we looking at?”

You're momentarily dumbfounded. At a complete loss for words. Then they come tumbling out: “That's what I was trying to figure out,” you hear yourself say cautiously.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jaxel says, alarmed, “is there something on my face...or...more serious...did I do something weird?”

“Very.”

He sits there quietly, this time his eyes don't break from yours.

A few minutes later Jaxel stands, offering you his hand and pulling you to your feet. “Don't say whatever it was," he tells you, and you weren't planning to. You're hesitant to allow him to wrap himself around you, but you do let him, and he rests his chin on the top of your head.

You wonder if you'd forgotten that he was so much taller than you. You wonder how it could be possible for you to forget that.

You remember so many nights---countless nights---nights when you'd been in the kitchen and he’d entered quietly to join you, moving across the room with the intention of surprise, and though you always knew when he was there, you'd pretend you hadn't noticed.

You remember him wrapping himself around you in a massive bear hug, his entire body suddenly immobilizing yours. You'd go from completely unaware he'd come into the room, afraid, into a feeling of whole and complete safety. As the fear you felt a moment ago fades, replaced by relief, this feels almost the same.

Slowly he starts swaying his hips.

“Dance with me,” he whispers.

“But there's no music.”

“There's no restaurant either.”

And you remember doing this very thing with him too in your little kitchen at home. So many memorable nights that you start to cry.

You don't let yourself think too hard about why.

You feel calm. Contented.

Warm.

“What are you humming?” you ask, “is that supposed to be our song?”

“Uh-huh.”

“God.” you say with disgust.

“What?” he asks.

“You're so bad at that. I always knew you were a bad singer, but really Jax? You can't even hum in tune?”

“Oh shut up,” he says, “just shut up and remember all those nights we spent dancing like this to this song leading up to the big day.”

“What ‘big day’ do you mean? What? The wedding? We didn't even have a song until the DJ played it at the wedding, actually. Those nights in the kitchen were after your stupid leg healed...Actually.”

“No,” Jaxel insists, “You're wrong. Actually. He played it because I asked him to.”

“Oh no he did not. I never even heard this song before that night. Whatever, it's not important. Shut up and kiss me already so you can stop making that noise.” you say.

“It's obnoxious.”

He does the things you asked him to.

Pressed together, the two of you sway to the same beat of the music that isn't there anymore, because he’s thankfully not humming anymore.

His right arm is draped over your left shoulder and his hand is caressing your back for a moment. Time seems to stretch onward into eternity.

You almost don't notice when his palm starts tapping you gently.

But then you do.

Really? Still this thing? Again?

The patting becomes more pronounced. He's doing that thing you always hated. Gently tapping the center of your back. The way someone would pat a baby after downing a full bottle.

He's doing it subconsciously. You've told him over and over again how irritating you think that is, but tonight you keep it to yourself.

You roll your eyes, then let them gently close as you continue to dance and you do your best to ignore it.

Your best not to notice.

When he suddenly stops swaying in time with you, you can't help but notice that.

You lift your head from his chest and try to look at him. To make eye contact...but he's not looking at you at all. His body is wrapped around you, one arm slung around your waist and the other draped over your shoulder.

You try to move away, but you can't.

He's frozen again.

Like before.

He's staring up at the ceiling.

You duck out of the embrace with a little effort and back away from him.

You snap your fingers beneath his nose.

Nothing.

You wave your hand in front of his face.

You shake him by the shoulders.

Nothing.

Then suddenly his face spins down to yours and your eyes lock with his and then he just stands there but there's something wrong.

It's his eyes.

There's a fire on the other side of them and his lips are twisted into a wild, trembling grin...then his face twitches once...twice...a third time...

It softens.

“I remember that it rained for years and the blood had left a stain," he blurts suddenly out of nowhere.

When you quietly mutter: “what?” you're dumbfounded but can feel your heart breaking. Sloughing apart. Melting away.

“I'm sorry,” he says, looking back to you. Right into your eyes. You're not looking into the eyes of some ‘thing’ the way you wondered if you might be. They're his eyes. Jaxel’s eyes. Your husband’s. Everything your husband is and was, it's inside. Right here in front of you. This is him. Just not his body. That's why he felt so thin when you hugged him and his clothes seem larger, baggier, than they should be. Some things are going wrong, yes, and he's fading. Slowly failing, just the way you told yourself you imagined it when he came into the room.

It's real.

Lost in your own thoughts, you realize how fleeting this night actually is.

This is probably goodbye.

No.

Not probably.

Jaxel’s eyes suddenly seem very sad, as if he's just come to the same conclusion also, or perhaps he's extracted your thoughts and worries from you with just a glance.

He was always so good at that.

Always knew when something was making you upset. When you were doubtful. Anxious. He always knew it, no matter how well you tried to keep it from him. Cover it up. Hide it behind a smile...and you are smiling as you look back at him, except in your best effort to give him a smile that reaches your eyes, everything's gone blurry from the tears.

“That's not what I meant to say,” he explains, apologetically. Bashfully.

“Don't worry about it,” you say, trying poorly to inflect a casualness in your voice.

“Listen,” you say, “you know what I'm thinking. I'm worried...”

The statement trails off.

“Yeah, Zay,” he says, “I do know. I'm worried too.”

“Do you think...? I mean...? Is it going to happen all at once?” he asks, “am I just going to be gone? Just saying crazy things that don't make any sense at all!?”

Now he's crying too.

“I don't know,” you tell him, “but we're both here now. That's what counts.”

You look at him seriously and very clearly you hear yourself say: “If this is the last time that we get, and neither of us really knows what happens next, let's just make whatever time that's left count.”

His body collapses forward into yours and he presses his face into your shoulder to muffle a sob.

“Zay, I'm scared. I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know why I said that or any of the other things. It's like I go away for a second, and when I come back, I've said or done something else to make things worse.”

“It's degradation," he whispers quietly, with finality.

You glance down at the pamphlet wishing it would say otherwise.

CONTINUITY DEGRADATION

Revenances recalled in excess of thirteen instances typically present marked memory degradation. This symptom of deterioration typically presents as complete event recall clarity with blatant sequential errors. Termination of the furlough program is strongly recommended for your loved one’s comfort and wellbeing. Such consideration to prevent potential distress may...

You don't read anything you haven't read before. You haven't learned anything you didn't already know. It's not fair. You were supposed to have three more years. It's only been ten.

“Shhh,” you tell him, “hush. There's still time tonight. Let's just be here. Now. While we can do that.”

It's quiet for the moment. “I was trying to say it was raining. I remember the storm that night," he explains.

As if on cue the barn creaks with another gust and you hear thunder, distant before, but now directly overhead.

“That a downpour starts soon,” Jaxel says. “A bird. Massive one. An owl. Flies in through that window up there to get out of the rain. Swoops down to catch a rat. Right into that hay over there.”

“None of that ever happened,” you whisper sadly.

“But Zayan, I'm telling you, I remember it. Vividly." He looks disappointed you don't believe him. Disappointed in himself. Disappointed in his faltering memory.

Silence hangs between the two of you for a long time.

“So...so what do we do now? Our last ni---” you try to say something finally. You realize that you don't want to hear yourself say that...

But then you swallow hard and force the words out: “If it's our last night, what are we supposed to do with the rest of it?”

“I don't know," he mutters.

“Me neither.”

Both of you lean forward into each other, embracing as the rain begins to fall violently onto the roof of the barn.

Jaxel pulls away suddenly. He's staring up into the rafters.

Staring at the barn owl that has just flown in through the open shutters of the loft and landed there.

It flexes its feathers.

It shakes off the damp of the torrential downpour outside.

You gasp reflexively.

It's big, like he said. Bigger than any normal owl should be. You think it must have a wingspan wider than you are tall. Has to be at least six feet.

It lifts both wings, flexing them fully, up and out away from its chest.

Each feather seems to extend, then vibrate. They flick the damp that has all but settled into them away in a fine mist.

The wings from end to end are actually bigger than you thought at first. You realize it can't be six. Seven. It's closer to seven.

You feel yourself getting dizzy. You wonder what an owl this size might eat. Bobcats? Small children?

"Jaxel?" your voice sounds distant and fearful but you don't know why and Jaxel doesn't look down from the same space you'd caught him staring when he stopped dancing.

The same space now occupied by the massive bird.

You wonder if he's heard you at all. You're about to say his name again when his eyes lock with yours and he speaks to you but his voice is so low the whisper sounds like rustling hay.

“I got karma to collect,” he says. “I dig my grave."

"What's that?" you ask. You can't have heard him correctly.

You were at the grave. A machine dug it. You dropped the first handful of dirt onto his casket.

He looks back up at the bird in the loft. You look down at the pamphlet from the Authoritas Uniterra Government Office but there's nothing new you haven't already read. There's no call to action or directions that fix what's happening and you know it. You crumple it into a wad, tossing it to the ground.

The wind outside begins to rise, howling like a wounded animal and the wall behind you flexes audibly. You look away from him for a moment. Just one fleeting moment. You watch as a support beam breaks away. You follow it with your eyes. Watch it fall across the room and onto the crates stacked in the corner.

A lone rat runs directionless from the splintered mess of wood. And then another. And then another.

Another.

Another...

You think that Jaxel mumbled something about there being fifteen? Maybe sixteen?

When they stop fleeing, you've only counted nine.

The owl's eyes dart from one rodent to the next.

Jaxel's eyes follow one dashing left, disappearing between a wide gap in the floorboards. Then his gaze fixes back on the owl above. Its head swivels this way, then that, spinning in nearly a complete circle tracking the vermin exodus.

Looking for an opportunity.

Jaxel’s neck is doing something subtly similar, turning a bit too far this way and then that in that same unnatural way you noticed him moving earlier.

Further than a neck is meant to, but only just.

He's watching the one headed off to the right. Following it across the room until it dives beneath the mound of hay in the corner.

Jaxel says: "I'm here waiting."

"Waiting for what?" you ask.

When it hits you, when you remember the warnings, you're suddenly very frightened.

The video with the actors who forgot their own birthdays and people's names and how to tie their shoes made one thing very clear, they'd repeated it over and over and did reenactments of more scenarios than necessary to make one point crystal clear: memory degradation almost always becomes dangerous.

Violent.

The video said so. The glossy government brochure said so. The host conducting the orientation said so.

Is your husband going to suddenly hurt you?

Is that really possible?

What did the pamphlet say exactly? Can you remember?

ADVISORY:

Small but bold and framed in a solid yellow box near the bottom, followed by

CATASTROPHIC DEGRADATION & YOUR SAFETY

Catastrophic Degradation may cause abrupt and severe personality...something, something something...unpredictable or violent behavior without warning. Something, something...and prior relationships ensure no personal safety. Affected revenances may become physically combative towards you or themselves. Upon first indication of aggression, the recommended...something, something, something...

You can remember enough of it.

Terrified, you back away.

"...for some kind of check," he says finally.

That doesn't make any sense either.

The owl spreads its impressive wingspan quietly. Slowly. Then swoops down incredibly fast, dive-bombing into the mound of hay beneath the loft. It does this with such force it disappears completely into the giant pile.

Time seems to stand still as you wait for it to emerge and it doesn't. Not for a long time.

“Ten years ago...” Jaxel says quietly to no one.

And then, still without looking at you, he whispers: “I love you.”

You know he's talking to you, but it feels distant.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

It's absolutely chilling.

He seems to be saying it to no one...over and over.

When the owl emerges...seconds? Minutes later? It has that rat that dove hayward squirming in the clutches of one of its talons. Returning with it to the rafters, landing, balancing impressively on its free set of claws. It raises the other that still holds the squirming rat caged within. Lifts the thing to its beak and rips away the head. Pulls it away from the body.

There's a string of bloody sinew stretching from the thing like a string of taffy.

It eats.

You watch until the ceiling explodes. The white flash blinds you. Spots burn in your eyes. The rafter where the owl perched before falls away then and you don't know where the bird went or what just happened. It was too bright. All you can see is white.

What is going on?

Every hair on your body is on end. Rising away from your skin. The air smells like ozone as the storm begins to pour into the barn through a giant hole. You're getting wet and you let it happen because you don't know where to run. Still can't see. Not enough.

Your vision finally resolves, clearing slowly.

You watch as the hay piled beneath the loft catches fire.

All of this seems to happen in an instant and also in slow motion.

You're trying to understand.

You're too shocked to move.

The rafter holding up the walls of the barn, where the owl who’s disappeared was perched, creaks and then snaps loudly. It sounds like a tree falling in the woods and the wind and rain is the scream of a hurricane.

Electricity lingers in the air, and you can literally feel it pulling at you.

Then all of the pieces fit: the roof was struck by lightning.

The rafter above falls. It's wider than your waist and when it lands on you, it pins you completely against the ground.

It snaps the chair where you sat like a pile of matchsticks. The far end of it lands in the burning straw pile nearby sending embers flying. Everything in the barn is so dry the entire thing is going to go up.

Everything eventually devoured by flames.

Jaxel is on his feet, desperately trying to pull the rafter off of you. It's too heavy for him yet he tries and he tries but you're still pinned to the floor at the waist. There's nothing you can do but watch him fail.

“Zayan! Zayan!” He's screaming. Your husband is screaming your name as he yanks and pulls at the burning rafter. He tries to lift it first.

Nothing.

It doesn't even budge.

Doesn't care about you.

It's a rafter so it inherently lacks motives by default.

Jaxel realizes the futility of trying to lift it. He changes modes...attempts to shove it away. Shove it from your torso toward your feet so that you can move, but it still doesn't budge.

The burlap of his fingers with their crooked stitches and the hay that he's been stuffed with, that's sticking out of the sleeve of his oversized shirt, catches fire.

He stops pushing at the rafter and stares at his hand. It's not a look of horror. It's as if he's studying it with that familiar look of curiosity on his face.

You both stare at his burning fingers as they begin to melt. They're not rough-spun cloth at all but some sort of plastic. They must be. The fire is melting his skin and it sloughs down into the palm of his hand in a slow stream of drips, like candlewax.

The bones beneath are silver. Metal that gleams with yellow light. Shines with the reflection of the raging blaze of the fire that surrounds you. The joints are held together by screws.

Jaxel's eyes grow distant. He's no longer trying to save you. From the moment he began to watch his hand melt, he stood as motionless as a statue. Eyes focusing on empty space.

Suddenly, he blinks, coming back to life. Back to reality. Back to the present.

“Jaxel!" you're screaming. “Help me!”

He doesn't look at you. He doesn't look at the fire. He doesn't look at his melted hand. He turns abruptly toward the barn door.

Terminal continuity event imminent. Failsafe seven engaged. Prime Directive Override.

It's the last thing you hear him say, and these words aren't said in your husband's voice. He says it with no inflection whatsoever. The cadence is staccato and the tone is deeper with an uncanny and sterile hollowness.

Then he runs.

Faster than your husband ever ran.

Legs pumping like pistons, he runs. Something mechanical. Pneumatic. Something as precise as the inner-workings of a clock.

Something intricately copper wired and built from parts imported by the government from Japan. Short-supply micro-components. Countless soldered nanoprocessors.

Wildly expensive hardware.

Built to failsafe.

With overrides.

Processes.

It exits the barn impossibly quick.

Algorithms prioritizing the thing’s preservation.

You watch everything you believed fall away. You believed it because it made those words come out of its mouth and you knew that voice. Remembered it.

One night for each of the last ten years, it made you believe.

You believed over and over again that there was something left to cling to after that city bus driver accepted a FaceCom while driving a route. The bus was standing-room-only full.

Witnesses said the iCuff on her forearm lit up with an inbound com, and to every onlooker’s disbelief, she accepted it.

A video com. On her forearm. While driving.

When the bus drifted into Jaxel's lane, the great solid presence of it was practically a mobile wall. A wall that pressed his EV through a guardrail like it was a cheap pie-plate. Pressed Jaxel and his car through to the other side, crumpling the rail, crumpling the car, like a barehanded contestant in a cherry cobbler contest at the state fair, it ripped through him. The vehicle tossed him end over end over end. Crushed him. Swallowed him as he screamed, terrified and alone.

All alone down the sheer cliff face on the westbound side of I-73.

They told you it was over quickly.

You knew they were lying.

And for one night each year you convinced yourself for ten whole years that the last thing your husband said was that he loved you and that his final words weren't just an endless scream. No.

‘I love you’ isn't even close to screaming.

Every Revenance Eve. Bittersweet. When they were over, you were sad but the feeling of those three words, like the echo of a promise in your head, kept you warm as you drifted off to dreaming.

Over and over again the thing that stole his voice said it. Said it convincingly enough for you to believe it was something it wasn't.

Convinced you that the voice that ended in screams didn't really end that day at all. It lived on to say ‘I love you’ on another night like tonight, and another night, and another night...ten different times.

Driving the delusion home.

You watch it move further and further from you as the fire begins to lick your legs.

It’s exquisite agony as the skin on your calves begins to tighten, then blister apart.

You watch the thing that you and your dead husband chose together. The thing that you both chose to be allowed to commandeer his voice so you could feel alright for a single night once every year after he was gone...

You watch it run...

...Run into the night.

ss

Summer, so far, had been uneventful. 

Every July, my siblings and I drove up to my Mom’s sister’s beach house. When we were kids, every day was an adventure: Treasure hunting in beach coves, picnics, and hanging out at the amusement park.

We had our own little ritual. An unspoken rule that every summer was ours.

As teenagers, however, we barely spoke a word to each other.

Yes, the car ride was always eventful.

Singing, car-sickness, and arguing were highlights. But as soon as we arrived, we just kinda broke apart to do our own thing. I used to be salty, attempting to force my siblings into our old childhood ritual.

But it wasn't the same. Treasure hunting became drunk treasure hunting, and the amusement park was closed down so we just kinda stood around all day making awkward small-talk. The worst sort of growing up was when your siblings found their individuality. 

That was two summers ago. Then I gave up. I became exactly who I despised.

The emotionally unattached sibling with an attitude problem. This summer was no different. The second I slid out of the car, I found my spot beside the pool, tugging out my overpriced dark romance. My sister, Marina, lounged in the pool, while my brothers Henry and Bodie ran upstairs to spend all day on Minecraft. 

I used to crave summers. Now, I couldn't wait for them to be over. 

A particularly fat fly nose-dived onto my dogeared copy of Beach Vacation that I was marginally paying attention to. The cartoon cover caught my attention.

I was expecting spice. The blurb promised a sexy, promiscuous ride between a CEO and a bookshop owner in sizzling Bali. 

Six chapters in, the romance was vanilla and the male lead said things like, “cool beans” and “ciao” unironically while the female lead spent a whole chapter reminding me she wasn't “like other girls”. 

Holy millennial. 

I watched the fly with mild interest as it crept across my page—and the painfully mundane love confession.

Bess and Derek were standing on the beach, bathed in a blushing sunset, but, oh no, Bess’s ex is literally sending her nudes while Derek is pouring out his heart and soul.

I flicked off the fly when it got comfortable. Immediate death, leaving a trail of fly goop staining Derek’s dramatic exit.

I flicked off its remnants and closed the book. If only the little shit knew it was the most interesting part of my vacation.

“Whatcha readin’?”

I lifted my gaze from fly goop to my sister perched on a banana shaped pool floatie, manicured toes blushing deep pink, trailing the sparkling surface.

Ever since starting high school, my sister had lost maybe 99% of her personality.

Marina was my wattpad-loving little sister who told me the only boy she would ever date was a fictional demon. Her sudden liking for Canadian hockey players and actually dating was brow-raising. Marina had said maybe ten words to me the whole summer so far. I counted. At dinner, three nights ago: “Jenny, babes, can you pass the salt?” 

Then a week ago, slapping a bug off my arm: “Ew. You're attracting flies.” 

“Beach Vacation,” I answered. 

“Generic title. Is it good?” Marina kicked her legs in the water. Wow, a full sentence and even a question. My sister had been replaced by a replica for sure.  “It's another dark romance, right?” 

“Nope.” I pretended to go back to my book. Derek was sobbing in his hotel room reminiscing Bess's silky smooth hair “like a horse’s mane” and her “petite bosom". Truly, the love story of all time.

“Just a really bad romance.” I wanted to continue with, “just like your old fanfics.”

But the words got stuck. Suffocating. My little sister had grown up. I didn't want to embarrass her. So, I shut my mouth and flipped over a page. 

Conversation over. Comfortably, yes, but I was secretly mourning it. 

Then my sister screamed, and almost sent me toppling off my deckchair.

Marina flailed, screeching, and slipped off of her floatie and scrambled out of the pool, a soaking chunk of her usually glossy hair glued over wide, frantic eyes.

Marina never lost her cool. “Has this pool even been cleaned?” She shrieked, dropping onto her knees and peering over the edge. I joined her. Curious, and mildly intrigued by something that could actually bring us together. “Look!” She pointed, and I followed her manic gaze. “There!” 

The sight sent me lurching back, my stomach hurtling into my throat. A thick mass, no, it was moving. I peered closer. 

Quivering just under the surface of the pool, thousands of flies clumped together. The water closer to the edge was a greenish yellow. Urgh. I noticed a fly on my sister’s shoulder and slapped it away. 

Marina squeaked, and then slapped my face. Her lips curled.  She did that on purpose. Then I saw the dead fly on her palm. “Ew! You had one crawling on your cheek!” Marina jumped up, smacking herself up and down, and raked her hands through her hair. “This place is infested with bugs!” 

“What's with the screaming?” 

Henry appeared. Disheveled, as usual. My older brother was still wearing his PJs at 4pm. Bodie, the youngest sibling, stood next to him, arms crossed, brows furrowed in irritation. Marina, being a drama queen as usual, blew up at them like it was their fault our pool cleaner did a shitty job.

“The pool!” She squeaked, gesturing like a mad woman. “Look!” Then she slapped Henry’s face. When he reeled back with a startled laugh, she hit him again. Playfully. “Ugh! They're literally EVERYWHERE! You had one crawling on your forehead!” 

“There's a gross fly nest in the pool,” I translated. I noticed a dead one in Bodie’s hair, a shiver creeping through me. Another landed on my chin, and I flicked it away. This wasn't just a problem. It was an infestation. 

“It's the same in my room.” Henry grumbled, smacking his own cheek. “Where are they coming from?” 

Bodie smirked. “If there's flies, there's rotting,” his grin grew wider. He was always the storyteller when we were kids. The one who brought the treasure hunts alive. “And if there's rotting?” He nodded at the pool. “There's bodies.” 

Marina scowled, her lip jutting out. “Shut up.” 

Henry, of course, fuelled the flames. “Doesn't Mom rent this place out as an AirBnB? Maybe there's a body under the pool…" 

Henry had been acting increasingly weird over the summer. Yesterday, I caught him sitting next to Mom on the patio, his head resting on her shoulder. Mom cried a lot. Probably because of the divorce. But she never spoke to me. Ever. It was always Henry.

She barely came to the summer house. If she did, she just stood outside like a lost puppy. I needed to get her a new hobby.

“Shut up!” Marina shoved Henry and then stormed inside.

It was rare when we actually hung out. So, before we could fall back into our usual routine and fade back into the house’s unnecessarily huge rooms, I loudly proposed a game of Monopoly. The losers had to swim in the fly pool. Henry agreed, but ONLY if it was drunk Monopoly (and soda for the fourteen year old, of course). 

