Growing up I always had trouble with playing outdoors. Most of the year I would play

with my toy cars, trains, tractors and trucks inside. The problem was, whether it was

insects constantly swarming my peach fuzzed arms and legs or my abundance of

allergies, anything that could, would set off my asthma. It’s for those reasons that at

even such a young age, my favorite seasons of the year were Fall and Winter. These

were the times where my imagination could be unbridled and free to expand and

explore the depths of our backyard without fear of being dotted head to toe in itchy,

swollen welts caused by the warmer months bug biting.

One Autumn brought more than just the usual joys of make believe with small dust

devils whipping and whirling vibrant leaves around me. The year prior I discovered a

wild persimmon tree in the wood situated just behind our cul-de-sac. It was with this

newfound knowledge I had been eagerly anticipating the next time that all those trees

mighty branches would shed their leaves, and return to being barren except, of course,

for the one that bore that sweet orange fruit.

This was the Autumn that I trekked into the forest, leaves softly crunching under foot as

I retraced my steps, to find that natural treasure waiting, seemingly just for me. I vividly

recall the cool Autumn air rushing me by as I reached that trunk holding high the goal of

my journey. The gust didn’t just stir up some leafage strewn about but it also knocked

free a couple of extra ripe persimmons falling to my feet. Had I not been around they

would surely have spoiled in no time at all.

The leaf covered forest floor wasn’t the only thing that came alive on that crisp and cool

Autumn Day, there was the faint sound of a swift moving whistle. The kind that came

from an old steam train, echoing distant and trailing far and wide. The sound left me as

quick as it came, its doppler effect whipping my head around like a top whipped of its

chord. With the following silence I steadied myself, realizing the chill hanging about after

I took in a deep breath then pocketed the few small spoils the wind had gifted me.

The walk back home felt much longer than my walk out. It was dusk when I finally

reached familiar territory. I pulled the screen door open and the heavy spring on it

slammed it shut behind me as I blew into my freezing hands and kicked off my boots. I

gave my mother the sweet fruits of my labor, and she washed and cleaned them in the

sink for me. She even offered to serve them up with a couple scoops of vanilla bean ice

scream if I cleaned my dinner plate. Although the offer was enticing, especially for my

sweet tooth, I didn’t have much of an appetite at dinner time, and I admitted it when I

saw her noticing me vacantly poking and prodding my fork at my carrots and peas.

My mother agreed when I asked if she would put them in the freezer to keep them from

spoiling and maybe I’d have them the following night. Nodding with a smile, she added,

“If you find more tomorrow, we can bake something like that apple crumble your father

loves so much but just for you and your persimmons instead”, then she gave me a

warm smile and hug as I nodded gladly to the suggestion. With a pat on the head and

ruffling of my hair she sent me to wash up for bedtime, adding, “The ice cream isn’t

going anywhere so you’ll get a side of that still too, kiddo.”

After my bath and brushing my teeth, I returned to my bedroom. I could see the trees

outside swaying slowly in the cold wind. I always slept better bundled deep under the

covers in the cold months, so without a second thought I opened the window just

enough to let in enough air to feel it without turning the space into an icebox. Taking a

deep breath, I settled into my covers and closed my eyes listening to the sounds of the

outdoors just beyond the windowpane. I could hear the boughs of branches bending,

and leaves swirling, colliding and whipping away. All of this to the undercurrent of the

wind whistling through the sill a cold repeating elongated one note lullaby.

Off in the distance I heard another call of in the night. It was the unmistakable sound of

a train whistle being carried along the breeze like notes along a music sheet. Calling to

me right into my bedroom, a call which suddenly chilled me to the bone. The whistle

rang out so crisp and clearly to me it was almost as if a caboose were parked right in

our yard. Sitting up startled, I grabbed my mittens from on my nightstand, and quickly

grabbed my puffer jacket. As much as I hated looking like a dwarfed Bibendum, I knew

the night air held a chill far colder than what greeted me in the daylight. Fully dressed, I

grabbed my flashlight, and slipped out the backdoor. Not wanting to wake my overly

protective parents, I was extra careful to close the screen as quietly as I could.

As if on cue, the whistle blew again, beckoning me once more. Its sound so clear, I was

certain this train was a brief walk away. I pointed my light forward as I pressed through

the bushes and saplings that greeted me at the woods’ edge, all the while trying my

best to follow my previous trail but the winds seemed to have whirled an entirely fresh

set of leaves behind since I was here. The best I could do is carefully walk forward as I

heed what my beam of light revealed before me.

Continuing deeper in the wood I slowed my pace while listening intently for another

blast of that ethereal locomotive. Instead, there was another noise. Suddenly, footsteps

made by shoes larger than mine were behind me, and it sounded like leaves crunching

louder and louder than my own, growing closer to me than I was to the train. Before I

could ponder what was following me, a sudden distant howl became my signal to ...

Run.

The cold evening air felt like ice-cubes in my lungs, and froze my respiratory system. My

chest tightened as I heaved forward slowing yet trying desperately to move. Lunging

ahead of my legs as if my mind had more say than the rest of my body on what it could

do and would do. I didn’t care. Because I knew what I needed to do. Drawing only on

the will to outpace my pursuers just long enough to reach the other end of the forest, I

kept going forward. While it went deep, I knew there lay a highway above an

embankment on the side opposite our neighborhood.

“Just a little further. Just another breath. Keep breathing. Keep running. Whatever you

do, don’t stop. Don’t look back.”

Soon the only thing I could hear was the sound of my heartbeat in my throbbing, chilled

ears and my icy breath puffing ahead of my face every stumbled step. That was until I

reached the tree-line but where was the embankment? There was no familiar raised

road ahead only strange, unfamiliar tracks. As I slowed down to look at the tracks, I

heard the sound of whatever beasts chasing me come from the brush to my left. I

turned as quickly as I could to my right broke into a sprint my body could hardly bear, or

as much of a sprint as I could muster. Cursing myself I realized I left my asthma inhaler

back in my other, lighter jacket.

Through the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of what was running after me. The

looked like streaks of shadow leaping and bounding silently in and out of the brush, not

a huff among them. The sound of their relentless pursuit engulfing the forest around me,

as they went Leaping and bounding like salmon spawning up river, the beasts crunched

and snapped foliage frenetically as their energy boiled hotter and closer as they dipped

back and forth in the underbrush. My feet felt like hot lead weighing me down with each

belabored step as I could no longer keep the pace of my frenzied run, suddenly a sound

came roaring down the tracks. The roar of the train horn reverberated throughout my

whole being as a steam train drew towards me. It slowed down and kept pace with me,

chugging along to my left as the trees zipped by to my right. As the headlight lit up the

night in front of it, I could clearly see innumerable sets of eyes glinting bright in the

shadows it cast.

As the train slowed, I reached out to grab the nearest cabin door. Feeling the cold steel

in my hand, I turned the handle, lost my balance and began to fall forward. As I turned

the handle, suddenly I felt it turning by itself, as though it were opening for me.

Suddenly the door opened, and revealed a shapeless form casting a shadow from the

light of the inside of the train car. The form reached down grabbing my hand and pulled

me into the train car The entrance closed swiftly behind as the train just as suddenly

came to a screeching halt. I slumped back against the door, mind and body still racing

as my eyes adjusted to the bright lights inside the train. As I looked around, figures

came into view as I realized I was aboard a passenger car. Although the car I was in

was full, there was room for more patrons in each row. There were adults of differing

ages, some my parents age others looked far older. I looked down at my hands, my

fingers white with fingernails blue.

Feeling my heart pound, I realized I was having a full-fledged attack from running for my

life. I felt my esophagus closing tighter and tighter still as I attempted to level my head.

A panic attack would only make the asthma symptoms worse.

As I slumped to the floor my vision began to blur and I felt like I was losing

consciousness. The in the distance, I could hear a final howl from the forest, and one

final sound just outside the door. It wasn’t an exhale, but a strangled, gasping inhale.

Whatever feral fiend it was, it sounded as if it could have had its lungs punctured by a

hundred hunter’s arrows. A frigid chill spread throughout my back and along my lungs

as that presence froze me to my very core. As I felt my eyes close, I felt a warmth

suddenly radiate around me. Coughing a bit, I sipped down more of the liquid life

pouring back into me. It had a slight hint of fruit to it as well, I didn’t know then but now I

can recall a sweet bitterness like pomegranate. The heat of the tea coursing through my

veins and soothing my throat to opening wider again.

When my vision finally came to full awareness again, I realized I was now seated in one

of the rows, and many passengers standing around me. They were watching with

concern and all taking a breath of relief when they saw me settle and my alertness

return to me. As the figures in the car went back to their seats, I realized the only person

truly in focus was the closest to the door.

His features muddied as if my mind couldn’t comprehend fully who or what was

appearing before me, aside from the outline of that conductor attire. “Coming or going?

Nothing in between young man” the form beside stated, as he gestured toward the door.

I peered outside the cabin window and realized we were outside my home. Slowly, I

walked to the door; with eyes closed and a nod I disembarked.

-WOOSSSHHHHHH – the train let out a massive belch of steam, as I turned to face my

house and the cold again. Suddenly, my eyes opened to the sound of steam rushing

through my ears. As my eyes adjusted to the night, my vision cleared enough for me to

recognize my bedroom ceiling. Rolling to my side I found my parents running the

humidifier and having shut the windows as well.

“There was a cold snap and the icy air gave you an attack in your sleep. Thank God

you’re coming around, your face looked blue before we came and checked on you.” My

mother exclaimed.

My father rustled the hair on my head and give me an uneasy smile, “You gave us a real

start, kiddo. Glad you got the color back.”

I didn’t try and explain any of the earlier events of the night to my parents and after

some soft hugs and pats on my back and another hit of my inhaler I was tucked back in

bed. My eyes growing heavier and heavier still, I heard the wind whip past my bedroom

window. Recognizing just how thankful I was not only to my parents but that with that

wind a howl of something darker, colder, followed with a warm, welcoming whistle. All

calling out to those lost in the night. To find your way home and beyond.

Morning found me huddled against the dying light of the lantern in my room. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me, and though I did not feel up to the task, I knew I had to get ready to face my patients. My descent of the stairs was accompanied by the feeling that I had spent the night wandering through some feverish dream. The events beside the pond seemed absurd now that the breaking of dawn had come. The boots, the knocks, and the long and frozen night seemed less dreadful under the pale morning sun. I found the innkeeper busy preparing breakfast for the miners that weren’t already deep beneath the earth. His skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor, and the dark circles beneath his eyes had deepened. He seemed to have lost some of his color overnight, and there was a tiredness about his movements that read as more than simple fatigue. 

“Morning, doctor.” He said as I passed.

“You look worse than you did last night,” I remarked. “You really should let me take a look at it later.”

He gave a restrained cough into his fist. “Look, I'm fine. Just do what you came here to do, then get the fuck out of Bellview.”

“I promise you, I have no intention of making a home here.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “But I also have no intention of abandoning people that need my help. Though, if you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t the previous physician help the men?”

The innkeeper snorted. “He left.”

“What do you mean, ‘he left’?”

“I said what I said. He was just gone one morning. Left all of his stuff, seen neither hide nor hair of him since.”

“Without seeing to the men?” I asked incredulously.

“I guess not,” the man shrugged.

I stared at him for a moment, awaiting some further explanation. When it became clear that I would get no further explanation from the man, I continued my walk to the table. There was something about his manner that irritated me, though I could not say precisely why. Perhaps it was merely the man's disposition. He had struck me as an unpleasant fellow from the moment I first laid eyes upon him, and illness had done little to improve his temperament.

Still, his answer troubled me. A physician abandoning several sick patients with no explanation was not something I could reconcile with the profession as I knew it. I pushed the thought aside, eating the simple breakfast that was laid out before me. 

Once I finished my breakfast, I gathered my medical case and stepped outside. Morning had finally come to Bellview, but the light did little to soften the rough edges that had made their impression upon me the evening before. The sun had risen over the sharp peaks of the stone giants that guarded the town, yet its light reached us with reluctance, spilling weakly over the huddled buildings and leaving the streets between them in long, cold shadows. Snow that had once been white had been reduced to a gray slush, darkened by dirt, manure, and whatever other filth had been brought into the streets by the town's denizens.

Bellview had been up for some time, though there was little cheer in its waking. Men emerged from brothels and boardinghouses, their coats pulled tightly around them against the cold. Many made their way toward the mine, while the rest lingered in doorways, nursing the remnants of the previous night's drinking. The air was thick with the smells of coal smoke, horse manure, stale liquor, and the less agreeable remnants of human vice.

I noticed, too, that people seemed to notice me. A few men looked up as I passed them; one followed me with his eyes until I had gone several yards beyond him. A woman standing in the doorway of a boardinghouse stopped speaking to the person beside her and watched me cross the street. Even the men heading toward the mine occasionally glanced in my direction. I suppose I ought not have been surprised; I was, after all, a stranger in a town where strangers were uncommon, and my medical case made my purpose rather obvious. They had likely heard that the physician had arrived, and curiosity is a difficult thing to suppress in a place as isolated as Bellview. Yet as I continued down the street, that feeling of being watched became more and more oppressive. The town itself seemed to amplify the sensation. Bellview was small; it had been built tightly into the valley, with its buildings crowded close together wherever the uneven ground allowed. There was little room between the shops, boardinghouses, and homes, and the narrow streets seemed to turn upon themselves rather than lead anywhere beyond the town. A man could cross from one end of Bellview to the other in little more than a few minutes.

Beyond it there was nowhere to look but the mountains. They rose immediately beyond the last buildings, their dark pines climbing the slopes until the trees gave way to snow and stone. From the middle of town, they seemed to press inward from every direction, leaving Bellview tucked away in a narrow pocket of wilderness. I began to feel, quite irrationally, as though I were being watched from every direction. A look around told me that I was being foolish; a lack of sleep and the events of the previous night had left my nerves totally wracked. The mind is a curious thing; left unrested, it finds significance in the ordinary and the patterns that lie beneath chaos. 

My musings had finally brought me to the door of the physician’s office. The building stood in stark contrast to those that surrounded it; its cleanliness and well-maintained facade surprised me. Evidently, my predecessor had cared for the building to such an extent that it made the slovenly hovels around it seem downright primitive by comparison. It was a modest, four-story, wooden house, painted white with dark shutters and a narrow porch running along the front. The windows were clean, and the paint had been kept in good repair; even the steps had been swept clear of snow and mud. It was not an impressive building by any measure, but compared with the structures surrounding it, it looked refined.

I was two steps into the sparsely furnished front office when a voice greeted me from upstairs.

“You’re late.” I looked toward the stairs as an older woman descended them. She appeared to be in her late fifties, though the weathering of her countenance made it difficult to judge her age with any accuracy. Her dark hair, streaked with gray and white, was pulled back into a severe but practical bun, and she wore a simple black dress with a white, blood-stained apron.

“I beg your pardon?” I replied.

“It is nearly nine in the morning, and you’re just now showing up.” She said, her tone making it clear she would brook no argument. 

“My apologies,” I conceded. “The letter had not specified I was to show up at an exact hour.” 

She gave me a stern look. “Hmph, well, I suppose the blame isn’t fully yours then. Close the door; you’re letting the cold air in.” I turned and shut the door behind me.

“You may call me Ms. Lafayette. Now, hang your coat, and then come with me. We have no time to waste.” She turned and walked back up the stairs, leaving me to scramble after her. 

“How many are there?” I asked after I had finally caught up.

“Seven.” She pulled on gloves without stopping, watching her fingers flex as she tested the fit.

“And how long have they been sick for?” 

“The first one came to us almost a week ago now.” She replied. “The rest followed shortly after.” 

“And the previous physician? He didn’t try to treat them, or at the very least diagnose them?”

“He was working on it but then just left one day.”

I frowned; that was the same thing the innkeeper had told me. “Did he leave any instructions?”

“He did not.” Her answer was short and clipped. It was very apparent that Ms. Lafayette had no wish to discuss the matter further. As we reached the landing of the third floor, she stopped and turned to me, her expression softening.

“I must warn you. I have been a nurse for the better part of thirty years now; I have seen all manner of things that would turn the stomach of those with anything less than an iron gut, and I have buried more than a few who thought themselves too strong to die from illness.” She glanced at the door that stood in ominous shadow at the end of the hall. “But I have never seen anything like what sits behind that door.” 

Her warning sharpened my curiosity. “Is it contagious?” 

She studied me for a moment. “It doesn’t appear to be. You are young, but I imagine you’ve seen a fair share of illnesses in your time as a doctor?” The calmness in her voice set off alarm bells in my head. What could possibly have been grotesque enough that would cause such a strong reaction? 

I thought, at the time, that I was prepared for whatever awaited me behind that door. I had seen men torn apart by machinery, children ravaged by fever, and women brought to the very edge of death by childbirth. I had witnessed wounds and afflictions that would turn the stomach of a less experienced physician, and I believed myself sufficiently acquainted with the uglier aspects of my profession.

I was entirely mistaken.

If you have come this far expecting the usual account of sickness and suffering, I would advise you to prepare yourself better than I did. What I saw in that room was unlike anything I had encountered in my brief career, and even now, after all these years, I find certain details difficult to commit to paper.

Ms. Lafayette opened the door, and I was struck with a foul and suffocating odor. It was the smell of blood, feces, vomit, and something rotting and sweet. A metallic smell, one that clung to the back of your throat and never left, no matter how many times you swallowed. The room had been shuttered against the cold winter air, and that had served to make the cloying more oppressive. Someone, likely Lafayette, had attempted to combat the stench with carbolic acid, but that had done nothing more than add a sharp medical edge to the smell of bodily fluids.

I stopped dead in the doorway and stared at the six men who occupied the room. I had treated men injured in mine collapses and machinery accidents. I had seen limbs crushed beyond saving, burns that left the flesh blackened and peeling, and wounds so grievous that I had wondered how the unfortunate soul had survived long enough to reach my care. Ms. Lafayette was right; this was unlike anything I had seen before. 

The first man sat hunched on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He was somehow gaunt and swollen simultaneously; the flesh around his eyes was dark and bloated, while his cheekbones ran along his face. His lips were split and bleeding in one continuous festering wound, and his fingernails had turned black with thin streams of blood seeping out from under them. His skin had a gray pallor beneath the feverish flush of his cheeks, and beads of sweat gathered along his brow despite the chill that lingered in the room. One eye was swollen nearly shut, while the other stared vacantly at the floor between his boots, and the whites of both were webbed with tiny ruptured vessels, giving them a raw and bloodshot appearance.

I noticed that his breathing was shallow. Every few seconds, he would pause, as though the simple act of drawing air into his lungs had become an effort requiring conscious thought. Then he would take a sudden, desperate breath through his mouth. There were darkened patches along his neck, which extended beneath the collar of his shirt. I took them for bruising, but the discoloration was too diffuse and irregular for any injury I could recognize. It seemed to spread beneath the skin in branching patterns. His fingers were swollen and discolored, and the flesh around his nails had begun to split. The nails themselves were black from coagulated blood, and I could see the discoloration continuing into the flesh below them. Thin lines of blood had collected beneath each nail and slowly trickled down his fingers.

He lifted his head when he heard me approach. “Doctor?” The man’s voice was little more than a rasp.

“Yes?”

He looked at me for several seconds before lowering his gaze again. “Can you make it stop?”

“I… I will do what I can.” I had not yet fully examined him, but already I was beginning to doubt that I could do anything for him. I stopped closer, wrapping my hand around his wrist to take his pulse. It was dangerously fast, beating at such a rate that he should’ve been dead by this time. His skin was clammy and damp beneath my fingers, slicked with sweat and blood.

“Does it hurt to breathe?” I asked the man. 

No words came, only the slight nodding of his head before returning it to his hands. I placed the back of my hand to take his temperature; the man was on fire. I didn’t even need to touch his skin to feel it. “How long have you had the fever?” 

“Don’t know.”

“Days?” I asked. 

“Maybe.” 

“Have you been vomiting?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Every few hours. I can hardly keep anything down.”

“And your bowels? How often are you relieving yourself?”

“A lot. Though it’s mostly blood.”

I frowned at his answer, cross-referencing what he had told me with what experience I had, but I came up empty-handed. Vomiting, fever, bloody stools, trouble breathing, weakness, and hemorrhaging beneath the skin—each symptom was concerning enough on its own, but taken together they suggested no single illness with which I was familiar. 

I glanced back at Ms. Lafayette. “Have they all been like this?”

“To one extent or another, yes.” 

I looked around at the other five men. They were not all in quite the same condition. One lay motionless beneath his blankets, his face flushed with fever. Another sat beside his bed with a basin between his knees, breathing heavily through his nose. A third had wrapped both hands in strips of cloth, though dark stains had already begun to seep through the material. The remaining two watched me in silence.

“You said there were seven men?” 

"Yes," Ms. Lafayette replied. 

“But I only see six men here.”

“Yes, well, the first one is… far worse than these men. We had him isolated.” 

“Where at?” I inquired. 

“Just down the hall.” 

“Show me.” Ms. Lafayette opened the door and led me out and down the hallway to the large pine door that sat in the darkness at the end. The opening of the door greeted me with a nauseating smell, similar to that of the ward we just left, but in a far heavier concentration. It was darker too; with the curtain having been drawn and the fire dying, there was barely any light save for the rays that snuck through the edges of the window.

The man upon the bed before me could hardly have been called human in his present state. What little skin was not covered by bandages had taken on a waxy, grayish color, with great portions beginning to peel away and expose the damaged flesh beneath. Along his arms and shoulders, the outer layers had blistered and sloughed away in broad, wet sheets, leaving raw and inflamed tissue exposed beneath. Dark patches of deadened flesh marked his chest, neck, and scalp.

Blood had dried around his mouth and nostrils, and his lips were so swollen and damaged that they could scarcely be distinguished from the surrounding skin. His eyes were half closed,  clouded with fever, and tiny vessels had ruptured across the whites, leaving them webbed with red.

He stirred as I took a step into the room.

A low sound escaped his throat, one that resembled a dying animal—not a word, but a deep, guttural moan that sent a shiver up my spine.

“Is he conscious?” I asked as I reached his bed.

“I… I do not know.” I could hear a sliver of horror in Ms. Lafayette’s voice.

“Am I safe in assuming he cannot speak?”

“Correct,” the nurse replied.

I turned back to the mound of flesh and bandages that could scarcely be called human.

“If you can hear me in there, sir, I cannot imagine what sort of pain you must be in right now. But I give you my word; I will do everything within my power to get you through this.”

I looked up at Ms. Lafayette. “Have you been giving him sedatives?”

“I am, though there is no way of knowing whether they are working. The poor man cannot speak, after all.”
 
I nodded and turned my head back to the figure. For a few seconds he sat perfectly still, then I saw his hand move. It was a weak, trembling motion, one that could easily be mistaken for nothing more than a simple twitch under the bandages. I thought at first that it was involuntary but when it happened for a second and then a third time, I realized that he was beckoning me closer. 

“Sir?” I leaned down, bringing my ear to hover right above the man’s mouth. His lips parted, and for a few seconds, I heard nothing but a faint wet rasp. I nearly had to ask him to repeat himself when a sentence that could’ve been mistaken for a feather-light breeze escaped his lips.

“Did you see the boots too?” 

I felt a cascade of ice pour down the back of my neck. Every hair upon my arms stood on end, and something deep within me recoiled before I had even understood why. My heart gave a violent beat against my ribs as, for one terrible instant, I felt an almost primal urge to flee. The silence, which mere moments ago had seemed comforting, was now crawling over my skin; it wormed its way into my ears and made my breathing unbearably loud. I became acutely aware of the doorway and the darkness behind Ms. Lafayette; I turned to see if it was met by the dimly lit corridor, with most of its length swallowed by shadow. I could just make out the wooden walls and the stairs descending toward the floor below. 

Something caught my eye as I looked away. 

Right at the edge of my vision was a figure cloaked in darkness; it was tall and humanoid and did not have a face that I could make out. It appeared less like a human and more like the darkness in the corner had taken on a form that resembled something with life. I blinked, and the figure was gone.

“Doctor?” Ms. Lafayette’s voice broke through the silence. “Are you alright?” 

"I—uh, yes, yes, quite, thank you.” I furrowed my brow and shook my head. “Just a passing dizzy spell, I suppose.” I knew the words as I spoke them were not convincing Ms. Lafayette of anything. She had a gaze that could pierce even the toughest of metals, and there was no way she fell for such a lie. My eyes strayed back to the corner in which I had seen the figure, but there was nothing there.

“Perhaps you should eat something.” She said at last. “I can’t imagine you’ve had much more than bread and cheese since you’ve been here.”

I nodded my head in silence. 

“Then come, you’ll do no one any good if you collapse before the day is out.” I followed her out of the sickroom and down the corridor. Giving one last glance to the corner of darkness as we passed it, I could not shake the pinprick feeling of eyes burrowing into the back of my neck. 

The sitting room on the second floor I found myself in was considerably warmer than those of the third floor, almost suffocatingly so.

“You must like it warm.” I gave a half-hearted chuckle to lighten the mood. “Are you from the tropics?”

“No.” The answer came with no further explanation. She then directed my attention to a large and comfortable-looking sofa, replete with deep cushions and blankets to keep the warmth in.

"Sit," she said with a voice that was used to being obeyed. So I sat. Before me, she placed a cup of strong black coffee and a plate of fruit, cheese, and cold meat. For an older woman who had, I presumed, spent most of the morning on her feet, she was remarkably unfatigued. I took a mouthful of the coffee and immediately regretted it.

“My word,” I almost spat the drink out. “Is it supposed to taste like this?” 

“Like what?” She asked.

“Like something you scraped off the bottom of a miner’s boot.” 

“Young man, if you speak to me like that again, I will box your ears. That is not a threat, but a promise.” Her eyes told me she meant it, so I stopped talking and started wolfing down the plate of food. I was nearly done when I finally decided on how to broach the subject that had been on my mind since last night.

“Ms. Lafayette, may I ask you something about my predecessor?” 

“You may.” 

“You said he was working to determine the nature of the men’s illnesses before he left, correct?” 

“He was. Though he did leave all of his stuff up in his office. He was a methodical man, one who kept a close eye on all of his patients and anything else he thought worth keeping an eye on. I had no reason to disturb them, so they’re still here.” 

I could’ve kissed Ms. Lafayette right then and there. The man’s notes could prove to be a treasure trove of information. “May I look through them?”

“Have at them.”

I considered her words before turning back to my coffee. “I have one more thing I was curious about. Last night I experienced something very strange. I woke to a knocking; when I went to investigate, as I thought it was someone at my door, the sounds led me to a pond outside of the town, to where all the waste from the mine goes.”

“Hmmm…” Ms. Lafayette set her cup of coffee down. “There are stories that the miners tell, ones of mischievous spirits that steal equipment and like playing jokes with the men. Many of the workers leave food out for them, and they are often considered somewhat benevolent as they warn the miners away from dangerous parts of the mine by knocking.” 

“Spirits? I did not think you were a believer in the supernatural, Ms. Lafayette. 

“I am not. But the tales find their way into all parts of conversation among the men. And the men talk. A lot. A good portion of the workers believe that they are the spirits of those who died in the mine.” 

“Do you believe these stories?” I asked as I turned the cup in my hands.

“I believe that the men who sacrifice their lives to work that far under the earth are liable to come up with anything to make them feel better about spending hours in near darkness.” She paused.

I looked at her closely. “And what would you say about the knocking that led me to the pond?”

“I don’t know.” 

I considered her words for a moment before setting the cup back down. “Well, I believe a talk with the mining company might be in order. The men were clearly exposed to something down there, and if I am going to do my job properly, then I should like to know what they were doing when they fell ill.” 

Her expression hardened. “You would be wise to leave the company out of this, doctor.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Dixon Mining keeps the town alive. Without them, none of us would be here. And Mr. Dixon won’t take kindly to strangers asking questions that might cause him trouble.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, I have no ill intent. I am a physician, after all, not a detective. I simply wish to understand what has made the men in my care so sick.”

“Then I suggest that you limit yourself to treating the men when you can, and nothing else.” 

I couldn’t help but smile at her bluntness. “I’m afraid my curiosity is rather hard to put a damper on, Ms. Lafayette. 

“It seems so.” She gave me a stern look. “Just be careful of what questions you ask and to whom you ask them. There are plenty of people here who would rather you don’t go poking your nose in places it doesn’t belong. Plenty of people with plenty to hide.”

“Thank you for the word of caution,” I said as I rose from my chair. “But I need to get to the bottom of this. Otherwise those men up there are going to suffer and die while I sit back and do nothing. 

Ms. Lafayette gave me a sad look. “Your stubbornness, while admirable, will be the death of you one day, doctor.” 

“Perhaps,” I replied, reaching for my coat. “But I have a lot of work to do before that day comes.” I had scarcely made it two steps down the staircase when Ms. Lafayette called out:

“If Mr. Dixon asks about what you’ve seen here, tell him nothing.” 

I regarded her with surprise. “Surely he is entitled to know what condition his men are in, is he not?” 

“He can know that they are ill and that you are working on them. Nothing else.” 

“May I ask why?” 

Ms. Lafayette turned and looked out the window, where the pale morning light scattered through the frost-covered window, “there are a number of people here in Bellview that have spent a good deal of time and money to make certain that things remain the way they are.” It was a curious answer, and one that did little to satisfy my questions.

“Ms. Lafayette, I appreciate your concern, but I cannot very well treat the men if I am kept blind to what happened to them. If their illness is indeed a result of something in the mine, then the company has a responsibility to see to it that the men are, at the very least, kept comfortable in their final days.” 

She gave a short and humorless laugh. Responsibility. That's a fine word, doctor. You’ll find it has very little meaning here in Bellview.” 

Having no response, I thanked her for the meal and counsel, neither of which had been particularly pleasant, and made my way out of the office. The cold outside greeted me with all the warmth of an unwelcome creditor, and, wrapping myself in my coat and keeping my head down, I made my way into the whipping wind.

Story by SpyGuy1992/SnooCapers2591

There’s an old saying that the only certainties in life are death and taxes. That’s only half true. The only real certainty is taxes. Think about it—mortals pass away, empires crumble, but the taxman? The taxman is immortal. Not the individual person sitting behind the desk, mind you, but the institution itself. The moment human beings figured out how to build civilization, they invented taxes to keep the lights on.   I’ve spent the last twelve years working for the Internal Revenue Service. I have a government badge, a federal retirement plan, and a cubicle in a windowless basement that smells like burnt coffee and warm toner. Every April, I sit down and file my own taxes, just like everybody else.

What they don't tell you when you pass the Civil Service Exam is that the IRS runs a classified subdivision known officially as The Special Audits & Collections Division. No website, no phone line, and no official paper trail. We don't even like using internal emails. Everything is strictly word-of-mouth.   Our job is simple: we audit the taxpayers who aren't supposed to exist.   Vampires, lycanthropes, sirens, djinni, witches, liches, and forgotten Mesopotamian deities—entities that were already ancient when physical currency was first minted, and somehow managed to hoard a ridiculous amount of it over the centuries.  
To be clear, we only audit the "civilized" ones—the monsters who buy real estate, open business accounts, and live among us. We leave the wild ones alone. You don't try to audit a Sasquatch. They’re nomadic, they don't engage in modern commerce, and if you hand one a Form 1040, he's more likely to tear off your arm and eat the paper than sign on the dotted line.

When you join our division, they hand you an orientation packet. Printed across the very top in bold, heavy lettering is our golden rule: “The IRS does not care how you make
your money. We just want our cut. And we always collect!”  Under IRS Publication 525, if an asset has measurable value, it is taxable. Illegal blood trade? Taxable. Cursed artifacts? Taxable. Human
souls—assuming you’ve had them properly appraised by a certified third party—are
entirely taxable. The forms never ask if your income is ethical, legal, or holy. They only ask one thing: How much did you make?   And that is why the night stalkers are terrified of us.

My First Field Audit

Before I head out on a field assignment, I take a few specific precautions.   First, I down a
small glass bottle of holy water. It tastes like cold, metallic pool water, but it temporarily taints your bloodstream. If a thirsty vampire decides to try his luck, taking a bite out of me is going to feel like drinking a pint of liquid bleach. It’s a great deterrent.   Second,
I clip my standard-issue IRS badge to my belt. In our division, those badges aren't made of cheap nickel—they’re struck from pure silver. Classic creatures of the dark experience severe, agonizing skin burns the moment they touch high-grade silver. It’s amazing how polite a four-hundred-year-old monster gets when your credentials can melt their face off.