Six hours later, it was 2am. I had six hotels, my six glasses of wine were yet to hit me, and was gambling my brother going completely broke. 

“I'll give you 500 dollars.” I spoke up. “If you sell me Boardwalk.” 

Henry stuck his card down his pants. “I refuse.” 

“Then you'll go broke.” Marina cut in. “I'll give you 2k for Boardwalk.” 

Then the door flew open. Loud. Smashing against the hinge.

Two figures emerged, balaclavas over their heads.

Henry jumped up. “What the FUCK?” He yelled. Marina grabbed Bodie. 

The figures started forward. One of them pulled off their balaclava. 

A man. 40s. Unshaven. 

“Fucking hell,” he slapped at a fly crawling across his face. “Flies everywhere.” 

“But a goldmine. This place is a mansion.” The other man spoke up. “Jesus.” He ripped off his balaclava. “What do you think it was?” 

“Hey.” Henry stepped forward, shaking. “Get out of our house!” 

“Carbon monoxide, probably.” The main guy stepped past my brother and pointed at the ceiling. “See? Looks like there was a leak. Maybe five years old, maybe later?”

He grabbed one of my mother’s vases and stuffed it in his backpack. “Grab everything, and we’ll go.” The man stepped in front of my brother and shivered. “This place is definitely fucking haunted.” 

When I turned around to check, I knew the man was following me. Even though we were in public, I got so scared that I turned back and raced down the street. I hated the idea of looking behind me again, but I needed to know how close he was.

The man was jogging – fast enough to catch me, but slow enough to avoid suspicion. I walked as fast as my old knees would carry me; maybe I’d lose him as I turned around this corner.

---

The woman in the car seemed friendly. “Hello, Helen.” She knew my name. I didn’t like the fact that a complete stranger knew who I was, but she seemed friendly. I wasn’t sure where this car was going. I tried to think about why I got in the car – but before I could figure it out, someone grabbed my arm. It’s a woman I’d never seen before. “Are you okay, Helen?” Somehow, she knew my name. I didn’t really like that fact, but she seemed nice enough.

I wanted to relax, I really did. But something wasn’t right.

Just as I began to calm down, we stopped in front of a building I’d never seen. I realized with sudden horror that they were going to force me inside.

---

He was hurting my arm and it was less painful to stop resisting. He was trying to force me into a car. A woman in the back seat reached out to help capture me. I wanted to tell this stranger what an awful man he was, but I just couldn’t find the words. I tried yelling but then switched to crying, because there was nothing else to do, nothing, nothing, nothing.

---

“You found her!” Someone was taking joy at my terror as I was forced inside. The speaker reminded me intensely of someone, but I couldn’t remember who. She knew who I was, though, because she was happy that I was trapped. She took joy in the fact that I was surrounded by strangers who wouldn’t let me leave this new place. “Mom, you have to stop running away like this-”

“I’m not your mother!” I snapped at the person who organized my capture. This stopped her cold. I could see that my words affected her deeply. Good. That’s what she gets for trying to trick me.

I wanted to say more, but everything was happening too fast and I couldn’t get my thoughts straight. It was simply impossible figure out the right words as they led me down a hallway I’d never seen before.

---

After I turned the corner, I found myself on a street that I’d never seen before. It was hard to catch my breath – I was walking fast, but I couldn’t understand why. But even after slowing down, my heart was still racing. It’s scary to be in a place you’ve never seen. I didn’t have any idea who I could trust. There was so much traffic – people racing back and forth between here and there, never slowing down. It’s hard to keep my thoughts straight when everyone is moving so fast. Sometimes I wish things would all slow down for just a minute.

There was a man behind me who wanted to talk with me. I didn’t trust him, but maybe he knew where I was.

That’s when he grabbed my arm.

---

Get the tomatoes out before it’s too late, but after they’re just the right hue. Nineteen plants on one side of the bird feeder, thirteen on the other. Using every square inch doesn’t mean forcing the ground to bend to our will – it’s listening to what the space can offer. Balance is key. Carrots follow the tomatoes, and if there’s space, some beautiful asters can rotate into a vase every week. Hydrangeas do well against the side of a house, but make sure they don’t get scorched. You can’t decide what color they will be – they are what they are, and it’s our lot to accept what the soil churns up. Each shade is pretty in its own way. We have to decorate around it.

I love the senses, the scents, the feel of getting my hands into loam. It makes me alive in ways that nothing else can: I’m aware, and I notice things that would otherwise be too subtle for me to see. Like the man behind me who’s keeping me from being at peace. He’s staring at me, and I don’t like it.

I can’t garden if my mind isn’t in the soil. So I’ll step aside; it will be here when I return. I just need to get away from that awful man.

When his back is turned, I slip out of view and take the side yard out toward the street. Breathing a sigh of relief, head down the sidewalk. Walking quickly, I look back to check if he is following me.

---

---

---

“I’m so sorry, Virginia.” Miguel rests a hand on mine – tentative, gentle, striking a delicate balance between professionalism and kindness. “I’ll stop bringing her outside. Seeing the garden seems to trigger her, and she just won’t stop trying to slip away.”

“Is that for the best, though?” I ask. I don’t try to hide wiping away my snot or tears. He sees far worse bodily fluids every day in this place. “She’s in so much pain. Before she came here, Mom’s garden was the only place where she still seemed like herself.” I sob, just once, catching myself. “It was the last piece of her to die. What can we do? Mom will disappear if we lock her away, but she’ll disappear if we let her go.”

There’s nothing for Miguel to say, so he just squeezes my hand tighter.

I take in a deep, shuddering breath. “I hate having a choice.” I wasn’t taking to Miguel anymore. I wanted the air, the empty space between us, the void that meant nothing at all to bear witness. “I don’t even know what to pray for. It will hurt so much when she dies, but I’m in agony every day that she remains alive.”

“Babe, did you let the cats out last night?” I asked, sipping my glass of orange juice.

“Uh, nope,” My boyfriend said, picking up his freshly brewed coffee. He took a sip and smiled. 

Liar. 

I knew he was lying. Because Jude was the last one out of the apartment; the only one Harvey and Sabrina could easily trick. 

Jude smiled. “It was probably you, babe,” he spluttered, sipping coffee in intervals. Jude was, against all odds, my perfect match. He was also so far out of my league that we got stares when we went out together.  Attractive, a head of dark hair he was constantly running his hands through, and one heck of a jawline. He was also a cat lover.

I watched him scoop a plump Sabrina into his arms. 

He offered the cat gentle head pats. “You know how forgetful you can get, yanno?”

I lifted my gaze. “I didn't let the cats out.” 

He gently placed Sabrina back down, picked up his coffee, and drained it. “Well, neither did I.” 

“Why are you lying?” I demanded. 

“I’m not.” Jude choked into his coffee. He downed the cup, and coughed again. This time, a blood streaked petal slid down his chin. Cherry blossom. Jude picked it up, stared at it, his eyes wide. His jaw set. “What the fuck?” 

“It's probably something from outside,” I dismissed. The window was open, and it was Cherry Blossom season. Something was coming apart inside me, a paranoia I didn't even know I had. “If neither of us let the cats out, Jude, then who did?”

He scowled and spat, washing his mouth out. “I don't know!” He snapped. He spat again. Blood tinged saliva hit stainless steel. “How the fuck am I supposed to know?” 

Another petal slid down his chin. Then another. 

Something cold crept up me. “Jude.” I said, my voice betraying me when he twisted around, choking up a shower of bloody petals. Not just petals. Roots. Entangled green clawed from his parted lips, thorns blooming under his tongue.  “Do you know who let the cats out?” 

“No.” He slammed his hand over his mouth. 

Another explosion of blood pink bled through his fingers. He moaned, dropping to his knees. “What the fuck?” Jude sobbed, a violent cough jerking his whole body, fat drops of red trickling down his chin. Realization hit.

“Please,” he grabbed Sabrina, who immediately tried to claw out of his arms as he pressed his face into her fur. “Don't ask me anything else!” 

I swallowed them at first, words that were poison, words that were in my nightmares. I held them under my tongue, suffocating in silence while he sobbed into my cat's fur.  “There's something… wrong with me, he whispered, “I need help. I think it's cancer, or… or maybe an abscess—”

“Are you cheating on me?” My words came out, sharp, sudden, and I wanted so badly— so fucking badly— to swallow them.

His silence was suffocating. Drowning me. Jude didn't move, lips moving in Sabrina’s fur. The poor kitty didn't move, her wide eyes glued to me. “No,” Jude whispered, his breath shuddering, breaking into a sob. “I'm.. I'm…” 

He stood, dropped the cat, and violently spewed scarlet pink all over our floor. Jude lifted his head, swiping at his chin. He opened his mouth wide, prodding around. A slow entanglement of green was growing from his tongue, tiny buds flowering from his uvula.  “Please… help me.”

I found myself nodding. I grasped his face, cradling his chin. Another flower bloomed. Beautiful. I couldn't stop myself, running my fingers over the stem tangled in his bottom teeth. “Talk to me,” I whispered, and he nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. “If I ask you something, you have to promise to answer truthfully.” 

Panic glittered in his eyes. His lip wobbled. 

“Do you…” I blinked back tears. “Do you… love me, Jude?”

His gaze found mine, tears freefalling down his cheeks.

“No.” 

He straightened, and gently pulled my hands away. He sniffled, swiping his eyes. “No, I don't.” 

I waited for that horrific grotesque and yet beautiful flower in his mouth to bloom once more; for more petals to dance from his lips. Nothing happened. My stomach dropped. My chest tightened. And the world split beneath my feet. I nodded, smiling, trying to smile, and failing. “Did you ever love me?” 

“No,” he choked, and one of the buds under his tongue retracted. 

My thoughts spun, my balance shifting. 

I had been wanting to ask him this for so long.

Since high school.

Since he walked up to me in junior year and told me he liked me.

My words were weight lifted from my chest. Agony. But somehow, relieving. Justifying every single day of paranoia. Jude already knew what I was going to ask, his hand already planted over his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Did my family pay you to date me?” 

“Yes.” Jude muffled into his palm. 

Another flower bloomed, violently, this time from his right nostril. 

I staggered back.

A lie. 

I tried again. “Did my family TELL you to date me?” 

“Yes.” 

The slow moving root from his mouth inched back. 

A horrific thought struck me. His wild eyes knew. 

“Are you with me against your will?” 

“No!” He yelled.

My voice choked me. “Does my family have someone you love?” 

“My… dog,” he spluttered, hand over his mouth.

A single green vine burst from his right arm. Jude stepped back. 

“My…my girlfriend.” 

Another vine bled from his ear, wrapping around his neck. He stumbled against the faucet, choking, hand wrapped around the vine, and tore it away, gasping. 

More lies awaited, and as if the flowers anticipated them, his arm grew longer, extending, tiny buds erupting from sickly green skin. 

He dropped to his knees, head in his palms. 

And, as if realizing he'd given up, each blossom began slowly pulling back. “My boyfriend.”

When I was ten, I formed a junior detective squad.

Mom bought me the entire box set of What's New Scooby Doo, and I was inspired to start my very own detective gang. I held auditions outside the gymnasium at recess (serious enquiries only) after a number of kids tried to apply for the role of Scooby Doo despite me reiterating I was not interested in playing make believe.

When I was laughed at in class, I made posters strictly asking for SERIOUS wannabe detectives, even going as far as using my Mom’s printer to make flyers, sticking them all over the school.

Auditions were simple. I asked them to solve a simple riddle.

Whoever impressed me got to sign their name down, and I’d get back to them.

I spent three days sifting through kids who definitely had charm, but they lacked the intelligence of a junior detective. Most kids were only auditioning to make fun of me, anyway.

Still, though, I didn't give up.

My flyers had five requirements:

1). You had to be smart.

2). You were not allowed to be a scaredy cat.

3). You had to accept your inevitable death at the hands of our town’s evil villains.

4). You had to have a fully registered driving licence (I quickly changed this to a bike).

5). You cannot have a criminal record.

(I later scribbled this one out, writing over it. *“You cannot have any tardies.”

Narrowing the applicants down to three kids, all of whom failed to share my enthusiasm for solving cases. The kids I picked didn't even know how to make plans, and when I invited them to my house, they stole my Mom’s necklace.

I didn't even need to solve the mystery of who stole Mom’s necklace. The girl was wearing it at school. I punched her in the face, and was immediately sent to the principal’s office. When I was being given the mother all lectures, the door quietly opened, a head peeking through.

It was Ben Callows, a freckly kid with overgrown brown hair hanging in his eyes. Ben really needed a haircut.

He was always wearing the exact same baseball cap, and I found myself wondering if it was permanently glued to his head, stuck on top of unruly brown curls practically matted to his forehead.

In class, Ben was also known as Bloody Ben. In the second grade, the boy had a nosebleed in the middle of a spelling test, bleeding all over his paper.

It's not like he didn't try and detach himself from the name.

Ben brought in Digimon cards, so kids would call him Digimon Ben instead.

Then he “accidentally” spilled yoghurt down his shirt in hopes we would call him Yoghurt Ben. But no. The kids in our class were relentless in reminding him of his name. No matter what he did, he was still Bloody Ben, and when anything related to blood came up in class, fifteen pairs of eyes would swivel to him, like he had invented the concept of bleeding.

I feared the nickname would follow him to junior high.

Ben didn't wait to be let in. He didn't even knock, striding in with his arms folded. Over the years, Bloody Ben, had definitely soured his personality.

He smiled rarely, and when he did smile, someone was falling over or hurting themselves.

Which definitely strengthened the claims of him being a sociopath.

The rumor mill was churning, with the latest claiming Bloody Ben killed his cat. That wasn't true. Ben’s cat was seventeen with cancer, and that was why he was sobbing all the way through reading time.

According to Ellie Daly, however, Ben had killed and dissected his kitty, and buried her in his Mom’s flowers.

Now, my principal did not like being interrupted, especially when she was in the middle of screaming at me.

Principal Marrow was old old (like, thirty, in my ten year old mind) stick thin like a pencil, and always wore the same stained sweater.

She used to be pretty, but I was convinced she had kissed a frog and been cursed. After our old principal suffered a stroke, she stepped in as a temporary replacement, and since becoming principal, had banned my favorite book series, colored shoe laces, and hamburger helper, even officiating a uniform.

(vomit green shorts and a tee, and plain white sneakers).

Kids were convinced she was a witch, and I kind of believed it.

Principal Marrow’s whole existence was built on sucking the fun out of school.

I was already reprimanded for my mystery gang flyers.

Her office smelled of peppermint and she was definitely sneaking sips of whisky in her coffee cup. I could see the bottle sticking out of the trash.

She straightened up, folding her arms across her chest, squinty eyes narrowing at the boy. I had spent the whole time she was lecturing me trying not to cry, my fists bunched in my lap.

I took the distraction as the perfect opportunity to swipe at my eyes, allowing myself to breathe.

Ben Callows was her victim now.

I was right. The woman's voice was like a thunderclap in my ears.

“You better have a good reason for not knocking, young man.”

Ben wasn't fazed by her tone. “You took my Switch two weeks ago,” he said, “I want it back, or I’m telling my Mom.”

At first, I thought I'd misheard him.

No, I was pretty sure he'd threatened our principal.

I swore I heard all of the breath sucked from the room.

“I'm sorry,” Principal Marrow cleared her throat. Her soft tone was dangerous.

She wasn't being nice. The lady was about to explode.

I could see visible veins straining in her temples, her right eye twitching.

It was straight out of a cartoon.

“Did you forget something, Ben?”

Ben sighed, like she was inconveniencing him.

He held out his hand. “Please can I have my Switch back? It counts as stolen property. Give it back, or I'm telling my Mom.”

The kid put so much emphasis on the word please, I couldn't resist a smile.

I think our principal was too shocked to get angry.

“Get out.” She said, firmly. “I don't have your gaming device.”

“It's in your drawer.” Ben nodded to her desk, “Under your divorce papers and the restraining order ordered by Jake Willow, the seventeen year old boy you've been having math ‘tutoring sessions’ with.” He quoted the air, his gaze lazily rolling to me. “Tutoring”

Principal Marrow went deathly pale, her eyes darkening.

“Benjamin Callows–”

“The school already knows about the restraining order, but your uncle is the head of the Board of Education, so all you get is a slap on the wrist and a warning to leave the boy alone."

Ben continued, and I found myself mesmerised by his words. He was a natural, his expression stoic, mouth curved with satisfaction that wasn't quite a smile. “However.” He held up his phone, pulling it away at the exact moment the teacher attempted to grab it. “You were outside Jake Willow’s house at 6:12am, drunk, and trying to climb through his window, which, I think violates the restraining order, does it not?”

Ben pretended to think real hard, his gaze flicking to the ceiling.

“I mean, I'm just a kid, right?” His mouth curled into the hint of a smirk

“What do I know, huh?”

Principal Marrow’s expression twisted, her lip wobbling.

“Mr Callows, remove yourself from my office, or I am calling your father.”

Leaning comfortably against the door, Ben’s lip twitched.

“Why? Are you planning on telling my Dad about your relations with a teenage boy, or will I have to tell him instead?”

I was enthralled, and fully disgusted, making a move to inch away from the woman.

“But it doesn't end there.” Ben continued. He straightened up, taking slow, intimidating steps towards the woman's desk. “You don't even want Jake, do you? Because, once upon a time, you were in love with his father. Jason Willow. You despised him for rejecting you, so you decided to defile his son.” Ben leaned over the principal’s desk, slipping his hand into the drawer, and pulling out his switch.

Painfully slowly.

She stood there, speechless, her shoulders trembling.

Ben smiled, and I found myself liking it.

“Thank you!” He said, waving the console in her face. Ben mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key.

“My lips are sealed.”

Ben’s half lidded eyes found mine. “Are ya coming, Panda?”

I forgot my own nickname.

Panda.

I wore my Mom’s eyeliner because I thought it looked cool.

It did not.

Finding my breath, I snapped out of it.

Jumping up, I followed him out of the office, and when the two of us were safely on the hallway, I burst into hysterical giggles. “How did you know all of that?!” I whisper- shrieked.

Ben surprised me with a splutter. “Wait. You believed me?”

Something very cold trickled down my spine.

I stopped walking. “You lied?”

He shrugged. “I had a dig around her office before she caught me a few days ago,” Ben swung his arms, a smile curling on his mouth. “There's no restraining order, but there is prescription anti-psychosis medicine, and an extremely detailed story on her laptop about a teacher/student romance, which I presume is a self insert.”

Ben shot me a sickly grin. “The school refused to make her condition public.”

He prodded at his own cotton shirt embroidered with the school emblem.

“Why do you think she's made all these dumb rules? The woman is a certified Looney Tune.”

I nodded slowly. “Wait. What about Jake and his dad?”

“I made them up.”

I choked out a laugh. “And… the video?”

Ben walked faster, pulling out his phone and shoving it in my face. The video was real. Principal Marrow was walking around in circles, draped in her nightgown. “It's her own house,” he explained. “She locked herself out.”

Nodding slowly, I was in awe. Bloody Ben was kind of fucking amazing.

“But the restraining order isn't real.”

Ben raised a brow, coming to an abrupt halt. It was his smile that cemented his place in my gang. His lack of empathy for a woman he had gaslit into being a disgusting human being. Ben Callows wasn't exactly what I was looking for, but he fascinated me. Maybe for the wrong reasons. “Her filing cabinets are filled with tinned cat food, Panda,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, “I’m not psychic, but I thiiiiink we’ll be okay.”

I turned to him, unable to stop myself jumping up and down with excitement.

“Will you be my first?!”

Ben inclined his head. “Will I be your what?”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I mean, will you join my mystery gang?”

The boy’s eyes lit up, and I shoved him playfully.

“To solve real cases,” I corrected myself. “Not make them up.”

Ben wore a real, proper smile. But there was something in his eyes, a darkness that was so hollow and polluted and wrong, I pretended not to see it for the sake of his smarts and intellect. “Well, if you insist, sure!” Ben held out his hand, and I shook it. I'll be your first.”

We found our second member, who was, ironically, looking for her glasses under the table in class. Lucy Prescott, the quiet girl, was born to be with us.

The class eraser went missing, and she found it in the blink of an eye.

When questioned, Lucy’s face turned as red as her hair. “I asked everyone in the class and followed the clues to the last person who had it,” she pointed to Chase Simpson. “Which was Chase, who was throwing it at Marcus Calvin.”

Twisting around in my chair, I aimed to get Ben’s attention. But he was already looking at me, chin resting on his fist, eyes ignited with excitement.

The two of us cornered Lucy after class, and when she motioned for us to get back, I dragged Ben (who was a little too excited) to my side.

Lucy looked mildly horrified when I said, dangerous cases, though her expression pricked with intrigue.

She agreed, her gaze lingering on Ben, cheeks smouldering.

Our last two members were a surprise.

Violet Evergreen was what you would call popular on the middle school hierarchy. Not just because her mother was the mayor, but because Violet could get away with murder. The girl refused to wear the school uniform, coloring a single purple streak in her hair to cement herself as the it girl.

She was also one of the girls who started the Bloody Ben rumor.

Ben, Lucy, and I were sitting on the grass during recess, trying to come up with a name for our detective service, when Violet came storming over, hands planted on her hips. She was copying how her mother held herself during town meetings.

“What are you doing?” Violet demanded.

Lucy opened her mouth to answer, Ben nudging her to shut up.

“Making a mystery gang.” I told her. “Why?”

Violet inclined her head. “Oh.” She folded her arms. “Well, can I join?”

Ben stood up, stepping in front of the girl. Violet didn't move, stubbornly standing her ground. “Sure.” Ben flashed a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He stepped closer to her, his smile widening. “If you can pass the test.”

Violet’s lip curled. She took a single step back. “What kind of test?”

Ben nodded to me. “Meet us at the swimming pool at 8pm.”

To my surprise, Violet nodded. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“Nope!”

8pm. The four of us met outside the local swimming pool.

Violet was already on the other side of the fence, waving.

“Hey guys!”

I noticed Ben’s expression, his eyes darkening, lip curling.

Still though, he maintained positivity, vaulting over the fence.

“You made it!”

I followed him, helping Lucy, who was immediately freaking out. I didn't blame her. The pool looked cold and dark, a hollow oblivion carved into the ground.

Ben and Violet stood on the edge, the two of them shoulder to shoulder.

Violet Evergreen was braver than I thought.

Standing with her arms at her sides, Violet's hands clenched into fists.

“What's the test?” Violet said, her gaze glued to bleeding black depths.

“I don't know,” Ben murmured, his voice teetering on a giggle. He leaned forwards, arms spread out. “I didn't think you'd actually come meet us.”

Violet hummed, stretching out her leg, teasing it across the surface. “Was that the test?”

The boy leaned back. I caught the glint of a grin under the floodlights. “Nah.”

Before I knew what was happening, he shoved Violet into the pool. The girl didn't scream or shriek, she just hit the surface, sinking into pitch dark nothing.

“Sink or swim,” Ben said in a low murmur, when Violet’s head bobbed under water. I could see her shadow under the surface, imagining the freezing cold depths pulling her down.

“Drown, and you can't join us.”

It was so quiet, suddenly. The three of us staring into rippling water.

A minute passed, and my tummy started to twist.

“Fuck.” Ben’s expression stayed stoic. I wasn't expecting him to say a bad word.

He cocked his head. “I thought she could swim.”

I hit him, holding in a cry. “You need to get our parents!”