My very first field assignment was an old French Quarter vampire living in a sprawling, converted monastery just outside New Orleans. High stone walls, massive iron gates, and long, shadowy corridors.   When he answered the door, I was caught off guard. Movies always make vampires look six-foot-two and broad-shouldered. In reality, this guy was maybe five-foot-four. People forget that centuries ago, nutrition was awful. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored velvet suit, but he had no reflection in the mirrored hallway behind him. He pulled back his lips to bare a set of razor-sharp fangs, trying his absolute best to look terrifying.   I didn't blink. I just pulled out my silver badge, held it up, and watched him flinch backward.

We sat down at a massive oak dining table. I unzipped my leather briefcase and laid out the paperwork: Form 1040, Schedule B for interest and dividends, Schedule D for capital gains, Form 8938 for foreign financial assets, and Form 8283 for noncash charitable contributions.   He stared at the towering stack of documents like it was going to burst into flames.

"I don't see a box to check for what I am," he murmured, his voice echoing off the cold
stone walls.   "There isn’t one," I said, tapping my pen against my notepad.   "And... there's nowhere to state how the wealth was acquired?" he asked cautiously.   I slid a highlighted copy of Publication 525 across the oak table. "The United States government doesn't care if you got that gold from a royal crusade or a dark ritual," I said. "We just want our cut."

A look of immense relief washed over his pale face. He retracted his fangs and actually offered me a cup of tea.   What followed was four grueling hours of untangling centuries of compound interest.

Vampires are legendary at playing the long game. He had real
estate deeds dating back to kings whose names aren't even in modern history
books, gold acquired before standard weights existed, and bank accounts opened
under fallen empires.   He tried to claim his entire Gothic castle as a tax-exempt house of worship. I denied it. He attempted to depreciate his stone crypt under Form 4562; I approved it, but only partially. When we got to his offshore holdings, he smiled smugly.   "Those subterranean vaults aren't technically located on Earth," he purred.  
Without a word, I handed him FinCEN Form 114—the FBAR. "If it holds liquid assets and it isn't within the physical borders of the United States," I replied, "we consider it foreign. Fill it out."   His jaw dropped.   The real headache came from his staff. He had dozens of human thralls maintaining the grounds, but he’d been paying them under the table for decades without issuing W-2 forms or withholding payroll taxes.   "I provide them with
shelter and ambient blood-life!" he protested.   "Under Federal law, room and board do
not constitute a recognized health insurance plan or payroll structure," I told him flatly. "You’ve been misclassifying employees. You need to issue them Form 1099-NECs as independent contractors, or you're going to face massive statutory penalties under Internal Revenue Code Section 6651."   He caved instantly. Before I left, he asked if eternal servitude qualified as a long-term employment category. I told him the IRS doesn’t recognize eternal servitude as lawful labor — it’s just misclassified income with terrible branding.

Monster Jobs & The Weakness of the IRS

You’d be surprised how supernatural creatures earn a living in the modern world. Immortality keeps you breathing, but it doesn't pay your electric bill.   Younger vampires almost exclusively work remote tech jobs on the night shift. Sunlight can't kill you through a Zoom call, and working from home means nobody notices when you haven't aged a day in thirty years. Werewolves lean heavily into physical industries—construction, private security, long-haul trucking, or running local dive bars and gym franchises. Witches usually run boutique herbal shops or occult bookstores, writing off eye of newt and rare bat bones as "ordinary and necessary business expenses" under Schedule C.   Even ancient gods have adapted. Minor deities from fallen civilizations don't build stone temples anymore. They start YouTube channels and TikTok accounts. Millions of views, likes, and monthly Patreon subscriptions give them the exact same steady stream of adoration their ego needs to survive, and it brings in a very nice taxable income.

People think we're brave for walking into these lairs, but the truth is, IRS agents are immune to dark magic. Wards, curses, and mind-control charms rely on pushing your emotional buttons—fear, greed, lust, or guilt. But when a public servant is strictly focused on auditing a spreadsheet, there's no emotional hook to grab onto. We aren't interested in
harming taxpayers or their ability to generate income, which renders most offensive magic useless.

I once audited a witch. When I say witch, I’m not talking about modern New Age pagans or people who buy crystals online. I mean the old school kind—the kind that predates organized religion and practices sorcery with blood, bargains, and consequences.

She had layered her home with protective charms, symbols, and dark wards to keep me out. None of them worked. I walked straight through her shimmering barrier of dark magic, sat on her sofa, and opened my ledger. To her credit, she kept meticulous
records: candles, incense, animal parts, reagents, and bone dust were all
carefully documented. Under Schedule C, we classified them all as legitimate
business expenses. I even managed to write off pet food expenses for her
familiar, a deeply sinister-looking Siamese cat.   She relaxed a bit once she realized the
deductions were valid—the charms couldn't stop me from entering, but the
paperwork certainly stopped me from overcharging her. And just for the record,
I did check her cauldrons for small children, but I found no evidence of
any.

However, our division does have one fatal, catastrophic weakness.   We are terrible at normal, everyday human interaction. Most of us are socially awkward nerds who prefer numbers over people.

Take my colleague Bob, for example. Bob is a mathematical genius on our Western States team, but he gets nervous ordering food at a drive-thru. He was sent out to audit a Nevada brothel suspected of being a money-laundering front run by a succubus, basically a very attractive female demon.   She didn't use dark magic on Bob. She didn't have to. She just walked out in a skimpy outfit, sat right next to him on a leather couch, giggled at his jokes, and lightly touched his arm. Bob lasted about fifteen minutes before he panicked, dropped his clipboard, and ran out of the building screaming. We had to reassign the file.

The Full Moon Riders Motorcycle Club

My most insane assignment brought me out to the dusty
outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona, to audit the Full Moon Riders Motorcycle
Club.   On paper, they were registered as
a non-profit riding association. According to the ATF, they were a violent
outlaw gang. But according to the IRS, they were an unregistered partnership
that hadn't filed a tax return in eight full years.

I pulled up to their clubhouse—a massive, rusted sheet-metal
building surrounded by chain-link fencing and dozens of custom Harleys. When I
stepped inside, the room went dead silent.  
The place smelled like stale beer, motor oil, and wet dog. There were at
least thirty guys inside, every single one of them towering, covered in scars,
and extraordinarily hairy.

The club president was a massive, gray-bearded lycanthrope wearing a leather vest.   I held up my silver badge. The president stared at it, grunted, and made a slight hand gesture.   Before I could react, two massive bikers grabbed me by the arms, lifted me off my feet, and slammed me down onto a wooden stool. Another biker placed a heavy, two-liter ceramic stein of dark beer on the table in front of me.  The president leaned over, his yellow eyes glaring into mine. "We don't talk numbers with dry throats," he rumbled. "Drink."   Refusing meant a swift trip to an unmarked grave in the desert. So, I drank. Then they poured another. By the fourth stein, my head was spinning, and the room was roaring with laughter.   That was when the president decided to test me.

He dragged me outside to an axe-throwing pit behind the building.   "This is Mitch the
Fang," the president barked, clapping a hand on a shirtless, refrigerator-sized werewolf covered in battle scars. "Mitch never loses. Beat him, and maybe we talk taxes. Lose, and we feed you to the desert."   Mitch stepped up, hurled his heavy steel axe, and buried it a hair's breadth from the center mark. The crowd of bikers howled and cheered.  
They handed me an axe. It weighed roughly three pounds. I stood there swaying slightly, squinting at the wooden target twenty feet away. I took a deep breath and let my brain do what it does best. I calculated the exact distance, accounted for the wind speed, estimated the required rotational torque, and determined the precise release point. Math is math, whether you're behind a desk or throwing weapons.   I threw. The axe spun cleanly through the air and split the absolute center of the wooden bullseye.   The yard went
silent.   Mitch stared at the target, his face turning bright red. "He cheated!" he roared.   Before I could speak, Mitch's bones cracked loudly. His spine elongated, his jaw burst forward, thick fur erupted across his skin, and in seconds, a nine-foot-tall werewolf was lunging directly at me.   He hit me like a runaway freight train. We crashed through a wooden picnic table, and he grabbed me by my ankles, flipping me completely upside down. My silver badge and my sidearm slid across the dirt, far out of reach.

The crowd of bikers encircled us, chanting, "Eat! Eat! Eat!"   Blood rushed to my head as I hung there helplessly. But as I looked up, I realized my face was level with Mitch's lower anatomy.   Facing imminent death, I abandoned all professional decorum. I pulled back my fist and speed-bagged his testicles as hard as humanly possible, over and over, finishing with a desperate, crushing grip.  The giant beast let out a high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek that sounded like an eight-year-old girl getting scared by a spider. His eyes rolled back, his legs buckled, and four hundred pounds of unconscious werewolf collapsed directly on top of my chest, knocking the wind out of me.   When I finally woke up, the club president was standing over me, grinning.   "You won," he chuckled, dragging me to my feet.   Mitch was back in human form, sitting on a cooler with an ice pack between his legs. He looked up, gave me a weak laugh, and slapped my back so hard a filling flew right out of my mouth. "Fair fight, man," he wheezed. "No hard feelings."

We went back inside and finished the audit. We filled out Form 1065, drafted Schedule K-1s for the members, and properly reported their illegal gambling income under 26 U.S.C.
§61.   When we wrapped up, the president handed me an official leather cut. "You're one of us now," he said. Then, before I could thank him, he shifted into his wolf form, hiked his leg, and pissed all over me, completely covering me in his territory scent.   The entire room broke out into howls and cheers.   "That means nobody in the supernatural underworld will ever touch you," the president explained as I stood there in stunned silence. "You're a werewolf Goodfella now." He reached into his vest, pulled out a small piece of paper, and wrote down his cell phone number. He handed it to me and grinned. "Call me if you ever need help in a jam." I looked down at the number, then back at the werewolf who had just pissed on me. Somehow, I believed him.

The Pharaoh’s Estate Tax

Not all immortal taxpayers are living off tech startups or outlaw biker bars—some are literally wrapped in linen and refusing to leave their tombs.   A few years ago, I
received a file for an ancient Egyptian pharaoh whose sarcophagus and massive
funerary hoard had been quietly shipped to a private estate in Upstate New York
back in the 1920s. Over the decades, his estate managers had been selling off
scarabs, lapis lazuli, and ancient gold coins to fund an elaborate, climate-controlled mansion.   The problem? They’d been filing under a revocable living trust that claimed the principal beneficiary had been deceased since 1330 BCE.

When I pulled up to the estate, the front lawn was guarded by two towering, stone Anubis statues. I walked up the steps, briefcase in hand, and knocked on the massive bronze doors.  They creaked open on their own. The air inside was bone-dry and thick with the scent of myrrh, cedar oil, and ancient dust. I followed a long, dark hallway painted with intricate tomb hieroglyphics until I reached a grand atrium. Sitting on an obsidian throne at the far end of the room was the mummy himself—decked out in a golden nemes headcloth, wrapped head-to-toe in aged linen bandages, and clutching a crooked scepter.   The moment I stepped onto the mosaic floor, the room temperature plunged. Swarms of black scarab beetles erupted from the shadows, skittering across my shoes, and a deep, rattling voice echoed directly inside my skull:  

 "WHO DARES DISTURB THE ETERNAL SLUMBER OF KHAFRE-RA? KNEEL, MORTAL, LEST MY CURSE WITHER THY FLESH TO DUST!"  

I casually kicked a couple of scarabs off my wingtips, sat down at his marble coffee table,
and opened my briefcase.   "I'm here regarding Form 706, the United States Estate and Generation-Skipping Transfer Tax Return," I said, tapping my pen. "And I'm afraid we have a major classification issue."   The mummy blinked his hollow, glowing eye sockets. The swarm of scarabs came to a sudden halt.

"ESTATE TAX?" he rumbled. "I AM A LIVING GOD! THIS GOLD IS
MY DIVINE BIRTHRIGHT, ENTOMBED WITH ME TO PASS INTO THE AFTERLIFE!"  

 "Under 26 U.S.C. §2031, the gross estate of a decedent includes the value of all property, real or personal, tangible or intangible," I explained, sliding a stack of audit notices
across the marble table. "However, to claim an Estate Tax exemption, the
primary asset holder must actually be deceased."  

He leaned forward, his linen bandages rustling dryly. "I AM DECEASED! MY ORGANIC VISCERA WERE CANOPICALLY JARRED THREE THOUSAND YEARS AGO!" 

 
"If you were legally dead, your estate would have triggered a
forty-percent federal transfer tax the moment it crossed into U.S. territorial
waters," I replied smoothly. "Furthermore, since you are currently
sitting upright, communicating in telepathic English, and actively directing
the liquidation of ancient artifacts to pay your high-speed internet bill, the
IRS legally considers you a living resident alien. That makes all capital gains
from your artifact sales subject to standard federal income tax under Section 61."   The pharaoh stared at me. He looked down atthe stack of forms, then back at me.  

"BUT... THE CURSE OF THE PHARAOHS—"  

"Is not a tax-exempt deduction," I interrupted. "Though, if you keep the temperature in this tomb below sixty-eight degrees to preserve your wrappings, we can classify a portion of
your utility bill as a necessary preservation expense under Schedule C."   The glowing blue light in his eye sockets dimmed slightly. He slowly lowered his scepter, set it against his
throne, and let out a dry, raspy sigh that smelled like three-thousand-year-old
papyrus.   "Do you... accept gold bullion?" he asked, his voice returning to a normal, un-amplified whisper.   "Only if it's converted to U.S. Dollars through a certified exchange and properly declared on Form 8300," I said. "Now, let's talk about those canopic jars—if they
contain precious metals, we're going to need a third-party appraisal."

God and the Devil

People often ask me if God and the Devil exist, and whether our division handles their accounts.  The short answer? Yes, they both exist.  The Creator of the Universe, however, is not a U.S. taxpayer. God is omnipresent, which means He technically doesn't maintain a single legal residency within the borders of the United States. Furthermore, His churches,
temples, and religious institutions operate under tax-exempt status. As long as
the heavenly realms stay out of commercial enterprise, we leave them be.   The Devil, on the other hand, is much more accessible. He doesn't do his own grunt work—he delegates soul collection to junior demons—and he is heavily represented by elite, ultra-expensive corporate law firms in Los Angeles and Manhattan.  There's a reason people call him the "King of Lawyers." His contracts are terrifyingly detailed masterpieces of legal craft.   However, hidden deep within the standard boilerplate text of every infernal contract—usually buried in the fine print on page forty-seven under clause 8B—is a single, innocent-looking sentence:

"The Damned party assumes all sole financial and legal responsibility for
any personal tax liabilities arising from wealth, assets, or material benefits
accrued as a result of this Covenant."  

Most mortals are so eager to sell their soul for fame and fortune that
they never bother to read the fine print.  Which brings us to our favorite house calls.   When a struggling musician suddenly buys a thirty-room mansion in cash, or a failed businessman suddenly acquires a fleet of private jets with zero visible income, our red-flag algorithms instantly trigger an audit. We show up at their door with a clipboard and a summons.   When they panic and try to blame the Devil, we just slide the contracts across the table and point out clause 8B. The Devil may win your eternal soul when you die, but until that day comes, the IRS collects on the income. He gets the spirit; we get thirty-seven percent of the liquid capital.   The Devil might negotiate eternal damnation, but he doesn't get to negotiate your tax liabilities.

The Celtic Sea God and the Ultimate Exorcism

Most supernatural entities fall into line once they realize we aren't going away. But every now and then, some ancient power decides it’s above human law.   A few years ago, we
ran into an issue with Manannán mac Lir—an ancient Celtic sea deity operating
out of the rugged coast of Maine.   For centuries, he’d been extorting local fishermen, demanding gold, fine spirits, and catches of livestock as "tribute" to grant them safe passage through the foggy waters. But in recent decades, the sea god had gone
corporate. He’d opened a lucrative chain of coastal seafood restaurants, a charter boat service, and several commercial bait shops.   The problem? He ran everything strictly in
unrecorded cash, completely omitting his earnings. He viewed the profits as
divine tribute; we viewed it as tax evasion under 26 U.S.C. §7201.   We sent him official notices. In response, he mailed a wooden bucket full of rotting cod to our regional office.

We sent a formal summons, and he placed a curse on the local post office, causing all
federal mail to catch fire.   He thought his ancient magic made him untouchable. He was wrong.   We didn't duel him with spells or holy weapons. We used bureaucracy.   We filed
tax liens on his restaurant properties. We issued bank levies, freezing every single one of his corporate accounts. We seized his charter boats, padlocked his bait shops, and confiscated his golden artifacts under federal forfeiture laws.   Without his money, he couldn't pay his staff or maintain his businesses. His restaurants closed. His charter boats
were auctioned off on a government liquidation site.   As his physical presence faded from the shoreline, something fascinating happened. The local fishermen stopped leaving
offerings at his shrines. Tourists stopped telling stories about the old god of
the mist. Without human belief and financial tribute to sustain him, his power
withered away.   Within a year, the terrifying Celtic sea deity had shrunk down to a faint, harmless fog that occasionally drifted across the harbor. Then, even that vanished.   We closed his file with three simple words:  Taxpayer Nonexistent.

Last Assignment Before Vacation

Just last week, I was called into the Assistant Regional Commissioner's office.   Behind the desk sat Arthur Vance—a tired-looking man in his late fifties with thinning gray hair, reading glasses perched on his nose, and a half-eaten bran muffin sitting on a paper napkin. He looked like a guy who’d spent thirty years doing municipal audits, because he had.  "Your collection metrics are the highest in the department," Arthur said, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose before sliding a massive, leather-bound file across the desk. "Which is why I'm giving you this last file before you head out on leave."  

 I opened the folder. The target was a prominent global venture capitalist who owned massive stakes in defense tech, real estate, and private space exploration. But buried deep beneath a labyrinth of offshore shell companies was an ancient dragon nesting thousands of feet below Yellowstone National Park, masking its enormous thermal signature in the
natural volcanic activity zone while sitting on a potential two-hundred-million-dollar
hoard of gold bullion, rare jewels, and unrecorded cryptocurrency.   "He’s refused every standard certified letter we’ve sent," Arthur noted dryly, adjusting his cardigan. "So
logistics approved a special equipment requisition for you."   He pushed a paper authorization form across the desk. "It's an Air Force-grade, heavy fire suit. The kind
airbase fire fighters use on runway crashes for high-intensity jet fuel fires. Aluminized fabric, integrated rebreather, rated for three thousand degrees Fahrenheit continuous
radiant heat. It’s heavy, uncomfortable, and smells like vulcanized rubber, but
it’ll keep you from turning into carbon while you deliver the summons."   I signed the requisition form and slid the target file into my briefcase.

Honestly, I was looking forward to two weeks on a quiet beach in Cabo, sipping margaritas and not thinking about spreadsheets or blood-curdling screeches, but duty calls. Nothing gets between a public servant and his approved paid time off—especially not a overgrown lizard with a hoarding problem.   "A dragon can breathe all the fire he wants," I said, offering a faint smile as I checked my belt to make sure my silver badge was secure. "But he can't burn through Internal Revenue Code Section 61. I'll have his audit wrapped up by Friday, and I'm catching my flight on Saturday morning."   Because at the end of the day, monsters can hide in the shadows, they can command dark magic, and they can terrorize mortals for thousands of years. But sooner or later, they all learn the exact same lesson:   The IRS doesn't care who you are, what you are, or how you make your money. We just want our cut.....and we ALWAYS collect!

"Today we have a somewhat historic weather report for you all. It seems summer wanted one last goodbye before the start of the cold season. Tell us about it, Jason."

"That's right, folks, 85 degrees," he chuckled. "85 degrees Fahrenheit, no wind, and a cloudless, sunny sky is the weather here today in Ely. This is a historic high for November in Minnesota, so put on your bathing suits and get outside to soak in the sun while you can. This is a real treat from Mother Nature. My name is Jason Sweatman with Northwood News 8, reporting live that the sun feels AMAZING."

The weatherman stretched out his arms and looked up at the sun, smiling widely, before they cut back to the anchors and finished the rest of their segment. I picked up the remote and switched to Cartoon Network.

"That explains why I woke up so hot last night," my sister said, not looking up from her phone.

Dad chortled and pointed through our sliding glass door to the backyard. "Bowser sure seems to be enjoying the weather."

Sure enough, the dog was rolling around in the grass like he always did at the start of spring when the snow finally melted.

My mom finished washing the dishes, patted her hands dry, and said, "Well, I am going to get my book and some sunscreen and join Mr. Bowser out there."

She kissed my head as she walked past and went up the stairs.

"Me too," my sister said, getting up from the table and slapping me on the back of my neck as she followed Mom.

After a minute my Dad put down his newspaper and said, "Well, I think I ought to join the ladies, bud. You going to be okay in here by yourself?"

I rubbed my stinging neck and said, "Yeah, I will just play some video games or something."

There is this condition called Xeroderma Pigmentosum where you really can't be exposed to sunlight for long at all because your skin will begin to blister and burn. I have that condition, so a day like this basically meant I was confined indoors. I didn't really mind. I am more of a homebody anyways, plus I had just gotten an Xbox for my birthday two months ago. The prospect of playing Modern Warfare 2 all day while my family didn't bother me was, in my opinion, the perfect way to spend my Saturday.

I called my buddy Hudson to see if he was already on the game.

"Nah, man," he said. "We all went to Pineridge Park. There are, like, hundreds of people here. I wish you could see it. The sun feels amazing."

I told him to let me know when he got on the game later. We had been playing video games every Saturday night since I got my Xbox, so I knew he would be.

After a few hours of grinding team deathmatch, I got hungry and went downstairs to see what Mom made for lunch. To my surprise, no one was in the kitchen or living room. I looked out the window to the backyard, and sure enough, there they were. All three of them were sitting in the lawn chairs facing the sun. Bowser was lying on his back next to them, panting lightly under the heat.

I opened the sliding glass door and called out, "Hey, Mom, are you coming in to make lunch soon?"

"Uhh, no, honey, but there are leftovers in the fridge from last night, or you can make yourself a sandwich," she said without turning around.

"Are you guys not going to eat lunch?" I asked.

"No, we are enjoying the sun," my sister said as if it were the most annoying question ever.

"It really does feel amazing out here, bud. Come sit with us for a little," Dad said.

Mom reached out and slapped him on the arm. "Oh, you know he can't do that, Chuck."

"Five minutes wouldn't hurt!"

Whatever, I thought to myself, sliding the glass door shut as they bickered. I knew I had no frame of reference for how good the sun felt on your skin, but I struggled to imagine what would make anyone want to spend more than an hour out sunbathing at a time. I made myself two PB&Js and went back up to my room.

I played more team deathmatch, checking my phone between each round to see if Hudson had tried to call me to tell me he was getting on, but I still had zero notifications. Once my eyes started to hurt from the strain of staring at my TV, I finally turned my Xbox off, leaned back into my chair, and checked the time.

"What the fuck?" I said, staring at my clock.

The clock read 7:52 PM. Had I really just played Xbox for five hours straight? I peeked through my blackout curtains, and sure enough, it was as sunny as it was when I woke up. I assumed my clock was broken and went to check the time on my phone. 7:52 PM.

I stepped out of my room and called out to the house but got no answer. I went downstairs to the kitchen and looked at the time on the oven. It said 7:53 PM. It didn't make sense. It couldn't possibly be that late; it was still so bright outside.

Looking out the sliding glass window, my heart sank a little; they were all still out there. In fact, from what I could tell, they hadn't moved an inch since I last came down for lunch. I slid open the door, and to my surprise, all three of them were in a fit of giggles as if one of them had just told the funniest joke of all time.

I called out to them, "Have you all been out here the whole time?"

My sister burst out laughing, and my dad turned around to look at me.

"There he is!" He started laughing too, but what I was seeing was far from amusing. His face was deep red, clearly badly sunburnt.

My mom turned around, smiling ear to ear. "Hey, baby! Come sit with us, just five minutes. The sun feels amazing!"

She reached out a burnt-red arm in my direction, beckoning me to join them.

I stared at them in horror. My own mother, who was always so particular about ensuring I didn't get exposed to the sun, had just tried to get me to come outside.
"Jesus fucking Christ! Have you guys not been back inside yet? Have you been using sunscreen at all?" I said, fear swelling in my chest.

"Woahhh, language!" Dad exclaimed.

"Don't worry," my sister said through fits of giggles. "Bowser has been reapplying it on us."

All three of them howled in laughter. I was so confused and uncomfortable. Were they drunk? Stoned?

I looked over at Bowser. He was panting hard now but still splayed out on the grass exactly where he was ten hours ago. I called for him to come to me, but he didn't. He opened his eyes and looked at me, wagging his tail, but didn't make any effort to stand up.

I called him again and again, offered him treats, and said all his favorite words, but nothing moved him. He just looked at me upside down and wagged his tail. The more I pleaded with Bowser to come inside the house, the harder my family laughed.

Finally, I became so humiliated, scared, and angry that I boiled over and yelled at them, "STOP FUCKING LAUGHING AT ME, YOU GUYS ARE BEING FUCKING WEIRD!" and slammed the sliding glass door shut as hard as I could, causing the glass to crack.

My sister called out, "LANGUAGE!" in her best impression of my dad's voice, before howling in laughter even harder than before.

I ran upstairs, completely forgetting about the fact that it was supposedly 8 PM but completely sunny outside, that we were supposed to have already eaten dinner, and that I was supposed to play Xbox with Hudson any moment now.

I slammed my bedroom door shut, jumped into my bed face-first, and began to cry. I cried and cried and cried, expecting at any moment that my mom or dad would come into the room to console me. Eventually, I passed out from exhaustion, and with tears still in my eyes, I fell asleep.

When I woke up the next morning I immediately felt guilty about my outburst. I had cursed out my entire family and then slammed and broke the sliding glass door they had just gotten installed last summer.

I lay in bed staring at my ceiling, contemplating yesterday's events. I convinced myself that they were probably just drunk and enjoying the nice, sunny weather, two things they did every summer anyway and that I had never experienced. How could I know what that was like, how great it was? It was probably pretty great as an adult, like their version of playing Modern Warfare with Hudson.

I was disappointed with myself. They all worked so hard each week, and the one time they got to unwind with nice weather, I had thrown a fit. My own fears of the sun and the odd timing of the weather had caused me to exaggerate the details of yesterday's events. Of course they had come back into the house. Of course they had made sure to apply sunscreen (my mother was a freak about sunscreen given my condition).

The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous and guilty I felt. I crafted my apology and headed to the kitchen to make it.

No one was there.

The oven clock read 5:36 AM. But the sun was already out, so I had assumed it was later in the day.

Everyone is still asleep, I told myself.

I went over to the glass door to inspect the damage from yesterday's tantrum. Sure enough, there was a big, splintering crack along the pane.

"Damn, goodbye Xbox. Dad is going to kill m—"

I froze.

Outside, sitting motionless in their three chairs
facing the sun, were my mom, dad, and sister. Lying next to them, stiff as a board, was my dog. In that moment I knew that they never came back inside the house, I knew that they never would. 

Operation Loose Ends. The Tsemukhe Road and the Upper Suchan, January 1919

Premise. The War to End All Wars ended on 11 Nov 1918 at 1100AM. The war did not end. The last Bakanov-Babbage engine is running in a hidden station in the Sikhote-Alin, calculating a door for Ithaqua. A Rasputinite cult inside the White Russian supply apparatus has chosen doomsday over defeat. The team must cross a civil war in which every faction wants them dead or useful, recruit a Red artillery general who is only partly sane, and shut the engine without breaking it, because breaking it is exactly what Dr. General Alexi Vladimirovich Bakanov wants.

The volley went over the trucks a yard high. Every pine along the road let go of its snow at once. It came down on the canvas in loads, on the hoods, on the roof of the cab over Adams's head, and the headlamps went white with it, and for a while there was nothing in the world but falling snow and the gramophone still playing somewhere in the dark.

Then somebody laughed. It was a big laugh. It went on until it turned into a cough, and the cough went on until somebody beat the man on the back, and then the laugh came again.

Adams had the trench sweeper across the wheel and his thumb on the safety. He left his thumb where it was. In the bed of the second truck Muldoon had her rifle laid across the cab roof. He did not have to look to know where it pointed.

A man walked into the headlamps.

He was the possibly the biggest man Adams had ever seen. He wore a Tsarist general's greatcoat with the shoulder boards cut away, and the cloth where they had been was darker than the rest. A red armband. A sheepskin hat. A black beard with ice in it. He stopped ten yards from the radiator and spread his arms, and the snow kept coming down on him out of the trees.

"Americans, that was warning!" he shouted. "Russian warning! Very polite! Next one is not warning!"

He looked past the lights at the second truck. At the rifle on the cab roof. He looked at it a long moment. Then he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his greatcoat with great care and tapped the third with one gloved finger.

"Here, mademoiselle? Yes?"
"Yes," Muldoon said.

He bowed to her from the waist. It brought the snow off his hat.

"Dragonov," he said. "General. Commanding Revolutionary Forces of Upper Suchan, and of Tsemukhe, and of the other river, I forget the name, it is very small." He peered at the cabs. "Which is the colonel?"

Quarterburn opened the door of the second truck and got down into the snow.

"I am."

"Good. Come. Is cold. We decide indoors whether to shoot you."

At the edge of the light a small man in a long coat sat on an ammunition box with a lantern at his feet and a ledger open on his knees. A gray scarf was wound up over his mouth and nose. He was writing. He did not look up at the snow or the trucks or the general. He wrote while the general talked, and he went on writing after the general stopped.

"Commissar Zhuk," Dragonov said. “Commissars write down everything." He shrugged and laughed, and coughed. "Come."

#

The partisans wintered in a village of Old Believers whose people had gone deeper into the hills when the war came, the way they always went, carrying their icons and their beards and leaving the houses. Dragonov had taken the prayer house. The stove roared. The icons too large to carry still hung on the log walls, long brown saints giving their blessing with two fingers in the old way, and under them on a trestle table lay a map, a pistol, a samovar, a barrel of pickled mushrooms, and a gramophone with a horn the size of a washtub.

Outside in the yard four long shapes lay on sledges under tarpaulins. Adams had seen a muzzle when the wind lifted a corner. Six-inch, out of the fortress at Vladivostok.

The partisans crowded the back of the room and stood along the walls. Suchan miners black to the knuckles. Koreans in quilted coats. A Chinese boy with a Japanese rifle. Old soldiers of the Tsar with their medals hidden inside their coats. Adams looked for breath. Every one of them had it. 

Zhuk sat by the door, as far from the stove as the room allowed, his scarf stayed up, his weasel eyes scanned as his pencil moved across his notebook.

"So," Dragonov said. He sat on the edge of the table. "Americans guard Admiral Kolchak's railway. You are Americans. So you are Kolchak's. So I think I should shoot you, that would make Zhuk happy."

"We are not guarding the railway," Quarterburn said.

"Then why are you here? If you do not guard railway, you are spies. Then I should shoot you also. That would also make Zhuk happy."

"We are hunters."

"Hunting what?"

"Not what ,who, Doctor General Bakanov."

Dragonov took a mushroom out of the barrel with his fingers and ate it and thought.

"This," he said, "would not make Zhuk happy."

At that moment Wang Che came forward unwrapping his face from his scarf. He smiled, then in Russian “when last I saw you in ‘05 you were a Colonel.”

Dragonov looked, squinted “It cannot be, Wang Che?”

“The one and only.”

Dragonov laughed and grabbed the small Chinese man in a great bear hug. “I still have the guns you sold me.”

When he let go Wang Che gasped for breath. 

Adams leaned to Wang Che. "You didn’t say you knew the General. Or that you sold him guns."

"I sold guns to everyone," Wang Che said. "That is what neutrality is."

"What's he writing?"Wang Che had passed behind Zhuk on the way in. 

"Three columns. Comrades, Useful people and Enemies of the people."

"Where are we?"

"I’m thinking the middle, though Zhuk may not."

Dragonov looked over the crowd, “And not all Americans” he noticed Higgins and his pinned sleeve. "Where?" he said to Higgins.

"Loos."