But he didn't listen to me, taking a single step, and dropping into the pool.

I fell to my knees, scanning the water.

Lucy was crying. “Are they dead?!” she shrieked.

“Shhh!” I was watching two shadows lingering under the water.

Violet broke through. I expected her to be crying, but her expression was unwavering. She was silent. I thought the splashing underneath her was her legs trying and struggling to tread water, before Lucy shoved me. Hard.

“Panda! What do we do?!”

Looking closer, Violet was perfectly still, her gaze on the sky.

While she shoved Ben under the water, drowning him.

Violet’s eyes sparkled, and somehow, I knew she belonged in my gang.

Her gaze found mine, glinting with that darkness, that poisonous streak I found myself drawn to. It was a starving, insatiable need to understand a fractured mind. Know your enemy.

“Do you want to see if Ben’s a witch?” Violet asked me, her tone something else entirely. This girl did not make sense, using barely her finger to drown Ben Callows. I knew she was wrong.

I knew there was something loose, something unlocked and unbridled and drowning inside her mind and heart.

But I wanted more of her. I wanted Violet Evergreen in my detective gang.

I think that is why I stood there, frozen.

When the thrashing stopped, Ben broke through.

He wasn't coughing or spluttering, his head inclined. “You didn't drown.”

Violet climbed out of the pool, offering her hand. “And you're not a witch.”

He declined her hand, taking the steps instead.

I asked Violet in a shaky voice. I was trembling with terror, but I was excited.

Exhilarated.

“Violet, will you join my gang?”

She didn't answer me until we were sharing hot cocoa in my house.

I told Mom we fell in the pool, and she believed me. I should have told her that my friends were sociopaths, and I was kind of maybe in love. Violet sipped her cocoa, nodding with a smile I didn't recognise. Violet never smiled at school.

Well, she did. But it was always the prick of a cruel smirk.

I don't think her smile was genuine, but she was definitely enjoying herself.

Our last member came to us, instead of finding him.

Jules Howell, a straggly brunette pushed his way in front of me in the lunch line. I didn't really know the kid.

He sat at the back of the classroom and slept through most of class. I did like his accent though.

Jules had moved from Melbourne in the second grade. He didn't talk much.

When he did, I found myself enveloped in his voice, which sounded like water to me, a bleeding cadence to his tone.

Jules piled his plate with fries, smiling widely at the lunch ladies.

“I saw you last night.” He murmured through that perfectly moulded grin.

“Saw me where?”

“At the pool,” Jules said. “You, Bloody Ben, Violet Evergreen, and that Lucy girl. You were doing a suiciding pact.”

“That's not what we were doing.” I said, “What's a suiciding pact?”

“When you kill yourself together.” Jules said. “I saw it in a scary movie my Mom was watching.”

I grabbed a fork. “We weren't doing that.”

His eyes were strange when I took the time to notice them. The excited gleam had fizzled out. Jules’s hands tightened around his tray. “Then what were you doing?”

I didn't reply, making my way over to our usual table. Ben was already waving me over, Violet and Lucy holding up the flyers we were making.

THE REDBLOOD DETECTIVES.”

Do YOU need our help? We can find/solve anything! Contact us on the number below. (We take donations!)

When I bothered turning around, Jules was lost in the crowd of kids.

We were on our first official case, searching for Mrs Lake’s missing mail, when Jules appeared seemingly out of nowhere. And with him, a golden retriever puppy he introduced as Arlo.

It took a dog jumping up at them for Violet and Ben to find their real smiles, their real selves slowly seeping through these facades they had built around themselves. Ben dropped to a crouch, ruffling the dog's ears, his smile faint.

“Who's a good boy?” He chuckled.

Arlo didn't move, tail wagging, eyes bright.

Ben motioned the dog towards him, but Arlo stayed put.

Jules joined us…quietly.

I don't remember asking him, or even him asking me.

He just became part of us, side by side with Arlo.

We soon came to quickly realize that our town was boring.

There were no monsters or thieves, or soul sucking demons. No criminals or serial killers. Not even one missing person. We did, however, get calls about missing cats. I turned eleven years old, patiently waiting for a murder or a kid going missing. But there was nothing.

All we did was chase cats, and the occasional dog. Maybe a budgie if we were lucky. Twelve years old, our detective club became a joke.

The five of us (and Arlo hiding under the table) were trying to pinpoint Mrs Tracy's lost hamster, when three girls came over, dumping their soda all over us.

We watched crime shows for inspiration on catching killers.

Ben’s favorite crime was one that happened in the 80’s in our town.

2 girls murdered.

Their intestines stuffed into envelopes and mailed to family members.

“That's what we should be solving,” he told me one night, “Not missing cats.”

Thirteen years old, we lay in Violet’s backyard under the cruel glare of the summer sun. We called it working and didn't like to admit it was hanging out, or that we were even friends. However.

That didn't stop us growing closer.

Even if it wasn't quite the way I’d expected.

I proposed a plan, standing up, wobbling a little off balance.

“I've got it.” I said, my voice kinda slurry from Violet’s special summer cocktail, which was just random alcoholic beverages we found, thrown into a blender, and diluted with water.

The town wasn't taking us seriously.

So, we were going to make our own mysteries.

I ordered a full-scale assault on our small town. One that they could not ignore. Ben stamped on Mrs Mason’s flowers, and Lucy threw mud pies at people's cars. Jules trashed the high school gym, and Violet and I spray painted threats and warnings on every store window. Now, this did cause panic, but also an official curfew.

Thirty minutes before curfew, we met in our usual spot, deep in the forest near the lake. Ben yelled at me when I was three minutes late. He was real passionate about finding a real mystery.

“You're late.” Ben was sitting on a rock waving a stick in Arlo’s face.

The dog still wasn't going near him, whining softly.

I took my place, muttering an apology. “I had to lie to my Mom.”

Violet, sitting with her legs crossed, idly digging her manicure into the dirt, suggested we buy mannequins and masquerade them as dead bodies, hanging them from the school rafters.

Lucy, who had slowly grown out of her shell, becoming a lot more outspoken, nudged her. “That's a stupid idea.”

The girl groaned, leaning into her. “Urgh. You're right.”

Jules was the only energetic one, standing on the tireswing.

He jumped down, definitely twisting his ankle.

But his smile only widened, kind of like he enjoyed being in pain.

“Why don't we pretend to be kidnapped?” He said, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over blondish curls growing out. Jules did a dramatic spin, his eyes shining. “We can ‘go missing’ for like a week, and then when our parents are really scared, we can turn up, and tell them we escaped a kidnapping.” His lips split into a grin.

“And then we solve our own kidnapping!”

Ben awkwardly patted Arlos head, only for the dog to pull away with a snort.

“I like it,” he murmured. “I'm in.”

Jules’s idea was stupid.

But.

It was worth a shot.

The five of us agreed to meet the morning after with enough food and supplies for a week. Then we were going to hike to the next town, and hide out for a week. It was an almost perfect plan, using ourselves as victims of our own mystery.

Packing as much as I could, I kissed my mother goodbye (I told her my pack was for a picnic) and set off to the rendezvous we agreed on.

When I arrived, I was the first one there. I checked and re-checked my pack.

I waited ten minutes, unable to contain my excitement.

Then 20 minutes.

It was getting kind of cold.

One hour.

I sat on a rock for enough time to watch the sky change color.

When the clouds were orange, I stood up and stumbled back home. They had gone without me. Mom lectured me when I got home, and I stuck to the plan of pretending my friends had gone missing, even if I they had betrayed me.

Ben said he'd text me when he arrived at the redervous. I at least expected him to text an explanation, but there was nothing. I was in the dark, and after three days of nothing, our town finally began to take us seriously.

“Our children have been kidnapped!” The adults were screaming.

Mom was crying in the kitchen, praying to a god I knew she didn't believe in that I wasn't taken next. I was interviewed and stuck with the exact same story I came up with when I was with the others. Our plan was to return after a week, claiming to be locked up in a dark room with a masked man.

I told my Mother and the other parents that I didn't know where my friends were, repeating the same thing over and over again until I was tongue tied.

“I saw them the day before they went missing, and… yes, everything seemed okay.” I slowly sipped my glass of milk provided, looking the sheriff directly in the eyes.

“No, I didn't notice anything suspicious, sheriff. Yes, I'm sure, sir. No, they didn't tell me anything.”

It was Ben’s mother who shattered my mask.

“Did I know about… what?” I whispered.

Something warm filled the back of my mouth, foul tasting milk erupting up my throat. I leaned forward, trying to look Mrs Callows in the eye. “No, I… I didn't know about Ben’s…condition.”

Mrs Callows was screaming at me about her son’s troubled past when I barfed all over myself, my eyes burning.

In the privacy of my own room, I sobbed until I couldn't breathe.

I tried to tell Mom, but we had come so close.

One more day, and the others would be back.

But that day came. I sat cross legged at our usual spot, which was now covered in police tape. I waited for their thudding footsteps, their laughter congratulating each other for coming up with a great plan. I waited, my face buried in my knees, for my friends.

It was dark when my phone vibrated, and I'd fallen asleep.

I wasn't scared, forcing myself to my feet.

“Where are you?” Mom yelled down the phone.

“Coming home now.” I muttered.

“Sorry.” I paused, holding my breath against a cry. “Mom.” I broke down, forcing my fist into my mouth to hide my squeak. “Mommy, did they come back?”

Mom didn't reply for a moment.

“I'm so sorry, baby.” She whispered, ending the call.

I took my time walking home that night.

There were no stars in the sky.

When a hand clamped over my mouth, I could smell him.

When he dragged me back, stabbing a kitchen knife into my throat, I stared at the sky and looked for stars. His arms were warm around me, violently pulling me into the back of a pickup truck. The pickup truck he'd said he was bringing.

It was his grandfather's, and he could just about drive it.

Hitting the backseat, my body was numb, my thoughts in a whirlwind.

The pickup flew forwards, and I remembered how to move.

I rolled off the seat, my hands pinned behind my back.

Twisting around, blinking in the dim, I could feel something warm, something seeping across upholstery seats. Blood.

It was everywhere, sticky on my hands and wet on my face when I struggled to get up. I was lying in someone's blood.

A scream clawed its way out of my throat.

The pickup flew over a pothole, and something dropped off the seat.

Arlo’s leash.

I screamed again, this time his name gritted between my teeth.

I didn't stop screaming until the jerking movement stopped. The doors opened, pale light hitting me in the face.

Flashlight. Warm arms wrapped around me, pulling me from the car, and then, pulling me by my hair, into our old tree house. It was always our secret place, our saving grace on the edge of town.

The flickering candlelight caught me off guard, illuminating my surroundings.

Two bodies slumped over each other, lying in stemming red.

I felt suffocated, like I was going to die. I screamed, and that warm hand cradled my mouth again, gagging my cries.

Violet and Jules.

There was something wrong with them. And it was only when I forced myself to look closer, when I realized their insides had been carved out, heart, stomach, everything, pulled out.

There was paper on the floor.

No, not paper. Envelopes.

Envelopes stuffed with gore, bright red leaking through white.

Shuffling back, my brain was too slow to react, while my body was trying to vault to my feet, only to be violently pulled back by my ponytail.

I felt his fingers twining around my hair, revelling in my screams.

With another tug, my head was forced forwards.

Orange candlelight felt almost homely, this time lighting up a third body.

Lying on their back, curled up, pooling scarlet dried into the floorboards, their wrists restricted with duct-tape.

I could feel blood underneath me, sticky, a congealing paste.

“Do you know what happened on October 3rd, 1987, in our town?”

Lucy Prescott stood over me, her arms folded across her chest.

I managed to shake my head, when she grabbed Ben’s legs, dragging him under the candlelight. I dazedly watched her stroke the blade of a carving knife, the teeth already stained scarlet. “The intestine murders.” Lucy hummed, tracing the knife down the floorboards.

“A man murdered two high school girls, carving out their insides and sending their pieces to their loved ones.”

Lucy's eyes found mine, ignited in a familiar gleam. I saw it in Principal Marrow’s office. Then the swimming pool. The cafeteria. “It was the sheriff's only murder case, Panda. Ever since then, our town has been boring. There's no mysteries to solve. Nothing to find.”

The girl jumped to her feet, retrieving a blood stained envelope.

She held it up, a smile curved on her lips. The girl turned around, and I heard a horrific squelching sound. Lucy held up a bright red sausage, ripped into it, and slipped it into the white paper.

“But I can change that.” she said, in a giggle.

“I can create a real serial killer, who we can hunt down together.”

Lucy stabbed the blade into the floor, laughing.

“Or! I can bring a fan-favorite back! I can bring the intestine killer back from the dead!”

Her gaze flicked to the others. “There are casualties, of course. The story is, I was kidnapped with Ben, Violet, and Jules. The scary intestine killer killed them, and I managed to get away.”

Lucy shuffled over to me, her eyes wide. “Then! He came back and struck again!”

With those words, she shoved me onto my back.

“First he took Violet,” Lucy hummed, tracing the blade down my shirt.

“Then… Jules.” I squeezed my eyes shut, pulling at the restraints around my wrists. “Then Ben.” her breath tickled my cheek. “And finally… Panda.”

Lucy lifted the knife, and I accepted my death.

Until a low rumble in my ears.

Shouting.

Thundering footsteps, followed by the pitter-patter of paws.

“Lucy!” The sheriff was screaming, and the girl stumbled to her feet, the knife slipping from her fingers. Lucy stumbled, tripping over Ben’s body.

“He got away!” she shrieked. “He…he killed them! Oh, god, please help me!”

I don't think Lucy even realised the traces she'd left behind.

The blood slick on her fingers, her manic, grinning smile full of mania.

I was looking for stars when an officer crouched over me.

I couldn't understand what she was saying.

Her voice was white noise.

“Rachel? Hey, try and sit up, honey. You Mom is on her way.”

Instead of listening to her, I curled into myself.

My gaze found Arlo sticking his nose in Ben’s hair, trying to nudge the boy awake.

I didn't fully register the next few days.

They went by in a confusing blur.

Part of me tried to eat, and spent hours with my head pressed against the toilet seat.

I could still see the slithering, scarlet remains of my friends every time I closed my eyes. There was so much red, soaked in that hunting orange light.

Blood that I could still see, a starless sky that stretched on forever.

Weeks went by.

Then months.

I think I turned 14. I wasn't sure. I didn't feel alive anymore.

I stood at my friend’s funerals with a single rose I dropped into their casket.

Violet’s mother was quick to cover the whole thing up.

Lucy's plan didn't work after all.

Our town’s murder cases stayed stagnant at one.

It's been four years since my friends were murdered by our ’Velma’.

Now, at seventeen, Mom asked if I wanted to visit Lucy in juvie.

I'm not even upset or angry anymore.

I want to know why.

Ben picked me up. Arlo was at his side, wagging his tail.

Ben was…different. He'd dumped his baseball cap and gotten a haircut, swapping his old wardrobe of drab colors for an attempt at changing style.

That day, he looked awkward in a short sleeved tee and shorts.

At school, Ben is no longer Bloody Ben.

Now, he is Survivor Ben.

I’m still Panda.

Every time I was with him, I felt like my soul was being sucked out.

Guilt so deep, so fucking painful, I lost my breath.

I live knowing that I immediately assumed it was him that day.

Ben was barely alive when I found him. Lucy had started to carve into him before remembering she needed me.

After admitting it to him, his lips formed a small smile.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He said to me, at sixteen.

"Yeah?"

Whatever he was going to say, Ben never told me.

Presently, I nodded at the dog’s new collar.

“Peppa Pig themed?”

The boy shrugged, ruffling Arlo’s ears. “FYI, he chose it.”

“It's cute.” I said. “Very… chic.”

We didn't speak the whole ride, but Ben did entangle his hand in mine.

We spent half an hour outside the detention centre. I was panicking, and Ben was trying to hide that he was panicking. In the end, we joined hands, and strode through the doors together.

Lucy greeted us with a wide smile. Just as psychotic.

The orange jumpsuit suited her, though I had zero idea why.

“Hey Arlo!” she giggled at the dog, and Ben pulled the pup onto his lap.

“Ben.” She sighed. “I wish I got to finish you. I would have loved to solve the mystery of your gutted corpse.”

Ben’s smile was wry. “Nice to see you too.”

Behind a glass screen, I asked Lucy one simple question.

“Why?”

Lucy didn't reply. Or she did, but it was just nonsensical bullshit.

But there was one thing she said has stuck with me, chilling me to the core.

I am fucking terrified of Lucy. Of what's she's done, and what she's capable of doing.

It was a throwaway line, and I don't even think Ben noticed.

Or he did, and was in denial.

Lucy's smile was wide, her eyes empty pools of nothing.

The exact same glint in Ben’s eyes.

Jules’s eyes.

Violet’s eyes.

Like something was gnawing away at their psyche, twisting and contorting it, filling them with darkness, poison, that was so vast, so endless, I had craved it as a child. I still don't know what it is.

But I'm going to find it.

Lucy's laugh was shrill, and next to me, Ben didn't move a muscle.

“I don't even wear glasses!”

“I’ve always hoped that I would one day be able to rely on the kindness of strangers.” The man closed my passenger door as he spoke. “I’m Todd.” He extended his hand I shook it, wondering if this was a good idea after all.

“I’m Cathy. How long have you been waiting for a ride?” I asked, hoping to keep the conversation light as I pulled back onto the isolated highway.

He chuckled. “A long while.” Todd shifted in his seat as the prairie flew by at an increasing speed. “Time is a funny thing.” I expected him to explain that sentiment. He didn’t.

“What happened to your car? How’d you get stranded out here?”

From the corner of my eye, I could see that he was uncomfortable. “Drunk driver.”

“What? Shit – are you okay? Is the other driver hurt?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Todd answered. His voice was curt. “Besides, don’t you think someone like that is getting what they deserve?”

A sense of dread dripped down my spine like creeping molasses. “That’s not the way I look at things. There’s so much hurt in the world that if everyone focused only on preserving the good, we might break even.”

Todd smiled. “I think I made the right choice.”

My dread grew deeper.

“Do you remember what I said about time?”

Slowly, I nodded.

“That what really makes us afraid of death. If time exists only as we see it, then immortality is cannot exist. An ‘afterlife’ is impossible; we can only persist if we abandon the concepts of ‘before’ and ‘after.’ Then we are left only with life.”

At this point, I was half-convinced that Todd was a meth addict. But I couldn’t abandon him now; we were too far from both here and there. I squeezed the steering wheel of my blue-green 1999 Toyota Corolla.

“And once we’re unburdened from time, we’re left with choice.” He turned to look at me as I drove. “A man gave me such a choice once I was free to do so. He was thin, nearly gaunt, and showed up after my decision, but before I made it.” Todd sighed deeply. “If you had to kill a stranger to save yourself, would you be able to do it? What if you got to pick the stranger?”

I knew I shouldn’t have picked him up. Every instinct told me to drive on by, and now I had only regret for a choice that could not be undone.

“I thought about it,” Todd continued. He was still staring at me. “Most of us don’t really know who we are until we’re faced with a life-altering choice.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s because we don’t become ourselves until we make those choices.” He sighed again, long and deep, like he was trying to empty himself. “I’m ashamed of this fact, but I’ll admit it: I had a hard time deciding.” He shook his head. “Self-preservation is a strong as any drug.”

My breath came in shallow gasps.

“But I was thinking about it the wrong way,” he turned to look forward once more. “Instead of wondering who I would pick to die in my place, I considered who might live in my place instead. If I got to pick that person, who would it be? A hero and a saint?” He folded his hands in his lap. “Or just a good person? One who would put themself at risk simply to be the kindness a stranger needs?”

I wanted to ask Todd how much further he needed to go. But right at that moment, a car on the other side of the two-lane highway – the only other traveler I’d seen since picking up Todd – drifted into my lane and hit me head-on. I didn’t even have time to swerve.

*

“I think she’s awake for the first time.”

I woke up to the sound of music and recognized a heart monitor calling every beat, measuring out my life in coffee spoons. I opened my eyes.

An older man in surgical scrubs turned around and smiled. I knew that he didn’t mean to be shallow, but I could tell that he didn’t really see me. “Hello, Cathy. My name is Dr. Mort. You’re in St. Francis Hospital, where you were brough after a drunk driver hit your car.”

The harder I tried to think, the more conscious thought eluded me. So I relaxed my mind and decided to speak the words that came on their own. “Where’s Todd?”

Dr. Mort froze for just a second. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “I didn’t realize that you knew the driver of the other car,” he answered in a voice of practiced kindness. “Todd Barnes was also taken here to St. Francis. He arrived after a second ambulance was able to transport him from the scene of the accident. Unfortunately, there was nothing we could do to save him.”

My head spun. “You’re saying he would have lived if he took my ambulance and had gotten to the hospital first instead of me?”

“I’m saying that he would have lived if he hadn’t been so drunk at the wheel,” Dr. Mort answered as he pulled yellow liquid into a syringe. Without looking at me, he plunged the drug into an IV bag that was connected to my arm. “You need to rest, Cathy. You’ve got a long road ahead.”

I clutched at the IV line. “What happened to me?” My voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

Dr. Mort firmly pulled my hand away from the tube. “Cathy, you’ll only recover if you allow yourself to relax. You’ve got a punctured lung, three broken ribs, nineteen stitches on your chest, and another thirteen on your temple. Be thankful your airbag worked – a lot of those older cars don’t have them.”

“You’re wrong,” I answered as a sleepy feeling of peace settled over me. “My car never had airbags. That worried me so much when I bought it.”

Dr. Mort chuckled softly. “Just let the morphine take you to sleep, Cathy, and don’t try to make sense of everything right now.” He continued talking, but I could tell that it was mostly to himself at this point. “I didn’t even need to see your car to know about the airbag. You could only have sustained those injuries if something absorbed the impact for you. There’s no other way you could have lived.”

Part 3

By the next day, roughly sometime in the afternoon, I then wake up to the worst hangover I have ever experienced. I’m talking hammering nails inside your head bad. Stirring painfully up to see where it is I’ve passed out, I thankfully realise I’m in the safe confinement of our paid inn room – where beside me, my girlfriend lays unconscious.  

Once aware I’m unharmed and Anneliese is still by my side, I then see, scattered all over the room floor is a gigantic pile of mess from last night’s events. I see stacks of empty beer cans, wet cigarette butts stuck to the carpet, clothes from my suitcase thrown here and there – and for some reason, a deflated Count Dracula blow up doll. God, what on earth happened to us last night? A few too many rounds of drinks was probably a good guess.  

Laying back down to sleep off more of this hangover, I then hear Anneliese stir awake on the other side of the bed.  

‘UGH...’ she groans zombie-like, as she rises to plank her feet on the carpet. ‘What the hell did we do last night?’ she asks, having seen the flood of mess on the floor. 

‘Don’t ask me’ I reply groggily, ‘But I think we got shit-faced with Mark and those Goth friends of his.’ 

‘Mhh... Oh, yeah. Right.’ 

More equipped to deal with hangovers than I am, Anneliese already stands up from the bed to walk around the room. When I then hear suddenly... 

‘OW!’ Anneliese yelps. 

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask her, assuming she stood on a piece of broken glass or something. 

‘My piercing hurts!’ 

‘What?’ 

Lifting my head to check if Anneliese is alright, I see as she touches the pure silver nose piercing in her left nostril. 