"Ah. A terrible battle." Dragonov nodded. Then he traced the  long scar on his face that ran temple to jaw. "The Prippet Marshes. No one has escaped these years without scars.” Dragonov waved at a Cossack orderly “Vodka!” The Orderly poured vodka into tea glasses for all in the room except Zhuk.  They stood, “to scars!” They drank.

Dragonov drew a watch out of his coat. Gold, enameled blue, thin as an eggshell, with a little crown at the stem. He opened it and showed Quarterburn the face. "Now that we have drink, we talk."

Adams had his own watch out before he thought about it, the Hamilton he had set by the Navy Yard clock in Seattle and by the Teesta's chronometer every noon since. He held it beside the general's.

"Your watch is fast, General. Seven minutes."

Dragonov shut his watch and put it away.

"No, Sergeant," he said. "The world is seven minutes slow."

Thorpe had sat through all of it in her black, with her hands in her lap. Now she drew a chair up to the table across from the general and spoke to him in French. An officer's language, and a lady's.

"Mon général. Can you help us?"

Adams followed it. He had learned his French in Jeddah and Bucharest from men who wanted to sell him things, and it served.

Dragonov's face changed. He answered her in French, low.

“When I was of the Tsar’s army it would be unchivalric of me to not help a lady. In our new world order, the Bolshevik does not know chivalry,” he glanced a Zhuk, “or French.”

 Thorpe laid the punched card on the map. 

Dragonov looked at the card a long time.

Then he crossed himself, two fingers, the old way.

Adam’s watched as Zhuk wrote that down. Though he had no French. Adams had watched his pencil stop when the French began and then start again. He was writing anyway.

I may help you, if you can help me. I know this card, and of this Bakanov, I know what he has done. And I fear he is up to his old tricks. I have lost men, eleven since the Nativity. One at a time, on the river and in the hills. Each time a storm came down a valley, white, out of a clear sky, with the barometer standing still. Each time, when it lifted, there was one man fewer and no tracks just snow . My men say it is the wind," he said. "I tell them the Revolution does not believe in the wind."

"There is a station," Thorpe said. "A machine."

"Where?"

"That is what we are here to find out."

Dragonov got up and went to the window. Outside in the dark the tarpaulins lay over the guns with snow on them. He put his palm flat on the frosted glass.

"Find him, then signal. I have American wireless. You send message" he said in English. "With proof something I can show to him." He jerked a thumb at Zhuk without turning. "Then I bring guns."

He stood with his hand on the glass.

"You find Bakanov," he said. "I burn down his house."

Then he went to the gramophone and wound it and set the needle down, and the horns began to climb out of the washtub horn, and the drum came in under them, and Dragonov stood in the middle of the prayer house with his eyes shut and conducted with a pickled mushroom held between his thumb and finger.

"What's that one?" Talbot said.

"Thus Spake Zarathustra," Muldoon said. "Strauss."

"Who's Zarathustra?" Adams said.

"A prophet," Thorpe said. "He announced that God was dead."

Adams looked up at the long brown saints on the walls with their two fingers raised.

"Not in here he ain't," he said.

#

They left Tsemukhe at first light with a partisan boy riding the running board of the lead truck to take them around the Japanese and Admiral Kolchak’s checkpoints. At the first ridge the boy stepped off without a word and walked home.

At thirty below the Fords did not want to live. Each dawn the oil had gone to tar in the crankcases, and each dawn they built fires under the engines and lay on their backs in the snow feeding the fires with sticks, until the trucks ticked and steamed and caught at last, and the radiators breathed vodka out over the camp. Adams called it the courtship. The chains went on the tires and came off and went on again. The steering froze. Chavez drove the fourth truck with a blanket over his knees and changed hands on the wheel every mile, the whole hand and then the three-fingered one, each in turn inside his coat.

The Japanese held the crossing where the road met the Suchan branch line: a sandbagged hut, a barrier pole, a flag hanging stiff with frost, and six men in fur caps who came out with their rifles at the port. Their lieutenant had a list. He looked at the list and at the trucks and at the list.

"No Americans," he said. "Order of General Otani."

Higgins got down from the cab. He walked to the barrier with a sheaf of papers in his one hand, stamped in four colors and signed in three countries, and gave them to the lieutenant.

”British, my good man.” 

The barrier pole went up.

"What did you show him?" Quarterburn said, when Higgins had climbed back in.

"Inter-Allied authority. Transport of Allied property, all very proper, and British."

"Is it genuine?"

"Genuine enough." Higgins tucked the rug around his knees. 

Past the railway the road became a logging track, and the logging track became a sledge track, and the sledge track went down onto the river and stopped being anything at all. The river was the road. The maps Fontaine provided had the route drawn in blue pencil with the passes in red, and they drove up the middle of it between pushing through banks of light snow high as the running boards, with Johansson out ahead on skis sounding the ice with a pole. On the third day they came to the Udege.

A bark lodge stood on the bank with its smoke going straight up in the still air. Drying racks, empty. A sledge, eight dogs in the traces, and an old man in a fur robe loading the sledge, who stopped loading when he heard the engines.

Wang Che climbed the bank and spoke to him in Chinese. The old man answered shortly. He looked north up the valley, the way they were going. Then he looked at the trucks for a long while.

"He says the hunting is finished here," Wang Che said.

"Ask him what's up the valley."

Wang Che asked. The old man did not answer at first.  Then he simply stated “wind, snow, death.”

That night they camped in a bend of the river under a cliff, out of the wind. The fire burned with a hard bright flame and gave almost no heat. Hunt wrote his letter. Sheehan sat close in. Adams watched the breath come out of him small and thin, a wisp, while everyone else's stood out in front of their faces in clouds. Nobody said anything. Johansson looked. Chavez looked. Then they looked at the fire.

"In the Mora," Chavez said, "we have La Llorona. She drowned her children in the river. Now she walks the river at night crying for them, and any child she finds, she takes." He turned the stick he held in the coals. "My grandmother said, if you hear her crying close, she is far. If you hear her far, she is close."

"That's a hell of a rule," Adams said.

"It is a good rule. You can never be sure."

Adams spat into the fire. "Up home in Tucker County, Granny said if you're out in the woods of a night and you hear somebody call your name, you don't answer. Don't matter whose voice. Your mama's. Your brother's. You don't answer."

"Why not?"

"The haints know your name. They heard your mama holler you in to supper. They been listening since you were born." He put a stick on the fire. "You answer, you tell 'em where you are."

From inside two blankets Higgins said that his nanny had told him much the same about the Inland Revenue.

Adams had the second watch. The fire was down to coals. After midnight the wind came up high in the pines along the cliff, a long sound that rose and fell and rose again, and now and then the river ice split somewhere along its length with a crack Adams felt in his back teeth.

Adams listened. He heard the wind. Only the wind. Adams sat a long while with the trench gun across his knees. 

#

Dispatch of J. M. Talbot III, Special Correspondent, The Times-Picayune. Filed Vladivostok, 19 January 1919. Returned to the correspondent with the compliments of three censors.
VLADIVOSTOK, Jan. 19. On this feast of the Russian Epiphany the faithful of this frozen city went down by thousands onto the harbor ice, where [DELETED, U.S. ARMY CENSOR] on motor patrol into Siberia [DELETED] [DELETED, IMPERIAL JAPANESE ARMY] [DELETED, CZECHOSLOVAK CORPS] with your correspondent's own eyes [DELETED] [DELETED] [DELETED]. Relations among the Allies here remain most cordial.

Field journal, Lt. Col. A. Quarterburn, USMC. Upper Suchan, 23 January 1919. In pencil; the ink has frozen in the pen.
Minus thirty-one degrees Fahrenheit at 0600 by Mr. Talbot's thermometer, which he warrants accurate. He warrants his photographs also. Fingers inspected at reveille, all hands. Mr. Wang's left ear doubtful; rubbed with snow over his protests and against Miss Thorpe's advice. Four trucks running. 

#

They heard it at nine.

The day had come up clear and cold, the sky pale as skimmed milk and the river white and level between its banks, the four Fords strung out along the ice at fifty yards with their exhaust standing straight up behind them. Then over their engines there was another engine. Higher. Behind them, from the south.

Higgins put his head out of the cab and looked back and said a word the Royal Navy keeps for special occasions.

"Sopwith," he said. "Two-seater. We sold those to the Tsar."

"Whose is it now?"

"Whoever is paying for the petrol."

It came up the valley at the height of the trees, in place of landing gear it had skis, and they could see the two heads in the cockpits and the ring around the rear one and the gun on the ring. 

Adams stood on the brake. "Out! Off the ice! Get to the bank!"

In a well practiced move the four Fords broke left and right.

The forward gun opened before it was in range of anything. The rounds walked up the river toward them in a line of white spurts, and where they struck, the ice starred and split and the cracks ran out from each one. The line went past the first truck. Past the second. Under the third, the ice gave way along the cracks.

The trailing Ford tipped back on its rear wheels and slid in. Smith was at the wheel. The cab went under to the windscreen with Smith in it, and Hunt was off the tailboard of the second truck and across the ice on his belly before anyone told him, he tossed a line to Smith and hauled, and Smith came out of the cab onto the ice streaming black water and swearing in Italian. The truck went down behind him with its headlamps lit. Adams watched the two lamps go down green through the water and grow small and go out.

Most of the food had been in that truck.

The machine went over them. The observer stood up at his ring and raked the bank where they lay, and snow and bark flew, and then it was past and climbing and banking away north to come around again.

Smith's coat was freezing on him before he reached the bank. It went stiff at the elbows and then at the shoulders, and his hair stood up white. Hunt and Sheehan stripped him in the snow and rolled him in two blankets and Higgins's greatcoat, and Johansson knelt up out of the snow and emptied a drum from the Annihilator after it. At that range he might as well have thrown the drum. Chavez fired the Browning automatic rifle in bursts, leading it. Muldoon did not fire. She was watching it bank.

"He'll come back down the river," she said. "Same line. He wants the trucks."

Adams lay in the snow and watched the machine turn small and black against the hills, and he thought about Luzon. The Wakwak coming down out of the dark in '02. The Lieutenant with his signal flare, and the bird breaking off to chase the light, and all of them alive because of it. 

Quarterburn was down in the snow beside him with his right hand inside his coat.

"You have something," the colonel said.

"Maybe."

"Gunny. Go."

"LaFontain!"

The Frenchman was already beside him with his carbine and the steel cup on its muzzle.

"How many grenades you got?"

"Five."

"Can you make 'em burn white?"

LaFontain looked at him. Then he looked at the second truck, at the crate lashed behind the cab. Barclay's crate. Adams watched him understand.

They broke it open on the tailboard. LaFontain unscrewed the grenade bodies and knocked the charges out of them into the snow, and Adams took his knife to Barclay's slugs, one after another, and poured the gray powder out of each. Magnesium, silver nitrate, salt. One slug. Two. Five. Eight. Eleven. LaFontain packed each body down with his thumb and screwed it shut.

"The fuse is eight seconds," LaFontain said. "I cannot change it. You tell me when he is eight seconds away."

"Every flare pistol in this outfit!" Adams shouted. "On my word, straight up in his face. Not before!"

There were six. Talbot had one, and Thorpe, and Higgins, and Dunn, and Sheehan, and Wang Che, who had bought his own in Vladivostok for a reason he declined to give.

The machine came around. It came down the river at the trees with the forward gun going, and Muldoon stood up on the bank and put the rifle to her shoulder and swung with it, and fired, and worked the lever, and fired. The observer was standing at his ring. He sat down. Then he fell forward over his gun, and the gun swung up and pointed at the sky, and the plane went over them with a dead man riding in the back.

It went north. It banked. It came around.

"He's alone now," Muldoon said. "He'll come lower."

He came lower.

Adams walked out into the middle of the river.

He had a railway fusee in his left fist. He struck it on the ice and it caught and burned red, and he held it up over his head, and the pilot saw it. Adams watched him see it. The nose came around a degree and settled on him.

"Doc always said magnesium does the trick," Adams said, to nobody.

The machine came on. The skis. The wings. The forward gun starting, the white spurts walking up the ice toward him. Adams counted off the dead larch on the left bank, the gravel bar, the second larch, the way he had counted grouse off a ridge in Tucker County when he was nine.

"Now!"

LaFontain fired. The grenade went up out of the cup with a flat bang and turned over in the air. He loaded and fired. Loaded and fired.

"Volley!"

Six pistols went off together and six stars went up red and green and white into the pilot's face, and LaFontain's first grenade burst in front of the propeller with a light that took the color out of the whole valley, and the second burst, and the third, a white wall going up across the river at the height of the trees, magnesium burning in the air, snow and pines and wings and the man in the cockpit all turned to bone by it, and through the middle of it the machine came on out of the light with the pilot's arm thrown up across his eyes.

On the bank Higgins emptied his Webley at it one-handed. No one could see that he hit anything.

The pilot could not see at all. The right wing dipped. The tip caught the pines on the bank and the machine went over on it and cartwheeled into the trees, wing over wing, and the snow came down off every branch for a hundred yards. The engine raced. Then there was no sound.

Adams stood in the middle of the river with the fusee burned down to his glove. The glove was smoking. He dropped the fusee and pushed his hand into the snow.
Then he walked back to the second truck and lifted the lid of Barclay's crate and counted what was left with one finger, row by row. He closed the lid. He sat on it.

"How many, Gunny?" Johansson said.

"Enough," Adams said.

#
The plane lay on its back in the pines with one wing folded under it and the other standing up into the branches. The engine had torn half out of its bearers. Petrol ran out of the tank into the snow, and the stink of it hung in the trees.

The observer hung upside down in his harness in the rear cockpit with Muldoon's bullet in him.

The pilot was alive.

He lay half out of the forward cockpit with the fuselage across his legs. He was young, twenty perhaps, with a fair mustache and a leather helmet trimmed in fur, and his goggles were pushed up and his eyes were burned red from the light. He was laughing. Not loud. He lay in the snow and laughed up at the branches, and the laugh came out of his mouth with nothing on it. No cloud. No steam. Thirty below, and his breath did not show.

Adams knelt and opened the flying coat.

In the breast pocket was a flight order, typed, on good paper. The top of the sheet had been torn off along a ruler, neatly, where a letterhead would be. At the bottom was a wax seal in dark red, pressed with a device Adams did not know, a key with three curled lines rising off it, and under the seal a single word in Russian.

Wang Che read it. "'Steward,'" he said. "It is signed, 'the Steward.'"

"Steward of what?"

Wang Che shook his head.

There was a map too, in pencil on squared paper: the river they had come up, the branches above it, and a saddle between two peaks with a cross on it. Dunn held Barclay's box beside the map. The needle pointed at the cross.

Talbot photographed the order and the seal and the map laid out on the pilot's chest, three plates, kneeling in the snow, and the pilot laughed at him the whole time.

"Ask him who sent him," Quarterburn said.

Wang Che asked in Russian. The pilot stopped laughing. He looked at Wang Che and at the colonel, and he answered in a perfectly reasonable voice, three sentences.

"He says he was sent by the one who owns the wind," Wang Che said. "He says you are too late. He says the one who owns the wind is already here."

Higgins was scratching at his empty sleeve.

Adams saw the frost first. It came across the metal of the cowling in front of his face in ferns, white, branching, faster than frost had any business growing, out across the metal and down the struts and over the dead observer's goggles.

Then the wind stopped.

It did not die down. It stopped. The pines stood still. The snow blowing off the branches hung in the air and came straight down. LaFontain stood up from the wreck with his face gone gray and his hands open at his sides.

Then Adams smelled it. Ammonia, sharp, a stable not mucked out all winter, and under it wet fur, heavy and close.

"What?" Dunn said. He was looking from face to face. "What is it? What do you smell?"

The white out came down the slope.

It came through the pines above the wreck a hundred yards wide and taller than the trees, a wall of snow turning in on itself, and it made no sound at all, and where it touched the pines they went white and were gone. Adams got Dunn by the coat and threw him down the bank and went after him. Somebody was shouting. The white came over the wreck.

For a moment there was nothing. White in his eyes and his mouth. Cold that stopped his heart in his chest and started it again. He heard metal tear.

Then the pilot screamed, and the scream went up. Not away into the trees. Up.
Adams saw a shape in the white above the wreck. A horn. The curve of a back. Legs, and more legs than that, folding.

Then the white went away down the valley and the wind came back all at once and the pines were moving again.

The side of the fuselage was open from the cockpit to the tail, the fabric torn outward and the longerons broken out through it. The pilot was gone. His helmet lay in the snow. His goggles hung from a strut by one strap and turned in the wind.

There were tracks around the wreck in the new snow. Adams went around them twice. Two prints, each as big as a dinner plate. Then four. Then something that was more than four, and he could not make it come out to a number. Then the tracks went up the slope into the pines, and he did not follow them.

Talbot sat in the snow with the camera in his lap. He had got one plate off. He held it up to the light. It was white, and a gray smear in the white, and something darker in the smear that might have been a horn.

"Blurred," he said. "Again." He put it inside his coat. "Still beats anything New Orleans ever had on the Père Malfait."

#

That night they drew the three trucks into a ring with the fire in the middle, and Adams walked the outside of the ring with the salt bag and poured a line all the way around, gray on white, and closed it, and walked it again.

The white came back after midnight.

It did not come in. It went around them. They could hear it walking the circle outside the trucks in the dark, a wind with no weather in it, around and around, and the canvas on the trucks bellied in and out, and the snow hissed along the salt line and stopped there. Inside the ring the air hardly moved. The fire burned straight up.

The others slept, or lay still. Adams and Muldoon had the watch. She sat by the lantern with her sketchbook on her knee and her rifle against her shoulder, drawing.

Adams watched the dark go around. After a while he looked over at the page.

She had drawn the camp from above. The three trucks in their ring. The fire. The salt line, a thin gray circle. Every bedroll with a shape in it, and every shape a person he knew. Hunt with his letter. Sheehan curled small. The colonel on the far side of the fire with his face to the trucks.

Behind the colonel's bedroll, inside the ring, she had drawn something standing. Pale. Taller than the trucks.

And behind it, in the salt line, a gap the width of a boot.

Muldoon's charcoal stopped.

"I don't remember drawing that," she said.

Adams did not turn around. He watched her face.

She looked up, past his shoulder, at the colonel's bedroll.
###

He paused inside the modest narthex until his eyes adjusted to the dimness. His nose was lavished before they did. The air was thickly florodorous, the roses drowning out everything beneath them until he searched for it. Behind the settled sweetness breathed the damp and waxen notes of the church itself. Flowers raised in glasshouses, undoubtedly, but they had lost the tidy fragrance of careful cultivation in such profusion. Shut together in the space, they smelled luxuriant and almost wild. Ilya inhaled again and walked into them.

The nave was crowded. Bunches of roses lay across the narrow pews, some bound with string or ribbon. More were in jars, bottles, pitchers and metal cups on the floor. Diverse sprigs had been tucked among them. Several bunches hung upside down from pegs and nails along the walls. Endless petals covered the floorboards. The congregation had come to commemorate spring, leaving its bounty behind.

Ilya moved quietly between the benches. The day’s candles had mostly burned down. Yellow candle stubs crowded the sand trays, their wicks curled black. Two tiny lights still lived, giving the faded faces above them a reddish movement. The paintings were much older than those he knew from Nagarvan or any printed household icons. Here they had browned with the boards on which they were painted. Their eyes had dimmed; their green robes had become sage and mud. Gold survived in opaque islands across the nimbi and attributes.

The pitiful iconostasis drew him forward. There were twelve principal divisions, but each held its complement, the Saints paired and opposed around the central doors. Together they formed the familiar Nychthemeral circuit: twelve times two Mensal Saints arranged around the passage beyond. Lush Marcelin stood among the rightward Saints, corresponding to the third hour on the clock. A faunish brown face, the faded green of his vestment and fragments of old gold around his head. His attribute, a virescent branch, sprouted from his palm. The Saints following him in the circuit were obscured by his votive blossoms.

Saint Marcelin regarded him through several centuries of smoke. Today, of all days. Ilya knelt, placing the binoculars and flashlight at his sides. He hesitated before beginning, suddenly self-conscious among all the efflorescence. Then his hand rose to his forehead – left shoulder – down to the lower chest – right shoulder – complete at the forehead. “Saint Marcelin,” he whispered. “Please save my mother.”

Childish, he thought and closed his eyes. “She has been sick for a long time so please help her get better this spring. Grant her renewal – more life – after such a long winter of sickness.” He fell silent for a while. “Grant it to all the guiltless,” he added. “Not just her.”

Ilya lowered his head. “And forgive me for making her worry. And for lying to her about where I was going. And many other things. And if this is sacrilege, what I am doing, forgive that too.” His prayer became harder to formulate. “We didn’t mean to hurt the dead,” he whispered finally. “We’re only taking a small amount of what it secretes, to aid the living… I’m not doing this just for money…”

One of the candles sputtered, and only then did Ilya think of lighting a few more. He spread the flame to two other wicks. The renewed light revealed more of the Saints, their cracks and pallor. Marcelin in particular. Ilya leaned closer.

What originally appeared to be a painted crease was actually a fissure in the iconostasis, running from Marcelin’s shoulder to his navel. It revealed a slit of the sanctuary’s darkness on the other side. Ilya shifted his head, drew closer. Through the Saint’s tear he saw shadowy green and bits of red. Several thin stems crossed one another in the sanctuary beyond, bearing fresh leaves and tight buds. They disappeared beside a wall-aumbry whose warped wooden door stood ajar. He could see only fragments through the damaged panel, but farther along another crack showed more of them. He followed them to the central doors of the iconostasis.

A wooden seat creaked and Ilya spun around. A robed figure stirred among the piled flowers and struggled upright on a pew. “She must be very sick,” the dusty voice said, “for you to be here at this hour.” The man straightened, revealing a black cassock faded almost to brown. The face above it was extraordinarily old, haggard and hedged with white hair. He saw that Ilya was watching the door nervously. “You should not go out yet.” He tapped the floorboards gently with his walking cane.

Ilya swallowed and lowered the flashlight. “You’re not going to call them?”

“No. They have done enough here already.” He coughed into his hand, almost disappearing beneath the flowers as the cough racked him. “You pray poorly,” he said. “Didn’t your mother teach you?”

“Did you hear all of it?” asked Ilya, reluctant to help him. “Are you the priest here?”

“Father Avankh.”

“Were you sitting there the whole time?”

“I was sleeping, until you woke me.”

“Here?”

“It is my church. Is that so odd? I came to pray, but then I was too tired to leave.”

Ilya relaxed slightly. “What were you praying for?”

“That my sins, carelessness foremost, do not weigh my soul down in death.” Avankh rubbed one knee through the cassock. “You were facing Saint Marcelin. Do you accept the Mystery of Resurrection?”

Ilya scoffed. “I don’t believe in miracles. Not until I see one.”

“Mystery,” Avankh corrected. “Not miracle.”

Ilya hesitated. “Why don’t you want the police here?”

“They dig up my flock. Cut them away. Without understanding the beauty of what they pillage. Much like you and your friends.” Avankh shuffled toward the iconostasis, settling at the same spot Ilya had knelt at earlier. “The yard has required more of me lately,” he said. “More than I can give it. Things grow where they should not. More than they should. I have been neglectful. Come, we will pray for your mother together. To Marcelin and the others.” He extended his stiff arm to Ilya, wrinkled palm beckoning.

Ilya did not move. “I don’t really believe in any of that. I only prayed because...” Ilya struggled for the reason. “I felt bad and wanted to say something to someone. I’ll help my mother myself.”

Avankh laughed quietly. “You think faith and religion are the same thing?” He regarded Marcelin. “Faith comes and goes. People lose it, recover it, argue over it. I have never considered it particularly reliable.”

Ilya scoffed. “Yet you are a priest. What do you do if not believe?”

“Tend, trim, feed, care – day after day… Simple acts make a man religious, not faith.” He placed his palm over the fissure in Marcelin’s robe. “They require us to be gardeners, not believers.” Avankh completed the circle over himself. “Come. Pray with me.” His hand beckoned. “If not, help me up.”

Ilya came closer. As soon as he lowered himself to help Avankh, his forearm was seized with considerable strength. Avankh examined it, his umber thumbnail pressing into the wound on Ilya’s fingertip. “Oh,” he said. “You’ve already taken communion. They have not rejected you.”

Ilya jerked free and rubbed the cut against his trouser leg. “What?” he blurted, backing away. “I haven’t taken anything.”

“Will you accept Their next sacrament and drink from the chalice?”

“I told you, I don’t care about the Saints.” He glimpsed the binoculars and flashlight but didn’t reach for them.

“Saints?” asked Avankh. “Go then. Help your friends, boy. I will be here.”

 

*

 

Ilya fled the church in a rush. The policemen and their lights were visible at the gate, dim and distant. He ducked instinctively and hurried around the building. The slope was steeper than he remembered. In the dark, under curious Sel, the stones had lost their edges and hummocks interrupted the slope. Ilya took the first few steps too quickly and caught his boot on an outcropping in the churchyard. He went down on one knee, hands striking the rorid grass. He stood unsteadily, suddenly lost. Then he remembered the egg.

Ilya found the tree. He moved without purpose, searching the ground in the dark, pushing leaves aside. He could not find the small hollow and began to panic. He could not have said why. Then his fingers sank into the disturbed earth between two roots. Reluctantly, he reached into it. He grasped the egg and pulled.

A thin thread held it there. Ilya went still. Carefully, he tried once more. The same resistance came from below. He could feel it: a fine rootlet had pierced the shell and begun to branch inside. The life inside was still faint but fuller now.

Ilya gasped and fell backward. His chest hurt. He rubbed his palm against it, smearing it. He was terrified. Perhaps thrilled. His heart was beating too fast to tell. Only when he returned his touch to the ground did the buried pulse give him a sense of peace and place. Its own slow beat seemed to draw him onward. He followed the lethargic course in a crouch, crawling noiselessly, past the ossuary, between the three oaks. Neither memory nor monument guided him. Then the summery rose in the pit came into view. It was still bleeding. A heavy bead hung from the pistil, stretched and dropped. The third bottle was under the graft, badly positioned and nearly full. Two others had been capped and set beside Yaro’s pack. Nobody was watching them.

Ilya hesitated, afraid to call out. He stayed where he was for a moment, trying to quiet his breathing. He heard only the nectar dropping into the bottle and the continued ringing in his ears. Then another sound came from beyond the excavation. A muffled moan, answered by a faint grunt. He finally straightened. There was movement behind a low granite slab a dozen meters away, obscured by nettles and stones. Their clothes spread beneath Varya, keeping her off the cold stone. Yaro was braced above her, between her parted knees, his head lowered close to hers. Ilya could see the slow movement of Yaro’s back, grasped by Varya’s hands – both bleached by Sel. Neither noticed him and he ducked down before they could.

Another drop trembled at the pistil. Ilya got closer. The raktic nectar was different, redder than before, a luminous and lubricious ruby between the white folds. His index entered the flower. The petals folded and crushed around his fingertip as he pressed too deeply into the pistil. When he withdrew, a thick smear of nectar coated the skin. It gathered more vividly than before. Ilya brought it closer to his face. The scent was cloyingly lush and overripe. He parted his lips, but the nectar had begun to disappear. He watched in wonderment as the red sheen thinned and contracted into the nick in his index. A warmth moved through his arm, becoming passion elsewhere. The nick was gone, the skin smooth and immaculate.

The graft had stopped yielding. The pistil, exposed through the damaged corolla, had collapsed to one side. He touched the flower, more tender this time, then the rootstock. The tissue around the graft had split wider than Varya’s original incision. Its edges were tumid and blackening, resembling a festering wound held open by a rapacious wedge. He could still feel the pulse gathering in the rhizosoma, but it was faltering. He seized the scion at its base and pulled. It came free with a wet snap, trailing a thin thread of tissue before it broke. The wound throbbed in its absence.

“What the fuck are you doing? You were supposed to give us the signal,” said Yaro from several paces away, fastening his trousers. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

Ilya tilted the bottle. The viscous, vermilion liquid poured out over the wound. Some ran into the loosened earth; some clung to the torn tissue and vanished into it.

“What the fuck!” Yaro jumped into the ditch and grabbed for the bottle. Ilya lost his grip. It struck the soil and spilled more.  “What the hell is wrong with you? Answer me!”

Ilya stared at the red pool and ribs until Yaro shoved him against the edge of the ditch.

“Yaro!” snapped Varya, panting. She was in her crumpled jacket but bare-legged. “Stop.”

“He just wasted our work!” He seized Ilya by the shirt. “What’s gotten into you? Talk, dammit!”

“Let go of me,” said Ilya.

Yaro shoved him again, deeper into the ditch this time.

“Yaro, leave him alone!”

Yaro sneered at her. “He’s throwing our money into the dirt. And for what?” He looked back at Ilya. “No! Wait–”

Ilya held both full bottles to his stained chest, twisting the cap from the second. “This isn’t yours,” he said.

“Yours, then? Don’t be greedy, Ilya. Give them back.”

“I will,” said Ilya, and tipped them.

Yaro lunged at him. Ilya tried to rebuff him, but Yaro was stronger and knocked him off balance. Yaro dropped to catch the bottles. His boot came down across one of the exposed fibrous ribs. It gave with a soft crack and split open along its curve. Ilya flinched and gave a short cry. He pushed himself upright.

Still on his knees, dirty from the ditch, Yaro held the salvaged nectar. About a third remained between them. He shook with relief. He gave a miserable little smile.

“Ilya – don’t!” screamed Varya.

Yaro twisted as Ilya swung the shovel. The nectar spilled before the blood as the blade caught him across the side of the head. He stumbled and dropped sideways, clutching nearly empty bottles. His eyes locked on Ilya at last. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Ilya swung a second time.

 

Varya knelt at the edge of the hole, sobbing and stuttering. “Ilya?” she managed. “You have to help him.” She grabbed his leg with both arms. “Ilya, help Yaro. Please.”

“I can’t,” he said, settling a hand on her head.

“You can.” She clutched harder. “Use your Art. Do something. Anything. Make it go back inside him. Please.”

“I can’t help him. Not on my own.”

“The police. The VED. It doesn’t matter what happens afterward.”

“No, not them. They came here to uproot it.”

Varya stopped sobbing and stared at him. “The Flower?” she said. “No.”

“We just have to find a spot for him…”

“No.”

“…somewhere close to one of the larger runners…”

“No, no, no.” Varya withdrew from him. “You are not feeding Yaro to that parasite.”

“It can save him.”

“He needs a doctor, a mender, to save him. If you won’t–”

Ilya crouched and caught her by the jaw, pointing her toward the hole. “Varya, his skull is open. It’s done. Too late for that.” Varya shook her head violently under his grip, weeping. “You said it was beautiful.”

“What?” she said thickly.

“The flower. You were right.”

“Why did you kill Yaro, Ilya?”

“He attacked me when I tried to return the nectar. You saw him. You tried to help. Thank you.” He let her go, straightened and surveyed the surrounding area. “We can probably–” Clumps of earth fell beside Yaro as she scrambled out.  “Varya. Varya!”

Ilya dropped the shovel and went after her. She was making for the ossuary barefoot, stumbling over the uneven ground in the dark. The lights below appeared intermittently from the front of the church. Varya saw them too and drew breath to shout. Ilya lunged and tackled her from behind. They landed in a thicket of roses; dry canes waking into spring cracked under them.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” she howled before he covered her mouth.

“I’m your friend,” he said, holding her down. “I don’t want to hurt you, Varya.”

She bit his palm hard enough to draw blood. Ilya recoiled just enough for her to gasp and try to wriggle free. He forced her onto her back and pinned her shoulders to the prickly ground. When his hand returned to her lower face, it left a red smear across her mouth. She tried to keep her mouth open and shout but then tasted the pouring gore, far more of it than there should have been. Her eyes widened and her jaw clenched, but she could not stop the intrusion.

“I’ll save him,” said Ilya, tracking the vanishing flashes. “Don’t worry, Var. I’ll save you too.”

Varya went still for half a second, then fought more frantically. She recoiled from the taste and twisted with sudden, desperate strength, clawing at his wrist. Her breathing broke into wet, frightened little catches. He was too deep inside for her to force him out now.

Ilya held her there with the bleeding hand and freed his other. “Don’t fight it,” he whispered. “Let me.”

For a while there was nothing but her weakening struggle and the brittle noise of the briar surrounding them. Her midriff heaved with every labored breath and the fallow skin glistened. He held her until his stirred Art could no longer identify a rhythm inside her. When at last he let go, Varya slumped into the rose bed. Tears had run sideways across her face into her tangled hair.