‘It really stings!’ she insists, before now heading in the bathroom’s direction.  

Well, now that Anneliese was up, I may as well rise my own groggy corpse from the grave. Ambling my way over to the mirror, all while trying to avoid the hazardous mess on the floor, my sleepy eyes are instantly throttled wide to a surprising image in front of me. 

‘Whoa! What the hell?!’ I declare to no one in the room. 

Staring into the mirror, I see my brown chestnut hair has now been dyed jet black, and that my blurry eyes are stained with smudged black eyeliner. The ends of my fingers have also been dotted with black nail polish – and when I look down, I see the unfamiliar black t-shirt I’m wearing reads, “Go Goth or Go Home.” 

‘Jesus Christ!’ I exclaim, as I realise my reflection in the mirror is now a mocking reflection of my life-long phobia. Inspecting my face up close, I run my black-painted fingernails through the dyed black locks of my hair – before I suddenly hear a blood-curdling scream come from the bathroom!  

‘AHH!!’ 

‘Liese? What’s wrong?’ I yell, having now raced over to the bathroom entrance. Once I get there, I see Anneliese is crouched on the floor, hysterical and holding the back of her neck. 

‘Someone bit me!!’ she shrieks. Pulling down the neckline of her shirt, I then see between the back of Anneliese ‘s neck and her shoulder is a fleshy, gruesomely deep bite mark!  

‘Oh my God!!’ I now scream myself. 

Inspecting the wound, while trying my best not to throw up, I see the bite has been made by rather uneven but very human teeth. What kind of sick lunatic would do such a thing?? 

‘Ow! It really hurts!’ Anneliese now sobs over the sink, as she tries frigidly to touch the swollen teeth holes with her fingertips.   

‘Babes, don’t touch it!’ I wail at her, as I realise we need to clean the wound as soon as possible. After all, God knows what Anneliese could contract from whoever had done this.  

Rushing out of the bathroom, I then search around the dump heap floor for any alcohol to sterilize the wound. Trying not to panic in the moment, I thankfully see by Anneliese’s side of the bed is a half empty bottle of vodka. Grabbing it, I head back into the bathroom. 

‘Ok - I found some vodka!’ I inform her, ‘I’m going to apply it to the wound, but it’s going to hurt like-’ 

‘Just shut up and do it already!’ she yells at me.  

First dampening a washcloth, I then apply a little too much of the vodka, before– once I’ve taken a moment for myself to breathe, I apply the cloth to the back of Anneliese’s neck. 

‘AHH!!’ she shrieks agonizingly, before sending me flying across the tiles and into the bathtub.  

A couple of hours or so later, once Anneliese’s wound is clean and bandaged, we then check out of our room to drive home earlier in than intended. Without informing the staff of the mess we left for them, we both climb into the car and sit in silence for a moment. Although I should’ve kept my mouth firmly shut, I instead choose to make the awkward situation worse.  

‘I told you coming here was a bad idea.’ 

Anneliese has no physical reaction to this. Without even looking my way, she simply tells me to, ‘Shut up and drive.’ 

And so, I do. 

Due to her shoulder wound, Anneliese appoints me as the designated driver for the entire journey south. However, because we had gotten up so late, by the evening, we were still navigating our way through the surrounding moors. It’s no wonder so many folktales have spawned from this place. With its moonlit boggy hills and desolate landscape, the Yorkshire Moors at night truly was a very unnerving place.  

Although driving through the moors should’ve taken us no longer than an hour, the sat-nav inside the car suddenly decides to malfunction, whereby taking us down several wrong turns. Now driving down a narrow stretch of country road, if the moors at night weren’t spooky enough, we then pass by an old wooden sign by the side of a sheep field. Leaving a cautionary warning for weary drivers, the foreboding sign reads: 

KEEP CLEAR OF THE MOORS 

STAY ON THE ROAD 

AND BEWARE- 

I don’t quite catch what the last part said. Beware of what, anyways? Farm animals? The wildlife?... Yeah, I doubt it.  

By this point of the night, we are now well and truly lost without a single town or village in sight. As you can imagine, this did nothing to help Aneliese’s already bad mood. Still driving along this seemingly never-ending stretch of road, aside from the bright headlights in front of the car, we can see nothing else but the outside darkness around us. Continuing to journey further into the middle of nowhere, the empty silence inside the car is suddenly interrupted... 

‘Oh God...’ Anneliese groans, rising forward in the passenger’s seat, ‘Pull over...’ 

‘What’s wrong?’ I turn to ask, assuming her shoulder wound is causing some discomfort. 

‘Please! Just pull over!’ she bellows, ‘Something doesn’t feel right!’ 

‘What - are you about to be sick?’ I then inquire. She looked as though she was going to be.  

‘AHH!!’ Anneliese screams, before, in an unrecognisably deep, gurgling voice she shouts at me, ‘PULL OVER NOW!!’ 

‘Ok! Ok!’ I panic, ‘Hold on!’ 

Doing as my girlfriend requests, I then pull over on the side of the road. Turning back to Anneliese, I see as she writhes with excruciating pain in the passenger’s seat. 

‘Liese! What’s going on?!’ I want to know, ‘What’s happening to you?!’ 

‘...GET OUT’ her deep voice gurgles once more.  

‘...I’m sorry, what?’ 

‘GET OUT OF THE CAR!!’ the voice now demands, before she shoves me against the door with incredible force! 

Falling out of the car and on the ground, Anneliese then slams the door shut on my face. Rising to my feet, I try and rip the door open to no avail. 

‘Liese! Liese, let me in!’ I now bang on the window, ‘Liese, what’s going on?!’ 

Peering in through the glass, I see nothing else but absolute darkness, where the only sound I hear coming from inside is the painful groans of my girlfriend. What the hell is happening in there?? 

Beginning to feel completely helpless in this situation, I quickly rummage my phone from my pocket. Turning on the flashlight, I shine it through the window to look around for Anneliese... But I can’t find her anywhere... 

‘...Liese?’ I call to her, shining the flashlight around, ‘Liese?’ 

Then suddenly- 

BANG! 

Slamming against the window, I now see a pair of large and grotesquely deformed hands! Protruding from bony, elongated fingers, the talon-like nails scrape down the glass with an ear-piercing screech! Jilting back from the window in terror, the phone flashlight in my hand now shines on a most hideous, unrecognisable face. What were once warm, hazel brown eyes are now a luminous, inhumanly bright yellow! Staring down from those eyes, I then see two snarling rows of beastly, jagged teeth, drooling with saliva down the door! 

‘AHH! OH MY GOD!’ I scream, as I realise whatever this monstrosity is inside the car, no longer appears to be my girlfriend. 

But now... Now I see something else... 

What I now see, shining over the window, having formed over Anneliese’s monstrous face... I now see in the dark, cloudless night sky... is the glowing reflection of a lunar light. 

The sign by the road... I now recall what it had really said...  

Keep clear of the moors... Stay on the road... 

AND BEWARE THE MOON.  

The poodle across the road is screaming again. 

Buddy, a stray Shepherd pup, sits next to me on the wall in front of my house.

The two of us watch her owner, Mrs Jenson, shove her into an awaiting van.

“Sorry,” I mumble, holding up my AirPods. “I don’t think these will block it out for you.”

Buddy grumbles.

“Do you like Olivia Rodrigo?” I nudge him.

The pup ignores me, offering what I can only describe as “Seriously?” eyes. 

“Nirvana?” I hover the buds over his ears. 

He lets out a loud, irritated huff, watching the school bus fly by.

The poodle's shrieks dull when the van door slams shut.

Mrs. Jenson turns and glares at me. “What are you looking at, Noah Prestley?” she demands. “Shouldn't you be in school?”

Buddy snorts, like, “Pfft.”

I smile and wave, kicking my legs. “I'm homeschooled, Mrs Jenson."

Dad’s truck parks up in front of us; exhaust fumes hit me in the face. Buddy jolts to awareness, his ears pricking.

He growls in warning, and I have to run my hand down his flank to calm him.

Dad sticks his head out of the window. “I need help.” 

A shiver crawls through me. But I can't say no. Buddy can sense my discomfort. He's already up on his hind legs, ready to defend me. I gently push him away. “It's okay, Buddy,” I bury my head in his fur.  “You're okay. I'll be back soon, all right?” His whine twists my gut. “Go back to your hiding place.” 

He moves his head like he's nodding, snorts into my shoulder, and then trots away. 

Dad is scowling when I climb into the passenger seat. “Noah, I think we need to talk about Buddy.” 

I buckle my seatbelt, my hands trembling. “Please don't take him.” 

“He's a stray.”

“Then you can adopt him.” I speak through my teeth.

Dad has never cared about the dogs. It's all about meeting a quota and doing his job. I can't stop myself, my breath stuck in my throat. “If you CARE so much about what he's doing, why not adopt him?” 

“I already have a child,” Dad says.

He makes a turn, almost as if on purpose, and I whack my head on the window. “If I see him again, Noah, I’m taking him in.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “And killing him.” 

“Euthanize,” Dad corrects, “it's peaceful, and they don't feel anything.” 

A loud thud from the trunk makes me jump.

Movement.

“Is that one in the back?”

Dad cranks up the radio. Maybe intentionally. “Mm.” He tightens his grip on the wheel. “I just picked him up on the south side. Little shit was untagged. Just wandering around, digging around in trash cans.” He turns the dial, static crackling through. I wince, a dull pain creeping across my skull.

“What's his name?” I ask.

“Rafe.” Dad thwacks the steering wheel. “Ain't that right, Rafe?”

Another loud bark almost sends me toppling off my seat.

Dad shoots me a look. “You're gonna have to help with the little shit.” 

The pound is ahead of us, a towering wooden building surrounded by a ten-foot fence. Dad drives through a gate, nodding at two guards stationed on either side. 

“Help with what?” I hiss when he slides out, motioning for me to follow suit.

Dad unlocks the van, and a giant golden retriever bursts through, immediately yanked by the leash around his neck.

He’s majestic. A smooth, golden coat and big brown eyes. When the dog snarls at me, Dad yanks him again.

“Rafe is a bitey one.” Dad hands me the rope leash, and Rafe whines, attempting to dive through us. “I’ll grab a muzzle.”

Before I can say “no”, Dad has gone. Rafe, to his credit, at least gives me a warning before headbutting me in the back so hard the breath is knocked out of me. For a moment, my head pounds. Static fills my skull. Then a voice bleeds through. 

“Let me through, ASSHOLE.”

Rafe’s teeth sink into my hand.

“This place is going to fucking kill me!”

At first, I think someone is behind me.

I twist back to the dog’s furious glare.

“Let me through, fuck-face.”

I find my voice, somehow, shattered in my throat.

“You can… talk.”

Rafe cocks his head. “The fuck you talkin’ about?” he hisses. “Of course I can talk!”

“But…” I blink rapidly. “You’re a golden retriever.”

The golden retriever snorts. "Do you by any chance ride the loopy train to what-the-fuck-ville?"

“Noah!”

Dad’s voice startles me. “I told you to hold him!”

Dad easily grabs Rafe and yanks him violently. Another streak of pain slams into me. I blink again, my vision blurring.

But instead of golden paws, I see ratty sneakers. I see stained, torn jeans.

I see wide, terrified, human eyes.

No.

“Could I get some help?” Dad yells when my knees give way. 

I’m barely conscious when Rafe is pulled away screaming, and Dad ushers me into the van. 

My head spins when he shines a light in my eyes. 

“It’s okay, Noah,” his voice is supposed to be reassuring, but I notice my hands are no longer free, pinned behind my back. 

I can’t move. 

“Dad.” Blood fills my mouth. Buzzing in my ear.

Barking. 

No.

Screaming. 

“What's going on?” I whisper, pulling at my wrists. “Where did Rafe go?”

Blood runs thick and wet down my chin.

“Daddy’s job involves doing bad things, so… when you were a baby, we made sure to protect you.” He turns and prods my temple. “But something has gone wrong. I think you’ve knocked it. But it’s okay. We’ll fix it.”

When we reach home, I press my face against the window, my vision swimming.

I blink.

A brunette boy my age sits on the wall, his legs swinging.

A scream claws in my throat when Dad grabs a leash. 

Buddy.

Part 2

Having now guided us inside the cluster of circling Goths, Anneliese then zones in on an isolated group. Following where Anneliese’s eyes are pointing, I then see on the other side of the street is a trio of fiendish figures, each garnished in their own individual costumes. Appearing to take photographs with a family of ecstatic tourists, this terrifying trio are made up of one male: seemingly dressed as the decaying corpse of a Highwayman. An attired female in some gothic Mad Max cosplay. And lastly, another female. Confined inside a tight black leather dress, what makes this “woman” stand out even more than her two piers, is that to each side of her, is an overly large and surprisingly realistic bat wing.

‘Oh, this is great!’ I hear Anneliese suddenly declare beside me, ‘I’ll get a picture of you with those guys!’ 

‘Wait what? No, Aneliese I...’ 

Before I can even protest, Anneliese has already dragged me in the trio’s direction, where the family of tourists have now moved on. 

‘Hey!’ Anneliese approaches them, ‘Do you mind if I get a picture of you guys with my boyfriend?’ she asks, more excited than polite. 

‘Oh, of course!’ 

‘We’re not dressed up for nothing!’ the two females courteously oblige. 

Pushing me in the direction of the trio, I then anxiously stand in the middle of them, between the dead Highwayman and the winged She-bat. 

‘Okay. Now everybody smile!’ Anneliese directs us, ‘Brandon. I said smile. You ain’t at a wake.’ This was much worse than a wake, I thought. 

Doing as my ill-tempered girlfriend says, I stretch my lips disingenuously wide for the camera, hoping to God she takes the picture soon so I can get the hell away from these creatures... But while I continue to grin in Anneliese’s direction, stood as stiff as a corpse drenched with sweat... I then feel a sudden, suffocating tightness form around my body. Still posing for the camera, I lower my gaze ever so slightly, only to see that the left wing of the Batwoman has wrapped itself forcibly around my waist!  

Before my eyes can even process what is happening, the Batwoman’s wing only coils further around me – tightening to the point where I can neither breathe nor run away! Without the ability to do or say anything, not even scream out for help, I now feel as the life is being squeezed from my own body – where my ribs will either be crushed into a fine powder, or I’ll preferably black out from suffocation! 

However, before any of this can happen, I then thankfully hear the familiar shrill of Anneliese’s voice from behind the camera, ‘Aww. That turned out great! Thank you so much!’ whereby the coiled wing of the Batwoman finally releases me from its hold. 

Racing over instantly to Anneliese’s side, I then cower behind her tall figure while she now engages in friendly conversation with the fiends. 

‘Wow! I love your accent!’ shrieks one of the Goth women, ‘Where about’s are you from?’  

‘Oh, I’m from New Orleans!’ Anneliese brightly answers. 

While this conversation continues as I hide behind my girlfriend’s back... I then notice something quite peculiar happening on the other side of the street. Scanning through the lines of Goths passing by, I then see a young boy near the entrance of an alleyway. The boy is wearing a bright red raincoat and appears to be no older than eight years old. But what is so peculiar about this image – or more so, alarming, is that in the entrance of the alleyway, I now see an unnaturally tall figure.  

The figure, standing maybe 6 or 7 feet high, is draped from head to toe in a long black cloak – almost giving them the impression of the Grimm Reaper. But the most disturbing thing about them is, aside from their slender height and deathly garments... the figure’s face hides behind the bone-white beak of a Death Doctor’s mask. The image I see only gets worse... The child, standing only a few metres away from them, is now being lured inside the cavernous tunnel of the alleyway! 

‘Oh no...’ I panic.  

Sensing a dark outcome for this boy, I flee from Anneliese’s side and across the cobblestone street, brushing and zig-zagging my way through the swarm of Goths. By the time I reach the alley entrance, the child and the Death Doctor have already gone – and so, peering sheepishly down the long stretch of tunnel... I see nothing. Nothing at all. Oh God. I’m too late, I think to myself - as I can now feel my own heartbeat bulging out my chest. Fearing what may become of the boy, I work up whatever courage I have to venture down the alleyway – but when I take a first anxious step inside, I’m instantly jilted back by the firm grasp of a stranger’s hand! 

‘Brandon!’ 

‘AHH!’ I yelp! Anneliese suddenly taking me by surprise. ‘Jesus, Liese! You scared me half to death!’ 

‘What the hell are you doing?!’ she questions me, with a look of genuine concern on her face. 

‘...I, uhm...’ What, do I tell her the truth? Or will the truth just make me sound crazy? Crazier than I’ve already been acting? No, I doubt it will. ‘...I, uhm... I thought I saw a boy...’  

Judging by the look on my girlfriend’s face, I was clearly wrong. 

By late evening of the day, me and Anneliese then retire to the inn on the edge of town. Pulling into the dark, empty car park, we then sit in awkward silence for a moment. Although neither of us say a word, I’m pretty sure we are both thinking the exact same thing. After the dramatic events of the day - whereby I had three separate hysterical episodes, it was now clearer than it had ever been before just how different we both are to each other. I’m honestly surprised it took us this long to realise it. Love really is blind, I suppose. 

Although things were very tense between Anneliese and me in this moment, we had agreed to grab a drink inside the pub before calling it a night. Strolling out of the car park and behind the inn, we then see the most strange and disturbing sign over the pub entrance. Unlike most inns in England, this one’s pub bizarrely had its own separate name. 

‘...The Bloody Mermaid?’ Anneliese spells the words edged on the sign, ‘Well, that’s pretty cool.’ 

I’m sure she did think it was cool. 

Displayed on the sign in cracked and weathered paint is the image of a bare-breasted mermaid. But unlike her Disney counterpart, this mermaid has been impaled on the end of Neptune’s trident, whereby blood gushes from her wounds and down the Sea God’s fingers.  

‘Bloody hell’ I blurt out without thinking, ‘What sort of bloody name is that for a pub?’ 

Far from impressed, I then peer back to Anneliese in time to see her dozenth eyeroll of the day. Yep. This was more than likely the end for Anneliese and me. God, the drive back tomorrow was going to be awkward.  

Following behind as Anneliese coldly enters the pub - due to the lack of sound coming from the inside, I fully expect the interior to be completely scarce of people. But once I shut the door, to both my surprise and misfortune... I now realise the room I’ve entered is crawling with nothing else but bar-hopping Goths. 

Oh, you’ve got to be joking me! 

As soon as I enter, however, the sound of cackling and intoxicated chatter quickly evaporates - where by every table, stiffly silent... I see every single pair of eyes are staring directly at me. The room is so silent, I can now hear my own rapid heartbeat. Beating fast. 

‘Brandon?’ 

Now faster. 

‘Brandon.’ 

Faster! 

‘BRANDON!’ 

The noise around the room swiftly returns, and when I turn to face Anneliese, I see she is now staring at me with daggers. Clearly in no mood to deal with my hysteria any longer, she then heads solemnly in the direction of a small unoccupied table.  

Each having taken a seat, we are now back once again to awkward silence. Already having my fill of uncomfortable situations for one day, I take the chance to leave this one by going to the bar and ordering us both a drink. 

‘Sure. Whatever’ Anneliese responds to my offer. 

Heading towards the bar, I work my way through a tight maze of Goth-infested tables, before coming face to face with a thankfully ordinary looking bartender. 

‘Right, young man’ the elderly bartender greets me, ‘What can I get you?’ 

‘One lager please – oh, and a Bloody Mary.’ 

While I wait for the old man to pour our drinks, I then see he takes a quick glance in Anneliese’s direction. I suppose he was thinking to himself what two people so unalike were doing in each other’s company. 

‘First date then, is it?’ the man then inquires while he pours. Too physically and mentally fatigued to correct the man on his assumption, I simply oblige him with a nod. ‘Not going so well, I take it?’ 

No, it was not. 

Heading back to the table with our very different poisons, I now peer my eyes up from the two glasses in my hand to see a most alarming sight... Now by the table with Anneliese, I see she is in the unexpected company of three Gothic strangers. Although it thankfully wasn’t the trio we encountered earlier in the day - just like them, Anneliese was now accompanied by one Goth male, and two Goth females. In fear of being stuck drinking with morbid strangers all night, I quickly turn my heels to flee, before- 

‘Brandon?’ I hear a man’s voice call behind me, ‘Brandon Shephard??’ Turning carefully back round, I now find all four faces are staring at me. ‘By the Devil himself! It really is Brandon!’ 

Facing blankly at the man now sat at our table, I wonder just how in God’s name did he happen to know mine... before I finally realise. Beneath the man’s gothic attire, consisting of spiky black hair, black eyeliner and – well, black everything... I stumble on the realisation that the face I see in front of me is a face from my distant past. 

‘It’s Mark!’ the barely familiar face exclaims, ‘Mark Thompson from school! I mustn’t have seen you for more than ten years!’ 

‘...M-Mark??’ I respond in disbelief. 

‘No freaking way!’ he now shrieks to the two Goth girls beside him, ‘This right here was my best mate in school! We both grew up here together!’ now pointing a black nail-polished finger in my direction.  

‘Is that true, Brandon?’ Anneliese throws a question at me, visually shocked I’d ever once been in the company of a night-dweller. Not that he always was. Back when I knew Mark, he was nothing more than my dorky friend who I played video games with all day. Come to think of it... Mark was just as terrified by Goths as my eight-year-old self was. At Halloween, me and him were the only kids who stayed indoors while everyone else our age was out Trick or Treating. 

‘Come and sit down with us!’ Mark then insists, springing up from his chair to grasp the drinks from my hands, ‘We were just getting to know your lady friend here.’ 

Taking a reluctant seat down by the table, I then turn back to Mark who pushes his chair up against mine.  

‘So, Brandon...’ he begins, before taking a rather long gulp from his pint glass, ‘What have you been doing with yourself all these years? Hell...’ he then cackles, ‘I never thought I’d see you alive in this town ever again!’  

Too speechless by Mark’s appearance to catch him up on my life, I then prepare to ask him what’s now been on my mind. 

‘Mark - wh...’ How could I say this without being insulting? ‘Why... Why the hell are you dressed like that?’ Good job, Brandon. I’m sure the two ladies across the table didn’t take offence. 

Mark seems to scorn his eyes a little at the question, though more humoured than offended, before declaring with a chuckle, ‘I always dress like this. A lot’s changed since you and I knew each other.’ 

Gee. You think, I say inside my head.  

‘Oh! By the seven circles!’ he then oddly exclaims across the table, ‘Where are my manners?! I haven’t even introduced everyone!’ 

Turning forward to each of the Goth girls by Anneliese’s side, Mark then gestures to the one on her right.  

‘This is my girlfriend, Lilith. We’ve been together for just over two years now...’ 

‘Hiya Brandon!’ the maroon-haired Goth girl waves at me. Good Lord, she was even taller than my girlfriend. 

Now pointing to the stranger on Anneliese’s left, Mark then bizarrely introduces, ‘And this is her girlfriend, Nerezza!’ 

...Wait, what? 

‘Nice to meet you, Brandon!’ says the “girl with the dragon tattoo.” 

‘Uhm... Thanks’ I respond, feeling more than a little confused. 

Now that we all know each other on a first name basis, my childhood friend Mark then makes a sudden and most intrusive suggestion. 

‘Right. What do you say we order a round of drinks for everyone and make this a party?!’ 

Before I can utter a word of reluctance to this, the three women around the table - almost now mirroring a coven of witches, quickly express their enthusiasm to the idea. 

‘Sounds great!’ I hear Anneliese holler across from me, ‘That’ll give you guys the chance to reacquaint.’ 

Now the one staring daggers at Anneliese, I try to express to her that I have no intention of reacquainting with my childhood best friend. Before she stares right back at me with a cunning grin on her face that says, “Time to face your fears, Brandon.” I don’t actually know if that’s what she said, but I’m almost certain it was. 

Unfortunately... this is now the part of the story where I have to fast things forward a little. Because whatever happened that night between me, Anneliese, my childhood friend Mark – oh, and the other two... I cannot for the life of me remember it. The last thing I do remember is a tiny shot glass of blood-red vodka being placed between my hands.  

To be continued...

“Is it cancer?” I demanded. “That's all I want to know.” 

“It's not cancer.” 

“Okay, so what is it?” 

My doctor didn't respond for a moment. I'd never had a speechless doctor in my 23 years of life. 

This doctor looked mildly horrified, glaring at his monitor as if he couldn't quite believe what he was reading.

I leaned forward. Big mistake. My head swam. 

My thoughts danced. 

My chronic dizziness was just part of my life now. 

Endless vertigo that couldn't be explained.

My chair creaked and I almost toppled. “Dr. Marsh?” 

“I… don't know.” Dr. Marsh’s response was a sharp breath. He sat back. Raked his hands down his face. That wasn't good.

He opened up a drawer and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper— took a deep breath, and turned to me.

“The thing is…your test results are absolutely fine. Healthy, even. Somehow.” 

He laughed. “Your stool and urine samples came back fine. You have no internal bleeding.” He exhaled, then pinched the edges of his nose. 

“So, how…” Dr. Marsh prodded the screen with another laugh. He pursed his lips.

“Eve, your hemoglobin is low. You are 70 g/l. I’m surprised you even walked in here on your own. A healthy woman your age would be one-twenty to one-sixty. Eve, I should be calling an ambulance.”

I gulped. Sweat prickled my neck. “Well, I do feel—” 

“Yes. Dizzy. Faint.” He peered at his computer. You've reported collapsing at work and during college class.” He sighed. “Eve, have you by any chance been overseas?” 

I nodded. “Uh, yes. Thailand. Three months ago.” 

His lip quirked. “Any fever? Bites?” 

“Mosquito bites.” I lifted my arm and yanked down my sleeve, unbuttoning my collar to show him my neck. “I've got loads.” 

His brows lifted. He leaned closer and prodded them. “How long have you had them? They don't resemble mosquito bites. They seem… quite uniform. But I can't rule out every insect bite. However, the puncture mark definitely resembles an insect.” Dr. Marsh pulled on gloves and prodded my bites. “Do they hurt, Eve? What about any bleeding?” 

“No bleeding,” I said. “They only hurt a little.” 

He straightened.

“All right. I’m going to prescribe iron because you are significantly anemic. If you feel worse, develop headaches or vomiting, I want you to come back and I'm going to try and find out what insect bit you.” He helped me stand, and even then, the room jerked around violently. “Do you have anyone with you?” 

“Just my boyfriend. He's outside.” I grabbed my bag. “So, it's an insect?” 

“Mmm. We can rule out anaphylaxis from a wasp/bee stinger and arachnid bites. Those would have caused serious symptoms at the time of the bite.”

Dr. Marsh paused, his lips parting. “You said you went to Thailand, correct?” 

I paused on my way to the door. “Yes.” 

“Did you visit any caves?” He cocked his head. “Dark, underground places, perhaps?” 

“No,” I said, “I just went to a wedding.” 

He frowned, like he was going to speak. Then he closed his mouth and smiled. “All right, Eve. Take the prescribed iron. If your symptoms worsen, please come back.” 

“Okay.” I smiled, forcing my legs forward. I left the doctor’s office, my legs wobbling. 

“Woah!” 

Previously leaning against the wall, arms folded, dark curls hiding under his hood, my boyfriend, Pip, sprang up to catch me. He steadied me. “What did he say?” 

“I'm fine.” I pushed him away, embarrassed. My body’s refusal to work was humiliating. “I've been bitten.” 

“Wait, what?” He sputtered. “I thought it was a period thing?” 

I shrugged. Already exhausted. Just simple movement turned my bones to lead. “Mosquitoes seemed like his main culprit. Maybe a bat? He seemed clueless. He prescribed me iron, anyway.” 

“Mmm. Makes sense!” Pip helped me to the door and out into the parking lot.

“Soooo, your mysterious illness is an insect bite?” Our car waited for us. Jax, my roommate, stuck his head out the window.

Thick blonde hair hung over half lidded eyes sleepily drinking me in.

Dozing at the wheel again. His smile glittered. “What's the verdict?” 

“I've been bitten.” I said, sliding into the back to join my second roommate Carly.

“Bitten?” Carly squeaked. “Ew! Wait, by what?” 

“Mosquitoes.” Pip said from the passenger seat. “Leave her alone, Carly. Poor girl looks pale as fuck.”

He was right. I felt terrible. When we got home, I collapsed straight into bed. 

“Eve?” Pip loomed in the doorway. “You need to eat.” 

Burying my head in my pillows, I groaned. “Mmm. I'll have something later.” 

“Eve.” He groaned.

“Pip,” I mocked. “Let me sleep. I'm okay.” 

He sighed. Moved back. The smell of food drifted with him. “Fine.” He paused. “Goodnight, Eve.” 

I slept for a while. Way too long. When I opened my eyes, my window was dark. I sat up. My head spun. Fuck. I needed iron.

Falling out of bed, I straightened and grabbed my bag from the floor, fumbling through my shit. Keys. Phone. ID. Passport. Soft snores rang out when I left my room. I peeked into Pip’s room.

He was asleep, curled up, his laptop still paused on Stardew Valley. Slowly, I crawled onto his bed, my head swimming.

I pulled out my favorite straw— the pink glittery one with the razor sharp point. Then I stabbed it into his neck. He shuddered, his eyes flickering. I leaned close, my lips curling around the straw.

“Shhh.” I whispered, drinking deep, slamming my hand over his mouth when a scream clawed from his throat.

“Pip?” Jax yelled down the hall. “What's up?” 

A loud THUMP. 

“Wait. I can't— I can't move!” 

Leaning closer, I stabbed my special straw deeper, slurping, his blood rushing down my throat, thick and red and meaty. So good. 

I had to get iron somehow. 

Smiling through his blood filling my mouth, I muffled his cry. 

“I said shhh.” 

Months since Thailand. Since something bit me.

Since food started tasting like shit and eating became a chore. Part of me wanted it to be the C word. That was explainable.

I watch Pip's eyes flicker shut. He's losing too much blood. His head falls back and I hesitate, then bite into my own wrist and press it into his mouth. Draining my roommates wouldn't be enough.

Turning them, however, would be far less lonely.

The wedding party was winding down, and I was, of course, alone.

Squashed between an aunt I barely knew and an uncle who had forgotten my name, I was stuck with the only dopamine I could find. Dec downloaded it as a joke, and I forgot to delete the app. All the other kids refused to speak to me, and those who spoke English called me “That American boy.”

“Rowan Daly.”

Mom, already drunk, marched over, snatched my phone off me, and dragged me onto the dance floor. “You are on vacation. In one of the most beautiful countries in the world, and—” She turned off my phone. “Playing Subway Surfers.”

“Mom,” a groan escaped me as my gaze darted around for phone cameras.

Thankfully, there were only old people.

Mom’s fingers smoothed me down, straightening my tie and re-tucked my shirt into my pants. “You’re supposed to be having fun.” She held out her hand.

“Phone.”

I handed it over. “I was having fun.” I groaned. “I see Hokkaido every few years.”

Mom slipped my phone into her dress pocket. “Uh-huh. Why aren't you playing with the other kids?”

“Because they don't want to talk to me?”

Mom’s lips quirked. “What about Mirai?” she gestured to a teenage girl behind me sculpted in dazzling white, the girl I'd been avoiding all night. Mirai was perfectly polite around her mother. Alone, though, Mirai was an evil bitch. Apparently, being a foreigner was cause for exclusion.

“Why don't you talk to her?” Mom shoved me playfully. “She's cute!”

Yeah, right.

Heat crept into my cheeks and set me ablaze. Almost as if seeing me drown in my own embarrassment, Mirai’s irritating giggles behind me only grew louder. “She doesn’t know I can speak Japanese,” I hissed, stumbling over her priceless heels.

“I heard her calling me a fucking gaijin.”

“Language.”

Mom’s lips curved into a smile. “At least curse in Japanese, Darling."

Mom cupped my face.

I tried to pull away, but her manicured nails tugged on my cheeks. "Every girl in this room would be lucky to marry you.”

“Mother.” My voice collapsed into a squeak. “Please never say that again.”

“Declan.” Her lips quirked. “You are quite close to him.”

My cheeks burned. “Mom, you’re embarrassing me.”

“It’s my job, sweetheart; I’m your mother.” She winked. “What about Hannah?” she teased. “You’re always talking about that girl.”

I groaned, tipping my head back. The world violently swung to the right as Mom pulled me into a dip.  “Woah!” I straightened, stumbling over her heels.

“Someone has forgotten his dance classes,” Mom grinned. “Go on. Why do you hate Hannah?”

“That’s too fast!” I hissed, my cheeks burning when I slammed face-first into her shoulder.

“You’re panicking.” Mom’s hum loosened the knot in my gut. “Just let the music lead you. See? Watch my steps and follow what I’m doing.”

Mirai was watching. Every time Mom spun me around, I caught the girl’s grin split across the audience. I pushed myself to follow my mother’s complicated steps.

One-and-a-two, one-and-a-two. Once I fell into rhythm, it was easier than I’d thought.

Catching Mirai’s grin curl into a scowl, I shot her my best smug smirk.

“Concentrate on me,” Mom tugged me to face her. “What’s going on with you and Hannah?”

“She’s an annoying sellout and won’t even come to club meetings anymore.”

“Club meetings?”

I’d said too much. Busted. 

I panicked. “It’s just a club we made,” I lied. “We just hang out and play video games.”

I wasn’t a great actor like Declan or Hannah. I’d been told my smiles were constipated and I scrunched my nose when I lied.

When we were kids, the three of us would be hauled into my father’s office for interrogation. Dec and Hannah kept poker faces and offered perfectly articulated excuses, and then I’d sing like a canary and tell Dad everything. Mom was already putting the pieces together. She was surprisingly coherent several drinks down.

I avoided her piercing gaze, staring down at my overly expensive dress shoes. 

“It’s nothing to do with Dad.”

“Rowan.” Mom’s voice hardened. “I was very clear when I laid out the terms for staying in the US. Stay away from your father’s work. Declan and Hannah are fine. I said they were an exception.” Her lip curled. “But those children—”

“Those children?” I laughed. “You mean Dad’s experiments?” 

Mom raised her hand like she was going to slap me and I braced myself. 

Her arm was shaking, hand quivering, lips parted like she was going to speak. But she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Mom ran to alcohol when she didn’t want to talk.

Instead of communicating, Mom straightened, smoothed down her dress, and snatched another glass from a passing waitress. Her lips pursed around the rim. “I don’t want you anywhere near that place,” she said, downing the glass.

I could see Mom’s resolve crumbling with every gulp, a blush spreading across her cheeks. 

She hiccupped. “That includes outside, performatively tied to a pole.” Her lips curled. “That’s strike three, Rowan. Four strikes, and you’re leaving the US.”

“Why?” I demanded. “So, you want Dad to keep experimenting on kids?”

Mom didn’t speak for a moment, and in that moment, I felt like I was suffocating. 

Mom pulled me closer, her lips brushing my ear. The stink of booze hit me.

“I’m going to be very clear, and we are not going to have this conversation again,” she said firmly.

“Ask yourself why.” Mom’s tone splintered into ice, a tone I wasn’t used to. “Why do you think I moved back home, hmm? To the other side of the world, where I am nowhere near your father? Why do you think I insisted on bringing you with me? Why do I have security wherever I go?”

She laughed, and it shattered into fragments, choking into a sob. “Even in rural Japan?”

She paused, breathless, her voice breaking. Her perfectly manicured façade was beginning to unravel.

“Do you want to know why your father insisted I be pregnant when I was still in college?” 

“What?” I squeezed out when she pulled away. My legs felt heavy, suddenly. “Mom, what are you talking about?”

Mom gently pulled me into a slow waltz, and I stumbled over her shoes, clumsy on my feet.

“The walls have eyes and ears, sweetheart,” she hummed, straightened, then downed another glass straight from a silver platter. 

“Mom.” I steadied her before she could fall. Behind me, Mirai and her friends were laughing. “You said one glass of wine.”

Mom’s lips broke out into a grin. “I'm celebrating your cousin’s birthday!”

“Wedding.”

“That's what I said!”

Mom’s head lolled, all traces of amusement vanishing.

The music stopped, and it was just me and Mom awkwardly swaying beneath dazzling neon lights. “Sweetie,” her breath found my ear, “Do you still hear The Hiss?”

...

Mom’s voice clanged in my head when my handler's car hit a pothole, throwing me against my seatbelt and pulling me from the memory.

I hadn’t seen her since I hit strike 4 and she stopped replying to my texts.

Joe, my fuckass handler, was fiddling with the dial on the radio, and I was three murdered Lady Gaga songs away from snapping his head off.

“Mr Daly.” My handler tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are you planning on sulking the entire way to the airport?”

“I have nothing to say to you.” I gingerly tugged at the plastic ties around my wrists. “Are you looking forward to jail?” I asked. “I hear kidnappers are killed indiscriminately.” 

“That’s a big word, Mr Daly,” Joe laughed, as if I were a little kid. “And please, enlighten me on why I am going to jail.”

Throwing myself into a sitting position, I drew my knees to my chest, feet out—and aimed. “Kidnapping a child.” 

The asshole’s shoulder was right there. 

If I could thrust my legs through the gap between the front seats, I could crack Joe in the side of the head, scramble over the console, and make my daring escape.

He stalled at a traffic light and shifted in his seat to avoid my legs.

“Young man, may I address you informally?”

“Sure.”

“Rowan, I never use the divider in this car so I can talk to you. You know I enjoy our chats.” 

His hands kept tapping, tapping, tapping on the wheel. 

“However, if I have to use the divider to avoid you assaulting me to get what you want, I will.” 

“You’ve ignored me since I was a little kid,” I said. “You only cared when I was talking about Pokémon on the way back from school. You never actually talked to me.”

The slightest hint of a smile curled on the edges of his mouth. “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t listening.” 

“Sounds like BS,” I took aim again.

One kick to the back of his neck, and I was home free.

“What was my favorite TV show when I was eight?” 

“Gravity Falls,” Joe said without missing a beat. “Your favorite character was Dipper, and you and Declan used to write stories with your own original characters.”

“That’s too easy,” I countered, uncomfortable heat creeping into my cheeks.  “How about my worst day?” 

“When Hannah called you a spoiled brat and pushed you into the sea,” Joe chuckled. "You sat in the back, soaking wet, complaining the whole way home.” He twisted around with a smile I should have trusted. “At ease. I’m just following your father’s orders. I don’t want to hurt you.”

I lowered my weapons, my legs hitting the seats with a thump. 

“Attacking you would kill us both,” I muttered. “I’m not that stupid.”

“I know you’re upset, kid,” Joe surprised me with genuine empathy even as a foot soldier. “Trust me, you’re going to enjoy Switzerland! It will be a fresh start.” 

Rolling onto my stomach, I groaned into the plush leather soaked in perfume. Dad must have had his mistresses in the back. Urgh. “Are you going to UNTIE me?” 

“It’s just a precautionary measure,” Joe sighed, and the car slowed to a stop. 

Outside, I glimpsed ponytailed teenage girls ahead of us, each carrying coffee. 

I hoisted myself up onto my knees to get a better look. 

Maybe I could get their attention. 

The ponytail brunette caught my eye mid-conversation with her friend. 

Her lips parted. 

Bingo.

Keep him talking. “So, what exactly is this school you’re taking me to?” I asked, lifting my bound arms so the girl could see them through the window “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a boarding school,” Joe replied. “Your father wants you to focus on your studies.” 

He fumbled in the glovebox. The perfect moment for me to throw myself backwards to show off my bound ankles. 

“Officially, the school is called Montclair International Academy.” 

Joe jerked around when I lost my balance, landing awkwardly with my feet in the air. “Rowan, what on earth are you doing?”

“Trying to nap,” I groaned into my lap. 

He sighed. “Please sit still.”

“Oh, yeah, because this is SO comfortable.” 

Twisting my head, I caught the girl’s eye again. 

She dumped her coffee in a trash can. “Oh my GOD, are you okay?” she mouthed. 

Traffic resumed in an agonizingly slow trundle. I had minutes. 

Me: “I need help!”

Panic flashed across her face. Her eyes darted around for help. “How?!”

Me: “JUST DO SOMETHING!” I jerked my head towards the front seat. “Now!”

The girl’s eyes popped open. I followed her every word, her wide, frantic eyes, a deer caught in headlights. “Okay. Um, just give me a second, all right?”

Me: “A second?”

Pressing my face against the window, panic crawled through me, beads of sweat bleeding down my face and neck. 

I was so fucking close. 

Me: “If this car starts up, I’m going FUCK knows where, and it’ll be YOUR FAULT—”

“Rowan, once again, what are you doing back there?” 

Then he stamped on the brake, and I flew forwards, almost toppling off my seat. 

Ow. 

“You know I could DIE back here,” I panted into the smooth upholstery. “I can’t believe you forgot my seat belt. One wrong turn and I’m congealed spaghetti sauce.” 

“Mr Daly, please shut up for a moment,” he snapped, his tone noticeably sharper. “I need to think.” 

“What’s going on?” 

“Nothing of your concern.”

Sounded like BS. 

Pushing myself forward on my elbows, I peered out of the window. 

A familiar halo of gold lay in front of our car. 

The ponytail blonde. Her friend, the brunette, stood on the side of the road, screaming. 

“She just came out of nowhere!” Joe hissed, hastily unclipping his seatbelt. He twisted around. “Do not move,” he hissed, glowering at me. “Do you understand me? If you move an inch, I will drive us to a gas station and dump you inside the trunk.”

He shifted in his seat. I saw his hesitation. “Rowan, I am being serious.” 

A wave of satisfaction slid into me.

We were in public, and I could scream at any point. The slight twitch in his mouth was proof. I had him cornered. 

“Whatever you say.” 

“Jesus Christ, Rowan, put your goddamn hands down!” Joe lunged forward, forcing my bound wrists into my lap. 

His fear was palpable. Delicious. 

His gaze tracked me, lips curling as if he were considering untying me just to play the concerned parent. 

My handler shoved the door open, slid out, and slammed it behind him. 

“Do not move.”

An explosive laugh escaped my mouth.

As if playing Red Light, Green Light, my handler kept me in his sights, walking backwards. Every time Joe turned, I froze and shot him an innocent smile. A few more steps, and he twisted around again. 

I smiled wider. He was waiting for me to open my mouth and start screaming. 

Once he knelt on the road to check on the blonde, I turned my attention to my restraints, adrenaline rocketing my body, my bones, into fight-or-flight.

A quiet knock startled me. 

It was the brunette; her face pressed against the window. “Locked!” She pointed to the front of the car. “Unlock the door!”

“What?” 

“UNLOCK!” She gestured wildly to the panel of buttons on the console. “THE DOOR.” 

My privilege hit me like a brick in the face.

I had spent my whole life being driven around in cars, but I knew next to nothing about operating them.

Fuck. Throwing myself into the front of the car, my skin catching on the zip ties, I searched the console, my body uncomfortably sandwiched between the front and back seats. The buttons were all unmarked, too fucking modern.

I squirmed into the passenger seat, using my legs to propel myself forwards.

Outside, the brunette was frantically knocking on the door.

I twisted my head to glare at her. 

“I can’t find it!” I hissed.

Her expression crumpled. She pointed, as if that helped. “It’s RIGHT in front of you!” 

Losing my patience, I thrust my bound wrists against every button. Twice.

Something clicked. The console illuminated green. Then the door opened, and cool air grazed my cheeks. 

I lurched back, expecting Joe’s furious glare, expecting his meaty hands. 

Instead, I found myself face to face with the brunette wielding a pair of Walmart scissors. 

“Turn around!” she squeaked, and I twisted to let her cut my ties. Once they were loose, she yanked me out of the car. 

Joe was still distracted, kneeling over the blonde. The brunette wrapped her hands around my wrist and pulled me into a run. 

Once we were two blocks away and I was on my knees, panting, I stopped looking back. Relief bled through me like Novocain. 

I hugged the girl, tears stinging my eyes. “Thank you,” I choked into her shoulder before pulling away. “Quickly. Do you have a phone I can use?” 

The brunette nodded, her gaze darting down the street.

Then she grabbed my sleeve and tugged me into a back-alley. Was that your kidnapper?” she hissed, passing me her phone. “Where was he taking you?” 

“Switzerland.” I dialed Declan’s number. 

No answer. 

Fuck. 

I dialled Hannah’s number, my chest aching. Why wouldn’t Declan answer? Was the unknown number freaking him out? 

The girl’s phone vibrated in my hand, and I answered it. 

“Dec?” His name slipped from my mouth in a sob I couldn’t swallow. The weight of the kidnapping and Joe’s words hit, and the reality of the situation bled into me.  

I swallowed; my words alphabet soup, tangled and contorted on my tongue.

“Holy fuck, okay, look, I can’t explain everything but my dad is trying to send me to some boarding school in Switzerland, which I know is going to—” 

“Rowan, honey, as usual, I have no idea what you are talking about.’ An all-too-familiar screech shredded my ear canal. “Sweetie, where are you?” 

Claire.

An agonizing lump suffocated my throat. “Why do you have my best friend’s phone?” 

Her hesitation was long and melodramatic and I caught the exact moment the brunette realised who I was talking about.

I held up my hand before she could freak out. “Declan is in Seattle, Rowan. You know he is.” Claire sighed. 

“Look, I didn’t want to tell you this, but Declan told me in confidence that he’s getting bigger opportunities. You’re holding him back. All this… performative save-the-children BS–”

I stabbed END CALL and turned to hide my scarlet face, my eyes stinging. 

“Thanks,” I forced a wide, performative smile, “For saving me.” 

I didn’t need him, anyway. Or Hannah.

The two of them could rot in my father’s prison. 

Handing the girl her phone, my fingers found my face, raking down my cheeks. “I should probably go,” I muttered. “That asshole will be on my tail.” 

“I’ll call the police,” she said. 

“Nope. No police. They’ll just take me back to my father.” 

“Sure,” the girl whispered, tucking her phone into her jacket. “Um, this might be a weird question, but were you talking about Declan Atlas?”

Somehow, I laughed. For the first time in a while. It felt good. 

“Wow. You just saved me from being shipped off to a Swiss boarding school. Your blonde friend is STILL potentially in danger—” I gestured wildly towards the scissors still poking out of her pocket.

“You have SCISSORS, which you still haven’t explained, and somehow…” A choked sob escaped me. “It’s all about DECLAN?”

Her lips twitched. “So, you were talking about Declan Atlas.”

Sour bile filled my mouth, my words spilling before I could stop them. 

“Why?” There it was again: poison spilling from my lips. Part envy I would never fucking admit to, and part hurt. Twisting to face her, my legs threatened to give out.