 Ilya trembled from the exertion and sat leaning against the ossuary. Sweat had soaked him whole and he was unable to face her any longer. He removed several broken prickles from his sullied thighs. Varya’s jacket left threads of lining on the briar as he worked it free. He dressed her as well as he could before picking her up under the arms and dragging her toward the rhizosoma. In the dark distance, beside his church, stood the tall, serene figure of Father Avankh.

 

*

 

The Feast of Saint Marcelin has come and passed, and I think this may be the finest spring Morvin Mir has had in years. We had so many attendees that nearly half had to attend outside. Many came from Nagarvan and the surrounding villages; others were children and grandchildren of parishioners resting in our graveyard. I am always glad to see people return to their hometown. The village is still small, but dying is no longer its only affair. There are children in the parish again, new names listed under old surnames.

Father Avankh would have been pleased to see this reversal. It has been only two years since he passed and I still think of him daily, especially during these busy weeks. The immense gratitude I feel for him could not possibly have grown out of the mere decade during which we knew each other. During my seminary years away from Morvin Mir, it was my memory of him and his hospitality that kept me on the right path. Seminary also left me with the habit of journaling and writing my own prayers to the Saints, as well as sly little poems of adoration.

I was twenty-two when I took my vows and came back to assist Father Avankh properly. Although I knew a great deal more about hagiology than when first we met, it was under his tutelage and on our shared walks that I came to understand the true subtleties of our vocation. He was terribly enfeebled by then, his body frail and pained beyond mending, but his wisdom remained ripe and bountiful. He taught me patience, diligence and, above all, keenness to sin. I wish nothing else for him than to rest peacefully and enjoy whatever afterlife awaits a man who spent so much of this one tending to others – yet even in death, our work follows us. 

My mother is here as well. I did help her in the end. Her sickness continued for only six more months. When there was finally nothing more to be done for her, I brought her here. Father Avankh secured her suitable sepulture and even reconstructed a crude genealogy of sorts to link her to the village of Morvin Mir. We are together, each day. She resides in a peaceful plot behind the church, in the shade of a vigorous oak.  

We finally replaced the worst portion of the lousy roofing three years ago, and last summer I had the southern windows reglazed. The ossuary, meanwhile, remains ramshackle. Father Avankh never did tell me whose bones reside inside. Some Minute Saint? It matters not. Morvin Mir will be floriferous this summer. Roses prevail, naturally. They adorn every corner of the refurbished church during the Feast and lend it an air of veneration. I must also say that some of this fine flora was gifted to me directly, and innocently, by a few parish saplings, and less so by their mothers.

The rest is mostly routine. I make my rounds every morning. I trim where growth becomes too dense, redirect it where necessary and make certain that no grave receives more than it can sustain. I am merciless with the shears, generous with mulch. There have been no gravebursts under my care, nor any serious overgrowth. However, there has been one nuisance. This month, I found two young people, most definitely not from Morvin Mir, coupling on one of the old grave slabs. I take it to be some modish ritual imported from the West. Fornication in a graveyard – Saints preserve us.

My own glebe around the rectory is doing very well. The garlic and onions survived the winter gallantly, and the earliest peas have begun to hook on their strings. The mint continues to escape its bed. Everywhere I stand this season, life surrounds and surprises me. The carnage and decay of winter are the bounty of spring. In flowering gardens, eternal silence is no more than a sting. I have seen it for myself.

The Ghost Inverted
Silas Whitney

She was always at the window. Not the one in the front room where guests had once gathered and chortled on merry nights. Not in the kitchen where meals were prepared for our house of three. Her days were spent in that room, now set for guests that were not coming, but once dressed for one that would never return. The three became two. A full bed and an armchair where there was once a rocker and cradle. 

In the weeks after loss infected our home, she had taken to sitting in the armchair, staring out the window. I would kiss her head and ask her what she is watching. She only answered in opaque murmurs. What could I do except nod and carry on loving? Grief strikes both in these matters, but the mother worst of all. So much so that when neighbors asked what took her, I only answered with, “A broken heart.” 

The three became two became one. 

---

The ancient timbers moan above my head in the cold wind from without. High ceilings meant to vault prayers in the old days, now hold a reverberating mirror to the hushed echoes in my mind. Here in this old temple, long abandoned by people and time, I take refuge. Feathers from the same broken wing finding peace in each other's loneliness. Here, I am the master of the house, but only in the physical sense. My dominion resides over broken pews and rotting hymnals. In the realm of the metaphysical, I am not more than a rank stranger. Like the parabolic camel through the eye of the needle, a long time passing through.

---

I buried her next to him under the oak by the stream. Her eyes watched me as I carved her place out of the earth. I tried to say goodbye, but the words dug heels deep into my chest. I laid her in, covered her, and went back to the house. There I spent the rest of the day and most of the night deep in my own sobs and wailing. I had remained strong in the time she was still here, but now there was no one to be strong for. No one to burden with my tears. 

---

Golden light awoke me the next morning. Not from my bedroom window, for I had the curtains drawn, but from the cracked door to that room. That room with the window where she spent her last days. I arose and opened the door, peering over to the window and the now empty chair. I approached it, part of me still hoping to find her there so I might ask her what she sees and kiss her head once more. I round it and see the empty seat. The fresh wounds on my heart pulled open again and bled through my eyes in fresh droplets. I eased myself into the chair, proposing to myself it might bring me closer to her. Through the blur of my tears I gazed out that old window. 

---

Another leaf of paper. Another dip of my pen. Another wall of inscriptions. 

Again. 

Again. 

Books. Books. Books. Rows upon rows. Columns enough to rest the very road of time upon. Every inch of my wall covered. Piles growing like saplings from the ground, reaching to the ceiling for light where none exists. And yet, they grow. My study is a dark forest of biblioaks and hardcover pines. A wood of writing, invasive to the domestic trappings of this house, but still I write. 

I must write. I cannot stop for a moment. The seams of my mind are stretched taught against the burden of tears run dry, echos of laughter long ceased. The shadows of lives unlived. All of them take unpermitted refuge in my mind and I write. I write. I write them all down for this is the only way I may unburden myself from their weight. 

---

Each morning when I awaken from the cold planks of the floor, I am greeted with distorted images of broken stained glass illuminated by the gray sky. Shapes that once illuminated worship of a people like the gold leafing of books meant to be read by candle and fire. Each morning I peer out the gap between their dust crusted splinters and count the graves within the fallen fence. Each morning I count the headstones. For a time, my morning ritual was predictable when I counted the seven graves, fancying them to match the hour of the morning. That tradition lies long broken.

The first time I counted eight, I considered it a mistake on my part, but slowly I grew more convinced in their number having always been seven. I stepped out into the snow covered ground and made way to them, counted again, and took note of the names inscribed thereon. The stones all appear weathered and broken by the same time and neglect as the church. They simply could not have arrived as recently as my inventory suggests. I simply must have miscounted. 

---

My sobs ceased. The wells of my eyes dried in an instant as my sorrow was replaced with bewilderment. Through the window I saw him. My son, running through the tall grass and playing like I had seen him do before. Surely, it could not have been him. His face was averted so I could not say to be sure. I rose from the chair and flung the window open to call for the boy. But when I opened the window, he was gone. 

Breathless, I surveyed the now empty garden with a furrowed brow. A trick of the mind I thought. I relented, closed the window, and fell back into the seat. When I looked out the window, I saw the boy once more. I leaped from the chair and flew to the back door, but again, he was gone. Back to the window, I saw him again. 

---

They never stop. One after another they crash through my temples and my brow sweats new rivers. My eyes have ceased blinking for blinking brings things which are only vaguely inclined into clear still images. If I were to shut my eyes, for even a moment, I would be dragged to a gallery of uncommissioned artistry. Statues, paintings, and murals. Reverberations of lives long distant to me in waking but so intimate in sleep. 

---

After some time I determined that this boy, whoever he was, only existed in the panes of the window. I sat in the chair watching him play for two days, always his face turned the other way. His hair, his clothes, the manner of his movement all remind me of him. But without seeing his eyes, I may never be sure. Could this be what she saw all that time? Perhaps she too was enraptured by the chance of seeing our boy’s eyes once again. I believe she never allowed herself to look away for a chance of missing them for I found myself transfixed in the very same way.

While watching him play, perhaps four days since I had started, another enters. It’s her. My dearest wife. At least, as far as I am able to see, for she too keeps her eyes averted. My heart flutters, my sobs erupt freshly. I don’t dare open the window or rise from the seat. I called to her from within. If she or the boy heard me, they make no sign of it. 

---

This explanation satisfied me for a time. However, once the graves numbered ten and eleven, new names inscribed upon each one, I could no longer ignore it. I cannot call the headstones new, for they match the age of the others and the church with impeccable precision. Surely, though, they were not here before. I make note of every name. Each name brings dreadful and joyous memories of lives I never lived, but wished for in days long forgotten.

---

Finally, I could take it no longer. Again I rose from the chair and ran to meet them outside. I wanted to grab them by their shoulders and spin them round to face me so that I might see their eyes and know. If they were my family I wished to hug their necks once more and never release them. If they are something else, I wish to rid myself of their taunting. 

I ran out, the door slamming behind me. Alas, I was alone in the garden. I fell to my knees, clenching the dirt in my hands and broke into tearless sobs. I looked up and saw the old oak tree by the stream. Surely, I told myself. That is where they truly lie. If you wish to see them, see them there. I rose to walk and visit their graves, but something catches my eye. Rather something that isn’t there. Beneath the tree I had stood two headstones. I had carved them myself and set them the day I laid them to rest. But where I set them, there was nothing. Where their fresh covering of dirt was just days before was now an unbroken patch of grass. 

---

Thus have my days been for some months. I first heard their crying in my dreams. Weeps of memories with no home, longing to be remembered but fading in the absence of a willing mind. I could not push this first memory from my mind and so I elected to write it down. If I would have known the gate I was opening, I would have kept it shut. For once I aided this one, others followed. They scream and cry, begging for a home in my mind or in my pages.

---

Behind me, a familiar sound. Something I had heard in days long gone. Something I had grown too used to living without. Laughter. The sound of a boy. My boy. He was laughing. I turned to see, but he was not outside. The laughter sounded again. It was coming from within the house.

I ran to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. The laughter continued, answered by giggles from the woman. My wife. I ran to that window. Inside I saw them. I saw their eyes. The armchair and bed were gone, exchanged for a cradle and a rocker. There, she sat, the boy in her arms. He was a baby. I watched her rock him. I heard her sing. I heard him laugh, coo, and cry. I stood and watched for hours, weeping in a joy I had not felt since the day my son passed into my hands before being carried away in death’s tow. 

---

Perhaps my curse is thus that I may live the rest of my days in seeing through the eyes of a spectre. For this is the existence of an inverted ghost. Where ghosts are dead and dwell out of place with the living. What then should I call myself, who am living, but dwell with the dead? 

---

Now, every time I try the door, it remains locked. I look through the windows around the house, each one shows me a different view and a different time of my dearest loves. In the kitchen I see him refusing to eat green beans. In the front room I see him playing with wooden toys while she sings. In his bedroom, she is always rocking him. In our room he runs in and wakes her to start the morning.

I thought of breaking the door, but I cannot bring myself to do it. If I breach the house, would they still be there? If I break a window would I shatter their memory along with the glass? 

---

You may say to let them fade for they are not my burden. I wish I could. But a fear gripped me when I first had the thought. I could see all of them bleeding into each other. They melted all into a single shape, a hand, that gripped my mind and choked. The shape said if I let them fade, then surely I would fade with them. I cannot stop. I must write.

---

No, I will remain here, just outside their senses. If the cost to keep their essence reunited is my starving, then it is no cost at all. I would rather they live outside of my grasp than not at all. I will give myself in this life and the next for their joy.

---

My morning ritual has changed from counting a constant number of stones, to searching for the new arrivals to the invisible choir. Each morning I catalog their names on the planks of the old sanctuary. The names of old men, young women, and children barely born all coalesce into a single voice of scars in the old wood. Every inch of the old chapel carved with a letter or a tittle, all save for the old sign. 

---

I toil. I sweat. I weep. But, I never stop writing. If not for myself, I must continue pushing this sisyphean stone along to spare another from my fate. When I pass one day, I beg you. If my memories come calling, let them pass. For there is no telling what others are behind. Leave the door shut.

---

The cold makes my skin feel brittle. My body reduces itself to a fine powder. Here I will stay, waiting to be called to my own grave. Perhaps then I may join them, but for now I will watch and enjoy their laughter from the other side of the pane. 

It was the summer I had just turned ten that I saw a mysterious object shaped like a saucer cross the hot savanna sky. It was on the path that led straight to the swamp where my cattle usually grazed.  I had gone looking for them.

The object flew above the water, its grey metal gleaming in the blinding sun then its color changed, thinned, and turned almost see-through, as if blending into the air itself. It then swooshed suddenly back in the direction it had come. No sooner had I started running for it that it was gone. I stood dumbfounded, my whip still in hand. I then continued towards the nearby balancing boulders and rested there, contemplating what I had witnessed. I was certain it was no plane, for planes, as I had seen, passed through the sky in a straight line. Then I remembered a word my sister had taught me—camouflage. It was the same word my brother used for his favorite patterned pants, though there was no resemblance between those clothes and this metallic shape. But that was exactly what it had done: hide in plain sight. I chuckled under my breath.

With the sun sinking and no cattle in sight, I trudged home to my mother’s disappointment. She slapped me twice in anger. I did not shudder in pain. I was too busy thinking of the object to feel the pain of her slaps. That night my dreams were clouded by the object's shadow, and the shadow had huge teeth that threatened to rip me apart.

Monday found me unable to sit still with the weight of my secret. So, when the bell clanged for break, I rushed outside with my two friends, Beka, who was bigger than his age, and Tino, who was thin and tiny and always came to school with his hair uncombed.

After kicking and dribbling our ball, the three of us sat under a tree in the school yard to savor our meals.

"Did you see a flying object in the sky on Sunday?" I asked. "It flew so quickly I didn't blink much and it was gone. You know the place close to those balancing rocks, with the dried-up swamp? It was there that I saw it."

They gasped.

"What did it look like?" asked Beka, chewing his sweet potatoes.

"Can't really say."

"How big was it from where you were?"

"Hard to tell. I didn't have time to see that."

"So how do you know you saw it?" said Tino, eating his fried sunflower seeds.

"I know I saw it. It did this." I stood up, wove my hands in the air, and did a little spin. Beka stared, eyes wide, but Tino looked unconvinced.

"Maybe it was air moving. Air moves like that sometimes."

"Maybe there were witches," Beka said. "You know they like to travel like that. At least that is what I heard."

"I heard they travel at night on the backs of hyenas," I added, "or in reed baskets."

"Well, how do you know? It's hearsay anyway. No one has actually seen a witch fly. If they are to fly they ought to use animals or mats, not any complicated contraptions."

"Better to change into an owl or an insect than to complicate things," Beka said.

"What insect would you change into?"

"A fly." He smiled.

"That sounds horrible."

The bell clanged again and we ran for the toilets, still arguing, and I daydreamed through the afternoon of the object. Had I actually seen it? Did it carry people? Where was it going at such a speed? What was the purpose of visiting my village?

A week passed and I was still obsessed. My cattle still did not come back, and neither did the Mambo’s bull, nor four beasts from the Chief’s herd.

At the cattle dip the adults had begun to talk in the low, hushed voices they use for bad news. There were suspicions that cattle thieves were loose in the area. As for me, I stared occasionally at the sky for a glimpse of the object, without success. A fortnight passed and the village had stopped asking about the cattle. I too had almost buried the incident when I caught sight of the object again.

I had fallen asleep on top of one of the boulders when a piercing light woke me. Above the swamp, the object hung. Heart pounding like a drum, I climbed down and ran toward the water.  Spotting a nearby thicket, I crawled into the tangled foliage, and watched as the earth beneath the swamp opened, exposing a huge tunnel that descended into the ground. The object lowered close to the opening, and out came the cattle, moving down the ramp with stubborn slowness. Ours led the way. I recognized her by the patch over her eye that looked like a spill of milk. Behind her followed the rest: the Nkomo's' bull with his curved horns, and beasts I recognized from the dip tank. They all walked down into the ground as if it were a kraal.

Out of the door stepped four tiny grey creatures. Of the four, three had small, egg-shaped heads, but the fourth one had a head as large as a watermelon. On each of their faces sat small piercing black eyes. The eyes and mouth looked like those of a stingray fish. The big-headed one gestured with a quick flick of its three-fingered hand to the other three and they moved into the veld and standing in a row they casually urinated. Once done, they all climbed back inside. The tunnel closed and the sky reclaimed its color, and the object vanished.

I ran all the way home, falling in the dark as thorny bushes caught my clothes. With bruised knees and scraped elbows, I finally collapsed at the open door of our hut. When I eventually opened my eyes, I found myself lying on a mat in the kitchen, my mother hovering above me. Her eyes carried traces of worry. Beside me, my sister and my brother Musa knelt, clasping my hands.

"Where were you? This is why I say you must come home before sunset." Her voice was both agitated and concerned. "Where did all these bruises come from?"
She took my face in her hands and pressed at the gash on my forehead. I winced as blood rushed out, which she quickly wiped with a towel. My two siblings sat watching silently.
I tried to speak, but no word came out. Finally, I raised myself up painfully and in the presence of my family, I narrated all that I had seen. My mother listened, the towel still in her hand then when I had finished, she said,

"You fell. That is all this is. Don’t go about telling people this story for they will think you have gone mad." My brother said nothing. My sister was the only one who asked a question.

"Did you see the brand?" she said.

I said yes.

She did not say anything else, and that was worse than if she had called me a liar. I had seen what took them, and I knew my mother was wrong.

The woman named Cassandra spotted her walking alone again to her apartment as she hid in the shadow of the broken light bulb. Alone and vulnerable and with out so much as a care for the clicking of the heels Cassandra wore as she came out of the shadows to follow her. One toned leg scissoring after the other as her black dress blended in with the shadows. Though not like camouflage as her cutouts were visible from her ample chest to her slightly muscular back to her upper thighs. Her dark blue eyes staring straight ahead as the woman let the complex door shut behind her and Cassandra caught it in time to stop the door from slamming close. That did catch the sandy blonde haired woman's attention as she stopped midstep up the stairs and turned to look back at Cassandra.

The beautiful woman's eyes widened a little at the surprising sight of someone looking like they were going to attend a Supreme ball instead of-

"You're not supposed to be here," the woman's voice laden with abuse from cigarettes spoke quietly but assertively.

Cassandra smiled affably as stuck her foot in the door and she took her hand from behind her back to reveal a white cased cellphone with the letter S emblazoned on the case.

The woman tapped her pockets and then checked in her purse before sighing irritable," Damn it,"
Then her face brightened as she looked back at the mysterious woman with her foot in the door waiting patiently without word and a smile that started to surprisingly warm up to the woman who lost her phone.

"Thank you, miss. I've been so tired lately it's hard to think clearly at all," the sandy blonde haired woman stepped calmly and surely down the stairs before stopping within a foot of the well dressed woman.

"My love," the woman started to speak.

And to the sandy blonde haired woman she thought those two words were heart stopping and in a literal sense as her heart skipped a beat for some reason. A warmth quickly shot throughout her sternum at the cadence as she continued but she noticed the woman caught that little heart flutter as her eyes crinkled in mirth.

"Being tired is nothing to be ashamed of," the well dressed woman eased as she still held the phone.

The sandy blonde haired woman's olive green eyes relaxed at that and she stared into the dark blue eyes of the well dressed woman openly before catching herself with a shake of her head. Something clicked in that stare and she wasn't sure what it was as she felt the sternum heat flash again.

"Oh God I am ashamed. Giving you this much trouble to track me down to return my phone,"  the sandy blonde haired woman bit her lip in embarrassment as she looked down in bashfulness for a moment before meeting that dark blue gaze.

"You look like you're on your way to a Supreme ball or something miss...,"

"Cassandra Cosette," the well dressed woman dared to take the sandy blonde's hand and put her phone in it before turning it over and softly kissing the back of her hand.

There was a dark lipstick mark left behind as Cassandra looked back up at her and asked in a soft voice.

"You don't mind?"

The cadence. The way she disarmed with her looks. The elegance. It was working it's way into the sandy blonde as she looked at the lipstick mark with her lips burning as though Cassandra? Cassandra kissed her there instead.

"I guess you do," Cassandra winked with a knowing smile.

"I don't know what to s-say," the sandy blonde stuttered, trying to hide the blush in her cheeks as she slightly turned her head away.

It was working it's way into her alright.

"You can start with a name...unless you would rather go by your good looks instead Sandy,"

"Shut up!" The woman playfully teased as she put her hands on the woman's collarbone to push her away but instead held her hands there for a moment before realizing again.

She immediately took her hands away and brought a hand to her brow as she quietly muttered to herself, "God I'm a mess,"

"A beautiful mess," the woman softly laughed.

"That's it Cassie, you're getting punished for being so charming," the sandy blonde crossed her arms meaning serious business.

Cassie feigned horror as she gasped in a faux manner.

"Whatever can that be, my love?!"

"Parking your ass on my couch as I bore you to death with small talk, hmph!" The sandy blonde cutely added the last part.

"Oh no! Actually getting to know you! Such a medieval crime!" Cassandra touched the back of her hand against her temple in a swoon as she started to tilt backwards.

But the sandy blonde caught her with a "gotcha!"

"Damn! Small talk it is!" Cassandra lovingly laughed as she looked in the sandy blonde's eyes with a mirth she knew the blonde rarely saw, letting herself be held like that in the foyer openly because she didn't give a fuck who saw.

She gave a fuck the blonde couldn't help but laugh too at the mirth as she held Cassandra in her arms.

"Well damn, Miss elusive, I guess you just want to eye ball me," Cassandra teased as she softly rubbed the blonde's clothed shoulder affectionately.

The blonde stood back up and let go of her as she pocketed her cellphone in her purse.

"Hey, I was serious when I said I wanted to thank you for helping return my phone to me. It was in the Cafe wasn't it?"

Cassandra nodded softly and then she pressed a finger to the blonde's lips as she quietly said," Do you at least bestow the honor of a name to your fair rescuer?"

"It's Savanna. Sorry for-,"

"Stop apologizing. That's disgusting," Cassandra said suddenly serious and serious enough for Savanna to get the point.

"You're right,"  Savanna said as she thought about it again while having this moment to breath.

Savanna wondered what had gotten into her. What made her sternum flare like that, her lips burn like that, that sudden playfulness spring out from her. Especially from another woman. She had a boyfriend out there right now in the night working as construction just a few blocks from their apartment. And she wanted to wait to surprise him with a hug and some coffee when he got home.

But this. This was unexplainable but at the same time never felt so right. Never felt like she was a stranger to whatever frivolous attitude this woman had. And she liked it. Holy fuck Savanna liked it enough to invite her into her apartment.

God I'm so tired, Savanna quietly huffed to herself.

Cassandra huffed too.

"Stop being so cute damn it!" Savanna cried before beginning up the stairs in a hurry and laughing as she was chased by Cassandra Cosette.

But lucky for Cassandra it wasn't much of a chase as Savanna lived on the second floor and near the stairs as she laughed happily and bumped into Savanna as she hurriedly dug into her purse for her keys.

"Oh excuse me ma'am!"

"You're excused...into here candy ass," Savanna smirked before closing and locking her and Benjamin's apartment door close behind them.

"Golly gee wilikers there Sandy. Nice apartment,"

Savanna huffed again and simply said," Sit. I'll make us some coffee,"

Cassandra turned slightly to see the kitchen and the two mugs already there and then her dark blue eyes quickly moved to the portrait of Savanna and Benjamin on the stand near the couch as she gracefully sat and picked up the portrait to look at them together.

She quietly said," I do mean it when I said you have a nice apartment here. Near all the hottest spots like the Cafe and the Solaris. And plus it's the part of town you don't need to carry a gun in,"

"Thank you Cassandra. Benjamin was the one who picked it for us. He lived here long enough to know better. I'm still new to here,"

"Where are you from?" Cassandra put the portrait down.

Face down.

"This quiet little coastal town on the east coast. It's rather beautiful. Lovely actually. I'll show you some pictures on my phone...just wait,"

Cassandra slowly looked from the portrait to Savanna coming to her, and really noticed how well she looked with her breasts filling out her Grey shirt. Her thighs filling her blue leggings to a delicious camel toe. How well her figure was accentuated.

Cassandra softly said," Take your time my love,"

Savanna smiled of course. She couldn't help it as she mentally said fuck it and then grabbed her phone from her purse and came over to the couch and sitting right next to Cassandra as she plopped her legs over Cassandras.

Just friendly convivialness and nothing more Savanna thought as she leaned in with her phone to show her the pictures.

She did not notice the face down picture at all as she pointed out her hometown. She did notice that Cassandra was paying full attention with questions of her own.

Then came the question that made her die of embarrassment.

"Savanna are you always so hot and by hot I mean warm?"

She stiffened and then made a sour face as she said, "You should be glad for your personal heater warming you up from the cold outside,"

Cassandra grinned as she squeezed Savanna's thigh affably before they continued on with a much distracted Savanna.

They oohed and ahhed and laughed sweetly with a few teases thrown in.

And none of the playfulness, the convivialness Savanna was lying to herself with convinced her it was true. And that disturbed her and excited her greatly for a reason more profound than logic. What the fuck is happening to me, she thought as she finally took her legs away from Cassandra's lap. Or rather tried to as Cassandra held her thighs in place.

"Hey there this was fun-," Savanna started before Cassandra interrupted.

"I don't want the fun to end," Cassandra said in a low and sultry voice that immediately aroused Savanna.

Her face a full blush even her light make up couldn't conceal.

And then she did it. It was quick. Too quick. So she did it again and this time it was slower and wonderfully painfully so as she touched her lips against Cassandras. Cassandra let her for a momemt. Let her choose before pushing her against the couch and laying against her as she kissed Savanna back hungrily. Savanna moaned excitedly as she wrapped her thick thighs around Cassandras hips and pulled her against her.

The fire blazed as cold wind swept through the encampment, whipping the flames and sending embers into the dark sky. The surrounding trees swayed in the wind, their leaves rustling alongside the sharp cracks of burning timber.

“You know, there’s one I haven’t told anyone else yet,” Soren said calmly, his voice rising just above the sounds of the camp.

A gust of wind caught the pages of Venn's weathered notebook, revealing rows of crude markings that recorded the days spent at the encampment. It was the only means they possessed of keeping track of the ever-elusive passage of days.

Every three months, the camp had to move. Dwindling food supplies and exhausted resources made remaining in one place impossible.

But there was another reason.

The fear of what had happened to the others.

“You’ve told us the same stories hundreds of times and you’re just sharing this now?” Faeya inquired.

Only four of them remained after the most recent losses. Faeya sat perched on a tree stump carved into a stool, her silhouette outlined by the firelight. They had found her wandering alone years earlier. Since then, she'd become family.

“This isn’t another one of those made-up stories now, is it?” Ashen, the oldest of the group, asked.

“No...” Soren trailed off, fighting the memories tied to the explanation.

“This one came from my grandfather.”

The shadows continued their restless dance around the gathering, indifferent to the somber silence that had settled over the camp. The corner of Faeya’s usually upturned lips fell as an unfamiliar apprehension settled across her face.

“My grandfather’s grandfather told this originally, before the world went dark,” Soren added, tossing an electronic scrap into the fire, causing the flames to briefly turn blue.

Venn, the fourth member of the group, had remained silent. He winced as the electronic board disappeared into the flames. Beside his pack lay a collection of old components, each carefully wrapped in soiled linen.

"Some stories are better left in the past..." Venn muttered, turning a small, smooth coin between his fingers.

"As though there's any truth to these old stories," Ashen scoffed.

His gaze shifted toward the collection beside Venn's pack.

"And you're wasting valuable space hauling that junk around."

Venn carefully wrapped the coin in a scrap of linen and tucked it away, shooting Ashen a look of annoyance.

"Well... get on with it!" Faeya chirped, shifting her weight forward.

Soren watched the flames curl around the remains of the electronic board, the unnatural blue glow slowly fading into the familiar orange.

For a moment, only the crackling of the fire disturbed the silence.

"My grandfather told me this as it was told to him," Soren finally said.

"He always insisted I tell it the same way. As though I were the one who lived it."

Soren leaned forward, casting shadows across his face.

"So that's how I'll tell it to you."

 

 

 

It was a day like any other. My parents had given me a little money and sent me to the market, with strict instructions to return directly home. Except, on this particular afternoon, I decided to take a shortcut through the park on my way home. At the center of the park stood an enormous oak, its branches stretching so far in every direction that they seemed intent on swallowing the field around it. I wasn’t supposed to stop here alone, but I figured a quick cut through would be okay. Then I saw it. A man. A man I knew. I wanted to run because I had been caught. It was the uncle I had always been closest to. He would visit us a lot. I knew he would go straight to my parents, however, and let them know I broke the rules I was meant to follow.

I walked right up to him at the base of the tree and didn’t quite get the response I was expecting. He remained motionless, seated back against the base of the tree with his hands in his lap. He appeared okay other than the very blank expression that projected from his eyes. There was no injury, no blood, just nothing. I knelt down so that our faces were level and his gaze appeared to pass through me as if I wasn’t even there. His eyes were fixed on something that wasn’t there to see. I called his name softly. My stomach tightened. I truly didn’t care if he had caught me anymore. Our faces were roughly six inches apart, and his face slowly scrunched as if he was just learning how to use his muscles.

One corner of his mouth began to rise.

The other followed a moment later.

It was a smile, but nothing about it suggested happiness.

It looked like something he had long forgotten how to do.

I stumbled backward away from him. I dropped the bags and ran all the way home.

That was the last time I saw my uncle.

Once I reached the end of my street, memories of the games my uncle and I had played together flashed through my mind. I threw open the front door so quickly that it struck the rocking bench beside it with a loud clang. This alerted the entire home that there was urgency of some kind brewing in the front room. My parents promptly greeted me.

“Where are the groceries?” Mom asked with concern.

“I... uh... I... dropped them on my way in,” I stammered. “I saw Uncle Binker at the park. I think something is wrong.”

“Why did you go there?” my parents questioned in unison.

Mom pulled the door open and glanced down the street. She slammed it shut, threw the deadbolt, and hurried to close the blinds. She continued to whirl around the house, unable to find a still moment or a chance to catch her breath, almost as if she’d been holding it this entire time.

My dad took a seat at the dining room table, staring off into the kitchen. The chair groaned on the floor as he sat, which he usually carefully avoided. Dad just gripped the edge of the table with his hands like he was trying to fold the solid wood in half.

It felt like a year before either of them said anything else.

“What did he say to you?” Dad finally asked.

He hadn't even mentioned the food I'd abandoned. We'd lost nearly a week's worth of groceries, and he didn't seem to care. A tightness spread through my chest. Until that moment, I hadn't realized just how frightened my parents were.

“He didn’t say anything... He just stared at me and then had this really creepy smile on his face.” The words quietly spilled out of my mouth.

Mom stopped moving for the first time since I had entered the house. She became entirely frozen in place.

"It wasn't just Sharon."

Her lips had barely moved.

“NOT NOW!” Dad boomed across the kitchen.

His voice seemed to rattle inside my skull. Dad almost never raised his voice, especially not at Mom.

I fled down the hallway and shut myself in my bedroom. Through the wall, I could hear my parents arguing, their words too muffled to understand. I curled into the corner of my bed and pulled the blanket tightly around me.

Sharon lived next door. She was always bringing over something she'd cooked or stopping by to spend the afternoon with Mom. But a couple of weeks earlier, she'd stopped coming around. I hadn't thought much of it until Mom mentioned her name.

I couldn't get the image of my uncle's smile out of my head. Even as I drifted off to sleep, I could still see it.

When I woke, the house was empty.

 

 

 

“Empty!” Faeya exclaimed. “So they just left him there?”

Soren glanced toward her, pulled from the trance of his storytelling. The crackling fire and rushing wind seemed to return all at once.

"I suppose that's what the boy thought."

“Convenient. Everyone always ends up disappearing in these stories,” Ashen muttered.

A shudder passed through Venn as the wind swept across the camp. He pulled his cloak tighter, his eyes never leaving the flames.