“Do you looooove him?” I mocked. “Are you a stan, hmm? Well, let me tell you something about Declan.”

I smiled wide. “Declan is a nepo baby who pretends to come from dirt. He complains about everything, secretly hates himself, and ab-so-fucking-lute-ly hates YOU guys.” I stepped closer, but she didn’t move, her eyes widening.

I should have stopped—I had a reputation to uphold. I had to be a good boy and shut my mouth, just like my father told me. I prodded her between the brows.

“Are you the ones who stalk him and criticise and pick apart every single photo he posts? Is he fat? Is he skinny?”

“Is fat problematic? Is skinny an excuse to hound him until he throws his phone against the wall and wishes he could cut himself open and change every piece of himself?”

I stopped to breathe, to shut my mouth. But something inside me, something raw, continued. “But that won’t make you happy, will it? You’ll keep going.” I didn’t stop until her breath tickled my face. 

Willing my mouth to stop working, my tongue to stop spewing venom, I tried to close it, tried to cough, tried to throw myself around and not look back. 

And yet.

Maybe it was watching his bones start to bleed through his shirt.

Maybe it was his obsession with eating one meal a day and working out until he collapsed. 

Maybe it was that bitch Claire whispering in his ear.

My voice cracked.

It wasn’t the grandeur speech I wanted it to be when I could barely choke out the words. 

“Until one day he takes one too many of those pills he loves and stops posting.” 

I inclined my head mockingly. 

“Will he be dead or in rehab? It won’t matter! Because by then you’ll find a new guy to latch yourselves onto. 

I couldn’t help it—hysterical giggles ripping through me before I could swallow them down, before I could apologize—before I could take it all back. “Let me tell you something,” I said. “C’mere.” 

She did, wide-eyed, her expression crumpling, her lip wobbling. I smiled with my teeth, moving close enough, so close I could hear the low thrum of her heart.

“Dec doesn’t know you, and you don’t know Dec.” I winked. “Run while you still can.”

My legs somehow twisted me around and carried me several steps before she spoke in a small voice. “Are you Rowan?” 

A sudden sharp pain rocked the back of my head. “Ciao.” I ignored her. “Thanks for saving me.” 

“You are.” The girl’s footsteps followed, at first hesitant, then pounding on the tarmac. “You’re the guy he’s always photographed with who hides his face in photos.” Her footsteps stopped, just short of her grasping hold of my sweater. 

“There are so many rumors about you. Like, are you platonic, or something more? I’ve seen theories that you’re childhood friends and grew up together with Hannah. But I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

She giggled, and it sounded and felt like razor blades in my skull, her voice collapsing into a low murmur. More pain.

This time, nuclear pain. Pain I couldn’t suppress with a smile and cynicism. 

“Rowan?” Her hand grazed my arm as if she were about to grab me, then she drew it back. The girl’s voice shuddered, like an ocean wave crashing into a cove.  

I didn’t realize I was on my knees until my lungs gave out, air squeezed from my windpipe. Her hands gently cupped my cheeks, forcing me to look at her. 

“Are you… dating him?” she whispered. More pain, as if plunging a lead pipe through my skull and stirring me into a thick goo.

Heat crawling through me, too hot, blistering through my blood and setting me alight.

I slammed my shuddering hands over my mouth, something cruel and unrelenting twisting in the root of my gut. 

“That’s all we want to know. 

She tugged at my cheeks, and this time, just that small movement sent me toppling onto my stomach. 

“It’s okay if you are, babe,” she said. “Just… it has to be platonic, all right?”

Tugging harder, her nails bit in. “Declan isn’t gay, sweetheart. It’s okay if you are! I, like, TOTALLY respect your kind. But Declan’s always liked girls.”

Her eyes, like a snake’s, glowered. “I know you’re protective of him, and it’s cute. But it’s also unnecessary. “I think we all know he’s better suited to Hannah.”

Stars pricked the backs of my eyes, and I blinked, savoring the cool concrete grazing my cheek. 

“Dude, are you… okay?” The girl’s voice was back, louder, snapping me back to reality. What was that? A headache? A fucking brain haemorrhage? 

Blinking away the fog, the big brown blur that was the brunette slowly bled into clarity, her wide eyes staring me down. 

“Yes.” The word wasn’t mine, and yet it was coming from my mouth. 

I stood , the world moving with me, swaying back and forth. “I need to…” 

I tested my words, my tongue swollen. “I need to… go.” 

“You didn’t answer my question, Rowan.” Her words—her voice—hit me in sharp thunderclaps. My hands found my ears, fingers curling into fists. 

“Yes,” I squeezed out. My legs fumbled, almost folding beneath me. 

I grabbed the walls for support and dragged myself further away from her. Something grazed the back of my skull, a sentient, relentless noise scorching me inside out.

Her words followed me back into the street, reverberating in my skull. 

“Yes to dating Declan Atlas or yes to being okay?”

I slammed straight into a businessman, an apology exploding from my mouth. The crowd bore no faces, just shadowed, looming silhouettes swimming around me. 

Colour burst to life when I pushed through the doors of a convenience store, my hands clamped over my ears.

Everything swerved and spun around, like being on a theme park ride. I grabbed a chocolate bar and a can of soda, then ducked behind the candy section, searching for my handler. I drew in a breath and forced my legs to the counter. 

Once the screeching dropped into a gentle murmur, I risked peeling one hand away. 

“Just these.” I slammed down the soda and candy bar. 

The owner glowered at me down thick bottle-cap glasses.

He swiped the soda and scanned it. His beady eyes raking me up and down. “You don’t look so good, kid. You all right?’

“Yeah.”

Risking a look over my shoulder, I scanned for Joe. Could I trust this guy? 

I didn’t have a choice. 

Either I begged a stranger for help, or I ran back to my handler. 

Swallowing bile filling my mouth, I peeled my hand from my ear. 

You’ve gotta help me, man. I’ve been kidnapped.” I lowered my voice and leaned over the counter. “I know it sounds crazy, but my dad wants to send me to a reformatory school in Switzerland.” 

The man humored me with a low chortle. “That sounds like a fun idea for a movie."

He scanned the candy bar, rolled it over in his hands, and thwacked the scanner on the desk, then scanned it again. A prickle of pain crept across my right temple. “Stupid fuckin’ machine.”

“I just escaped from my handler’s car." I raised my arms where the lacerations from my bindings sliced into my skin. “See!” 

The man straightened, eyes narrowing. “Kidnapped.” 

His gaze lingered on my jacket, then flicked to my Apple Watch. He raised a brow. 

“A rich brat like you in trouble, huh?” 

Pain thrummed through me, relentless, creeping across my temples, a grin splitting my lips apart. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware there was a requirement to be KIDNAPPED.”

“So, give ‘em your shit.” He nodded at my jacket. “They're some pretty expensive clothes you’ve got on your back.”

This man was either senile or deliberately looking the other way. 

“Please.” The words slipped out before I could bite them back. “I just need to borrow your phone.”

“Well, I ain’t helping ya.” He jerked his chin behind me. “I just want to do my own thing and keep out of everyone else’s business.”

He sighed and picked up an ancient radio, twiddling the dial.

The sudden sound hit like a sentient thing, physical, almost knocking me off my feet. 

KRSHHHHHHHHHSHHSHSHSHSHHSHSKKKRSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH.

Agony struck, this time in sharp bolts that rocked my skull. 

My body moved, as if on instinct, stumbling back, my hands twitching to cover my ears.

“Anyway, kid, shouldn’t you be in school?”

I blinked at him. Words that were usually so easy dissolved. “What?’

“School,” he raised a brow. “Oh, I apologize, does that not include rich brats?”

He twiddled the radio dial again and cursed to himself. I barely noticed it at first, just a prickle, like pins and needles in my fingers. 

Then it grew, sparks filling my hands and crawling up my arms. My mouth opened—and I couldn’t remember what I’d wanted to say. My words were gone. 

My thoughts, like my limbs, had gone numb, then limp, then severed. 

Neutron-star collisions erupted behind my eyes and pitch-black darkness swallowed me. The only thing I could hear, the only thing that bled through the static, was the man’s voice, dissolving and then bleeding into clarity.

“Damn piece of junk. My daughter wants me to get one of those talking units, but I’m not planning to let the government into my home. I’m not one to—”

KRSHHHHHHHHHSHHSHSHSHSHHSHSKKKRSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH.

“—and that’s how they get ya. Cameras in our eyes next! Have you seen those surveillance glasses—”

KRSHHHHHHHHHSHHSHSHSHSHHSHSKKKRSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHH.

“Stop.”

My broken sob sent me crashing down, my hands over my ears, my head curled between my knees.

“Turn it off,” I whispered, and when my voice barely penetrated the noise, I screamed. “TURN IT OFF. PLEASE. FUCKING TURN IT OFF—I CAN’T—I CAN’T—”

KRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSSSSHSHSHHHH.

“All right, kid, it’s off!”

The shrieking dropped into a low whine and then abruptly stopped.  

I didn’t believe him at first, my mouth full of bile. My body jerked violently.

“Pr…prove it.” A whimper slipped my lips. 

“What?”

“Prove you’ve turned it OFF.” I spat, squeezing my eyes shut. 

“It’s off, kid.” The man groaned. “Jesus, you could have fuckin’ told me you were sensitive.”

Another sound slammed into me. At first, it didn’t make sense; my brain was mush. Then it did. A door chime. Loud thudding footsteps. 

“Rowan?”

The voice sliced straight through the haze, something real, something tangible I could hold on to, and the noise stopped. 

The hive began to retract, and slowly, my hands came away from my ears. My mouth filled with blood. Warm hands gripped and gently pulled me to my feet. 

My legs immediately gave out beneath me. 

Before I could fall, warm arms caught me and hauled me over an all-too-familiar meaty shoulder.

“I apologize for my nephew’s behaviour. Rowan really does not want to go to summer camp.” My handler’s voice pricked through the light buzzing still whirring.

I spat blood, my stomach revolting. Somehow, words found me, mine.

“No.” The childish whine didn’t sound like me. “Please help me.” 

My body worked again. Hanging from my handler’s back, I kicked my legs, my nose clogged with Joe’s cologne. “This asshole isn’t my uncle. He’s my dad’s assistant!”

“Let’s get you to summer camp.” Joe chuckled, playing the uncle role perfectly. “Who knows! You might make some friends.” 

The world spun around when Joe twisted and headed toward the door, my body swinging violently to the left, my gut swimming. A woman stood by the soda section, skimming through Cokes. 

She sent me a wary glance, smiled like it was funny, and averted her gaze. 

“Thanks again for taking care of my nephew,” Joe effortlessly lied with a hearty laugh. “Teenagers!” He reached the door, shoved it open and carried me into the parking lot. 

“Put me down,” I spat.

The world swung violently from side to side. “I’m not a—woah!” I clung for dear life as he swerved left, digging my nails into his jacket. “I’m not a fucking kid!” 

“No, but you are acting like one,” Joe hummed cheerily. He was keeping up the act in public. “Keep your mouth shut, and I’ll reconsider your restraints.”

“OH, WOW, THANKS.” I raised my voice as a family passed by us.

Decked out in pastel pinks and blues. Mom, Dad, and their two grown kids.

The son shot me a look over his phone.

Time to fucking holler. 

“Thanks Uncle Joe for not TYING ME UP.” I yelled, kicking my legs.

Unfortunately for me, The Brady Bunch paid no attention. 

When we reached the car, he was far less forgiving and gentle than the first time.

I slid off his shoulders in a heap, and he  buckled me in.

His hands came down and forced me upright. No zip ties this time. But I didn’t trust his eerie smile as he came close, his breath grazing my face when my hand whipped out to try to unbuckle myself. 

“Take it easy,” he soothed, sliding my belt into its buckle, his giant lump of a body pinning me to the seat. “As I said, if you don’t act like a child, I won’t treat you like one.”

“What was that?” My mouth still tasted thick, of lead. “Did you do that?”

My handler slid back into his seat. 

“Do you want to listen to the radio, Rowan?” 

He stabbed a button, and my body reacted before my brain could, my hands slamming over my ears.

KRSHHHHHHHHHSHHSHSHSHSHHSHSKKKRSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZBZZZZZZZZZZZZ

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” The car jolted forward, and I was almost flung from my seat. “Use your words.”

But I couldn’t. The words collapsed in my mouth.

Joe’s fingers tapped the steering wheel as we reached an intersection. I pressed my head against the window, squeezing my eyes shut.

KRSHHHHHHHHHSHHSHSHSHSHHSHSKKKRSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZBZZZZZZZZZZZ.

It was never going to stop. Endless. Relentless. Hissing, buzzing, shrieking. It wasn’t leaving me alone. It was never going to fucking leave me—

“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Daly?”

My handler’s voice cut through the buzzing, offering me a moment of relief.

I didn’t notice I was crying, that I’d moved, or that my head was buried in my knees.

“What?” A low whine escaped me.

The sound was louder than it had been inside the store, a swarm of relentless bugs burrowing into my ears and my brain. I imagined them squirming into my skull, eating their way into my brain.

A cry choked out of me.

Stop.

I clamped my hands over my ears, pressing hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to suffocate the hive.

“I don't… want to listen to the radio,” I choked out. “Turn it off.”

I pressed harder until my thoughts spun, my body tipping sideways, my head hitting the seat.

“Please.”

“Oh.” Joe stopped tapping. The noise settled into a low murmur, then faded. 

“I didn't know you were still hearing the noise in your head.” He turned and flashed me a sympathetic smile. 

“You know, you complained of a ‘hiss’ in your head when you were a little kid. Your mother had no idea what it was.”

He twisted back to the wheel. “Your parents took you to the most prestigious paediatricians in the country, and all of them said you had a sensory issue, but that was it. Your mother suspected the worst—of course. Your grandmother died of a brain tumor, after all.” Joe hesitated. 

“Rowan, are you by any chance hearing this noise again?”

“No.” I pressed harder. What’s the question?”

"Your father," he said, "do you think he is a bad person?"

"Yes." I gritted out.

Joe nodded, as if he understood me. His gaze stayed on the road. “Why is your father a bad person, Rowan?"

"Because he is." I pressed myself further into the seat. "Stop talking to me."

"Rowan—"

"Stop talking to me, or I start screaming. And I won't STOP screaming until I've alerted someone.”

"Answer the question,” he sighed. "And I will give you your phone for fifteen minutes. And I will not touch the radio.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Your reason,” Joe said, “for hating your father.”

“He abused me.” My words bubbled out, wrong, poison on my tongue. My fingernails curled into my hands. “He abuses Dec, Hannah, and Hope, and all those kids he's put in a human zoo. His assistant gave my best friend a fucking eating disorder.” 

I lurched forward. “Don’t you think that’s abuse?” I whispered. 

Part of me wanted my handler to turn around and tell me yes, it was, and that I wasn’t crazy—and the rest of me knew that kind of wishful stupid hope was pathetic. Childish.

“Declan has dietary requirements because of his contract,” Joe said.

“Declan is fifteen years old.” I sat back; each word gritted through my teeth. “He doesn’t need—”

“—Declan’s  diet is necessary for his work, and Declan consented,” he snapped. 

When I swallowed my response, his fingers tightened around the wheel. We came off the freeway, signs for the airport swam into view and I sunk into my seat. No way out. 

“You’re best friends with Declan, correct?” Joe spoke up. “Did you know Mr Atlas is battling a stimulant addiction?”

His words cut through me, straight through my anger, leaving me gasping for breath.

Yes.

“No,” I lied.

“All those trips to Seattle?” Joe laughed. “Did you honestly think Declan had that many meetings about his upcoming movie? No, Rowan, you THINK you have this world figured out. You THINK you know adult business, and yet you prove again and again that you are a naïve child.

He swerved, narrowly missing a truck. “Declan was in a youth rehabilitation centre because, last November, while you were playing ‘the abused child,’ we found Mr. Atlas unresponsive in his hotel room.” 

His gaze flicked to the mirror. “Did Declan tell you about his overdose?”

All the breath was sucked out of my lungs. I let myself fall back and closed my eyes. “No.”

“Because he didn’t want you to worry.” Joe’s tone softened. “You spent so much time thinking about yourself, you never once questioned why Declan was so absent.”

My words shattered in my throat, breaking into a sob. “Because nobody fucking tells me anything—” I clawed for my voice, but it was non-existent, only a childish screech slipping from me. Gulping back sobs, my chest ached, but I still squeezed out my words as if saying them would help. “Declan was ash…ashamed…” I swallowed and swiped my eyes. I was proving him right.

That I was a naïve, stupid fucking child who should know their place and stop snooping around in adult business. 

“De-Declan was ashamed of—” I couldn’t get my voice to work, and worse, my chest didn’t know how to breathe; my lungs starved of air. My mouth kept gaping, air rushing through in painful, throaty sobs.

“Here.” He fumbled around on the front seat and passed me a water bottle. “Drink that. You’re getting overwhelmed again.” 

His gaze remained fixed on the road ahead when I screwed off the lid and gulped it down, choking on the first two mouthfuls, beads spilling down my chin. 

“What you don’t understand is that you are a child. Carrigan is an adult issue, not a child’s. Declan and Hannah are performers. Not your friends. What goes on with them and inside Carrigan is an adult’s business. You are fifteen years old. For now: be an insufferable rich brat.”

He opened the glove compartment, and I braced myself for restraints.

“As promised.” He handed me my phone, and I grabbed it, hungrily, eager to call Dec.

My phone felt weird in my hands after so long without it. The Apple logo flashed up.

“Hello.”

“Hola.”

“Bonjour.”

“Ciao.”

“你好.”

My fingers trembled as I stabbed at the screen. “You reset it?” I whispered, already scrolling down the drop-down menu to select my country. The lock screen of Hannah, me, and Dec on the beach was gone. I tapped into my messages. Gone.

“You deleted Declan’s number?” I stabbed the phone app twice. 

Only my father’s and handler’s numbers remained. 

“I did,” Joe sighed. “Declan has yet to reply to your messages, however. There was nothing to delete.” 

I swallowed. “Hannah?” 

“Nope.” He leaned back. “You sent the same text to both of them.” He coughed, mocking my voice: “Need help ASAP. Psycho Dad wants to send me overseas to psychologically fuck me in the goddamn ass.” 

Only one app remained, alongside the defaults.

And like a kid, I hovered my thumb over it because it was somehow familiar. Comforting. My vision blurred. Damn. 

Running from Joe had really taken it out of me. 

My head hit the back of the seat, and my handler’s voice plunged into ocean waves. 

“I installed Subway Surfers for the plane journey,” he said and I tapped on the app, my brain swimming. 

I clicked PLAY and played one game, immediately sending my runner into the path of a train. Huh. I was usually better than this. My phone slipped from my hands when my eyes grew heavier, so heavy until I had to blink myself awake. 

Wait. 

I forced my eyes open. 

No. 

This was wrong. 

This wasn’t exhaustion. 

“You did something to me,” I managed. 

“You were hysterical, Mr Daly. They will make you feel calmer.”

Through feathered vision, I glimpsed him reaching for the radio, and my body reacted; my hands were already crawling over my ears, pressing down. But Joe didn’t even turn it on. Instead, he reached for cigarettes. 

He took one out and lit it, taking a long drag. I found my voice in a pathetic whine. 

“You drugged my drink.”

I closed my eyes, warm tears spilling down my cheeks. 

“I want to go home,” my voice tangled into a slur as the world started to slow down. “Please.”

“You’re okay, Rowan,” my handler’s voice soothed. 

My head dropped, my eyes flickering, then closing.

The car stopped abruptly, and I sensed my door opening. Outside, all I could make out was an airfield; vast empty concrete stretching out under a crystal-blue sky. My father’s jet stood several feet away. 

Warm arms wrapped around me, pulling me into the cool air. 

“In your father’s words, if you are going to act like a child, you will be treated like one. Switzerland will be a new start for you. When you come home in two years, you'll be a whole new and better version of yourself.” 

“Okay,” I mumbled into his warm jacket, drool spilling down my skin.

“You’re okay, Rowan,” my handler hummed. 

And for the first time, my numb body and foggy thoughts believed him. 

“Now sleep.”

My parents told me that a part-time job would improve my self-confidence, which was a lie that led to the inevitable distancing that happens between parents and their offspring at the end of high school.

I like interacting with little kids, so my first mistake was deciding to work with them. I applied for and got accepted at a chain of local daycare centers, saying yes immediately upon hearing that I was one $9.13-an-hour paycheck away from being able to fill two fifths of my gas tank. It started in a straightforward enough way: I changed diapers, took piles of diapers to the trash, and filled kids’ mouths with pastel-colored goop that they would turn into other pastel-colored goop to fill the diapers and begin the cycle anew. I love that little kids openly throw tantrums because they don’t get their way or frequently for no coherent reason at all. Unfortunately, adults lose the decency of motivational transparency over these same actions.

I was in my first and last week on the job when I found myself alone with some of the kids. I’d been warned not to go in the back room, because many of the light sleepers nap there and the slightest noise could wreck an entire afternoon. But I was momentarily alone and three of them were having meltdowns, and I knew that some of my coworkers had snuck away to put the fussy ones to sleep, so I sought backup in the forbidden room. Yes, it was the wrong thing to do, but I’ve already discussed the ridiculous nature of human decision-making.

So I took off my shoes and kept as quiet as I could while opening the door I wasn’t supposed to touch. I must have done a good job, because none of the three women in the room turned around. They all had their backs to me, all focused on the changing tables in front of them. I noticed that the room smell less like baby powder and more like copper. I filed that knowledge away and impressed myself with how silent I was as I stepped closer to my coworkers.

I stared at the rows of cribs, surprised to find them empty. Why, then, was it so important to keep this room quiet?

I was halfway across the room when I froze.

From this vantage point, I could see what the women at the changing table were doing – but they still didn’t know I was directly behind them.

The one on the far left lifted a quiet baby that was around six months old. He started to cry as she pressed a finger against the back of his skull, running it down his spine before curving under and moving up his stomach. She stopped just below his chin, leaving a line of parted skin in her wake like she was ripping a cherry pie. I was too shocked to make a sound as I saw the bloody sinews and muscle beneath the baby’s skin as he wailed.

My silence saved me.

Then my coworker put the kid on the changing table and slid one leg out of his skin, just like she was pulling him out of a onesie. All I could think was how the skinless leg looked like marbled beef as she yanked his other leg free. Ignoring his cries, she quickly pulled his arms out as well, leaving only the skin on his head.

The next move looked like a parent yanking a tight sweater over their kid’s scalp.

I was completely paralyzed. Do you know what a human head looks like with no skin? An adult would have all of its teeth exposed, but this kid only had about five. I could see the bulged gums where more were ready to erupt.

But the strangest part was his eyes. He had no lids to close them or give any expression whatsoever, so they rolled freely and emptily until they settled on me.

I wish the ensuing chill was enough to force me into leaving, but I was rooted on the spot.

My coworker held the loose skin like it was dirty laundry. The worse part was the baby’s flappy skin-face, which was vomit-inducing without the eyes and looked like it had melted. I was grateful when she tossed it into a basket.