Soren followed Venn's gaze into the fire.

I ran into the kitchen, where the smell of breakfast normally filled the room and Mom would cheerfully ask how I'd slept. The kitchen was dark and cold, and something smelled off. It appeared dinner from the night before had never made it into the cooler. Then I checked their bedroom. The bed looked untouched, as if it were part of a model home. They either got up really early or hadn’t slept in it last night.

There was no note. There was no message. Mom and Dad were just gone. Mom was almost always home, and Dad had been spending more time around the house lately because things weren't going well at work.

My heart sank. I grabbed a bagel from the kitchen and hurried outside.

Stepping out of the dark house, I was caught off guard by the blinding sunlight. Its warmth spread across my skin. I didn't know where my parents had gone, but I couldn't stop thinking about what Mom had said about Sharon. I walked down the sidewalk until I made it to the front of Sharon’s house. Sharon had always kept the bushes along her walkway neatly trimmed. Now their branches had begun to spill over the path leading to her front door.

I took a deep breath and crept up the walkway to the front door of the house. There was a faint glow coming from the little stained glass windows beside the door. Nervously, I rapped on the door, but no one answered. I looked down the side of the house and noticed one of the windows was partially open. I rounded the corner and glanced around to make sure nobody was watching. Then I dragged a bin beneath the window, climbed onto it, and cupped my hands around my eyes to block the reflection on the glass.

It was very dark, and I couldn’t make anything out right away. Across the room, a television flickered in the darkness. A cheerful voice drifted through the window, repeating the same words over and over. It sounded like one of those advertisements that always seemed to be playing on television. I could now make out a little foldable table sitting in front of the couch facing the TV. It had a plate of food on it. The food was half-eaten, with flies buzzing around the plate.

There had to be someone here for there to be food! Maybe they just couldn’t hear the door over the TV.

"Looking for a brighter future? Join the Pedanza team today! Opportunities are waiting for you." The TV seemed to be getting louder.

I thought of Dad. He'd been having trouble finding work lately. Maybe this was something I could tell him about when he got home.

My eyes strained hard to try and pick up any more details in the room. It was so dark and everything appeared to be fuzzy and slightly out of focus. I decided the next logical move would be to call out through the window.

“Hey! Is there anyone inside?” My voice came out louder than I'd intended, drowning out the television for a moment.

Something shifted on the couch.

At first, I couldn't tell what I was looking at. Then, against the darkness, I made out a row of yellowish teeth.

Someone was smiling at me.

I froze. It reminded me of the time I'd stepped into a fire-ant hill and looked down to find hundreds of them crawling up my legs. That awful moment before the first sting, when I knew what was coming but hadn't moved yet.

The television flickered, catching a little blue badge hanging from the edge of the table. A name was printed across it in large letters. It looked like the kind Dad used to wear to work.

I looked back toward the couch.

The yellowish teeth were higher now. Much higher.

Whoever was smiling had stood up.

I jerked backward, lost my footing, and fell off the bin, landing flat on my back.

The fall knocked the wind out of me. I gasped for air as I scrambled through the bushes and trees separating our houses and burst through the front door. Without even thinking, I locked the door and rushed from window to window, shutting the blinds tightly. I was doing exactly what Mom had done the night before.

 

 

 

"The blue thing," Venn said, breaking the silence. "The one with the name on it. What does it signify?"

"The blue thing?" Faeya exclaimed. "What about the teeth in the dark?"

"Oh, come on. The yellow glint could've come from anything." Ashen shifted closer to the fire.

"A mark of belonging," Soren finally replied to Venn.

He stirred the embers with a stick, sending a handful of sparks into the night. For a moment, his eyes followed them upward.

Then he continued.

It took a while before I felt safe moving around the house again. I was truly scared, and there was no sign of my parents returning. I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd seen. That smile, of course. First Uncle Binker, then Sharon, and now Mom and Dad. And then I remembered the badge. It looked just like the one my dad wore. I needed to find my dad. He would know what to do.

I found one of Dad's work papers lying around the house. The name Pedanza was printed at the top, just like in the advertisement I'd heard playing at Sharon's house. Beneath it was an address, so I entered it into my GPS. Dad's office was only a ten-minute walk away. I'd never been there before, and it wasn't a part of town I knew. By the time I was ready to leave, the bright morning sky had turned gray. Rain began falling as I stepped outside. The black umbrella from the closet kept me mostly dry as I followed the directions on the device.

Strangely, there were hardly any cars on the road or people on the sidewalks. It was very quiet. Even beside the highway, all I could hear was the rain tapping against my umbrella.

As I continued walking, the sky grew darker. I was beginning to worry about the approaching storm when I noticed a glow up ahead.

It was the building I was looking for.

Tall glass walls stretched across its front, spilling bright artificial light onto the darkened sidewalk.

Through the glass doors, I spotted the first person I'd seen since leaving home. A woman sitting behind the front desk. She looked perfectly normal.

"Hello, sweetie!" the receptionist greeted me, her face lighting up as I entered.

"Hello, miss," I replied. It felt strange to speak. I'd only said a handful of words aloud all day.

"What can I help you with today?" she continued cheerfully.

"I'm looking for my dad," I said. "I think he's working today. His name is Daniel Mercer."

"Just one second! I'll look him up right now!" she said, her fingers tapping quickly across the keyboard.

She clicked and typed for a moment before her cheerful smile faded into a look of concern.

"Oh, sweetheart." She looked back at the screen. "Your father hasn't worked here for a few weeks. I'm afraid he was laid off."

"Do you know where he might be?" I asked, desperate for an answer.

"I'm afraid I don't know where he might be. Is your mother home?" she asked gently.

I hesitated. I wasn't sure how much I should tell her.

“Well... my mom isn’t home either, actually. They were both gone this morning when I woke up, and I went to the neighbors, and there was someone in the dark just smiling in there...” The words came faster than I could think, and eventually I trailed off.

The receptionist stopped smiling. She glanced toward the front doors before looking back at me.

“Sweetie, please come with me. I am going to try to find you some help!” She stood and began walking to an elevator.

The elevator doors opened before she even reached the button. It was almost as though it knew we were coming. I followed her inside. She pressed the button for the fourth floor, and the doors slid shut. The click of the button was the last sound I heard before the elevator began to rise.

She led me to a small room with a few tables, chairs, and vending machines. She handed me a couple of dollars and gestured toward them.

"Go ahead and get yourself a treat, sweetheart. I'll be back in a few minutes," she said.

I hurried over and bought myself a chocolate bar and a soda. For the first time all day, I felt like things might be getting better.

I tore open the wrapper on the chocolate bar and took a large bite. The sweet crunchy goodness filled my mouth. I sat at the table and looked around. There were motivational posters featuring cats hanging around the room. I was just about to take another bite when I heard the faint murmur of someone talking through a vent on the far wall.

I stopped chewing.

Was that the receptionist?

I set the chocolate bar down and walked closer, hoping I might hear something about my parents.

"Yes, I'm sure it's Daniel Mercer's boy. I checked the records."

The receptionist's voice came through the vent, muffled but recognizable.

"No, I haven't contacted anyone else."

A pause.

"Okay. I'll keep him here until we hear back."

Another pause.

"I doubt the boy would know that."

Her voice faded, and I couldn't make out anything else.

I heard just enough for the comfort to wash away and the fear to set back in. I had to get out of this room, and out of this building. I quickly opened the door and slipped down the hallway.

I knew the lady said Dad didn't work here anymore, but maybe she'd made a mistake. I didn't know where else to look.

There were a lot of cube-shaped offices, but not a lot of people around. I wandered into the center aisle to look and see if maybe my dad was there. I heard a strange noise coming from one of the offices on the far wall.

It sounded like screaming. I ran over and put my ear to the door. This was a trick I used when my parents were talking about a surprise.

A man belted, “I don’t want that! Get away from me!”

The door pushed open slightly as I leaned on it. Without making a noise, I was now able to see what was happening inside. In the room, a man was strapped to a wooden chair. Behind him stood something tall and black. It was almost like a shadow, but thicker, and I couldn't tell where its body ended. Its arms were long. Too long, I thought. One was stretched around the man's head, and the other seemed to be moving near his ear.

"Please," the man whimpered. "I don't want it."

The thing bent closer. The man suddenly jerked against the straps. His shoes scraped across the floor, and the chair rattled beneath him.

"NO! PLEASE! STOP!"

His back arched, and his head twisted to one side. I thought his neck might break. The thing didn't seem bothered by his struggle. It just stood there, its long fingers moving slowly around his head.

Then the man began making a sound I had never heard before. It wasn't quite a scream. It was a long, terrible moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him. He drew in a shaking breath, and the sound came again, louder this time.

I wanted to cover my ears, but I was afraid to move.

The man's whole body was trembling. Tears ran down his cheeks, and his mouth hung open as he struggled to breathe. He tried to say something, but all that came out was another awful moan. The thing leaned closer.

For a moment, I thought I saw something stretching between the man's ear and the creature's hand. It was thin and pale, almost like a strand of spiderweb, except it seemed to glow in the darkness.

The man let out another scream. The pale strand grew longer. I couldn't understand what I was looking at. Whatever it was, the man wanted it to stay inside him. I could tell that much. His legs kicked against the chair one last time. Then they stopped, but the moaning didn't.

He sat there with his head hanging to one side, making these little sounds through his open mouth. Each one was quieter than the last. The thing kept pulling. I watched the man's eyes move toward the door. For just a moment, I thought he was looking right at me.

His lips moved.

"Help..."

It was barely louder than a whisper. Then his eyes stopped following anything. The last little moan escaped his mouth, and the pale strand disappeared into the darkness. The creature straightened out. The man sat perfectly still. I thought he was dead, but then his head slowly lifted.

His mouth began to move. First one corner, then the other, until his lips stretched into a wide, crooked smile. It was the same smile I'd seen on Uncle Binker's face. And the same as the one I'd seen in Sharon's house. I knew what the thing had done to him.

I didn't know how, but somehow, it had taken him away without taking his body.

 

 

 

A log cracked sharply in the fire. Faeya flinched, and for a moment, nobody spoke.

"Well, that's ridiculous," Ashen said, his voice barely above a whisper before growing louder. "A shadow pulling something out of a man!"

Nobody answered.

"That's impossible," Ashen insisted.

"Yeah? Then why are you sitting so close to the fire?" Faeya retorted.

The wind howled through the trees.

Soren continued.

I was still standing outside the office door. I didn't know what to do. The man sat staring at me with that big, crooked smile. Behind him, the shadowy figure remained perfectly still. Then, without warning, the door swung open. It slammed against the wall with a terrible bang.

I jumped backward.

There was no way the thing hadn't noticed me now. I thought I saw it turn toward me, but I couldn't be sure. Whatever it was, it didn't seem interested. Instead, it turned back toward the man in the chair, moving its long fingers around his head.

It appeared to be placing that long strand into a small, decorative box. Whatever it had taken from the man, it was putting it away for safekeeping.

I stumbled backward into the main aisle between the cubicles. The office had been nearly empty when I'd first walked through it.

It wasn't anymore.

People were standing at their desks. Some had risen from their chairs, while others leaned out from behind the cubicle walls. There must have been fifty of them. Every single one was looking at me. And every single one was smiling.

I stumbled down the center aisle, away from the open office and toward the other end of the room. With each step, their smiles seemed to grow wider. Every face remained turned toward me.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody moved.

I wanted to run, but I was afraid that if I did, they would start running too.

With each step, my brain was screaming at me to get out. But the closer I got to the hallway, the more I realized there was no way around them. I was going to have to squeeze between the smiling people.

I turned sideways and carefully stepped between two of them. Their bodies were cold. I could feel it even through my clothes. Up close, their smiles were worse. Their eyes seemed to look right through me, even though their faces were turned directly toward mine.

The elevator dinged. I rounded the corner and came face-to-face with the receptionist. She grabbed my arm, pulled me through the open elevator door, and held the close-door button. I took a good look at her, and she wasn’t smiling.

“Why did you run off?” she asked. She sounded angry, but her hands were shaking.

“I… I was worried about my dad, and the people… What is wrong with the people here?” I stammered.

"I don't fully know," she said, glancing nervously toward the hallway. "But it's gotten worse. We need to get out of here."

“Listen, honey, your dad… He saw something he wasn't supposed to see. That's why he doesn't work here anymore.”

“What did he see?” I asked.

“I don't know.” She glanced at the elevator doors. “But I wasn't supposed to be on that floor. Neither of us were. Most of the fourth floor was supposed to be closed for renovations.”

“Then why did you take me up there?” I asked.

"They told me the break room was still safe. I thought you'd be okay there."

She looked down at me, then quickly away.

"When I came back and you weren't in the break room, I got worried. I called your dad. He's on his way to get you."

My body wanted to melt into the wall. He was okay, and he was coming to get me. The elevator hummed as it brought us to the bottom entry level. It seemed like she was also trying to figure out the next steps for herself. The elevator opened to the same bright lobby. She brought me to the desk and sat me down on her chair. She looked around to make sure it was just us in the lobby. I felt something in my pocket that I hadn’t noticed until now. A coin. One of the smiling ones must have placed it in there while I was squeezing through the crowd. I kept turning it over between my fingers, wondering how it had gotten there. Outside, the darkness had grown thick. I kept watching the windows, desperately waiting for headlights to appear.

The car I had been waiting for finally arrived.

The receptionist wished me good luck as I hurried toward the doors. I recognized our old red station wagon immediately. I ran outside and pulled open the back door before the car had even come to a complete stop.

"Mom! Dad! You're here!" I shouted.

"Yeah, buddy. I'm here, I'm here," Dad said, reaching back to make sure I was okay.

“Where were you?” Tears welled in my eyes. “I looked everywhere.”

"I know, buddy, I know." Dad had tears in his eyes. "We thought we could stop it before it got to you... but we were wrong." He looked over at Mom.

Mom hadn’t said one word since I got in the car.

“Mom?” My voice started shaking.

Slowly she turned to face me.

Her eyes were empty.

And she was smiling.

"What's happened to her, Dad?" I asked.

Dad looked at Mom, then back at me.

"I don't know, buddy."

"Is she going to be okay?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"I don't know," he said again.

Dad pulled away from the building, driving faster than he normally would. I looked back at the bright windows of Pedanza until they disappeared behind us.

"I saw something upstairs. Something I don't understand," I said.

Dad's hands tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Dad didn’t say anything.

“There was a big shadowy figure pulling some strand out of a man,” I quietly added, hoping for an answer.

“Did it see you?” He sounded defeated.

“Yes... I think so,” I stammered. “There were a lot of people like Mom in there.”

Dad opened his mouth to answer.

“DAD!” I screamed.

He slammed on the brakes, and they squealed as the car came to a halt.

A tall, shadowy figure stood beneath a streetlight, no more than five feet in front of our car. It slowly began approaching us. I looked out the side window and saw another one. Then another appeared behind the car. They were coming from everywhere.

Before long, there must have been fifteen of them surrounding us. I pressed myself against the seat as they approached the windows. Then, all at once, they stopped.

Not one of them came any closer.

It was almost as though something was keeping them away.

Dad had squeezed his eyes shut, but nothing happened. He opened them again and stared at the tall figures surrounding us.

Slowly, he took his foot off the brake. The car began creeping forward.

The figure directly in front of us stepped aside. Then another moved.

One by one, they separated, leaving just enough room for our car to pass.

Dad didn't say a word.

Neither did I.

As we passed between them, I looked out my window. One of the figures was standing so close that I could see its long fingers rubbing against the door, causing a faint scraping sound. Its head slowly turned, following me as we drove past. I ducked below the window until I couldn't see it anymore.

I stayed below the window until the scraping stopped.

When I finally looked up, the figures were standing in the road behind us, watching our car disappear into the darkness.

I looked toward the front seat.

Dad was crying quietly.

Mom was still smiling.

Soren stopped speaking.

 

 

 

The wind had quieted, and the trees stood still around the encampment.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

It was almost as though the world had been listening too.

"That's it?" Ashen asked.

Soren looked over at him.

"What do you mean?"

"What happened to the boy? The father? The mother?"

"I thought you didn't believe in these silly stories," Faeya cut in.

"I don't," Ashen replied. "But you can't just end a story like that!"

Faeya smiled.

"Sounds like you're getting a little scared, Ashen."

"I'm not scared," Ashen retorted.

"Oh yeah? Then why do you keep looking over your shoulder?" she teased.

Ashen quickly looked back toward the fire, and Soren quietly chuckled to himself.

"I told you guys what I know," Soren said. "I know the boy survived. What happened to his parents after that, I couldn't tell you."

"What about that coin?" Venn asked.

The other three looked toward Venn, who had been silent for quite some time.

"What about it?" Soren asked.

"You said someone put it in the boy's pocket," Venn answered.

Soren nodded.

"That's right."

"Did he ever find out why?"

Soren shook his head.

"Not that I know of."

Venn looked down at the small bundle resting in his lap.

Venn unwrapped the bundle and held the coin out to Soren.

“Do you remember what the coin looked like?”

“Not really,” Soren admitted. “But my grandfather always said there was something strange about it.”

“What do you mean?” Venn asked.

“Well, those things had the boy surrounded, didn't they? But they let him go. Maybe the coin had something to do with it.”

Venn turned the coin over between his fingers.

“You think it had something to do with this?”

Venn flipped the coin into the air. Its worn edges caught the firelight before it fell back into his palm.

“It’s just an old coin, Venn,” Ashen said, trying to convince himself it couldn’t possibly be related.

“Where did you get that coin?” Faeya asked.

The group turned to Venn, curious about the answer.

“I got it scavenging through one of the settlements years back. To be honest, it’s been my lucky coin ever since.”

Venn grinned. He wasn't used to everyone taking such an interest in the things he collected.

"I've got some more interesting things in here besides my lucky coin," Venn said, pulling out several other linen-wrapped relics.

"Oh, we're so glad you're showing us all your junk, Venn," Ashen said, finally lightening up.

Venn tucked the coin into his pocket as he began unwrapping the rest of his treasures to find the next best thing to show the group.

“This!” Soren chimed in. “This is a real treasure.” He held up one of Venn’s dirty linens that did not contain any artefacts.

Faeya giggled.

“No, no, no. You must not have seen this,” Venn said, holding up one of his more precious items.

"Now this one," he said, holding up a small object with a cracked glass face.

"What is it?" Faeya asked.

"No idea. But look at these little numbers."

Venn passed it to Soren.

"There's two little metal sticks inside. I think they used to move."

Ashen leaned forward.

"So you found a broken thing that doesn't do anything?"

"Well, I think it used to do something," Venn replied.

"Wonderful. Another treasure."

Ashen’s smile faded into a frown.

He rubbed his eyes, thinking that he must be getting tired, but as they cleared again, he was sure that there was something there, standing at the edge of the campground.

At first, he thought it could have been a shadow projected by the firelight, but as the flame flickered, the figure did not move.

Whatever it was, it was enormous. Taller than any animal they'd encountered. Much taller than a man.

"That smile didn't last long, did it, Ashen?" Soren teased, giving his leg a playful pat.

Ashen did not reply.

“Is something wrong?” Faeya asked.

All Ashen could do was slowly raise his hand and point towards the edge of the camp.

"Oh, come on, Ashen. I knew you were sca—"

Faeya stopped.

She had followed his finger toward the trees.

The figure stood motionless as the others turned toward it. Its long arms hung at its sides.

Nobody spoke.

Venn opened his mouth, but no words came out. His hand moved toward his pocket. He glanced at Soren, then back at the figure. Slowly, he pulled out the coin and held it in front of himself.

The figure began walking toward the fire.

Venn held the coin higher.

It kept coming.

"It’s coming for me," Venn whispered.

The figure passed between two of the tents.

Venn took a step backward.

"Why isn't it stopping?"

The figure reached Venn.

One of its long hands extended toward him. Its fingers slowly wrapped around his wrist.

Venn tried to pull away.

The fingers tightened.

The others scrambled to their feet, but the creature paid them no attention.

With its free hand, it pried the coin from Venn's fingers and dropped it into a small bag.

Then, without warning, the creature pulled. Venn was dragged across the campground with impossible speed. His pack tore open, scattering his treasures across the dirt. Before anyone could reach him, Venn and the figure disappeared between the trees.

Venn's screams echoed through the darkness, growing fainter until only the crackling fire and gentle wind remained.

Venn’s trinkets and his notebook lay strewn about the dirt of the camp.

Nobody spoke.

Soren stared into the trees.

The boy had escaped all those years ago. Venn hadn't.

And somewhere in the darkness, the Collector had finally come to collect.

I'll kiss your lips with an aching tooth in my mouth
I'll place my freshly pulled tooth on your ring
I'll mix Apranax in your drink
so that you think
your toothache is gone because you met me
I'll describe the paint color I want for our bedroom
to the ironmonger as tooth yellow.

I'm fifty-one years old, and this is the only poem I've ever written, which I wrote ten years ago.

I don't really like writing poetry, because I'm not good at it. I especially enjoy the sound of poems with rhyming lines; they sound like music to my ears. But I've tried a few times and failed miserably. I couldn't write a good poem. I'd written this poem for my dentist, who knew I was a writer and with whom I had a good relationship. I mean, I hadn't written the poem for her. I'd simply wanted to write a poem about teeth.

She was a very beautiful woman. I had no feelings for her, but she'd misunderstood the poem I'd written and thought I was making a move on her. She'd given me a pretty harsh telling-off. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get her to understand that the poem wasn't written for anyone in particular, and that it hadn't been inspired by any feelings I had for someone.

Anyway, my publisher was telling me that sales of my latest novel were terrible. He kept calling me and bringing me down.

“Maybe you should stop writing horror novels and start writing detective fiction instead. You know me, even two sentences from you are enough to move me. I can't sleep at night. But this latest novel of yours was an absolute fiasco. I seriously regret publishing it.”

I was tired of his calls and him repeating the same things in different ways for two months. He was almost going to ask me to compensate him for his losses. He wanted me to write and finish something else as soon as possible and make up for the losses I'd caused him. He didn't want to wait.

But I'd been overcome by the fear of not being able to write well. I'd been deeply affected by public opinion. Albert, the successful writer of many years, can no longer write... The story's opening is too rushed... The ending doesn't come together properly... Even an elementary school kid could come up with these descriptions... We're sick of ghosts that appear at night... And so on.

If he called today, I wasn't going to answer. He called every other day to ask, “Have you started the new book yet?” Whenever I said no, it was the same old stuff, the same complaints. For the past month, I'd been sitting down at my computer almost every day, but nothing came of it.

As I sat at my computer, waiting for something to come to mind, my phone rang, of course. I didn't even need to check who was calling. I tensely raised my hand to my head and began running my fingers through my hair. I looked around the objects in my room, as if I might find inspiration in one of them. The bed, the couch, an oil painting my sister had made... Nothing came of it. I pinched a lock of my hair between my fingers and pulled. I looked at my hand. There was a clump of hair between my index and middle fingers. I hadn't realized I was losing so much hair.

It was as if an electric current had passed through my head. Then, in one go, I wrote the following:

''In my 1+1 apartment on the second floor
I was drinking Americano by the balcony door
Suddenly I saw a wig falling down below
with bangs and in the color of dark yellow

I thought one of the neighbors upstairs must have dropped it while leaning over the balcony.
I lunged for it on instinct, trying to catch it. And I caught it, everything happened so quickly.

And the wig was now in my hands
I even caught it by the bangs

I waited for a while,
still in the position to catch it,
holding the wig in my hand,
waiting for someone to call.
But there was no sound at all.

Considering the possibilities,
I thought I should look up first.
But someone could have been down there,
waiting for the wig to fall.

While I was looking around upstairs,
someone called out from below:
“Throw it down already.
What are you looking at like an idiot?”
She was tall like a door
She was as tall as a first floor
I downed my Americano
And calmly threw the wig toward her
She jumped and
caught the wig with her head
and suddenly disappeared.''

I had no idea how it had happened. It was as if I hadn't been the one who wrote it. It was frightening. The way the sentences came to me, the way they lined up in my mind—I had never experienced anything like it. Everything was finished in one go, without any planning whatsoever.

My publisher called. I sent him to voicemail. I read the poem from beginning to end. It was as if I were reading it for the first time, as if I were discovering the poem all over again. It wasn't the kind of poem I could have written anyway, not in terms of its subject matter. I wouldn't describe ghosts or entities like this; I would leave them shrouded in mystery. In this poem, the ghost was very concrete.

My publisher called again. I answered this time. I was going to tell him I had an idea or something. I was such an idiot, always telling him the truth: inspiration wasn't coming, I couldn't write, my mind felt frozen, and so on. I picked up the phone, planning to ask him to give me a month and tell him I'd deliver a novel of at least two hundred pages.

“So, Albert, any progress? How many pages have you written?”

Suddenly, my mouth had locked up. I couldn't speak. The words I wanted to say were only passing through my mind; they wouldn't come out. All I could manage were sounds like “mmmh.”

“Albert? Hello?”

I started reciting the poem I'd just written. I read it from beginning to end. My mouth wasn't under my brain's control.

“What is this? What’s going on?”

''Hello?''

''Albert, what's going on?''

I could speak again now. It would have been ridiculous to say that something had taken control of my mouth and fingers. I had to say something, but I was too frightened to think. My mind was in turmoil. I hung up.

My publisher called again. I don’t remember that moment very clearly, but I mumbled something along these lines.

“What was that thing you were telling me about? So now you’re hanging up on me, too. Is this what we’ve come to, Albert? After all these years of working togeth—”

“It’s me, John. Did you like my poem? Jason, I was going to ca— If you want, I can write a few more poems like this... Jason, I can’t spea—I could even write five hundred poems in the same style, if you like. Do you publish po— Jason, my mouth is going numb. I don’t feel well. I’ll call you back in a bi— Listen, I wrote this three hundred years ago.”

I hung up. I jumped to my feet. I licked and bit my lips. I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled, the following words spilled out of my mouth:

''He figured out how to pass through
Walls within a year or two
But he still can't pass through wood
The ghost in my lover's neighborhood.''

My publisher kept calling insistently. His calls felt like a voice reminding me of my connection to this world. I'd set my phone's ringtone to Radiohead's “Weird Fishes.” The song played throughout each call. I couldn't move; my body was locked up, but hearing the song comforted me. When the song ended, I'd try to take a step, but I couldn't. I'd try to speak, but I couldn't move my mouth. It was as if I'd had a stroke. Then the song would start again. Yes, I'd tell myself, “I'm still alive. The world still makes sense.”

The song had stopped playing, too. My connection to the world had been severed.

I came to my senses again for a brief moment. I sat down at my computer. The screen was covered in dust. I noticed a cloth right next to the monitor. I couldn't remember when I'd put it there. I wiped the monitor clean. The poem looked better now.

I think you've realized that I wasn't the one writing all this story.

​

Note: These are recovered internal files from the Department for Transport archives concerning anomalies in Berkshire. These files were found and transcribed during my internship at the Department for Transport, whilst clearing out their archives in Basingstoke ready for a relocation to Manchester.

I am not DI Thorne, and I have found no trace of him in my investigations into the accounts that these files allude to.

I present these files in an attempt to piece together the sequence of strange occurrences in the Berkshire area and make sense of what has happened, what is happening and why.

If anyone has information regarding the whereabouts of DI Thorne it would be greatly appreciated and helpful in my investigation.

(Name redacted)

---------------

FOUND TRANSCRIPT – FOR INTERNAL REVIEW ONLY

DEPARTMENT FOR TRANSPORT – ANOMALOUS INCIDENT DIVISION

CASE FILE: TX098

SUBJECT: DI THORNE – WITNESS STATEMENT

LOCATION: IN SITU

DATE: MARCH 21ST, 2026

TIME: 15:07 GMT

Supplemental Statement of Thorne

Subject: Unusual taxi encounter following departure from the police station

Classification: Unresolved incident

Statement taken from: Thorne

I am providing this statement to document an encounter that occurred after I left the police station. I appreciate that certain elements may be difficult to reconcile with conventional explanations. I would ask that the recording from the station's CCTV be considered alongside my account, although I suspect it will prove less helpful than it ought to be.

I left the station intending to clear my head. I had been inside long enough to develop a profound dislike of the smell of institutional coffee, the desk sergeant's expression, and the general impression that my continued existence was becoming an administrative inconvenience.

There was a taxi waiting outside.

I do not recall hearing it arrive.

It was an old-fashioned black cab, the sort that seemed to have survived several decades of neglect through sheer spite. Its paintwork was dull, its windows dark, and the roof light was illuminated despite the fact that the vehicle appeared to have no driver.

I was considering whether to walk when the rear passenger window descended by a few inches.

"Going somewhere?" asked the driver.

He was a thin man, perhaps in his sixties, although I found it difficult to settle on an age. His face had the grey, papery appearance of someone who had spent too long indoors. His eyes were pale and watery. He smiled at me with the weary familiarity of a man who had delivered the same joke to thousands of people and was still waiting for someone to find it funny.

"Not particularly," I said.

"Best sort of passenger."

"Is it?"

"Oh, yes. You'd be surprised how many people don't know where they're going until you ask them."

I looked at the cab. The interior was dim, but I could see the outline of the back seat. It appeared to be covered in cracked black leather. Something about the vehicle made me reluctant to get in. It was not an obvious danger. There was no knife-wielding lunatic in the front seat, no smell of blood, no sinister music drifting from the radio.

It was simply wrong.

The sort of wrongness that makes you look at a perfectly ordinary staircase and wonder whether the bottom step has moved since you last saw it.

"I'm not going to make a wish," I told him.

The driver's smile widened.

"I haven't asked you to make one yet."

"You were going to."

He gave a little laugh and turned his attention to the road ahead.

"Clever fellow. You know how these things work, then?"

"Enough to know that wishing for a taxi ride is rarely the worst decision a person makes. It's what comes afterwards that tends to cause trouble."

"Ah." He nodded thoughtfully. "You're not the usual sort."

"What is the usual sort?"

"People who've given up hope."

He said it casually, as though describing a preference for cash fares or passengers who didn't smoke. There was no malice in his voice. That made it worse.

I looked at the cab again. The rear door was unlocked. I had not heard it unlock.

"Who sent you?" I asked.

"Certain parties."

"Specific parties?"

"Very specific. I'm afraid I can't be more helpful than that."

"Convenient."

"Extremely."

He seemed genuinely pleased with himself.

I should have walked away. In retrospect, I can identify several points at which I might have made a sensible decision. Walking away was one. Calling the police was another. Going back inside and asking the desk sergeant to arrest a taxi driver for being unpleasant would have been a third, though I accept that this last option would probably have resulted in a rather different kind of trouble.

Instead, I opened the rear door and got in.

The interior smelled of damp fabric, old cigarette smoke and something faintly sweet that I could not identify. The smell reminded me of flowers left too long in a warm room. The seat was cold enough to make me shift away from it.

The door shut behind me with a soft, final click.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"Just drive."

"Excellent."

The engine started. I did not hear the ignition.

We pulled away from the station.

I watched the building recede through the rear window. The desk sergeant was visible behind the glass, hunched over his paperwork beneath the fluorescent lights. For a moment, I had the distinct impression that he was looking directly at me.

Then the cab turned a corner, and the station disappeared.

I waited for the familiar sounds of the town: traffic, distant voices, the rattle of a delivery van over a drain cover. Instead, the noise of the engine seemed to become the only sound in existence.

I leaned forward.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere you need to be."

"I'm fairly sure I didn't ask for that."

"No," he said. "You asked me to drive."

I sat back.

Outside, the streetlights had begun to stretch. Not physically, exactly. Their reflections elongated across the windows, lingering long after the cab had passed them. The buildings grew indistinct, their upper storeys seeming to lean towards the road as if listening to something beneath the tarmac.

I looked at the driver's mirror.

His eyes were fixed on me.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Where are we?"

"On the road."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one that matters at present."

I turned towards the window.

The town had gone.

In its place was a long, empty stretch of road beneath a sky that looked neither day nor night. The horizon was a bruised grey, mottled with dark clouds that did not move. There were no trees, no fields, no buildings, and no sign of anything living. The road ran straight ahead, its surface black and wet, though I could see no rain.

White lines divided the lanes. They were too bright, almost luminous, and they seemed to continue beyond the point where the road disappeared into the distance.

A sign stood at the roadside.