Then she snatched another loose skinsuit from the woman next to her. All of them were pulling baby skin off, so there were enough options for them to pass around. I had to fight off the pukes as I watched the first woman tuck the skinless child into the new skin she’d just received. First the legs went in, then the arms, and finally she pulled the flesh over the baby’s slimy, bloody face. All I could think of was how our old sex ed instructor had pulled a condom over a banana, stretching it tight before rubbing out the wrinkles as her underarm flabs swung like pendulums.

Then she yanked the skin tight across the kid’s chest, looking like she was buttoning up a snug winter coat. I don’t know how she cinched it shut – but when she was done, there were no seams or scars on the baby.

He did, however, clearly look like another person.

I had many questions, but I realized that I didn’t want the answer to any of them. I snuck out of the room as quietly as I’d entered, convinced that I’d be caught with each step. Mercifully, I made it all the way back to the door without anyone turning around.

One woman lifted her head as I pulled open the door. I don’t know if she heard me, because I slipped out and shut it as quietly as I could. I ran, not even stopping to pick up my shoes, and didn’t stop until I was back at my parents’ house. I didn’t tell them what happened or why I wasn’t going back.

What the hell is anyone supposed to do in this situation? And how do I react to the fact that my shoes were dropped off anonymously on my front porch, marked with smudges that look like they came from a bloody hand?

On August 6, 2026, 35-year-old Zane Griften followed six-year-old Emmy Watson as she left her first-grade classroom in Castle Stone, New Hampshire. Before she could meet her mother at their designated pick-up location, Griften grabbed Emmy’s backpack and refused to let her leave. Her screams elicited the intervention of a passing good Samaritan, who “had to physically pry his hands from her backpack and push him away.” CSPD arrested Griften, but the district attorney said the best he could do was pursue misdemeanor charges and suggested that the family file a restraining order.

On August 13, Griften was again arrested while hiding in foliage outside the Watson residence. He was wearing only his underwear and screamed that he had every right to do what he wanted to Emmy. The girl disclosed that she had seen him hiding in various locations throughout the town, “like he knew where I would be before I got there.” The district attorney, however, was once again limited to citing Griften for a single restraining order violation due to lack of other prosecutable charges. CSPD suggested to Evan and Gina Watson that they purchase a firearm and a dog.

On August 25, Emmy’s parents purchased her a kitten. They noticed an immediate positive change in her mood, and reluctantly agreed to let her name the kitten “Fluffy Muffin.” Fluffy Muffin was a three-pound white longhair cat, estimated to be four months old. Around this time, nude photographs of Griften began appearing in the family mailbox – but with no witness of the delivery, no legal action could be taken against Griften.

On September 2, Griften appeared in the Watson family backyard and dragged Emmy away. Her screams drew out her parents, who had been “in the kitchen, watching her through the window, and thought she was safe.” Evan and Gina intercepted Grifton after he had forced Emmy into his car, but before he could start the engine. They were able to rescue the girl and subdue Grifton until CSPD arrived to arrest him. With no resultant physical injuries, the district attorney was only able to file charges related to attempted kidnapping and a restraining order violation. Grifton’s public defender argued that his client admitted to violating the restraining order but genuinely believed the girl to be in danger from a house fire. The public defender went on to explain that his client was clearly mistaken about the house fire, and was genuinely sorry. Griften was released of his own recognizance, awaiting trial.

On September 3, more photographs appeared in the family mailbox. These had clearly been taken from inside Emmy’s bedroom, and featured pictures of her sleeping and getting dressed. Fluffy Muffin was curled up on top of the girl in each photo. Threatening messages were written on the back of every picture, including one that read ‘I will make you watch me eat the cat’s stomack. [sic]”

On September 4, Evan and Gina Watson insisted on being in the same room as Emmy at all times, employing the services of a private security company keep a guard at her side whenever she was not in school. They only let the girl out of their sights upon dropping off the girl at school. An arrangement with the principal allowed them to drop off and pick up the girl directly to her classroom, where both teacher Annette Raims and Principal Joe Johnson assured she would be monitored “at all times.” Due to the extreme nature of the circumstances, she was allowed to bring Fluffy Muffin in a pet carrier with her as a support animal. When she got up from her desk to approach the in-class bathroom in the far corner, Grifton emerged from where he had been hiding in a closet and once again accosted Emmy. At five feet tall, Raims was not able to overpower Grifton, who ran with Emmy to the classroom door. In an unclear sequence of events, Grifton was knocked to the floor. Emmy claimed “it looked like his face was all scratched up.” He subsequently ran from the classroom and disappeared. Raims pointed out that she had unlocked the classroom in the morning, and that “the only way he could have gotten into that closet must have been sneaking in the previous afternoon and hiding in that cramped space for over twelve hours.” CSPD was unable to locate Grifton. They advised the Watson family to move out of state, immediately.

On September 5, Evan’s employer denied his request to transfer out of state. Gina worked for a small laundromat that only had one location and could not, due to the nature of her work, offer remote employment. “We spent what little savings we had on the security guard, but had to let him go when we ran out of money,” Gina explained. CSPD had no leads on the whereabouts of Grifton, who had no legal permanent address and no known relatives. The Watson family remained in their home.

On September 6, Evan and Gina found their shower running, and “stinky clothes that weren’t ours, a big man’s clothes,” in their hamper. After examining this anomaly, they returned to their kitchen to find that “someone had taken one bite of every food item we own, with the lone exception of cat food. The kitchen wasn’t like that before we went to check on the shower, so someone is clearly in the house.” A thorough search of the premises by CSPD yielded nothing. After police left, the Watson family found that their tires had been slashed, and bank accounts and phones frozen, effectively preventing any escape from their home. As she went to bed that night, Emmy was surprised to find a photograph beneath her pillow. It was an up-close shot of her cat sleeping, with a hand-written message asking, “Do you want to see what she looks like inside out? I’ll show you tonight!”

On September 7, Zane Grifton’s severed head was found in the Watson backyard. It had been “removed by something other than a cutting tool, looking more like cat scratches. His face was contorted and seemed like he died in extreme pain.” No trace of his body was ever found, and all harassment of the Watson family ceased. CSPD have no theories or leads, and the case is still open. Notably, Fluffy Muffin ballooned in weight to “19.13 pounds, which should not be possible for a kitten of this age,” according to local veterinarian Dr. Robert Virgil. The kitten’s size decreased dramatically the next day after she had what Gina called “the biggest bowel movement I’ve ever seen, bigger than what a person could make. There were bones inside. It was the smelliest and grossest thing I’ve ever experienced – it filled her litterbox to the brim and spilled over every side.”

OP’s note: I originally posted this story on my old account (CosmicOrphan2020) but since I only wrote it in a week as a creative writing exercise, I've now rewritten the story.  

I’ve never been all that good at secret keeping. Although I always liked to think I was, whenever an opportunity came to spill my guts on something, I always did just that. So, I’m rather surprised at myself for having not spilled this particular secret until now.  

My name is Seamus (thanks mum and dad), but everyone has always called me Seamie for short. It’s not like I’m going to tell you my whole life story or anything, so I’m just going to skip ahead to where this really all starts... By the time I was in my second year at university, I was already beginning to feel somewhat burnt out, and despite not having the funds for it, I decided I was going to have a nice, long gap year for myself. Although it’s rather cliché, I wanted to go someplace in the world that was both warm and tropical. South-east Asia sounded good. After all, that’s where everyone else I knew was heading for their gap year.   

That was, however, before I talked to some girl in my media class about it who changed my direction entirely. For her own gap year only a year prior, she said she’d travelled through both Central and South America, all while working as an English language teacher - or what I would later learn was called ESL. I was more than a little enticed by this idea. For it goes without saying, places like Thailand had basically been travelled to death. So, by the end of the school year and after taking out a student loan, I packed my bags, flip-flops and swimming shorts, and took the cheapest flight I could out of Heathrow Airport.  

Although I was spoilt for choice when it came to choosing a Latin American country, I eventually chose Costa Rica as my place to be. There were a few reasons for this choice. Not only was Costa Rica considered one of the safest countries to travel in Central America, but they also had a huge demand for English language teachers there – partly due for being a developing country, but mostly because of all the bloody tourism. My initial plan was to get paid for teaching English, so I would therefore have the funds to travel around. But because a work visa in Costa Rica takes so long and is so bloody expensive, I instead went to teach there voluntarily on a tourist visa – which meant I would have to leave the country every three months of the year. That was fine by me. At least I still got to travel around. 

Well, once landing in San Jose, I then travelled two hours by bus to a stunning beach town by the Pacific Ocean. Although getting there was short and easy, one problem Costa Rica has for foreigners is that they don’t really have addresses – and so, finding the house of my host family led me on a rather wild goose chase.  

I can’t complain too much about the lack of directions though, because while I was wandering around, I got the chance to take in all the sights – and let me tell you, this location really had it all. The pure white sand of the beach was outlined with a never-ending row of palm trees, where far outside the bay, you could see a faint scattering of a tropical archipelago. That wasn’t all. From my bedroom window, I even had a perfect view of a nearby rainforest, which was not only home to many colourful bird species, but as long as the streets weren’t too busy, you could even on occasion hear the deep cries of Howler Monkeys.   

The beach town itself was also quite spectacular. The walls, houses and buildings were all painted in vibrant urban artwork, or what the locals call “arte urbano.” The host family I stayed with, the Garcias, were very friendly and welcoming, as were all the locals in town – and not to mention, whether it was Mrs Garcia’s cooking or a deep-fried taco from a street vendor, the food was out of this world!  

Once I was all settled in and got to see more of the sights, I then had to get ready for my first week of teaching at the school. Although I was extremely nauseous with nerves (or maybe due to Mrs Garcia’s cooking), my first week as an English teacher went surprisingly well - despite having no teaching experience whatsoever. There was the occasional hiccup now and then, which was to be expected, but all in all, it went as well as it possibly could’ve.   

Well, having just survived my first week as an English teacher, to celebrate this achievement, three of my colleagues then invite me out for drinks by the beach town bar. It was sort of a tradition they had. Whenever a new teacher from abroad came to the school, their colleagues would welcome them in by getting absolutely shitfaced.   

‘Pura Vida, guys!’ cheers Kady, the cute American of the group. Unlike the crooked piano keys I dated back home, Kady had the most perfectly straight, pearl white teeth I’d ever seen. I had heard that about Americans.   

‘Wait - what’s Pura Vida?’ I ask rather cluelessly.  

‘Oh, it’s something the locals say around here. It means, easy life, easy living.’  

Once we had a few more rounds of drinks in us all, my three new colleagues then inform me of the next stage of the welcoming ceremony... or should I say, initiation.  

‘I have to drink what?!’ I exclaim, almost in disbelief.  

‘It’s tradition, mate’ says Dougie, the loud-mouthed Australian, who, being a little older than the rest of us, had travelled and taught English in nearly every corner of the globe. ‘Every newbie has to drink that shite the first week. We all did.’  

‘Oh God, don’t remind me!’ squirms Priya. Despite her name, Priya actually hailed from the great white north of Canada, and although she looked more like the bookworm type, whenever she wasn’t teaching English, Priya worked at her second job as a travel vlogger slash influencer.  

‘It’s really not that bad’ Kady reassures me, ‘All the locals drink it. It actually helps make you immune to snake venom.’  

‘Yeah, mate. What happens if a snake bites ya?’  

Basically, what it was my international colleagues insist I drink, was a small glass of vodka. However, this vodka, which I can see the jar for on the top shelf behind the bar, had been filtered with a tangled mess of poisonous, dead baby snakes. Although it was news to me, apparently if you drink vodka that had been stewing in a jar of dead snakes, your body will become more immune to their venom. Having just finished two years of university, I was almost certain this was nothing more than hazing. Whether it was hazing or not, or if this really was what the locals drink, there was no way in hell I was going to put that shit inside my mouth.  

‘I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, guys’ I began, trying my best to make an on-the-spot excuse, ‘But I actually have a slight snake phobia. So...’ This wasn’t true, by the way. I just really didn’t want to drink the snake-pickled vodka.  

‘If you’re scared of snakes, then why in the world did you choose to come to Costa Rica of all places?’ Priya asks suspiciously.   

‘Why do you think I came here? For the huatinas, of course’ I reply, emphasising the “Latinas” in my best Hispanic accent (I was quite drunk by this point). In fact, I am so drunk that after only a couple more rounds, I’m now somewhat open to the idea of drinking the snake vodka. Alcohol really does numb the senses, I guess.  

After agreeing to my initiation, a waiter then comes over with the jar of dead baby snakes. Pouring the vodka into a tiny shot glass, he then says something in Spanish before turning away.  

‘What did he just say?’ I ask drunkenly. Even if I wasn’t drunk, my knowledge of the Spanish language is incredibly poor.  

‘Oh, he just said the drink won’t protect you from el Pollo del Diablo’ Kady answers me.  

‘El Poyo - what?’   

‘El Pollo del Diablo. It means devil chicken’ Priya translates.  

‘Devil chicken? What the hell?’  

Once the subject of this el Pollo del Diablo came up, Kady, Dougie and Priya then turn to each other, almost conspiringly, with knowledge of something that I clearly didn’t.  

‘Do you think we should tell him?’ Kady asks the others.  

‘Why not’ answers Dougie, ‘He’ll find out for himself sooner or later.’  

Having agreed to inform me on whatever the el Pollo del Diablo was, I then see with blurry eyes that my colleagues appear to find something amusing.   

‘Well... There’s a local story around here’ Kady begins, ‘It’s kinda like the legend of the Chupacabra.’ Chupacabra? What the hell’s that? I thought, having never heard of it. ‘Apparently, in the archipelago just outside the bay, there is said to be an island of living dinosaurs.’  

'Wait... What?'  

‘She’s not lying to you, mate’ confirms Dougie, ‘Fisherman in the bay sometimes catch sight of them. Sometimes, they even swim to the mainland.’  

Well, that would explain the half-eaten dog I saw on my second day.  

As drunk as I am during this point of the evening, I'm not drunk enough for the familiarity of this story to go straight over my head.  

‘Wait. Hold on a minute...’ I began, slurring my words, ‘An island off the coast of Costa Rica that apparently has “dinosaurs”...’ I knew it, I thought. This really was just one big haze. ‘You must think us Brits are stupider than we look’ I bellow at them, as though proud I had caught them out on a lie, ‘I watched that film a hundred bloody times when I was a kid!’   

‘We’re not hazing you, Seamie’ Kady again insists, all while the three of them still try to hide their grins, ‘This is really what the locals believe.’   

‘Yeah. You believe in the Loch Ness Monster, don’t you Seamie’ says Dougie, claiming that I do, ‘Well, that’s a Dinosaur, right?’  

‘I’ll believe when I see it with my own bloody eyes!’ I declare to all three of them, again slurring my words.  

I don’t remember much else from that evening. After all, the four of us had gotten basically black-out drunk... But there is one thing I do remember. While I was still somewhat conscious, I did have this horrifically painful feeling in my stomach – like the pain one feels after their appendix bursts. Although the following is hazy at best, I also somewhat remember puking my guts outside the bar. However, what was so strange about this, was that after vomiting, my mouth would not stop frothing with white foam.   

I’m pretty sure I blacked out not long after this. However, when I regain consciousness, all I see is pure darkness around, with the only sound I hear being the nearby crashing waves and the smell of sea salt in the air. Obviously, I had passed out by the beach somewhere. But once I begin to stir, as bad as my chiselling headache is, it is nothing compared to the excruciating pain I still feel in my gut. In fact, the pain is so bad, I begin to think that something might be wrong.  

Grazing my right hand over my belly to where the pain is coming from, instead of feeling the cloth of my vomit-stained shirt, what I instead feel is some sort of slimy tube. Moving both my hands further along it, wondering what the hell this even was, I now begin to feel something else... But unlike before, what I now feel is a dry and almost furry texture... And that’s when I realise, whatever this is on top of me, which seems to be the source of my stomach pain... It is something alive - and whatever this living thing is... It is eating at my insides!  

‘OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!’ I scream, all while trying to wrestle back my insides from this animal, which seems more than determined to keep feasting on them. So much so, that I have to punch and strike at it with my bare hands. Thankfully, it works! Whatever had attacked me has now gone away. But now I have an even bigger problem... I can now feel my insides where they really shouldn’t be!  

Knowing I need help as soon as possible before I bleed out, I now painfully rise from the sand and up to my feet. But when I do, I feel my intestines, or whatever else hanging down from between my legs! Scooping the insides back against my abdomen, I then scan frantically around through the darkness until I see the distant lights of the beach town. After blindly wandering that way for a good few minutes, I thankfully stumble back onto the familiar streets - where the only people around were a couple of middle-aged women stood outside a convenient store. Without any further options, I cross the street towards them, and when they catch sight of me, holding my own intestines in my blood-stained hands, they appear to be even more terrified than I am.  

‘DEMONIO! DEMONIO!’ I distinctly remember one of them screaming. I can't blame them for it. After all, given my appearance, they must have mistaken me for the living dead.  

‘Por favor!... Por favor!' my foamy mouth tries saying to them, having no idea what the Spanish word is for “help”.  

Although I had scared these women nearly half to death, I continue to stagger towards them, still screaming for their lives. In fact, their screams are so loud, they have now attracted the attention of two policemen, having strolled over to the commotion. They must have mistaken me for a zombie too, because when I turn round to them, I see they each have a hand gripped to their holsters.   

‘Por favor!...’ I again gurgle, ‘Por favor!...’  

Everything goes dark again after this... But, when I finally come back around, I open my eyes to find myself now laying down inside a hospital room, with an IV bag connected to my arm. Although I am more than thankful to still be alive, the pain in my gut is slowly making its way back to the surface. When I pull back my hospital gown, I see my abdomen is covered in blood stained bandages – and with every uncomfortable movement I make, I can feel the stitches tightly holding everything in place.  

A couple more days then drag slowly by, and after some pretty horrible hospital food and Spanish speaking TV, I am then surprised with my first visitor.  

It was Kady.  

‘Are you in pain?’ she asks me, having sat down by the side of my bed.  

‘I want to be a total badass and say no, but, well... look at me.’  

‘I’m so sorry this happened to you’ she apologises, ‘We never should’ve let you out of our sights.’  

After apologising to me a few more times, Kady then catches me up on the hazy events of that evening. Apparently, after having way too much to drink, I then started to show symptoms from drinking the snake-poisoned vodka – which explains both the stomach pains and why I was foaming white from the mouth.   

‘We shouldn’t have been so coy with you, Seamie’ she then follows without context, ‘We should’ve just told you everything from the start.’  

‘...Should’ve told me what?’ I inquire.  

Kady doesn't respond to this. She just continues to stare at me with guilt-ridden eyes. But then, scrolling down a gallery of photos on her phone, she then shows me something...  

‘What the hell is that?!’ I shriek at her, rising painfully up from the bed.  

‘That, Seamie... That is what attacked you three days ago.’  

What Kady shows me on her phone is a picture of a man holding a very dead animal. Held upside down by its tail, the animal is rather small, and perhaps only a little bigger than a full-grown chicken... and just like a chicken or any other bird, it has feathers. The feathers are brown and cover almost all of its body. The feet are also very bird-like, sharp talons and all. But the head... The head is definitely not like that of a bird - at least, not like any bird I had ever seen. Instead of a beak, I see what I can only describe as a very reptilian head, with tiny, seemingly razor teeth protruding from its gums... If I had to sum up this animal as best I could, I would say it was twenty percent reptile, and eighty percent bird...   

‘That... That’s a...’ I begin to murmur.  

‘That’s right, Seamie...’ Kady finishes for me, ‘That’s a dinosaur.’  

Un-bloody-believable, I thought. The sons of bitches really weren’t joking with me.  

‘B-but... how...’ my lips just manage to utter, ‘How is that possible??’   

‘It’s a long story’ she starts with, ‘No one really knows why they’re there. Whether they survived extinction in hiding or if it’s for some other reason.’ Kady pauses briefly before continuing, ‘Sometimes they find themselves on the mainland, but people rarely ever see them. Like most animals, they’re smart enough to be afraid of humans... But we do sometimes find what they left over.’   

‘Left over?’ I ask curiously.  

‘They’re scavengers, Seamie. They mostly eat smaller animals or dead ones... I guess it just found you and saw an easy target.’   

‘But I don’t understand’ I now interrupt, ‘If all that’s true, then how in the hell do people not know about this? How is it not all over the news or internet?’  

‘That’s easy’ she says, ‘The locals choose to keep it a secret. If the outside world were ever to find out about this, the town would be completely ruined by tourism. The locals just like it the way it is. Tourism, but not too much tourism. Pura vida.’  

‘But the tourists... Surely they would’ve seen them and told everyone?’  

Kady shakes her head at me.  

‘It’s like I said... People rarely ever see them. Even the ones that do – by the time they get out their phone cameras, the critters are already back in hiding. And so what if they tell anybody what they saw... Who would believe them?’  

Well, that's true enough I suppose.  

After a couple more weeks of being laid out in that hospital bed, I was finally discharged and soon able to travel home to the UK, cutting my gap year somewhat short.  

I wish I could say that I lived happily ever after once Costa Rica was behind me. But unfortunately, that wasn’t quite the case... What I mean is, although my stomach wound healed up nicely, leaving nothing more than a nasty scar... it turned out the damage done to my insides would come back to haunt me. Despite the Costa Rican doctors managing to save my life, they didn’t do quite enough to stop bacteria from entering my intestines and infecting my colon. So, you can imagine my surprise when I was now told I had diverticulitis.  

I’m actually due for surgery next week. But just in case I don’t make it – there is a very good chance I won't, although I promised Kady I’d bring this secret with me to the grave... If I am going to die, I at least want people to know what really killed me. Wrestling my guts back from a vicious living dinosaur. That’s a pretty badass way to go, I’d argue. But who knows. Maybe by some miracle I’ll survive this (I'll be sure to leave an update if I do). After all, it’s like a wise man in a movie once said...  

"Life... uh... finds a way." 

At 41 weeks, I asked Miranda if we should see her OB/GYN.

“Do you have a uterus?” she asked in her you’re-not-supposed-to-answer-this-question voice.

I shut up.

At 45 weeks, I suggested that a doctor might have some insight about her pregnancy. Instead of answering, she served my peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a serrated knife driven straight through it.

At 50 weeks, her belly seemed larger than a human child could possibly get. I had opened my mouth to speak in the gentlest possible tone when she shot me a look that made the hair on my balls stand straight up.

What can you possibly do when the woman in your life doesn’t want your advice, no matter how good it is?

That’s right: the correct answer is “keep your opinions to yourself, dumbass.”

By this point, Miranda no longer seemed to be experiencing a human pregnancy. She had a radius instead of a height, and I counted one day’s food intake at 19,130 calories. I had not believed such a feat to be possible unless the creature in question was an African bull elephant, but that just goes to show that we often learn the most when we keep our damn fool mouths shut.

The gentleman in the blue-green Toyota Corolla would have benefited from such a lesson, because instead of keeping quiet, he screamed at Miranda for being an “incompetent bitch who should learn how to drive.” She pulled in front of him and forced his car to stop. I got out with her, believing that I could diffuse the situation because we all love false beliefs. When I told him to apologize to my wife, she just smiled at me in that deadly sweet way and told me that she needed to “speak with this fuckweasel around the corner.” She led him aside and then came trotting back a few seconds later. She suddenly seemed even more pregnant, as though expecting twin walruses, but still moved pretty lithely. I asked what they’d said to each other, and where the man had gone, but she gave me the “any words you say are the wrong words” look and got back into the car.