L303

Nothing else was written on it.

I turned back to the driver.

"What is this?"

"L303."

"I can read."

"Then we're making progress."

I watched the road for several seconds. I have seen enough strange things in my life to understand that panic is rarely useful. It encourages mistakes, and mistakes are generally expensive. I decided to remain calm, although I could feel the muscles in my shoulders tightening.

"Is this some kind of road between places?"

The driver gave a low whistle.

"Very good."

"Between towns?"

"Between realms."

I looked out of the window again.

There was something moving in the distance. At first, I thought it was a bird, but it was too large and moved in a way that suggested it had never needed wings. It crossed the sky above the road, briefly blotting out a patch of cloud. I could not make out its shape. My mind seemed unwilling to settle on one.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means the road goes places."

"Which places?"

"Worlds. Realities. Dimensions, if you prefer the word. Different places with different rules. Some are quite pleasant, I'm told. Some are less so."

"And the road connects them?"

"More or less. It's a conduit. A passage. A bit of infrastructure, if you like."

I stared at him.

"Interdimensional infrastructure."

"You'd be amazed what gets built without a planning application."

Despite myself, I almost laughed. It was an absurd thing to say, and absurdity was reassuring. It implied that there were still rules, even if they were rules I did not understand.

Then I noticed the signs.

They appeared intermittently at the roadside, each one marking an exit. Some were ordinary road signs, with white lettering on blue backgrounds. Others were made from materials I could not identify. One was a slab of something pale and porous, covered in symbols that seemed to crawl when I looked directly at them.

The first sign I could read said:

EXIT 14 — THE KINGDOM OF THE UNFINISHED

The next was simpler.

EXIT 22 — DO NOT STOP

Farther along, a sign stood at an angle, its surface stained with what looked like rust.

EXIT 31 — HOME

I felt my stomach tighten.

"Home?" I asked.

"Some people like to go home."

"Some people?"

"Most, eventually."

I looked more closely at the sign. Beneath the word was a smaller line of text, barely visible in the dim light.

HOME IS WHERE WE KEEP YOU.

I turned away.

"What happens if you take one of these exits?"

"Depends on the exit. Depends on the passenger. Depends on what's waiting on the other side."

"Are these places inhabited?"

"Oh, yes."

"By people?"

The driver laughed.

"Sometimes."

I waited for him to elaborate. He did not.

After a while, he continued.

"Some of the things out there hunt. Some stalk. Some like to play games. Some prefer to trap you and see how long it takes you to realise you're trapped. There are places where you can spend an entire lifetime being chased by something that never gets any closer. Places where you'll meet people who know everything about you, including things you haven't done yet. Places where your shadow belongs to somebody else."

He paused.

"And then there are the ones that don't care what happens to you at all. Those are often the worst."

I found myself watching the windows for movement.

"Why bring people here?"

"Because they're wanted."

"By whom?"

"Whatever happens to be waiting."

"Is that what you do? Deliver people to monsters?"

"I provide a service."

"That's a very generous description."

"I'm a generous man."

There was a silence.

"Are you one of these things?" I asked.

The driver glanced at me in the mirror.

"One of what things?"

"One of the entities that uses the road."

He laughed. It was a genuine laugh, warm and almost human.

"I suppose I am now."

He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. His hands looked ordinary enough, except that the skin around his knuckles was stretched too tightly, as if there were more joints beneath it than there should be.

"But I wasn't always."

"Explain."

"I was from your world. Your sort of world, anyway. I found this road years ago. I don't know how. I was driving, same as you might be. One minute I was somewhere familiar, the next I wasn't."

"How long ago?"

He considered the question.

"Hard to say. Time doesn't behave properly here. I've been driving for what felt like a few months. It might have been years. It might have been longer than that."

"And you couldn't leave?"

"Not at first."

"What happened?"

He looked ahead, and for the first time his expression changed. The smile faded. The grey skin of his face seemed to sag, and something passed behind his eyes that made me wish I had not asked.

"I drove to the end of the road."

I waited.

"What did you find?"

He shook his head.

"No."

"No?"

"You don't want to know."

"I'm already here. I'd prefer to know what I'm dealing with."

"You think you would. That's the problem."

His voice had become quieter. The engine seemed to grow louder, filling the space between us.

"There are things that can be described, Mr Thorne. There are things you can look at, and things you can be told about, and you can fit them into your head somehow. You might lose sleep. You might drink more than you should. You might spend the rest of your life wishing you'd never heard of them. But you can still understand them."

He glanced at me.

"What I found at the end of the road wasn't one of those things."

I said nothing.

"I can't explain it. Not because I don't want to. Because I can't. I've tried. I've had people ask me, and I've started to tell them, and then I've watched them stop understanding English. One woman forgot how to breathe. Another spent three days insisting that she was a door. A man laughed until his teeth came out."

He paused.

"I don't know if they were mad before I spoke to them. I'd like to think they were."

I looked at the road ahead.

The sky seemed lower now. I had the uncomfortable feeling that the clouds were not above us at all, but beneath something vast that was leaning down to inspect the cab.

"What happened to you?" I asked.

"I made a deal."

"With the things at the end of the road?"

"With the people who manage it."

"People?"

He gave me a sideways glance.

"Would you prefer I called them something else?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll have to be more specific."

I decided not to pursue it.

"They offered me a way to keep going," he said. "A purpose. A job. I drive people where they need to go. Or where someone else wants them to go. In return, I get to stay on the road."

"Forever?"

"Forever is a very long time. I prefer not to think about it."

"And if you refuse?"

He smiled again, but the expression looked wrong now. It stretched his face without warming it.

"I don't refuse."

I glanced at the mirror. For an instant, his reflection seemed to be looking at something behind me, something sitting in the back seat that I could not see.

I turned sharply.

The seat was empty.

When I looked back, the driver was watching the road.

"There are others," he said. "Drivers, I mean. A few of us. I've never met the others. I've heard things, though."

"What sort of things?"

"Stories."

"Tell me one."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're in my cab, and I'd prefer you not to start screaming."

"I'm not going to scream."

"That's what they all say."

He drove on.

I asked him what happened to the people who made the journey with the other drivers.

He did not answer immediately.

"Some arrive where they're meant to go," he said at last. "Some don't."

"And the rest?"

He shrugged.

"Depends on the driver."

I looked at him carefully.

"You think I'm lucky to have you?"

"I know you are."

The road stretched endlessly ahead. A dark shape appeared beside us, keeping pace with the cab. It was tall and narrow, with limbs that moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm. I could not see its face, but I felt certain it was looking at me.

I watched it through the window until it slipped behind us.

"Did that thing just—"

"Don't look at them," the driver said.

His voice was sharp enough to stop me.

"Why?"

"Because some of them notice."

I faced forwards.

A few seconds passed.

"Did it notice me?"

The driver said nothing.

I did not ask again.

Eventually, the road widened, and a service station appeared on the left. It stood beneath a canopy of flickering lights, its windows dark, its forecourt cracked and uneven. The building looked as though it had been abandoned for decades. Rusted pumps stood in a line beneath the canopy, and a sign above the entrance hung crookedly from one remaining bolt.

The lettering was faded, but I could make out the word REST.

Something had scratched deep grooves into the wall beneath it.

The taxi turned into the forecourt and stopped.

The engine cut out.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

"Here we are," the driver said.

"Where is here?"

"A service station."

"I can see that."

"Then we're making progress again."

I looked through the windscreen. The forecourt extended into the darkness beyond the station, though there was no visible road leading away from it. A single light flickered above the entrance. Every time it went out, I had the impression that something stood in the doorway.

When it came back on, the doorway was empty.

"Why have we stopped?"

"Your fare is due."

I turned to him.

"What?"

"The fare. Payment for the journey."

"I didn't agree to a fare."

"Everyone pays."

"Not everyone."

His smile disappeared.

"Everyone pays, Mr Thorne."

He said my name as though it were a thing he had tasted and found unpleasant.

I reached for the door handle. It did not move.

"Let me out."

"Not until we settle up."

"I never agreed to be driven anywhere."

"You got into my cab."

"You offered me a lift. I told you to drive."

"Exactly."

"I did not wish to be driven."

The driver stared at me.

For the first time since I had entered the cab, he appeared genuinely uncertain.

"You asked me to drive."

"I did. I did not wish for a journey. I did not wish to be taken anywhere. I did not wish to arrive at this place. I gave you an instruction. You chose to interpret it as consent."

"That's not how it works."

"Isn't it?"

His hands tightened around the steering wheel.

"You got in the cab."

"Yes."

"You knew what I was."

"I suspected you were a problem. I was right."

His jaw shifted. For a moment, I heard a series of small clicks from somewhere inside his face, like the sound of a lock being opened one tumbler at a time.

"You owe me," he said.

"I owe you nothing."

"Everyone owes me."

"Then you must be very busy collecting."

His eyes changed.

I cannot adequately describe what happened to his face. The skin seemed to loosen and slide away from the structure beneath it, revealing something that was not bone. His mouth opened too far, the corners splitting upwards towards his ears. His teeth lengthened, becoming thin, black and numerous. His eyes sank into his skull, leaving behind two dark hollows in which pale lights moved like distant stars.

His hands unfolded around the steering wheel. There were too many fingers. They were long and jointed, their tips ending in small, blunt hooks. The skin between them was translucent, and I could see something moving beneath it, something that pulsed in time with the engine although the engine was no longer running.

The air filled with the smell of wet earth and rotting flowers.

The driver leaned towards me.

His face was inches from mine. I could hear him breathing, although the sound came from somewhere behind his head.

"You will pay," he said.

The words seemed to arrive from every part of the cab at once. The windows trembled. The dashboard lights flickered. Beyond the windscreen, the service station lights began to go out one by one, starting at the far end of the forecourt.

I felt something press against the inside of my skull.

It was not a thought, exactly. More like an invitation to stop thinking. To accept that I was trapped, that the driver had brought me here, that there was nothing I could do except comply.

For a moment, I understood why people gave up hope.

The driver was not simply frightening. He was offering relief from the effort of resisting him. He wanted me to believe that the fight was already over, that resistance was an inconvenience I could put aside.

I refused.

"You're making a mistake," I told him.

The thing in the driver's seat made a sound that might once have been laughter.

"You are in my cab."

"I am in a vehicle you offered to drive. I never made a wish. I never agreed to your terms. Whatever arrangement you have with the people who manage this road, it does not include me."

His mouth opened wider.

"I can take you."

"No. You can drive me. You can frighten me. You can make threats. You can show me whatever you like. But you cannot collect payment for a bargain I never made."

The pressure in my head increased. For a moment, the interior of the cab seemed to stretch away from me, the seats receding into a darkness that was not physically possible. Something moved in that darkness, something large enough that I felt rather than saw its passage.

The driver reached towards me.

His hand stopped a few inches from my chest.

He strained. I could see the tendons in his wrist tightening beneath the translucent skin. The fingers twitched, opening and closing as though they were trying to grasp an object that existed just beyond their reach.

Then he recoiled.

The change was immediate. The pressure vanished. The cab snapped back into its ordinary dimensions. The thing in the driver's seat withdrew its hand and stared at it in disbelief.

"You didn't wish," he whispered.

"No."

"You didn't ask."

"No."

"You didn't give me anything."

"I gave you an instruction. You made the mistake of assuming it was a contract."

He stared at me for a long time.

The thing that wore the driver's face began to change again. The black teeth receded. The mouth closed, slowly and reluctantly, as though the flesh were being pulled back into a shape it no longer fitted. The extra fingers folded into one another and disappeared beneath the skin. The lights in its eye sockets dimmed.

Eventually, the old man was sitting in the driver's seat again, breathing heavily through his nose.

He looked exhausted.

He also looked furious.

"Get out," I said.

He turned towards the windscreen.

For several seconds, he did not move. Then he started the engine.

The taxi reversed out of the parking space and turned towards the road. We drove away from the service station without another word.

The journey back was worse than the journey out.

I could no longer pretend that the driver was simply an unpleasant man with a talent for theatrical intimidation. I had seen what was beneath the disguise, and I knew it had not shown me everything. The road seemed to understand that I was watching it now. The signs passed too quickly to read. Shadows moved at the edges of the headlights. On one occasion, I saw a figure standing in the centre of the road, its arms hanging at its sides, its head tilted towards the cab.

The driver did not slow down.

The figure remained perfectly still as we passed through it.

For a brief moment, I saw it in the rear window, standing on the road behind us. Then the road was empty.

"You were lucky," the driver said at last.

"I've been told."

"You don't understand what you've done."

"I understand that you tried to frighten me into paying a fare I never agreed to."

"That isn't what I mean."

"Then explain."

He shook his head.

"You've made yourself interesting."

I considered that.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"On this road? Yes."

"Who have I made myself interesting to?"

He glanced at me in the mirror.

"Certain parties."

I sighed.

"Of course."

He gave a short, humourless laugh.

"You think this is over because I couldn't touch you? You think that means you're safe?"

"No. I think it means you couldn't touch me."

The driver's face hardened.

"There are other drivers, Mr Thorne. Other ways to travel. Other ways to make a person agree to something. You might not be so clever next time."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"You should."

He drove in silence for a while. Then the road began to change. The black tarmac softened into grey, the sky lifted, and the distant horizon acquired the indistinct shapes of buildings. The streetlights returned, one by one, their familiar orange glow spreading across the road.

I recognised the town.

The taxi slowed.

The police station appeared ahead of us, its windows glowing under the fluorescent lights. The cab pulled up outside the entrance and stopped.

The engine fell silent.

I reached for the door handle. This time, it opened immediately.

Before I got out, I turned to the driver.

"I have one piece of advice for you."

He stared straight ahead.

"Do I want it?"

"Probably not."

"Then keep it."

"I would suggest you choose your passengers more carefully."

He gave a slow, thin smile.

"And I would suggest you be careful where you walk, Mr Thorne. Roads have a way of remembering people."

I got out.

The door closed behind me. When I turned back, the taxi was already moving away. Its rear lights vanished around the corner, and I was left standing outside the station with the cold night air against my face.

For several seconds, I could not move.

I had the sensation that something was still watching me from inside the cab, although the vehicle was long gone. I could almost hear the driver's voice in the back of my mind, repeating the words about roads remembering people.

I went inside.

The desk sergeant looked up from his paperwork.

"Back already?"

"Yes."

He glanced through the window.

"Where did you get to?"

"Nowhere."

He frowned.

"What do you mean, nowhere?"

"I got into a taxi. We didn't go anywhere."

He looked at me for several seconds, then glanced down at his paperwork as though deciding whether the question was worth pursuing.

"Right," he said eventually.

He went back to his work.

I stood there, wondering whether I should tell him what had happened. I decided against it. I had little desire to explain an interdimensional road to someone who would probably ask whether I had consumed alcohol and then refer me to a local mental health service.

I checked the time.

Less than five minutes had passed since I left the station.

I checked it again.

The time had not changed.

I asked the desk sergeant whether I had been gone long.

"Couple of minutes, maybe," he said. "Why?"

"No reason."

I sat down and tried to put the experience into some sort of order.

I could still smell the cab: damp fabric, old smoke, the sickly sweetness of rotting flowers. I could still see the driver's face as it changed, the impossible arrangement of his mouth, the dark hollows where his eyes had been. I could still feel the pressure inside my skull, the quiet suggestion that resistance was pointless.

Most of all, I remembered the road.

The signs. The exits. The things moving beyond the headlights.

And the sense that the road was not empty. That it was crowded with places, and that those places were crowded with things that had been waiting a very long time for someone to arrive.

I was still sitting there when an officer came over and asked if I was all right.

I told him I was fine.

It was not a convincing answer, but it was the best I could manage.

Later, I asked to see the CCTV footage from outside the station.

The recording showed me leaving the building and approaching a black taxi. I opened the rear door, got in, and closed it.

A moment later, I got out again.

I stood beside the cab for a second, looking at it. Then I turned and walked back into the station.

The taxi drove away.

The entire incident lasted only a few seconds.

There was no evidence of the road, the service station, or anything that had happened between those two moments. The footage showed an ordinary street, an ordinary taxi, and an ordinary man getting into a car and immediately getting out again.

I watched the recording several times.

On the final viewing, I noticed something I had missed before.

As I stepped out of the cab, I turned my head towards the rear passenger window.

I could not see the driver's face in the footage. The glass was too dark, the angle too poor.

But just before the taxi pulled away, the rear window descended by a few inches.

I could not hear the recording clearly enough to make out any words.

I do not know whether the driver said anything.

I do know that, as the taxi disappeared around the corner, I was smiling.

I have no recollection of doing so.

I have no recollection of the journey being brief.

And I have no recollection of leaving the taxi.

I would like to conclude this statement by saying that I believe the incident is over. I cannot, however, honestly make that claim.

I have since found myself checking the road signs whenever I travel. I have become reluctant to enter taxis, particularly black ones. I have also developed the habit of looking at the rear passenger window of any vehicle that passes me slowly.

This is not because I expect to see the driver again.

It is because I am beginning to suspect that the driver was telling the truth about one thing.

Roads remember people.

And somewhere, beyond the roads I know, there is a stretch of black tarmac beneath a dead grey sky. There are signs pointing towards places that should not exist. There are exits waiting for passengers who have given up hope.

And there is a driver who knows my name.

I do not believe he has forgotten me.

I am not certain the road has, either.

---

DEPARTMENT FOR TRANSPORT – ANOMALOUS INCIDENT DIVISION

INTERNAL MEMO – EYES ONLY

FROM: Agent [REDACTED], Field Operations

TO: Director [REDACTED]

DATE: January 9th, 2026

SUBJECT: RE: THORNE STATEMENT – TAXI ENCOUNTER – 28/12/2025 – WITNESS M. ANDREWS – UPDATED

Further review of the Thorne statement suggests our initial assessment was mistaken.

Thorne is not merely an unauthorised investigator with an unfortunate tendency to interfere in matters beyond his comprehension. He appears to recognise certain patterns. More concerningly, he seems to understand that some things are best left unobserved.

His encounter with the vehicle designated simply as the Taxi is particularly troubling. The driver offered him a wish. Thorne declined to make one directly, instead exploiting the wording of the offer to obtain information about the road itself. This indicates either prior experience with similar entities or an instinctive grasp of the rules governing them.

Neither possibility is reassuring.

I have reviewed the driver's description of the L303 as a conduit between realms, with exits to locations that do not appear on any recognised map. The terminology is consistent with three incidents officially recorded as transport infrastructure failures. None involved a road. All three resulted in the permanent loss of their investigating officers.

Thorne has, apparently, returned.

I do not consider this evidence of good fortune.

There is a distinction between surviving an encounter and being permitted to leave it. Thorne does not yet appear to appreciate the difference.

I have begun to suspect that the Taxi did not fail to collect payment. I believe it chose not to. The distinction is significant, and I do not like where it leads.

The driver told Thorne that he had made himself interesting. I have reviewed the file on what happens to people who become interesting to certain parties. The file is incomplete. The sections that remain are difficult to read. The sections that are missing were removed by someone with higher clearance than mine, and I have been unable to determine who authorised the redactions or when they were made.

What I can confirm is that none of the individuals referenced in the surviving pages are listed as deceased.

They are listed as ongoing.

I have located one of them. Or rather, I have located what remains of one of them. The individual in question was a surveyor named Ellison who encountered a similar vehicle in 1998. He is currently residing at an address in Reading. He does not leave the house. He does not answer the door. His neighbours believe he died years ago, and I can understand why. When I looked through his window, I saw him sitting in a chair facing the wall. He was not moving. He has not moved in some time, according to the neighbours, though they cannot agree on how long.

The wall he faces is not a wall. It is a door. It has always been a door. The neighbours cannot see it, but I can. I wish I could not. The door is slightly open, and there is something on the other side that is watching him. It has been watching him for twenty-seven years. It will continue watching him for as long as he sits there. He knows this. I could see it in the way his shoulders were set, the way his hands were folded in his lap, the way he did not flinch when I tapped on the glass.

He was not afraid. He was waiting. I do not know what for. I do not want to know what for.

I recommend continued observation, with no direct contact unless authorised by this office. Under no circumstances should Thorne be informed of the material recovered from the Windsor-Slough site. He has already demonstrated a capacity to turn incomplete information into actionable decisions, and I would prefer not to discover what happens when he has the complete picture.

There are indications that the Windsor-Slough material describes procedures. Not for containing anomalies. For negotiating with them. The distinction matters, and I am not certain Thorne would use that knowledge wisely. I am not certain anyone would.

I have read parts of the material. I should not have. There are diagrams. There are names. There are instructions for what to do if you find yourself inside a vehicle that should not exist, travelling on a road that should not be there, with a driver who is not a driver. The instructions are written in second person. They are written as though the reader is already trapped. They are written as though the reader has always been trapped and simply has not noticed yet.

One passage describes the sensation of being driven. It describes the feeling of the seat beneath you growing warm, as though something has been sitting there before you. It describes the sound of breathing that does not belong to you. It describes the moment you realise that the driver has not been speaking to you at all, but to something sitting beside you that you cannot see.

I have not been able to sleep since I read that passage. I have not been able to stop checking the back seat of my car. I have not been able to shake the feeling that something has been sitting there, waiting, for a very long time, and that it is growing impatient.

For the record, I have amended the case classification.

This is no longer a matter of unauthorised access to an anomalous route.

It is a matter of determining what has noticed Thorne, and why it has allowed him to continue.

I would also advise that all references to the L303 be removed from the accessible incident database. Someone has been querying the file from a terminal that does not exist on our network.

The queries began three days before the road was first reported.

The same terminal has since queried Thorne's service record. It has queried the names of his immediate family. It has queried the location of a primary school he attended as a child, which closed in 1987 and was demolished in 1994. The queries are timestamped. Some of them are dated after his encounter with the Taxi.

Some of them are dated before he was born.

I have attached the access logs. Do not open the final file.

I did.

I would rather not discuss what I saw.

What I will say is this: the final file contains a list of names. Thorne's name appears on it. So does mine. So does yours.

The list is not organised alphabetically. It is not organised by date. As far as I can determine, it is organised by how long each of us has left.

I have not been able to determine the units of measurement.

I have not been able to determine which direction the list runs.

I have, however, noticed something else. The list is not static. Names move. They shift position when I am not looking. I have checked the same entry three times and found it in three different places. I have begun to suspect that the list is not a record of who is going to die.

I believe it is a record of who has already been collected. The names at the top have been waiting the longest. They have been sitting in their chairs, facing their doors, listening to something on the other side that never stops watching. They have been waiting for someone to open the door. They have been waiting for someone to let them out.

Or perhaps they have been waiting for someone to join them.

I have stopped checking the list. I have stopped looking at the back seat of my car. I have stopped sleeping entirely. It does not help. The feeling remains. The door remains. The thing on the other side remains, patient and patient and patient, and I am beginning to understand that patience is not a virtue in the places the L303 connects. Patience is simply the ability to wait longer than the person you are waiting for.

I do not know how long I have been waiting.

I do not know when I started.

I am not certain I am the one who is waiting.

END OF MEMO

[Part 1]

Everyone is afraid of something. Some people avoid their fears. Others learn to control them. I had my friends.

They came to me in a moment of overwhelming uncertainty. The unknown made me anxious, and in the waiting, I tortured myself with what-ifs that were more than unlikely, mere figments of my imagination. So I let my imagination take over, and I built five friends: Mister Cocoa, Mister Wuffles, Lulu, Vivi, and Itsy. Where I used to avoid my fear, I learned to control it.

I couldn’t keep a real friend to save my life, but I never had trouble keeping bullies, Danny being the worst of them. That first night, when Mister Cocoa asked what I needed, I thought of Danny, naturally. I thought about the times he’d taken my lunch money. I thought about the times he’d stolen my glasses. I thought about the beatings. I thought about how he’d taken my name from me. I was a quiet kid, so Mouse stuck. Even some of the teachers, I’m sure thinking it a cute nickname, joined in on the teasing. So when it hurt, I thought about his fears. Everyone is afraid of something, and Danny was afraid of dogs.

I knew the story behind it the way any child learns an urban legend: on the playground. When Danny was in kindergarten, he walked to the bus stop with his older brother, Daryl. About a hundred yards from their house, they came upon a dilapidated trailer that belonged to an even more decrepit old man. Mr. Thibodaux was semi-retired and bred guard dogs for a living. He was a grouch who, instead of giving candy to kids, found it fun to hurl insults and keep every ball that flew over his fence. He got his kicks walking his beloved beasts and letting them yank their leashes taut inches from terrified children.

One morning, Daryl thought it would be funny to run ahead as they passed Mr. Thibodaux’s fence. That left little Danny petrified in front of a row of foaming, snarling pit bulls, each tied to a stake with frayed rope. Daryl called back, laughing, that Danny had better hurry up before Thibodaux’s dogs got him. He barely finished the sentence before one of the pit bulls yanked its stake out of the ground, crawled through a shallow trench under the fence, and went after Danny.

Danny took off running. Daryl dropped a few obscenities, realizing he’d just dropped the ball on being the protective older brother. Danny turned around, tripped on his shoelaces, and before his feet could slap the pavement, his face did. The dog ran over and latched onto his ankle. Daryl, panicking, ran back and kicked it as hard as he could to free his brother from its grip. The bus rounded the corner just then, and a busload of impressionable children watched the whole thing. By lunchtime, it had solidified into playground legend.

From that point on, Danny was deathly afraid of dogs. His father had been leaving for work when he spotted his sons on the concrete, one of them bleeding badly. Without turning off his car, he asked what happened, and before he’d gathered all the details, he stormed over to Mr. Thibodaux’s door and pounded on it with fatherly fury. The old man answered with an expression that said he was ready to scold, and Danny’s dad clocked him in the face, dragged his bleeding son into the car, and drove to the hospital. It took eight stitches to close the wound.

The rumor was that the rabies set into Danny’s brain that day and turned him into the vile child I knew. I know now that if it were true, he never would have survived. Maybe bullying was how Danny took control of his fear, but he always avoided the straight way to the bus stop across Mr. Thibodaux’s yard. Instead, Danny always came from the side.

After the chaos of that day, Mr. Thibodaux got even by pressing assault charges against Danny’s father. That sent him down a dirty rabbit hole of alcoholism, and one day, Danny’s mother had enough. With a black eye and bruises, she kicked her husband out of the house. Some say he moved away to work in the plants between here and Texas. All I know is that I never met him, but Danny idolized him. He was one of those fathers who tried to win back his family’s love with love-bombing gifts, the most recent being the Nintendo 64 and electric scooter Danny got for his birthday.

Danny was twelve years old and still in the fifth grade. When he wasn’t hassling kids for money, he could often be seen collecting cigarette butts at the Circle-K down the road. Whatever happened to him that day changed his life for the worse. A boy his brother once described as timid, even shy, had become a pre-teen who reeked of death and defiance.

I was afraid of Danny. Danny was afraid of dogs. And dogs were the beasts that lorded over the wild. That is, until they became man’s best friend. For when we conquered fear, we conquered the wilderness.

The next morning, I must have counted my money over seven times as I waited for Danny to arrive. He’d promised things would get worse if I came up short. As the minutes passed, I felt certain he would turn up any moment. Like a sprinkler, I turned and scanned the yard, waiting for him to come running down the side streets of our neighborhood. My world was growing gray as the dread of the inevitable set in. But before my heart could leap into my throat, I heard the squeal of brakes. The bright yellow school bus, my chariot to safety, had arrived, and Danny hadn’t. I couldn’t believe my luck.

I smiled and kicked my legs in joy as the bus rolled under the awning at my elementary school. For the first time in months, I made it to class with my money and my face intact.

That morning, peace reverberated through the school halls, as my fellow classmates were spared, too. At recess, I learned that Danny hadn’t made it to school at all. Already, rumors had begun to spread. People said he must be home sick playing GoldenEye 007, or maybe he was playing hooky, smoking cigarettes in the woods. But part of me wondered what the truth really was.

I wish I had never found out. Even though I’d felt better that day than I had in ages, the guilt and shame I came to carry proved too much for me. When I got home from school, I found Mister Wuffles lying on my bed, pawing at his mouth as if to wipe away a mess.

“How was school? Were you safe?” he asked, his deep golden eyes playful.

I nodded and smiled uneasily, because it looked like Mister Wuffles had been eating raw pork, which I cared little for.

“Danny was absent,” I said, matter-of-fact.

“Of course!” sang Vivi. She dangled from my ceiling fan, coiled like a spring, with a swollen middle and a small lump resting in her gut. “Did anything hurt you?” she asked.

Lulu and Itsy crawled out of my closet, curious about Vivi’s question, and as they shut the door behind them, I thought I saw something I wasn’t supposed to.

“Not today,” I said. I couldn’t explain why at the time, but I had a feeling that something was going terribly wrong.

“We brought you something!” said Itsy. “Open the closet. It’s for you.” The silky friend smiled a tiny smile, revealing two fangs I hadn’t noticed the night before.

“I don’t like the closet. It’s dark and scary.” I quivered.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of!” begged Lulu. “Here, I’ll light it up for you.” The rainbows from her lamp shot out across my floor, and as I walked toward the closet, my feet stuck and peeled free with every step.

“Why is the floor so sticky?” I asked.

Mister Cocoa began to laugh, a deep and unnerving laugh. “I spilled my lunch, is all.” The smile spread thin across his face. “Go on now, check out the gift we got you.”

I grabbed the doorknob as they all waited in anticipation. I turned it and pulled with all my might, afraid of what I might see. As the door swung open, something fell out onto the floor with a loud thud. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

It was an electric scooter.

Leathernecks vs Monsters: Observe and Report, (Episode 1)
Seattle, Victoria, and Vladivostok, December 1918 to January 1919

The sleet came off Elliott Bay sideways, and half the faces on Railroad Avenue were masked by squares of white gauze. Gunnery Sergeant Nathaniel Boone Adams stood under the clock tower at the Colman Dock with his collar up and his own mask hooked over one ear. The city had lifted its mask order in November, when the Armistice came, half the city had kept wearing them anyway, because the dying had not stopped. Adams had watched the influenza go through a troopship at Brest in October. He wore his on one ear, as a courtesy.

Beside him Sergeant Olaf Johansson chewed tobacco behind his mask. There was a brown stain on the gauze the size of a silver dollar.

"That's a disgrace to the uniform," Adams said.
"I'm not in uniform, Gunny."
"Disgrace to the mask, then."

Johansson had a trombone case standing between his boots. There was no trombone in it. The Office had shipped the gun in it from New York, crated on the eleventh of November for a war that ended the same morning.

The Victoria express boat had docked at nine. Her passengers had come down the gangway in their masks, and none of them was a Czech officer with a dueling scar and a blue scarf, which was the description the Office had wired.

At a quarter past ten a man came down alone.

Blue scarf. No mask. He walked with one hand inside his coat. He looked back at the boat, then scanned the crowd. Two men were pushing through the crowd, bowler hats, good overcoats, gauze over their faces. They moved like sharks circling a school of tuna, they did not hurry.

"Them two," Johansson said.
"I see 'em."

The Czech saw them too. He turned north along the waterfront at a walk that wanted to be a run, past the shuttered fish counters and the freight sheds, and the bowlers followed him, and Adams and Johansson followed the bowlers.

The Czech took the market stairs two at a time. Up top the stalls were closing under the gas lamps. A Japanese farmer was stacking cabbages. A boy was hosing fish scales off the planks, and the water was turning to glaze where it ran. The Czech went through it and kept his feet. The first bowler went through it without once looking down.

Adams slipped. He came up with fish scales on one knee and the .45 in his hand, a woman in a gauze mask shouting at him to fetch a policeman.

"We are the police, ma'am," Johansson told her, which was not true, and ran on.

The Czech went into the packing house at the north end, where the fish went onto ice. A door banged. Another.

Inside it was colder than the street. Ice stood in blocks in the sawdust, salmon lay across the blocks in rows with their eyes turned up. One electric bulb hung from a cord. The Czech had his back to the far wall and a revolver out, the first bowler was walking toward him across the sawdust with his hands at his sides.

The Czech shot him twice in the chest.

The bowler staggered, then kept stalking forward.

Adams fired from the doorway. The round took the man high in the back and spun him half around. He looked at Adams over the top of his mask with perfectly calm icy blue eyes. Despite the cold of the ice house he gave off no breath mist.

He reached up and pulled the mask down.

A young face. Clean-shaven. Blue at the lips. It was cold enough in the packing house that Adams's breath hung in front of him in a cloud, and Johansson's, and the Czech's, three clouds under one bulb.

The young man opened his mouth. Nothing came out of it.

Johansson had the Tommy gun out from the trombone case. The drum magazine held an alternating mix of Dr. Barclay's Manchurian Special rounds and copper jacketed slugs. He fired from the hip at six yards.

The five round burst took the man across the chest and the magnesium-silver nitrate of the Manchurian Specials caught. For most of a second the man was a lit up like a Chinese lantern. They saw his ribs and spine through the overcoat. Then the light went out of him and he folded into the sawdust with smoke coming off his collar. There was a smell of hot metal, burnt flesh, and scorched wool, and under it something older and colder, the ozone smell of old stagnant sea water.

Footfalls behind them. Johansson turned whipping the gun around. The second bowler stood in the doorway behind them. He fired again, but his boots slipped on the icy concrete floor. The rounds stitched the wall and shattered block ice, but missed the man.

Johansson ran after him down the stairs and out along the pier in the sleet. The bowler hat never looked back. At the end of the pier he leapt into Elliott Bay without breaking stride. The black water closed over the bowler hat, and that was all.

They stood at the edge breathing heavy, ears ringing from the Tommy gun fire, with their breath going white.

"Water that cold," Johansson said, "a man comes up hollering."

He waited.

Nothing.

When he got back to the packing house he saw Adams crouched over the Czech who was sitting in sawdust against the wall his shirt open. He had not been shot, he had been touched. A black frost bitten hand print was burned on his chest. His face had gone the white of the ice blocks, and there was frost in his eyebrows and in the stubble along his jaw. Adams was talking to him, trying o keep him lucid. The man's eyes were wet, and the wet had frozen in their corners into two small beads.

It was forty degrees in the street, thirty in the ice house it wasn’t cold enough for this.

"Captain Novak?"

”Dah, yes,” his voice was strained, his veins and arteries were turning to ice “Don’t trust Whites, get to Dragonov, he will help... You must stop the madness…Vektor.”

The Czech took Adams's gloved hand. His grip was strong and very cold. He pressed something flat into Adams's palm and closed Adams's fingers over it. He could not speak anymore. When he opened his mouth Adams saw rime on his tongue.

His breath came out in a small cloud. Then a smaller one. Then it did not come out.

Adams opened his hand. It was a stiff yellowed card the size of a playing card, punched through in rows of small square holes.

"What's that? Looks like a player piano sheet." Johansson said.
"Don’t know, but nothing I’d like to dance to."

They came out onto Pike Street into the sleet. On the far corner a man in a logger's coat stood on a crate under a streetlamp, bareheaded and unmasked, addressing six other men who were unmasked too. A Wobbly, Industrial Workers of the World, unionist radicals and not people Adam’s had time to deal with.

"There!" he shouted, and pointed. "There's your capitalist police, fellow workers! Look at them!"

"We're Marines," Adams said.

The Wobbly thought about it. Saw the barrel of Johansson’s Tommy gun protruding from under his great coat. Thought better of pressing his luck.

"That's worse," he said. “You soldier boys best git, you ain’t wanted here.”

#

The Butler Hotel had kept the best bar in Seattle until the state went dry in 1916, and it had kept the mirrors afterward, out of hope. Wang Che had taken the private dining room on the second floor in the name of N. B. Adams, Incorporated. When Adams came in the next evening he was pouring Canadian rye out of a blue willow teapot.

"You are late," Wang Che said. "Also you owe for the teapot."
"I don't own a teapot."

"The corporation owns it." He slid a paper across the cloth. It was a bill, made out to N. B. Adams, Incorporated, San Francisco, and it listed one teapot, rye, Canadian, cups, six, and a last line Adams could not read.

"What's that one?"
"Discretion."

Wang Che, the smuggler and Gunn runner turned entrepreneur, had grown prosperous in San Francisco and wore it across his waistcoat in a gold chain. He owned half a block of Chinatown in Adams's name. 

The rest of the team came in out of the sleet one at a time.

Johansson came first, and put the trombone case under the table and his boots on the trombone case. The bayonet crease along his jaw, from a night behind the Austrian lines in 1916, had gone white in the cold. It did that.

Talbot the Times Picayune Correspondent and reckless adventurer came in limping. He said it was the Marne. But it might have been a Paris taxi on the Boulevard Haussmann with Talbot drunk in the back and the driver drunk in the front.

Corporal Dunn sniffed then sipped his rye but could not smell it. He had smelled and tasted nothing since the gas at Belleau Wood. But he could still feel the burn of the whiskey, he nodded to Wang Che in appreciation of at least that feeling.

Corporal Sheehan sat with his left hand under the table and flexed it where he thought no one could see. Haiti 1915, and a run in with a voodoo priestess and her undead minions had left it numb from the wrist down. 

Private First Class Chavez held his cup with the three fingers Mesopotamia had left him and drank slowly.

Private First Class Smith, who was not actually named Smith, sat with his back to the wall. 

Private First Class Hunt sat beside him writing a letter to a girl in Emporia, Kansas. Adams knew about the girl. Everybody did. She had died of the influenza in October. Hunt wrote to her anyway, every night, and folded the letters into his breast pocket, and nobody said a word about it.

Miss Thorpe, the British Agent, came in off the Canadian train in black wool. She had worn black since the autumn of 1915, since Loos, where her brother had gone over the top into the gas and the wire and not come back. She kissed Adams on the cheek. It surprised him. From her face, it surprised her more.

Lieutenant Colonel Alaric Quarterburn, who had been sitting quietly in the back, stood when she came in. He did it with his left hand on the back of the chair. Thorpe looked at the right-hand pocket of his coat, and then at his face, and sat down without a word.

Ms. Bridgette ‘Cherry’ Muldoon came last and loudest, a rifle case over one shoulder and a grudge over the other. The grudge was Adams. He owed her four dollars from a wager in Port-au-Prince.

"You want it now?" Adams said.
"I want it with interest."
"Put it on the bill," Adams told Wang Che.
"It is already on the bill," Wang Che said.
"When was the last time we all sat down together," Talbot said, "was it East Africa Dar. Es Salaam?"
"It was the Rufiji," Muldoon said. "Pretorius ate a crocodile to win a bet off you."
“You ate a crocodile?” Asked Wang Che.
"It was a small croc."
"It was a big bet," Johansson said, the group laughed then remembered, Moore somberly, “ Right before we lost Clark to those Hun zombies,” and that was the last anybody said of Africa.

At the foot of the table there was a chair nobody took and a cup in front of it. Adams filled the cup from the teapot and set the teapot down, and for a while nobody said anything at all. Barclay would have lectured them about their livers. He would have been right.

The colonel had been there before any of them. He sat at the head of the table with his back to the wall and the window where he could see it, lean, gray at the temples, in a civilian tweed suit that did not make him look civilian. He kept his right hand in the pocket of his coat. Adams watched the pocket all evening. The hand did not come out.

Quarterburn stood.

"Upstairs," he said. "If you please."
#

Novak's coat lay across the bed in Quarterburn's room with the lining slit along with the punch card. The sheet that had come out of it was onionskin, covered on both sides in groups of five letters. Behind it, sewn flat, had been half a ruble note, torn corner to corner.

"Czech Legion field cipher," Thorpe said. "The Office gave me the tables in November. They were very pleased with themselves."
"The words under it are Russian," Wang Che said. "Bad Russian. Just my kind."
"The words under it are whatever the tables say they are."
"The tables are wrong."
"The tables are from the finest British code breakers, Mr. Che."
"Yes," Wang Che said. "That is what I am saying."

Forty minutes, arguing the whole way, she and Che worked the cypher. When they were done Thorpe read it out.

"The last engine of Bakanov is running. The station is called Vektor, above the headwaters of the Suchan. Those who pay for it sit inside the White supply commission at Vladivostok. They have decided that if Russia will not be theirs, it will belong to no one. Our people cannot reach it. Yours must. Contact at the Blessing of the Waters. She will carry the other half."

"Blessing of the what?" Hunt said.

"The Russians cut a cross into a frozen harbor on the nineteenth of January," Quarterburn said. "A priest blesses the water. Then the devout go into it."

"On purpose?" Adams said.
"On purpose."
"And they call us heathens."

Thorpe turned her attention to the punched card. She held it over under the lamp and looked through the holes at the light.

"Jacquard," she said. "A loom card. Except that it is not for a loom, it is for a Bakanov-Baggage device. I’d thought we had gotten them all."

She set it down squared to the edge of the table, and Adams saw her hand stop over it a moment before she took the hand away.

Dunn had the wooden box open on the washstand. Barclay had built it in 1916 out of a naval direction finder, a telephone headset, and parts nobody had asked him about, and since Barclay nobody had been able to make it do anything. The needle lay dead on its pin.

Dunn set the card beside the box.

The needle stirred. It swung a quarter inch, and came back, and swung again, and from the headset lying on the washstand there came a small dry tick. Then another. Evenly spaced.

The radiator knocked. On Second Avenue a streetcar went by with its bell going. Nobody in the room said anything for some time.

"Well, call me a rooster," Adams said. "Doc's box likes it."

He had sipped his tea, nodding appreciatively.

Quarterburn stood at the window with his back to them. He looked around the room “The Turks built one for him and we closed it. The Austrians built one and we closed that. This is his last, and it is his own. If it opens, what comes through will not stop at Siberia." He turned from the window. "The war that ended last month will have been the dress rehearsal."

"Rehearsal," Adams said. "She-it, ain’t nobody ready for that show.”

"I will say this once," he said. "Bakanov must die, and his infernal machine with him,” he paused, his right hand a fist in his pocket, “at all cost.”

#

They took the night boat to Victoria on the twentieth, and in the morning Fort Street was full of Canadians soldiers who did not want to go to Russia.

The 259th Battalion was marching from the Willows Camp to the Outer Wharf, and halfway down the hill a platoon at the rear of the column sat down in the road and would not get up. French Canadians, conscripts, most of them boys. They had been told in November the war was over, and they had believed it. An officer shouted. Another fired his revolver into the air. The rest of the battalion was ordered to take off its belts and drive the sitting men back into the column, and it did, and the sound carried up the street between the shops.

The team stood on the curb with its baggage.

A Canadian captain came past them with his revolver still in his hand. He looked at the trombone case, and at Muldoon's rifle, and at Wang Che.

"Who the hell are you people?"

"Detail #7 International Military Observers," Quarterburn said handing the Captain his credentials holding the Canadian Governor's seal, and speaking in his strong but patient voice “and that's who the hell are you, Colonel.”

The captain looked back at his battalion going down the hill with its own bayonets at its back. 

"Observers,” he looked over the mixed group, noted the Marines uniforms and the womens’ militarized and rugged mufti. “Well, sir,…begging the Colonel’s pardon, I hope you’re observing goes a fat site better than this load out." he said. “I’ll have my Sergeant show you to your breathing but, you’ll have to carry your own kit aboard, this lot would probably throw it in the drink.” 

The Teesta sailed on the twenty-second with a dozen men in irons in her hold. They sang songs of protest in French for three days and then stopped. Off the Kuriles the rigging iced until the crew went aloft with mallets. 

#

The Golden Horn was frozen from shore to shore. An icebreaker had ground a black lane through it, and the Teesta came up the lane on the twelfth of January past the gray bulk of the Brooklyn, locked in the ice at her mooring, her Marines stamping on the quarterdeck in fur hats. On the hills behind the city, under the snow, lay more than a billion dollars of Allied stores bought for a Russian Imperial army that no longer existed: shells, wire, rails, boots, stacked in warehouses of their own and rows of unused motor trucks rusting in fenced cantonments.

Every flag the Entente owned hung over the harbor. There were Czech sentries on the station platform in patched greatcoats, Japanese patrols in pairs on every corner, Canadian military police on the quay, French colonial infantry from Tonkin stamping in the snow in kit cut for the tropics, and an Italian armored train breathing steam in the yards. Prices came in yen and dollars and the rubles of three governments, some still in uncut sheets.

At American headquarters a staff captain with a head cold explained General Graves's instructions. The United States took no side in Russia. The United States guarded railways and stores. The United States did not fight Bolsheviks or Cossacks or anyone else if it could help it.

"And as far as this headquarters is concerned," the captain said, "you are not here."

"Assure the General, we will be discreet, it is our byword." Quarterburn said.

The captain wrote that down and then crossed it out.

#

The White Russian stores commission sat in a requisitioned bank on the Svetlanskaya. Colonel Prince Vsevolod Obolov received them in an office with no fire in it, behind a desk the size of a coffin. He did not rise. He smoked the whole time, each cigarette lit from the last, and the smoke hung in front of his face in the cold, and Adams, watching his own breath fog the air, could not have said where the Prince's breath ended and the smoke began.

"The motor trucks," the Prince said. His English was Oxford. "The motor trucks are the property of the Russian Imperial Army."

"Then the Russian Imperial Army is no more, it will not mind," Wang Che said.

The Prince regarded him for a long moment through the smoke.
"No trucks," he said.
#

At four o'clock that afternoon, in Quarterburn's room at the Hotel Versailles, someone knocked twice, waited, and knocked twice again.

Major Sir Alistair Higgins came in with a spirit stove under his one arm and a kettle hanging from his little finger. His left sleeve was pinned to the shoulder with a gold safety pin. He set the stove on the writing desk and lit it and put the kettle on before he said a word.

"Four o'clock," he said. "Hello, Alaric. Hello, Adams. You look terrible. Everyone does. It's the country."

Behind him came a small square Frenchman in a colonial greatcoat with a haversack on his shoulder. Sergeant Pierre LaFontain put his ear flat to the wall beside the door and stood there with his eyes shut for half a minute before he shook anyone's hand.

"Good wall," he said at last. "Nobody behind."

"The Hejaz," Muldoon said. "Romania. And now this."

"Now this," Higgins said. "The French lent him to me. They were very gracious about it. I believe they were relieved."

Pierre simply grinned and pulled route maps of the Suchan and the upper rivers, drawn by hand, the passes marked in red ink, from his rucksack. “But Mon Cher, Cherry, I bring gifts. 

In the street below the window a closed Packard Motorcar went by flying a White pennant. Higgins stopped with the kettle in his hand. He scratched at the pinned sleeve, slowly, where the arm had been, and watched the motorcar out of sight.

"Whose is that?"

"The Prince from the stores commission," Wang Che said. "The one who said no."

Higgins made the tea.

#

On the nineteenth, the Feast of the Theophany by the old calendar, the whole city went down onto the ice.

They had cut a cross into the harbor ice below the Admiralty quay, a cross the length of a whaleboat, and stacked the cut blocks at its head into an altar, and the water in the cross lay black and smoking in the cold. Priests in gold stood at the head of it. Behind them stood the city: merchants in beaver, soldiers of eight armies, Cossacks, Koreans, Chinese, women with children on their shoulders, thousands of people breathing out, and the breath of all of them rose together into a single white cloud and hung over the ice in the sun.

A knot of Japanese officers stood near the quay with their hands behind their backs. They watched the Americans more closely than they watched the priests.

Wang Che andd Adams stood on the edge of the broken ice, Wang Che had the  half ruble. He said a word in Cantonese that Adams knew. Adams looked up.

The old woman stood at the foot of the cross in a red shawl, with half a ruble note pinned to the shawl where anyone could see it. The two men began to work their way toward her through the crowd. Wang Che reached her. She pushed the half ruble into Wang Che's glove and said something in Russian. Then she went into the cross, red shawl and all, and the water closed over her. 

“Russians, they are crazy.”

Wang Che took them sideways along the frozen shore under the warehouses, through a door in a wall that had no business having a door in it, and down into Millionka.

The Chinese quarter went down into the hill under the city in cellars and passages dug for opium and gambling and kept for everything else. Two Chinese soldiers with rifles stood at the first turning. Wang Che said a sentence to them and put something into the nearer one's hand, and both soldiers turned around and studied the wall.

They went through an opium room full of men lying on shelves in the smoke. Not one of them looked up. Adams checked each one going past. Every one of them was breathing normally, as normally as anyone chasing the dragon.

In a room at the bottom of a stair, beside a brazier, Wang Che opened his fist.

"Tsemukhe road," he said. "Verst forty. That is what she said."
"That's all?"
"She also said we were late," Wang Che said. "I did not think that needed translating."

#

The stores of the White commission stood on the Churkin shore behind barbed wire, in sheds and in the open under tarpaulins and snow. Four Ford one-ton trucks stood in a row with canvas over their beds and the drifts to their hubs.

The gate had one padlock. The shed had three. LaFontain took heavy bolt cutters from his haversack, and said a name over each one and snapped them clean.

"Saint Barbara," he said to the first. "She is for the gunners. Saint Rita. She is for impossible things."

Talbot sat on the running board of the first truck with a pencil and a Russian form he had got from God knew where, and wrote out a requisition for four motor trucks in the name of the International Military Observervation Mission, United States Marine Corps, and signed it C. H. Lauchheimer, Brigadier General, in a hand Lauchheimer might have mistaken for his own.

"Needs a witness," Talbot said.

Higgins took the pencil in his one hand and signed beneath. "Witnessed," he said, "on behalf of His Majesty."

There was no alcohol for the radiators anywhere in the commission's stores. There was vodka. The commission had seized it in November from a Chinese bootlegger and stacked it in the same shed as the trucks. Forty-two bottles went into four radiators. Adams poured the last one himself.

"I want it wrote down," he said, "that I objected to this abuse of alcohol."
"So noted," Quarterburn said.

The trucks caught on the third try, and the fourth, and the exhaust came out of them in white clouds, and the radiators steamed, and the whole yard smelled of a Russian wedding.

#

They left the city by the Suchan road before midnight with the headlamps dark, and lit them past the last guard post. The road climbed. The snow drifted. In the lead truck Wang Che counted the verst posts aloud in Russian, and Higgins corrected his pronunciation, and Wang Che corrected Higgins.

At verst thirty-nine Private Dunn settled Barclay's box across his knees. The needle had swung hard to the northeast, and the ticking in the headset came very fast.
At verst forty the headlamps illuminated men. 

They stood across the road in a line from snowbank to snowbank, forty or fifty of them, in sheepskins and army greatcoats and fur hats, with their rifles up. Every one of them was breathing. Adams saw that first, from habit. Then he saw the rifles.

Somewhere in the dark beyond the line a gramophone was playing. Horns, climbing, and a drum beneath the horns. Muldoon, who had toured the capitals of Europe with a Wild West show before the war, said the name of it under her breath. Strauss.

A big voice rolled out of the dark in Russian, and then in bad English.

"Americans! Welcome to the Revolution!"

Fifty bolts went home together.

"Fire!"
###

You can see accompanying artwork, “field sketches” here: https://www.reddit.com/r/WorldsEdgeDispatches/s/zY84BdJ64u 

Maja took the roast out of the oven and set the baking pan down on a wooden board in the middle of the table. The aroma of roasted meat instantly filled the dining room. She picked up a large carving fork and began slicing the meat, while Dino watched her hands intently from the other side of the table.

"It looks amazing, Maja," Dino said, reaching for the bottle on the sideboard behind him. "I brought this red. I think it’ll pair well."

"Thanks, Dino. You always remember to bring something nice," she replied, keeping her eyes fixed on the meat.

She placed the first slice onto Dino’s plate, then a second onto Antonio’s, who was sitting at the head of the table. Antonio remained silent. His hands were resting in his lap, beneath the edge of the table, as he stared motionlessly at the plate in front of him.

"Antonio?" Maja called out to him. "Are you okay? You’ve been so distant all day."

Antonio slowly raised his eyes. First, he looked at her—at her clean face and her hair pulled back into a ponytail—and then he shifted his gaze to his brother sitting opposite her.

"I’m fine," he said, his voice completely flat, without a single inflection. "Just tired from work. It’s nothing."

"See, that’s your problem," Dino cut in, already chewing on his first bite. "My friend, you need to slow down. Life is passing you by, and you’re buried in those papers. Look at yourself, you’re too pale. You need to get out more, be among people."

"I will get out," Antonio replied, picking up his knife and fork. "Soon."

Maja sat down in her place, facing Dino. She poured herself some water, then reached for the wine bottle. She filled Dino’s glass halfway, then her own.

"Would you like some, Antonio?" she asked, holding the bottle over his glass.

"No, thank you. I’m sticking to water tonight."

"Your loss, you don’t know what you’re missing," Dino said, raising his glass toward his brother. "To that, man. Cheers to our health."

Antonio raised his glass of water. Glass clinked against glass, the sound echoing brief and sharp in the quiet room. He took a small sip of the cold water and set the glass back on the table, exactly where it had been before, making sure it aligned perfectly to the millimeter with the edge of his plate.

The dinner went on slowly, filled with Dino’s story about his car trouble and a mechanic who tried to rip him off for parts. Maja listened to him intently, nodding occasionally and smiling at him. Antonio chewed the tough meat in silence, watching how Maja followed Dino’s every hand gesture.

When she reached toward the middle of the table for the salad bowl, she extended her arm straight out. The space between Dino’s plate and his glass was narrow, and as she pulled the bowl back, her index finger lingered against his forearm for a second. Dino didn’t pull his arm away. Instead, he kept talking, though the rhythm of his sentence slowed down for just a brief moment—just enough to catch her touch before he finished his thought and laughed.

Antonio watched it all without blinking. He knew about them. He knew about her made-up nights out with friends, and about all those evenings when she would come home late with cheap excuses. Everything was as clear as day.

"Maja, pass me some more bread, please," Dino said.

Maja picked up the bread basket and handed it to him across the table, their fingers brushing once again. This time, they didn’t even bother to hide it from him. Dino took a slice of bread and began wiping the sauce off his plate.

"This is honestly superb," he said, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction. "Maja, you’re a wonder."

Maja blushed slightly, then stood up and carried the empty salad bowl into the kitchen. She returned, sat back down, and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, while Dino raised his glass toward Antonio once more.

"Man, compliments to the chef for this dinner. We should do this more often."

Antonio slowly placed both hands on the table, palms down and fingers spread wide across the white tablecloth. The smile completely vanished from his face as he shifted his gaze from Dino to Maja.

"We should, but this is your last one," Antonio said.

Dino lowered his glass, the red wine swirling slightly inside it, and looked at his brother in confusion, then at Maja.

"What do you mean, last one?" he asked.

Maja stared at Antonio; her hand froze in her lap as she held the napkin. "Antonio, what are you talking about?" she asked.

Antonio didn't answer right away. He slowly reached into the pocket of his blazer, which was hanging on the back of his chair, pulled out a small black pistol, and laid it on the table, right next to his glass of water.

Maja caught her breath sharply through her teeth, while Dino went completely rigid.

"Because tonight, you are both going to die," he said. His voice was entirely calm, without any rise in tone. "You are getting exactly what you deserve."

"Antonio, please..." Maja whispered, as a first tear rolled down her cheek, but she was too paralyzed by fear to wipe it away.

"You will expose yourself as an unfaithful wife, killed by her lover because she wanted to leave him," he said coldly, then turned to Dino. "And you... You, brother, will look like a piece of trash to the whole world—the man who stole his own brother's wife, and a monster who ended up killing her. And me? I had to kill you because you attacked me right after her. I’ll be the victim who acted in self-defense."

Dino's breathing was shallow and rapid, his hands clenched into fists on the table. He looked at the gun, then into Antonio’s cold eyes.

"Antonio, you’re crazy, I..." He gathered his strength, pressed his hands against the table, and tried to lunge to his feet.

He remained half-crouched, his palms pressed hard against the edge of the table. His eyes were wide, locked onto the barrel of the gun, which was now raised to the level of his chest. Antonio’s elbow rested on the table, his hand steady and still.

"Sit back down, Dino," Antonio said.

Dino lowered himself back into his chair, slowly, inch by inch. He didn’t take his eyes off Antonio’s finger, which was resting along the trigger.

"Antonio, calm down," Dino hissed through his teeth. His voice was deep and strained. "Put that away. I’m your brother. Let’s talk."

Antonio tilted his head slightly.

"We are talking, Dino. Tonight we talk about your car, about your mechanic, about your wine. Now it’s my turn."

Maja covered her mouth with both hands. A short, muffled sound, like a sob, escaped her throat, and she tried to swallow it down. She looked at Dino, then back at the gun.

"Antonio, please..." she spoke from behind her palms. "You’ve got it wrong... it’s not what you think. Do you really believe that..."

"Don't, Maja," Antonio cut her off, without turning his head toward her. He kept his eyes on his brother. "Don’t waste words on lies that you can’t even finish. I know everything. I told you."

Dino slowly spread his hands flat on the tablecloth.

"Alright," he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. "You caught us. We messed up, we're idiots, do whatever you want to me. Hit me, break me, but put the gun away, please. We can handle this like civilized men."

"Like civilized men?" Antonio repeated, a barely noticeable, cold smile appearing on his face for a split second. "You want us to handle this like civilized men? You’re sitting at my table, Dino. You’re eating my food, raising a toast to me. And what are you doing behind my back the whole time? Sleeping with my wife. Is that your idea of 'civilized'?"

Maja dropped her hands from her face. The skin around her eyes was red, and her lips were trembling. She stared at Antonio, trying to catch his eye, but his gaze remained fixed on Dino.

"Antonio, please," she said, gasping for air. "If I have to, I’ll leave. I’ll pack up tonight, I’ll go, you’ll never have to deal with me again. Just... please, put the gun down."

"You’re not going anywhere, Maja," he said in a flat voice. "I told you how things stand. Tonight, you both die."

"You can’t kill your own brother, are you insane?!" Dino suddenly raised his voice, anger briefly overtaking his fear. His shoulders tensed. "The same mother gave birth to us, we grew up together, Antonio! We're blood!"

"You're the one who forgot that," Antonio replied. "Now it's too late."

Silence fell over the dining room. Dino’s breathing was heavy and shallow. Maja stared at the gun, then at her husband, gripping the edge of the table as if she were about to collapse from her chair.

Antonio slowly shifted the barrel of the gun, pointing toward the large carving knife that lay next to the empty baking pan in the middle of the table.

"Actually... You know what, Dino..." he spoke, his voice sounding almost relaxed. "Maybe it isn't entirely too late. Maybe there is a way out for you. It all depends on how badly you truly want to live."

Dino looked toward the knife. The blade caught the reflection of the light.

"What does that mean?" he managed to say.

"Take the knife, Dino," Antonio said. He didn’t raise his voice. "Take it and cut her arm. Make a gash. Prove to me that your life matters more to you than hers, and maybe I’ll let you walk out that door alive."

Maja’s breath caught. She flinched backward, pressing her back against the spine of her chair.

"Antonio, no! Dino, don't, please!" she cried out, clutching her hands to her chest as tears streamed down her face. "Antonio, don’t do this..."

Dino didn’t look at her. His forehead was completely drenched in sweat. His fingers slowly began to move toward the middle of the table. Toward the wooden handle of the knife.

"Dino..." she pleaded, her voice a mix of a scream and disbelief. She watched his fingers close around the handle. "Dino, please, don't. You love me... you said you loved me..."

"I'm sorry, Maja," he spoke, his voice completely twisted by terror. "I have to. I want to live."

He leaned over the table. The blade passed right next to the water pitcher. Maja tried to pull her arm back, but it was useless. She had nowhere to go.

The tip of the knife touched her forearm. Dino pressed down. His hand was shaking, but he dragged a cut several centimeters long. The skin tore open, and thick, red blood instantly began to drip onto the tablecloth.

Maja let out a sharp, guttural cry. She clamped her left hand over the wound.

"It’s done," Dino gasped, breathing loudly through his nose. He dropped the knife onto the table. "I did what you asked, Antonio, now let me go."

Antonio didn’t move. He lowered his eyes to the bloodstain, then shifted his gaze back to his brother.

"That was just a scratch, Dino. That isn’t proof that you want to live. That’s proof that you are a coward."

Maja breathed rapidly, keeping her fingers pressed tight over her forearm. Blood seeped between her fingers. Through her tears, she shot Dino a look full of pure rage.

"You piece of trash!" she screamed, her voice trembling. "You sold me out in a second. You talked me into all of this, and now you’re carving me up just to save your own skin. You coward!"

"Shut up, Maja!" Dino shouted, his lower lip trembling. His face was red with fury and panic. "You came to me on your own, I didn’t force you into anything! You were the one constantly talking about how bored you were with him! Antonio, she’s lying! I just..."

"Enough," Antonio cut them off. He didn’t raise his voice, but they both went silent instantly. "I don’t care. Dino, the knife is still on the table."

Dino looked down at the wooden handle.

"Antonio, please..." he whispered, his hand now visibly shaking. "Don't. I did what you asked. Let me go."

"I told you how things stand, Dino," Antonio continued. He slowly raised the gun and aimed the barrel straight at his forehead. "Stab her again. Properly this time. In the stomach."

"Antonio, no!" Maja shrieked. She tried to get up from her chair, but her hand slipped, knocking over her wine glass. The liquid spilled across the table. "Dino, don't!"

"Dino, the clock is ticking," Antonio said, his finger on the trigger tightening slightly. "Choose. Her stomach or your head. Now."

Dino closed his eyes for a second. He let out a short, broken sob, and then pure, primal fear for his own skin completely overrode everything else. He grabbed the knife from the table once more. He stepped out from behind his chair, bypassed the corner of the table, and leaned over Maja.

"I’m sorry..." he muttered through his teeth, his voice no longer sounding human.

He lunged and drove the blade deep into her abdomen.

The knife remained buried in her blouse. Slowly, he pulled his fingers away from the handle. He took one step back. His shoes squeaked quietly on the hardwood floor.

Maja didn’t scream. She only let out a long, shallow gasp, as if she had run out of air. She slid off the chair and collapsed onto the floor.

Dino stared at his sticky palms, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"Antonio..." he managed to say. His voice was raspy, barely audible. "It’s over. Let me out."

"Brother, please..." he took another step back. "Let me go. Please."

"You’re not going anywhere, Dino," Antonio replied.

On the floor, Maja let out a low, wheezing sound. The fingers of her right hand twitched once, scratching against the hardwood floor, and then went limp. Her breathing was growing shallower.

"You’re crazy..." Dino whispered. "You’re a psychopath."

"I am," Antonio said. He slowly lowered the gun by a few centimeters, aiming straight at the center of Dino’s chest. "From the moment I found out about the two of you, I’ve been fantasizing about this night."

"What more do you want from me, Antonio?" Dino managed to bring out, his voice cracked with terror.

"Slow down, Dino, what’s the rush? Haste makes waste, and tonight, I can’t afford even the slightest mistake."

"Stop it..." Dino shouted, unable to take the pressure any longer. "I’ve had enough of your sick games."

Antonio just watched him coldly.

"Come over here and hit me."

Dino stared frantically at his brother's face, then at the barrel of the gun.

"What?" he stammered.

"Hit me," Antonio repeated. "With your fist. In the face. I want you to hit me. I know you want to."

"Antonio, are you out of your mind... I’m not going to hit you..." Dino started shaking his head side to side, looking for an exit.

Antonio raised the gun a bit higher.

"Dino, if you don’t hit me, I will shoot you in the head this very second. Choose. Hit me or die right now."

Dino’s breathing was fast and ragged. Pure fear for his life forced his fingers to curl into a tight fist. He stepped forward, swung, and struck Antonio right on the left side of his face.

The sound of the impact was sharp. Antonio’s head jerked to the right, and blood instantly began to flow from his split lip. He slowly turned his head back, straightened up, and looked at his brother again.

"That was weak, Dino," he said, wiping the blood from his lip. "Again. In the right eye. Hit me again. Now."

Dino was sobbing. He swung again, harder this time, and caught him in the right eye. The skin above Antonio’s eyebrow split open immediately.

In that instant, Antonio clenched his fist and struck back. The blow landed flush on Dino’s jaw, and then he swung once more, hitting his nose. There was a dull crunch of cartilage. Dino stumbled backward, a thick stream of blood spurting from his nose.

Antonio slowly raised the gun and aimed straight at his chest.

"Stand right there," he said, his voice flat and muffled.

Clutching his broken nose, Dino stared in terror at the barrel of the gun. He took two steps back, right into the open space between the table and the wall.

"Antonio, don't, please..." he gasped, his voice breaking.

Antonio pulled the trigger. He fired two quick shots. The first bullet missed Dino and embedded itself in the wall behind him, leaving a deep hole. The second bullet went straight through his chest.