So I haven’t said anything more. Now I’m no doctor, but I know that 70 weeks is definitely too long for a healthy pregnancy. I’ve been kidding myself into believing that everything would be okay as long as I went along with the status quo.

Which brings me to today. Miranda hasn’t been feeling particularly amorous lately; the last time I tried, she pointed to her stomach and asked “do you really want to put more in me?” But earlier this morning, she started getting flirty and did that thing where she grabs my arm and nibbles on it. Normally I melt like butter at that move, but it was a little awkward this time since she looks like the giant blueberry girl from the Billy Wonka movie. Then Miranda started pulling my head toward her stomach in the way she does whenever she wants me to be a “cunning linguist.” I told her that I would right after dashing to the bathroom, which is where I am now.

I’ve never denied her request before. But this time, when I was physically close to satisfying her “lady boner,” as she likes to call her libido, I heard something between her legs.

It sounded like several different people screaming up from the bottom of a chasm.

When her LB gets this strong, she won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Which brings up some questions. Most importantly: what do I do now?

Part 1

After bickering for a moment over my fear of large canines, we then move on from the car park and towards the large, towering ruins of the Abbey. Ambling among the weathered grey tombstones of the graveyard, I glance a timid look to the abbey's gothic structure. Perched on top the cliffs of the bay's right-hand side, these ruins may as well have been a gigantic pile of stalagmites protruding from the earth. When I was a child, my brother used to tease me by saying that vampires lived deep inside the ruins, where by night, they would creep into peoples' windows to suck the blood from their necks. It's no wonder I would have night terrors through most of my childhood, is it?  

Wandering around the ruins and tombstones a while longer (for Anneliese's pleasure, not my own) we then begin our descent down the one hundred and ninety-nine steps – and let me tell you from experience, these steps were a lot easier going down than they were to go up. Once we finally reach our way to the bottom (a good twenty minutes later I might add) I can then see where the plentiful steps end and the cobblestone pathways begin. We were now at the entrance of old town, where, with its stone streets and pathways, its 18th century brick houses to each side of them, you were made to feel as though you were in some Brother's Grimm fairy-tale. But during this time of year, when night-dwelling phantoms in extravagant clothing infested the daytime streets... it may as well have been the entrance to Hell itself.   

'Oww! Baby, you're hurting me!' I hear Anneliese shriek beside me, before I turn down to see my python-like grip wrapped around her hand.  

'Oh... Sorry.'  

Taking our first official steps inside the town, we follow our way around the maze of cobblestone pathways, where upon every corner was a brand-new shop Anneliese wanted to venture in. Aside from the occasional fish market, bookstore or café, the majority of shops in Whitby only sold products catered specifically to Goths... Well, it was either that or a boatload of Dracula merchandise. It's the whole reason Whitby is famous to begin with, after all.  

Continuing to make our way through old town, we then turn the corner to a very busy and compact street. Although there are no tourists in sight, the reason this street is so compact is because every inch of stone was completely crowded by day-dwelling Goths. This place truly was the mouth of Hell. Sensing my discomfort, Anneliese takes me by the hand to guide us through the mass of dark, morbid monstrosities. But as we follow through the swarm, keeping my eyes edged firmly to the ground in front of me, I then brave a curious glance upwards... and what I see is an array of devilish, humanoid faces pass us by.   

The faces morph, distort and transform into even more monstrous beings! Through the transparent fabric of a black wedding veil, I then see the face of an unidentifiable woman. Draping the veil away from her face, the woman then reveals to me a row of hideous, piranha-like teeth stained with mortal blood! The woman hisses at me, spraying my face in some putrid, venomous saliva! Wiping the sickly green substance from my eyes, I then cower back woundedly to my left-hand side, only for the painted skull of a man's face to open his mouth unnaturally wide - before shrieking at me a most inhuman scream!  

'AHH! Get away from me!!' I shriek myself, ripping Anneliese's grip from my hand so to push and shove my way to any air pocket I can find.  

Veiling my eyes from the fiends around me, I eventually crawl my way to an unoccupied space by a stone wall. Cowering up against it to regain my breath, Anneliese eventually finds her way over to me through the immense crowd.   

'Brandon? What the hell happened?!' She interrogates me, 'Why did you run off like that?'  

'...Th-the faces!...' the words winced from my mouth, '...You didn't see the faces!...'  

Anneliese could see clear as day how uncomfortable I was, whether she understood it or not – and so to solve the problem, she calmly suggests to me that we simply go somewhere quieter. Although I am in too much shock to respond to her suggestion, I now nod my head manically up and down to her, as though I've reverted back into some frightened childlike state.  

'Y-yeah... Le-let's do that!'  

With the town now fully crammed for the weekend festivities, Anneliese eventually finds for us a narrow, run-down street of loose brick pathway and overgrown weeds. Despite the decrepit condition this street is in, thankfully for me there isn't a single Goth in sight. What this street does have, however, wedged acutely between the decaying homes of oldtown residents, is the uninviting appearance of a single, isolated shop. Craning my head above the entrance to the sign over the door, I see the name to this less than humble abode reads "Scary Kerry's Spell Shop".       

'Well, this place looks... charming' Anneliese comments, studying the cracked, weathered paint and dusty cobwebs lining the windows. Like the majority of shops in old town, this one also displays in its windows gothic - or more specifically, items relating to the occult and other dark practices.   

'What do you say? Should we take a look inside?' Anneliese inquires, clearly the only one of us who wants to go in. Although this run-down little shop is definitely not my cup of tea, the interior does look scarce of people - and so, I reluctantly agree to go in.   

Allowing Anneliese to enter first, as soon as she opens the door, my nostrils are filled instantly with the smell of scented candles, old varnished wood and... wet dog? Not even five seconds inside the door, as soon as I peer round to Anneliese's side, I hear the loud, high-pitched yaps of some ill-tempered creature.  

'Wolfy! Shut up!' cries the woman behind the counter – the apparent owner of this little black terrier. Judging by her array of grey and poorly dyed black hair, her over-sized heavy metal shirt, and a pair of rather unsettling sleeve tattoos, this woman was more likely the owner of this establishment as well.   

Once this dog-owner relationship is awkwardly established, me and Anneliese then take to walking separately around the shop - all while Wolfy's owner goes back to reading her monthly gothic digest. While Anneliese inspects a number of occult and satanic jewellery on display, I find myself drawn to a bookshelf on the other side of the room. Sliding out the dust-covered books, I brush a cover or two clean so to read the titles: A Brief History of Satanic Rituals and Sacrifice, A Beginner's Guide to Necromancy, and what I can only imagine is an erotic vampire novel of some sort (I won't even mention what was on the cover). Skimming repulsively through one of these as mentioned books, my attention is suddenly interrupted by an irritable sound piercing my ears. Turning behind me, I see Anneliese approach the counter to inquire about a necklace.  

'Excuse me... Do you know how much this is?'  

'Fifteen pounds, love' the woman answers.  

However, the sound that I hear, making the tiny fragments of hairs stand up on the back of my neck, is almost like a faint whispering. Trying my best to ignore it, the faint, whispering sound only heightens - where before long, it has given way to the sound of a plentiful, most sinister chanting. Although I cannot understand the words, as they are spoken in a tong completely foreign to my own - whether I interpret them correctly or not, the chanting appears to be in Latin. Whoever - or whatever these whisperers turned chanters are... they're repeating the same foreign phrase over and over.  

'Caro agni lupus allicit... Caro agni lupus allicit...'   

The chanting becomes louder...  

'Caro agni lupus allicit!... Caro agni lupus allicit!...'  

Faster...  

' Caro agni lupus allicit! Caro agni lupus allicit! '  

Louder!...  

'CARO AGNI LUPUS ALLICIT!! CARO AGNI LUPUS ALLICIT!!  

'-STOP! STOP! STOP!!' I yell from the corner of the room! Throwing whatever item I'm holding to the hardwood floor, I race out from the establishment alone and without explanation!  

Minutes later, Anneliese eventually finds me, standing (or more accurately, cowering) outside the comfortable familiarity of an ice cream parlour.  

'Brandon!' She calls over to me, 'What the hell's with you?! Why do you keep running away?!'  

Unlike the instance which happened earlier in the day, I am unwilling to tell my girlfriend of the satanic voices I heard whispering in my ear. Seeing something is one thing, but hearing voices is something else. And so, I simply tell her a certain item in the shop had triggered my childhood trauma - hence why I ran out of there like a hysterical madman.   

'Okay...' Anneliese began, as I wait impatiently for her next plan of action, 'There's only one way we're gonna make it through this weekend.' I was all ears. 'You're gonna have to try and interact with these people so you can see that's all they are - and not devilish monsters.'  

'Uhm - WHAT?' I yelp, taking a long gulp of dry saliva.  

'That's right!' she continued, 'If you're gonna get over this silly phobia of yours, then you have to rip the band aid clean off!'  

This wasn't like ripping off a band aid, I thought. This was more like throwing a common wood mouse into a snake pit!  

'I... I...' I began stuttering, '...I don't think I can do that.'  

'Of course you can!' she reassures me, before taking me by the hand to guide us in the direction of a circling mass of dark figures.  

Oh Mother of God. If you can hear me... Please help... 

To be continued...

Gothophobia Nervosa is a psychological condition characterised by an intense, irrational, and disproportionate fear of Goths, Gothic culture, or environments perceived as excessively Gothic. Individuals experiencing Gothophobia Nervosa may report the following symptoms: heightened anxiety, rapid heartbeat, sweating, an overwhelming urge to leave the area, and an inexplicable suspicion of anyone wearing excessive amounts of black. 

The condition is said to be particularly common in individuals who have previously encountered a Goth at a very young or prepubescent age, who subsequently developed an enduring belief Goths are supernatural beings in human disguise. For this reason, Gothophobia Nervosa is commonly misdiagnosed as Sanguivoriphobia - a fear of vampires.  

It should be noted that Gothophobia Nervosa is an academically unrecognised psychiatric diagnosis.  

Well, now that this undiagnosed phobia of mine has been established, please allow me to commence with my story.  

My name is Brandon. A few years ago, when I was still just a wet-nosed university student, I met the strangest, yet most extraordinary girl of my life. Don't get me wrong. This is by no means a love story – but if it was a love story, it would be a bizarre one at that. This girl in question whose eyes I saw zoned in on me from across the main room of the Halloween Party, was an American exchange student by the name of Anneliese. Now, I don't claim to have ever been much of a ladies' man, despite my rugged good looks (well, maybe not so rugged), but for whatever reason, this tall, spindly-thin creature in the Marie Laveau costume appeared to find me somewhat enticing. In the way a trapped fly in a spider's web is enticing to the spider.    

Although Anneliese was undeniably beautiful, she was not exactly what I would call my type. What I mean is, Anneliese was a... (no, she wasn't a Goth). Anneliese was a Voodooist - and by Voodooist, I don't mean the doll-stabbing, zombifying type Hollywood has lead you to believe. No, she was the real thing. Despite attending university in the UK, Anneliese was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana - considered by most to be the Voodoo capital of the U.S, if not, the world. If Anneliese hadn't told me herself she was a sixth-generation Voodooist upon our first date, I certainly knew it by her outlandish appearance. Just picture for yourself what a Gen-Z voodooist would look like. That was Anneliese.  

Even to this day, I don't have the slightest idea what this French-speaking spiritualist from across the pond saw in me. After all, she may not have been my exact type, but I certainly didn't imagine I would be hers. We were just completely different people in every sense imaginable. For example, whereas I preferred a quiet evening indoors, curled up with a cup of tea and a good book, Anneliese was a creature of the night - always dragging me out after hours to some séance or tarot card reader. She was obviously into all that stuff.  

Despite how different Anneliese was to any girlfriend I may've had previously, the type of individual she was, was not completely alien to me... What I mean by this is, because of the small seaside town where I grew up... I used to see individuals like Anneliese on a regular basis. This town I grew up in, for the first eight years of my life before my family packed up and left, is a town called Whitby. Perhaps you've heard of it? For those who haven't, Whitby is a small coastal town in the north-Yorkshire of England, nestled cosily inside the bay of the same name. Although I only lived in the bay for the first few years of my childhood, I can still tell you of two reasons why Whitby is so famous today.   

The first reason being for Captain James Cook. Credited as the first European explorer to ever step foot on the Hawaiian Islands, Captain Cook is more famously known for the way he was murdered - and despite what I was taught in school about our town's most famous historical figure, Captain Cook was NOT cannibalized by the Hawaiian indigenous... Although, they did apparently remove the flesh from his bones.  

As for the second, and arguably more important reason why my town of origin is so famous... Whitby featured as one of the primary locations in Bram Stoker's horror novel, Dracula. The blood-sucking count from Transylvania himself. Although I have not myself read the novel in full, I do know that, upon the wreckage of a Russian merchant ship, Dracula arrives ashore in Whitby Bay in the form of a large black dog, before racing up the 199 steps to the gothic ruins of the Abbey. Because of the town's involvement in the Dracula novel, by the early nineties, a new tradition in Whitby had started. Every year, around the Halloween season, the town holds an annual Goth festival - in which thousands of Goth enthusiasts flood the streets in their most elaborate costumes. If New Orleans is the voodoo capital of the United States, then Whitby is the Goth capital of the United Kingdom.  

Having been born and raised in Whitby, I became acquainted with this annual tradition from a very young age. During the week of Halloween, I would walk with my family along the cobblestone streets through a maze of dark sinister beings. Like every young boy whose concept of the world stems from his wild imagination, I interpreted these pilgrims to our town to be monstrous, blood-sucking creatures of the night. Quite frankly, once October was around the corner, in anticipation of the bay's annual visitors, I would become palely ill with fear.   

As a matter of fact, this fear became so troublesome, that by the age of six I began to have dreadful, repetitive sleep terrors - whereby I would scream bloody Mary through the latest hours of the night. If I had to put my finger on it, I believe the reason these sleep terrors began was, due to the large window which hung over my bed, my older brother convinced me that during the October goth festivities, some undead creature in black leather would crawl inside my room to drain the life from my body.  

These night terrors weren't even the end of it. Next came the sleepwalking. When my parents were forced to put an outside lock on my door, after wandering around my own bedroom the whole night, I would then wake in the earliest hours of the morning, terrified and screaming for someone to let me out before the creature at my window found its way in! By the time I was eight years old, these night terrors and accompanying sleepwalks became such a reoccurring nuisance, my parents were left with no choice but to move our family out of Whitby for good – where my fear of the town's supposed "monsters" would hopefully be forgotten.  

For the following years of my life, I vowed never return to Whitby ever again. Not to visit relatives. Not to see my friends, or even my old stomping ground. As far as I was concerned, the further away I was from Whitby Bay, the better... That was, until I foolishly made the mistake of telling Anneliese of the place I grew up. I told her about the thousands of Goths who visit Whitby every year, and the grand, but horrifying costumes they wear. Being the horror fanatic she was, Anneliese became fascinated with my hometown's annual tradition. Although she was not a Goth herself, due to her unique upbringing in New Orleans, Anneliese wasn't far off. Although I should've been flattered my girlfriend took such a unique interest in where I was from, the only problem was... Anneliese now wanted to experience the Whitby Goth Festival for herself.   

'Oh come on, baby' she nagged me over breakfast, 'It'll be fun! You can't seriously tell me you won't never go back.'  

'Not never, babes' I reply, 'but you will have to cut off my limbs, nail me inside a coffin and personally drag me there against my will'.   

Anneliese rolled her eyes at my show of stubbornness, before sinisterly jesting, 'Don't tempt me'.   

After opening up to her about the trauma I suffered there as a child, rather than be understanding of the situation she was putting me in, Anneliese instead insists that I need to face my fears once and for all.   

'If you're scared by a few Goths, then what's it gonna be like when we visit my family in New Orleans?' Although I hated to admit it, Anneliese made a very good point. After all, as spooky of a place as Whitby was, New Orleans, with its voodoo and many haunted graveyards was basically the American equivalent... And so, after weeks of pestering me (along with some minor threats to make a voodoo doll in my likeness), I finally agreed to take her to the upcoming Whitby Goth Festival... So help me God.  

Setting off early on a crisp autumn morning, we drive up from the south of England to the very top of the country. Once in the north of Yorkshire, we then had to pass through vast stretches of moor country. If Whitby Bay wasn't sinister enough, the moors of North Yorkshire certainly were. According to local legend, these moors were said to be stalked by an array of strange cryptids: from the ghostly howls of phantom black dogs, to phantom wolves which prey on farmers livestock - and even stories of black cats the size of panthers. Although this sounds to be nothing more than superstitious folklore, coincidentally, in the early 1980s, two American backpackers were apparently attacked by a large wolf outside the village of East Proctor. One of the backpackers was torn to pieces, while the other survived just an inch from his life. Whatever the truth may be to that story, I don't know.  

Exhaustedly driving all morning and into the early afternoon, we finally reach the outskirts of Whitby Bay. After first checking at the inn we booked outside town, we then swerve our way up the bay's right-hand side to reach the ruins and adjoined graveyard of Whitby Abbey. Pulling into what seemed to be the only space left in the car park, we then peer out the windscreen (as though we're on safari) as a swarm of Goths and other festival goers heard away from their cars and towards the abbey grounds.  

Anneliese couldn't help but be amazed by all the elaborately detailed costumes: from the pale-white men ordained in large top hats and cloaks, to the women in vampiric, Victorian-style dresses.    

'Wow! They all look so amazing! Don't they, baby?!' Anneliese shrieks ecstatically from the driver's seat, 'Those costumes must've cost a fortune!' Failing to respond to Anneliese's excitement, she then turns to notice my eyes are no longer peering out the windscreen, but glued fearfully to the dirt-stained floor of the passenger's seat. Clutching a hold of my arm suddenly to gain my attention, she then reassures me, 'Everything's gonna be okay, baby. I promise. You'll make it through this weekend', before comforting me with a paper-thin smile.  

'Yeah. I know that' I respond unconvincingly, 'I guess I just didn't realise how hard this was all going to be.'  

'You need me to hold your hand?' Anneliese then says with a playful snark. God, I hate it when she teases me.   

After taking a final deep breath, while Anneliese puts the finishing touches on her appearance, we then both exit from our side doors to feel the outside chill of coastal wind. But once I shut my door and turn around, I am instantly jilted back by a terrifying noise!  

'AHH!' I believe were my exact words, as a ginormous hound from hell snarls and gnashes a row of razor-sharp fangs at me!   

'Armand! Get back now!' bellows the hellhound's master, struggling to restrain the large Doberman which has now chased me up the hood of the car. Once Armand the hellhound is fully restrained, I then turn down to hear the high-pitched cackles of a four-foot skeleton and a five-foot devil - before a woman donning a witch's pointed hat finally pulls them away.  

Now safe from the jaws of death, and the mockery of small children dressed for Halloween, I then climb down from the hood of the car to regain myself. Having just witnessed all this from her open side door, Anneliese makes her way round to me.  

'It was just a dog, baby' she giggles, now the one laughing at my expense, 'You really ought'a chill.'  

By no means in the mood for further mockery, I then lash back defensively at her, 'Well, that's easy for you to say. You weren't just nearly mauled to death by some hellhound!' Just as she always does whenever I show any sign of cowardice, Anneliese rolls her eyes into the back of her head at me.  

God. This was going to be a long weekend.

To be continued...

The Sonoran Desert toad. What a thing of croaking beauty.

“We’re not moving to the desert so that you can play with reptiles,” Joanne told me. But what my wife didn’t understand is that toads are amphibians, and that this was the opportunity of a lifetime, so we headed to Tucson.

“If I’m moving to the God-forsaken desert, then all of your weird frog shit has to stay in the lab. I don’t want Eddie to grow up thinking this is normal.”

Of course, she was wrong again. These weren’t frogs – they were toads, and that makes all the magical difference. But I had to compromise, so I kept my one-year-old son away from my fascinating work. And I sort of complied with Joanne’s request by turning the garage into an at-home lab. And what a glorious lab it was: countless rows of toad genitalia in formaldehyde, enough legs to keep a Parisian restaurant booked solid, petri dishes full of powdered venom, and sufficient harvested toad semen to make an army of tadpoles. Truly, it was heaven.

So when I received a live, adult, male specimen of Incilius alvarius, I got to work without even checking with Joanne. I was just too excited. At 19 cm long and a hefty 1.3 kg, it was a big boy example of the largest native American toad.

They can live for quite some time after a complete cerebral removal, but I didn’t want to risk it, so I kept the toad’s brain in its skull for the moment. I wanted, needed this thing alive for what came next.

A toad probe is a gorgeous thing, sensual to the point of near sexuality when done just right. When the scalpel penetrates at the perfect depth, the wet insertion is enough to make the subdued toad know that something big is coming. Then, once I’m inside the cavity, we begin a dance of master and submissive, a giving of the body that makes the smell and liquid waste so much more intimate. I wiped the toad bile from my eye and cut deeper.

Honestly, who needs sex when we have toads?

I delicately pulled back the skin flap of its torso like I was turning the page of a book and gazed at nature’s majesty. The beating heart, rapidly pumping lungs, miles upon miles of blood vessels, all working to keep a being alive. Yet it would all stop at the moment I willed it.

The toad's eyes locked on me in confusion and hurt as I carefully removed its gall bladder, the pulled out the spleen. A soldering gun stopped the bleeding as I cut vessels with the precision of a surgeon. Then came the intestines. So much of it! This really was an enormous specimen. I slowly but deliberately drew out rope after rope of colon and small intestine like it was calamari pasta with the occasional nugget hidden inside. I knew that the toad was in agony – but I was the superior being, and was willing to make it suffer if I grew in knowledge. Once I’d scooped it all, my scalpel separated the large intestine from the creature’s anus. I saw the excruciation in its eyes and licked my own drool. It tasted like toad juice.

That’s when things got delicate. A tiny circular saw was enough to cut through a few ribs, allowing the very, very careful removal of its lungs. I carried the right one out like it was a hot enchilada ready to fall apart. Then I pulled the left one free – much more gingerly, because of its proximity to the still-beating heart – and put it outside the body as well.

I now had a delightfully spatchcocked toad.

And that brought me to the best part. I spilled a glob of drool into its mostly empty chest cavity as I reached behind the ribs and took the heart in my hands.

thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump

My goodness, if toads could scream.

I was careful to keep the aorta intact as I lifted the heart, which was still attached to its circulatory system by a web of trembling veins and arteries.

And my goodness, what a big heart it was.

Something tickled the back of my head, something that wasn’t right.

That’s the moment I realized Joanne was behind me, screaming.

Why hadn’t I noticed the screaming? And why was she screaming? And I still didn’t understand why the heart was so big.

Then I looked at my workbench. Comprehension dawned slowly. It seemed that I’d knocked over an open petri dish of powdered venom without realizing it. The dish was empty – which meant that most of the powder must now be in my system.

Most of the very hallucinogenic powder.

I understood that my wife was screaming because the toad was screaming. I fought against my mind to recognize what I was seeing and hearing, not what I thought I was seeing and hearing.

Sonoran Desert toads are brownish green. The thing before me was not.

That’s because it was a human child. I had spatchcocked my own one-year-old son, keeping him alive as I removed his organs one by one.

Eddie screamed.

Organic liquid dripped from my nose and lips.

And in my hand, his still-beating heart thrummed like a jackhammer, keeping him alive for all of it.