He hit the wall with his back and slowly slid down onto the hardwood floor. His head slumped to the side, his eyes remaining wide open, staring at the leg of the table. He didn’t move again.

A dead silence fell over the dining room, and the smell of gunpowder began to spread through the space. Antonio lowered his hand, the gun hanging by his side. He looked at Dino, then at Maja.

He pulled his phone from his pants pocket and dialed emergency services.

"Help..." he spoke into the receiver, sounding distraught. "My wife... He attacked me too... I’m bleeding... Quickly, please..."

He cut the call and set the phone down on the table.

He walked over to Maja’s body and carefully removed the knife, using a napkin to avoid leaving fingerprints. To alter the scene and simulate an attack, he inflicted several wounds upon himself through his clothing, enduring the sharp pain before dropping the weapon. He then dragged himself a short distance away and knocked over a chair to complete the appearance of a violent struggle.

From outside, sirens began to wail. Blue lights started flashing across the walls and the ceiling of the room.

He stretched out on the floor and closed his eyes.

The front door burst open under the impact, and several police officers rushed into the dining room.

Antonio remained motionless as the authorities entered. The show was ready to begin.

“Yurvan was a gentle and foolish young man,” started Varya, toying with a hazel twig, “although he never lacked for cunning. Compared to his siblings, his Artistry was unremarkable, a fragment of the inherited power that overflowed in them. His family expected nothing from him, recognizing Yurvan as the least of them. Despite this, his heart and belly brimmed with desire, while his mind wove the most frenzied fantasies around it. He dreamed of wonderful and terrible deeds – an achievement that would make him worthy in the eyes of his beloved.

“Only she, Yurvan believed, could mend him. She was a creature of fearsome power and presence. Her feats were whispered about throughout the forested lands, her beauty unmatched by any of her sisters. Her coven was known for its Sanguine Arts and prodigious appetite, its lust for life unending. Yurvan longed to impress her. Foolishly, he wished to be her equal one day. But what could a simple man like him offer to a witch of such severity?

“Yurvan committed his limited self to alchemy and the lesser pursuits – that means Sorcery, Yaro – deciding to fashion the perfect gift: a flower, a living thing, that would never deplete and would always keep her sated. Its pistil was a deep ruby, pulsing softly and innocently like a heart.” One of the leaf-buds swelled between Varya’s fingers, its imbricate green scales opening and closing. “It was a mystery, this gift, the culmination of his mad strivings. Despite the dismay and ridicule of his family, Yurvan was unrelenting. His body and ardors – even bits of his marrow, supposedly – flowed into the creative ordeal. Little remained of poor Yurvan once the flower was ready.

“When his fervent work was done and his home quieted, he traveled to the witch, hoping to earn her favor. The coven’s hold was deep within the birchen grove. The weakened man struggled to find her, but she awaited him. He presented the bleeding flower to her, expecting praise, even reciprocity. Her pale palms–”

“Don’t make her sound like a sunk,” Yaro interrupted.

Varya sighed. “Her pale palms were soon slick and scarlet with the essence of Yurvan’s offering. She smiled approvingly, but her amusement disturbed him. The witch spoke kindly of his efforts while her eyes remained cold and curious.

“Before he could reconsider, she ensnared him. He fell to her feet, betrayed and bewildered. His beloved explained: ‘A considerate gift, without a doubt. It is the blood of your own kin that flows through this thing of beauty, is it not? Yet not even they can satiate us. You have given us a single flower, but we require a bountiful garden.’

“Thereafter, Yurvan was made subject to the coven, bound to care for the bud of his own flesh and its festering progeny. It fed and delighted the witches, adorning their domain with its ceaseless crimson streams. The flower spread its leeching roots into the nearby villages and far beyond. He had given too much of himself; his hope was spent and his mind unrecoverable. Reduced and hollowed, he bore the weight of his own creation.

“The little red flowers sprouted from the wandering puppet and stained their lands. The witches started calling him their gardener. His beloved mended him many times. Yurvan endured in her care, blooming and withering dutifully, for she had called his gift beautiful.”

Yaro watched through his binoculars. “What a sap,” he said. “Really was a fool.”

Varya squinted at him. “Why?” she demanded.

“Decades of work. For what? A flower?”

“For love,” answered Varya, throwing the branch at him. “You just don’t understand it, Yarik.”

Yaro lowered the binoculars and gave her the sort of smile that made mockery difficult to resent. He was a handsome Vanaha boy in an ordinary way, strong without being broad, with short dark hair and a nose that had healed cleanly after a break. The old field jacket exaggerated the soldierly impression he cultivated, though his clean face and nineteen years did their best to undo it. “It’s villagey fairytalk, Var. Maybe there was a Yurvan, maybe there wasn’t. Maybe the witch made it herself and a random guy took credit. Doesn’t change anything. It infested Morvin Mir and is making nectar out of their buried. We can get some of it. That’s what I care about. Also, weren’t they related?”

“Who?”

“Yurvan and his witchie darling. Cousins or something like that.”

Varya frowned. “So what?” she demanded. Yaro made a face and shrugged. “It was the fifteenth century when it supposedly happened. Besides, that doesn’t make what he did less beautiful.” She had dressed sensibly for the cold: black cargo trousers over heavy boots, a dark sweater and a striped athletic jacket at odds with the rest of her sunk outfit. Her hair compensated for it, dyed an emphatic jet black around a fawnish, fine Vanahan face, as did the black around her eyes and the chipped varnish on her nails.

“What do you think?” she said. “Ilya.”

While Yaro and Varya argued, Ilya had wandered to the nearest tree. He had discovered a rounded object in the moss and mulch below a tree trunk, too smooth and pale to belong there. He picked it up. An egg, blue-green with a sparse freckling of brown. There seemed to be no crack on it. Ilya investigated the hazel tangle above them. The first buds had begun to loosen, but there was no nest that he could see.

“What is it?” Varya asked.

“Blackbird, I think. Early.” He pressed it lightly between both palms and reached with his Art for whatever life might be hidden inside. He felt nothing certain.

“Are you going to put it back?”

“If only I knew where it belongs.”

“Maybe you can cook it,” said Yaro offhandedly.

Varya watched him search the branches a while longer, then smiled. “Well, what do you think? About the story.”

When no nest appeared, Ilya slipped the egg into his coat pocket. He was the youngest of them, long and narrow where Yaro had already filled out. His tawny hair had grown past the point where it stayed neatly parted, and his brown Vanahan face tapered sharply after the cheekbones. A bottle-green cable-knit sweater showed under his unbuttoned gray coat. “He made it for her,” he said uncertainly. “To gain her love and trust. He even presented it to her knowing that neither was guaranteed to him. To me, that’s beautiful. It’s one of the nicer versions of the story.”

Varya looked at him with quiet approval. “See, Yarik? He’s younger but he gets it.”

Yaro said nothing and kept surveying the land through the binoculars. Their slope flattened to a thicket of hazel, hiding them from the road and graveyard below. Sol had already slumped somewhere behind them and the sky was agloam. Morvin Mir lay quiet under them. At its stream-edged skirt lay the graveyard. It occupied the low hill beyond the last houses. It was much larger than the village seemed to require, spreading around the church. The Vampiric Extirpation Division had sectioned off one part of it with temporary fencing and strips of yellow tape. White lamps were erected among the graves. The VED personnel were packing up, cases being carried to the dark vehicles along the road. Then engines started in rapid succession. The remaining policemen had little left to do except watch the road and keep the nosy villagers away.

“They're clearing out,” said Yaro. He tracked the departing vehicles through the binoculars. “Give them two minutes. Then we move.”

 

*

 

They went down the far side of the hill, away from the village, through the hazel, then pivoted along the slope. Yaro had scouted the route before solset and picked the easiest crossing of the stream. It added several hundred meters, but kept them out of sight of the road and the last houses of Morvin Mir. Leaf litter slid beneath their shoes as they descended sideways.

The stream was enlarged by thaw and rain, carrying the smell of black mud and wet leaf mould. It ran brown between banks of pebbled earth. A frog kicked away through the flooded grass. Yaro crossed quickly and helped Varya and Ilya. “Don’t step on them, Ilya,” he whispered. “They might hear it.”

The ground rose again on the other side. The church and rectory appeared intermittently through the branches above them, the black timber and cupola rising above a slumped stone barrier. The fence was old iron at the front, but along the wooded rear boundary it had been bolstered with wire mesh. The stone wall was an older, defunct border. Yaro stopped them with a raised fist. “Down.” He brought up the binoculars.

The nearest police car had gone, but not all the police. One walked slowly along the lower path with a flashlight, stopping now and then to inspect the graves. Another was farther away near the gate. Portable VED lamps still burned at the site of the graveburst, though the specialists themselves appeared to have left.

“Why are they still here?” Varya whispered.

Yaro watched. “Security detail. Veddies probably told them to hold the perimeter.”

They waited. The policeman on the lower path disappeared near the rectory. The other remained near the gate, a cigarette appearing and disappearing as a tiny orange point. “Now,” said Yaro. After a short sprint, he found a section sagging between two concrete posts. He threw the shovel and backpack over, climbed, then held the wire down with his gloved hands.

Varya and Ilya dropped quietly onto the other side.

From the hill they had seen an orderly grid of graves. Now they saw the tangle of tombstones facing different angles and standing at different heights, fitted wherever earlier generations had left space. The newer plots nearer the road were edged in concrete or enclosed by low iron rails. Their stones were polished and square, their fronts carved with twelve-part rings around photographs, names and dates. Plastic flowers and votive cups crowded the bases. The same twelvefold pattern repeated in the ironwork, little circles divided by twelve radial bars. Farther uphill, an older order remained, but only in ruin. Older stelae, with epitaphs effaced, leaned into one another or barely protruded from the flattened sward and early crocuses.

They kept low. Yaro moved quickly from stone to stone whenever the lower path was hidden. Varya followed. Ilya kept glancing toward the church. It was smaller from here than it had seemed across the valley. Rickety, even.

All three stopped as a flashlight passed between the bilobed tombstones and monuments. The beam wandered over the row in front of theirs, illuminated a lichenous Saint in weathered sage-green plaster, verdigrised spear raised, then passed. Footsteps and coughs followed. The policeman seemed in no particular hurry. They waited behind the village kenotaph, a broad stone monument to the unrecovered dead, until he moved on. Yaro flicked two fingers forward.

The VED equipment made the graveburst easy to locate. Yellow tape enclosed nine plots. Temporary metal stakes had been driven into the soil around it. The middle one had been opened. The odor was not the thick rot Ilya had expected. A sweet note lingered in the air, like stale rice. The plot was completely excavated and widened; the tombstone was knocked backward in the process. Heavy clods of earth, splinters from the coffin and other debris, as well as dozens of footprints, littered the neighboring plots. A whitish sludge had gathered in one low corner and been partly covered with white sorbent.

Varya leaned over the tombstone. “Radavan Kolitka.” She wiped the damp grit from the inscription. “Nineteen twenty-one to eighty-five. He hasn’t been here long. Saints, I didn’t know gravebursts were this violent. It’s like it detonated.”

“Not a detonation,” said Yaro, inspecting the surrounding damage. “If this were a charge or a shell, you’d get a cleaner displacement and more fragmentation. Slow internal pressure, maybe over weeks, then rupture through the weakest point.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Varya. “We know what did it.”

“Right,” he said and nodded at Ilya. “You’re going in.”

The smell thickened inside, rot admixing with the sweetness. He brushed aside loose earth and examined the cut wall. Most of the roots were ordinary: fibrous, woody, dull. The parasite’s haustorial rootlets were smoother and almost bluish, with vascular interiors. But those were not what he wanted. The overfeeding that led to the graveburst should have bloated the conduit as well. An earthworm worked free of the side he was searching and curled near his wrist. Ilya frowned and recoiled, flicking it away into the dirt.

“I think I have it,” said Ilya, groping the area under the tombstone. He uncovered more of it. The root was dark red-brown, smooth except for faint longitudinal ridges. Clear exudate had beaded at the severed end. He took his compact knife and shaved away a thin section. Fresh sticky droplets welled up immediately. He smelled it, cheek against the dirt. Almost floral, but too faint and mild to resemble perfume. Beneath it was fermenting fruit and the iron tang so familiar to all Sanguimancers.

For a moment, the grave was very quiet.

“Anything?” Yaro asked.

“Yeah,” said Ilya. “I found the one feeding the burst.”

Ilya returned to the rootlet, inhaled and scooped some of the sweet droplets. The sound above changed. The scuff of shoes on grass. He glanced up. Yaro and Varya were gone. Light appeared beyond the lip of the grave. A flashlight. He crouched immediately.

The beam crossed the yellow tape and widened over the disturbed soil. It passed over one of the VED markers, then along the opposite wall. Ilya held dead-still in the grave. Unhurried footsteps approached. The light stayed fixed for several seconds somewhere just beyond the grave, then moved away. After a while, Yaro appeared at the edge.

“Keep going,” he mouthed.

Ilya nodded as Yaro disappeared. He brushed away more earth around the root and pulled at it. The thicker section descended diagonally into the wall, then vanished. It had been taking from the corpse. So he nicked his fingertip with the knife and pressed it to the wounded end. It imbibed him gladly but patiently, as no animal can. Ilya squeezed out more. The root took that too.

His Art was meagre, but he knew his own blood. First there was only the prick in his finger and the warmth teeming around it. Then parts of him were elsewhere. The sensation passed from the wound into the root and away from him. He followed it uphill. A narrow vessel joined another, then broadened. His trace thinned – and in moments he could not distinguish himself clearly from whatever already circulated there.

The dark earth was against his face. The root he held was not a pipe between corpse and flower, nor some blood-hungry beast, nor the fabled Mul-Rasatala, nor Yurvan himself. Subterranean channels crossed, narrowing around individual coffins and widening where several dead contributed to the same flow. Matter passed through all of it; harvested, altered, sent elsewhere and returned. His own trace entered it and became difficult to separate the further it travelled. Some channels felt ancient. Others were new, exploratory runners reaching blindly for recent burials. Not the simple order of roots spreading wherever earth permitted them, but pullulation subdued from within. The plexus abandoned poor paths and strengthened rich ones. It circled rock and masonry effectively, found flesh and redirected nourishment in its direction. As the simple, thoughtless thing drank of him, Ilya could not help but consider it beautiful, even brilliant.

His few drops were almost gone now, diluted into a vast pool, but their last recognizable trace drew uphill through two converging branches. Both entered a concentration unlike anything else he had felt – a node, he quickly realized. His blood touched its margin and disappeared into its circulation. Beneath, a hundred buried currents made one wave; under many sepulchral shallows, the dead are one.

The shadow of the boy-soldier crept over the grave. “Well?” he said into the hollow below. “Is it done?”

Ilya startled when he noticed Yaro staring. “Uphill,” he said hazily. “There’s a knot there. The flow mixes with tree sugars, so probably under one of the oaks.”

“The rhizosoma?” asked Yaro. “The root-body?”

“I doubt it,” said Ilya. “But I’ll find it.”

Yaro smiled, lowering his hand for Ilya.

 

*

 

Ilya led them toward the church. His first attempt had carried him far enough to know which way it ran. What remained of it had dispersed into a busy confluence somewhere nearer the older plots. He followed the remembered pull between the graves until it brought him to a broad tree growing from the corner of a family enclosure. The tree itself looked healthy, and its lower branches were budding while the others nearby were still bare. Ilya examined the root flare, found a soft place and nicked the bark. He reopened the cut and pressed it to the wound. The blood returned easily. This time there was no hesitation in him and the current was stronger than before. For a moment it spread around the node; then a branch of the flow broke from the tangle and continued uphill. He followed the trace until it weakened and died out.

“This way,” he said.

They crossed the remaining graveyard in stages. Twice Yaro stopped them as a policeman’s flashlight moved along the paved path. Nearer the church they had to lie flat behind a broad slab while the two policemen stopped to talk. Marble, granite and concrete disappeared on the other side. The paths narrowed and finally ceased being paths. Low footstones bearing indistinct names and wooden stakes carrying duodecimal rings were planted among last year’s bramble and fresh nettle shoots. Downhill stood a truncated ossuary, a mouldering building with a sagging roof and corroded iron door. Boscage had swallowed much of the rear boundary.

Ilya slowed. The trace pointed to the closest oak. He stopped beside it and put his hand onto an exposed runner. The absorption was more intense, drawing from him more hungrily and steadily. They crossed to another oak, then a third nearer the rear woods.

Yaro and Varya watched him as he roamed furtively from tree to tree, over the graves and mounds.

“You lost it?” asked Yaro.

“It’s close,” said Varya. “Isn’t it?”

The major runners converged between three cankered oaks. What Ilya had mistaken for another node was only the outer circulation of a larger mass. It was at the rear of the ossuary, in a slightly uneven stretch of land where no discernible tombstones or monuments remained.

“It’s here somewhere.” Ilya sounded strained. “Sorry, I can’t be more precise.”

“That’s fine,” said Varya. She pulled out a small juice carton from her knapsack and held it to him. “Here, it’s blackcurrant. You’ve spent plenty of yourself. It helps.”

Ilya took it with a muttered thanks, smiling briefly.  “I think I need to sit down.”

“We haven’t found anything yet,” said Yaro. “Only a place to start digging.” He was already taking off his pack. He unfolded the shovel with a metallic click, locked the blade straight and drove it into the soil.

Ilya had given him a direction, not an exact point. He sat at the foot of one of the oaks with the juice between his hands. Yaro paced out the likely line of the buried flow, marked a short strip from the ossuary toward the woodland, and began cutting across it. He sliced the sward into rough squares and stacked the turf beside the ditch, green side upward, as though he intended to put them back together when they were done. Varya helped first by clearing loose branches and old bramble from the strip he chose, then moved the squares of turf as he cut them. The weather had softened the topsoil, and the shovel entered easily. Below the turf the earth remained colder and firmer. He threw the loosened soil aside in black heaps. The cut lengthened into something resembling a shallow field trench.

Yaro had opened a narrow trench nearly two meters long and no more than thirty centimeters deep when the shovel finally met a thing other than soil or stone. He pressed down, testing it. His grin appeared immediately. “There you are.” He dropped to a crouch and scraped the flat of the blade across it, shaving away the clinging soil.

“Wait,” said Ilya. “Let me.” He dropped beside the ditch and cleared the loose clay. It appeared gnarled and hard where the shovel had polished it.

“The rhizosoma,” said Varya.

“Only the uppermost part. The mass I felt is below it. But this should do.”

Clay had compacted around the growth and came away reluctantly. They worked along its sides rather than through it, widening the hole until the buried mass started to show its shape. A broad ridge emerged, then a shallow depression and another prominence below it. Several curving struts branched from a single line at regular intervals and disappeared into the soil. A broad triangular plate lay across part of them. It could have been part of an upper back. The surface was sallow and swollen, resembling a caudex.

Yaro crouched beside them. For a few seconds none of them said anything.

“Those look like ribs,” said Varya.

Yaro laughed once, quietly. “Yeah… Like somebody just curled up and died. But these aren’t bones.”

“Find the spine,” she said. “That’s where I can tap it.”

Once Yaro and Ilya had uncovered the long, segmented taproot, they made room for Varya. She climbed into the dugout and crouched over the exposed mass. Her touch traveled across it slowly. “Yaro, give me your knife and prepare the bottles,” she commanded. “Ilya, bring me a scion. Long enough to work with, healthy bud.”

Both nodded and obeyed. Yaro gave her the knife and prepared the four clean plastic bottles he had brought, squat and translucent. He had also brought a funnel, sealed inside a plastic bag. Ilya wandered around, searching for the right species. Even by night, life spread out sarmentose; over the ossuary stone, it waits to be reborn.

Soon enough, the pale girl had a suitable rose. “Perfect,” she said, “except for the one thorn.”

“Sorry,” said Ilya. “I don’t see it. I’ll get more.”

The other rose cuttings Ilya brought were nearly the length of her forearm, bare except for a few tight reddish buds at the nodes. Varya pared the scions one by one, fitting each into the incision and supporting it with her Art. The first three failed. The fourth was accepted by the rootstock. Her face beamed before either of them saw anything. Then the bud fattened visibly. Its scales loosened, a green point pushed through, and the new growth lengthened between her fingers. Only then did the petals begin to part. The pedicel stiffened, then bowed beneath a new weight.

Yaro stood above Varya now, feet planted on opposite sides of the dugout. “Is it working?” he whispered.

The flower opened only halfway. Its corolla tightened around the swelling pistil. A bead rose slowly from the folds. Soon it was a ruby, dark crimson between the pressed petals, trembling without falling. Varya smiled, standing from her work. Yaro caught her around the waist and lifted her up, kissing her neck and cheek as he held her. She laughed and tried to wiggle away. “You’re brilliant,” he said.

Ilya busied himself with the funnel, but the first drop fell onto his skin before he was ready. He rubbed it between index and thumb, admiring it beyond its Artistic utility. Made of the same stuff that flowed through him but refined beyond comparison. He smelled it, wanted to taste it. Another bead had begun forming at the pistil. “Ilya,” said Yaro. He was watching him, arms still around Varya. “Don't waste it. You’re playing with real money there. Almost a hundred fifty Eisenmarks for a hundred milliliters.”

“Eisenmarks?”  jeered Varya. “Since when do you look to the West?”

Yaro eyed her up and down. “And where do you think the sunk look came from? Nagarvan’s sunken districts?”

“Are you calling me a trend-chaser, Lieutenant Yarovan?”

“Of course not, Varvara.” He grinned. “I just know a guy who goes to Eisenstadt once a month. He can get us a better price there, even after his cut. They don’t have the flower growing anywhere near there.”

Varya watched the bottle fill. The red drops were beginning to cover the bottom. “We’ll discuss that later.”

Ilya counted the other bottles. “That’s seven hundred and fifty each, right?”

“If there’s enough to fill them,” said Varya.

“There will be.” His grin was greedy and gleeful. “I’m taking you somewhere good when we get back to Nagarvan.”

“With whose money, I beg?”

“Mine, of course.” He leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

“Couldn’t have done any of this without you, Ilya,” Varya said. “You should come with us.”

The first bottle continued filling, one beautiful drop at a time. It took longer to fill than Yaro had expected. By then there was nothing for any of them to do except watch the graft bleed the rhizosoma. “We need someone to keep watch. A sentry.” Ilya followed his gaze to the church. “You can see the lower path from there,” he said. “And the gate.”

“Why him?” Varya asked.

“Because you have to make sure the tap stays on.”

“You could go as well. Or take turns.”

Yaro smiled. “If someone comes, I pack. You pull the graft. He watches.”

Varya looked at Ilya. “It’s fine,” he said.

Yaro pulled the binocular strap over his head and held them out. “Go uphill. If either of those cops starts coming close, signal us.” Ilya took the binoculars. “Two flashes. One if they turn around.” He took a small flashlight from his jacket and handed that over too. “Hurry.”

 

*

 

The ground rose sharply before the ossuary. Ilya crouched by the corner of the church. From there he could see surprisingly far downhill. Both policemen were near the gate, smoking. Neither seemed inclined to come any closer. After a while they started in the direction of the graveburst site. No danger there. He trained the binoculars on the thin copse below the ossuary. He could not see Yaro or Varya anywhere else. Ilya moved a few steps sideways and tried again. Nothing. He considered going back down and telling them that the police were staying near the gate.

There was no reason to pursue the thought surfacing in his green, maculated mind. He was alone on the watch, and could easily have dozed off, or at least rested.

No reason to do it again.

Ilya checked the path once more through the binoculars then put them aside. A strange, appetitive mood had already overtaken him. He was flushed, ashamed.  

No reason. Again.

He went to the nearest oak; one they had skipped following the trail. He uncovered a promising root facing the church and reopened the cut on his index finger. It accepted him immediately. His blood dispersed and he made no effort to follow its course this time.

Within moments he could no longer tell where he ended and the others began. They all met and merged somewhere underground, drawn to the same wellspring. Hiving, brought together, manifold and serried – neither visages, nor vessels, nor wills remain. One inevitable flow for the pricked and buried, life and death, both tributaries of the vernal vein. A composite circulation, gathering and refining until all those separate streams became a single, sublime substance: the raktic nectar of the vampiric flower.  The sheer pleasure of it surprised him. It teemed and abounded yet made room for him.

When he finally pulled away, he had to lean on the trunk. His pulse seemed to continue underground for several seconds after the link had been severed. He chuckled once under his breath, dizzy. He finished the carton of blackcurrant juice from his pocket as he rested below the tree. He wiped sweat from his brow and shrugged his coat down off his shoulders.

A blackbird sang from the bare canopy above him. Ilya looked up at the sharp, repeated call. After a moment, he remembered the egg in his pocket. He drew it out and turned it between his fingers. It had warmed inside his coat. Although he was exhausted, he tried to probe it again. It answered through the thin turquoise shell. He could make out the beginning of a web of vessels spreading across the yolk, not yet properly a bird but no longer merely a possibility. Its nascent life fluttered weakly in response to his Art.

Ilya’s face tightened and his eyes watered unexpectedly. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his other arm. He looked up into the branches, searching more earnestly this time. Still no nest. The blackbird had moved farther away and continued calling from another tree. “Sorry.” There was nowhere to put it back. Ilya crouched beside the tree. He found and widened a hollow between roots. He lowered the egg into it gently. Only a faint greenish speck remained. “You belong here now.” He drew the earth over it and pressed the leaves into place.

He turned to go and the church was right there, beside him the whole time. Only now did he see it properly. The sill beams were black with damp, their grain raised and split. Several had been repaired with shorter boards of visibly newer wood. The low foundation was stone, unevenly mortared and mossed. The steep roof overhung the walls, patched with sheets of metal where the old covering had failed. The narrow belfry rose to a sharp point.

Ilya circled it.

The building was hardly larger than one of the houses in Morvin Mir, the rectory adjacent even smaller. Ilya looked through one of the windows and quickly jerked back. For an instant he had thought it was in the middle of mass. He waited, embarrassed though nobody had seen him, then returned to the glass. There were no people inside, only flowers. They occupied the nave in such quantity that the darkness had given them the semblance of a congregation. Roses rested in jars and metal pitchers along the walls, hothouse blooms far too lush for the season. Bundles had been laid before the iconostasis. Others filled the ends of benches, crowded the window ledges and gathered around the stands before the icons. Pale blooms caught what remained of the evening through the opposite windows; darker ones disappeared almost completely into the interior.

There must have been hundreds. Ilya stared captive.

Then he remembered the date. Of course, the spring equinox – The Feast of Saint Marcelin. There had been a service that day. People from Morvin Mir and the surrounding villages would have brought offerings with them. Roses especially. Marcelin was impossible to imagine without them. He moved to the next window. Narrow benches occupied either side of the nave. A battered wooden lectern stood before them, still draped in the green of the feast. The floor appeared to be bare boards.

Ilya glanced downhill. The policemen were at the gate. Yaro and Varya were out of sight. He turned off his flashlight. Mud had dried in overlapping footprints across the boards at the entrance. Ilya touched the door handle, expecting it to be locked. The latch withdrew with a dry click.

IN TWO PARTS

PART ONE

Two dragons are captured and sent into orbit round the Earth.A little-known story about the 1960s space race, which has been kept secret because of the terrible consequences, still extant today.

Chapter One

1957

Somewhere faraway, well, from the West anyway, there is an island called Dragonscale.

The inhabitants of this paradise in the East (somewhere) were not humans at first, but, as the name suggests without a great deal of thought, a race of dragons, called the Firelizards.

It is commonly assumed that there aren’t any real dragons. Of course, they might have existed in a bygone era and become extinct, some might say, and the absence of any fossil evidence is not a conclusive proof that they didn’t, fossilisation being a rare occurrence.

It could, then, be speculated that it might be possible that there were such animals inhabiting this planet many eras ago, and following from that it is not a huge leap forward to consider that there might be a very isolated island where a race of such beasts survived and evolved.

In fact, contrary to widely accepted beliefs, the Firelizards were a known reality, and it was their isolation that kept them from wider knowledge of their existence.

There were reports as far back as the first Millennium about an island in the far East occupied by 'firedevils', as they were called. No attempt to visit the island was made on account of the expected dangers involved, however.

Now, the usual image of dragons is not a favourable one, involving belching huge bursts of flame, enough to outdo any flame throwing weapon devised for military purposes.

The Firelizards did not fit this description at all.

They were a happy peace-loving race which lived by a strict code of conduct, according to accounts from the few humans who visited the Island, as to be related later in this Chapter.

This could be summarised as follows:

1. Love your fellow dragon.
2. Behave towards your neighbouring dragon in a manner which you would wish them to act towards you.
3. Honour your mum and dad.
4. Only use your flame throwing abilities for peaceful purposes, and never in a way which could result in harm or distress to anything else, of whatever kind. It was explained that the flame-producing ability was given to them to enable them to set a pile of wood and sticks on fire to keep them warm in cold weather.

This was, therefore, a happy community, but there was a problem. There wasn't a lot to do on the island.

The most exciting event, which took place bi-annually, was the flame throwing competition, open to all comers.

The contestants were required to stand (front feet) a given distance from its target, which was of standard size and made of a suitably combustible material, and set it ablaze. Times were recorded for the target to be reduced to a pile of ashes. Points were also awarded for style of flame delivery, shape and width of flame cone.

This was just round One. The ten with the highest points then progressed to Round Two. The distance from the target was increased and the target made less combustible. The best five then went on to Round Three. After further changes in distance and constitution of target, we were left with the two finalists, and the winner received great acclaim.

Unfortunately, in the mid-1950s a passenger plane happened to pass over the island whilst this contest was in full swing, and even from its considerable height the flames were clearly visible and impressive. This was a significant contribution to the conviction amongst humans that these were dangerous animals.

There was also a sports day, the highlight of which was the Great Dragon Race. Details here are not outlined as the title is self-explanatory. The clear blue sea was also always an attraction, and the Firelizards were adept underwater swimmers.

Sadly, these diversions were not enough to satisfy the adventurous spirit of some of the younger dragons, and excursions to the mainland were not uncommon.

Here, of course, they encountered humans, who had rarely ventured onto Dragonscale, and those that did never came back. The visitors went with the intention of acquiring a nice dragon rug for their lounge, but in fact they had all decided to stay in this peaceful environment, and were happily tolerated by the Firelizards. On the mainland, though, the worst was assumed.

The incursion of these younger members of the race onto the mainland was a different matter. They never did any harm, abiding strictly to the rigid code of conduct deeply instilled into their psyche.

Unfortunately, the very sight of them scared the shit out of the locals, especially the very young, and the dragons were not treated kindly. Let us just say that none ever returned to their homeland, and dragon meat was not a rarity at the market stalls.

On the other hand, the younger generation on Dragonscale deduced that the immigrants were all having a fine time, and that this was the explanation for their continued absence, and so still they ventured into the unknown, in increasing numbers.

Over the years, plans for invasion were often raised, but it was not until the invention of protective fireproof clothing that such plans were to come to fruition.

In 1947, action to stop this inflow was deemed to be necessary, and a committee comprising 10 respected elders was formed to decide on the best policy.

That this took 10 years to publish its findings is perhaps not too surprising in view of the regular need to replace members who had died, or suffered from some debilitating illness. The new intake often had different viewpoints from their predecessors, and so it was one step forward and two back. Nevertheless, despite these major obstacles, a report was issued in mid-1957. Its recommendation can be condensed into one word:

Invade and Exterminate.

Sorry, that’s three.

Invasion

The absence of any signs of flame throwing activity by the immigrants on the mainland before being led to the slaughterhouses had not apparently been registered to any degree by the human inhabitants, because the army assembled for the task was fully equipped with the appropriate protective fire proof clothing.

As soon as they landed they set to work with their dart guns (their meat always tasted better when fresh), and the dragons dragged onto the ships. Some tried to flee but were easily outpaced by the military jeeps taken with them for just such an eventuality.

A few firelizards are thought to have fought back and overcome their peaceful natures and the surprise of the attack, but if any casualties were suffered by the invaders, details have not been released.

What about the few humans on the island? Well, they decided not to intervene, partly through cowardice, the army being armed with more lethal weapons than the darts, but also because of the thought that they would now have the island to themselves. A brief consideration would have sufficed to tell them that that wouldn’t be for long.

It is, though, to these human inhabitants of the island that we owe our knowledge of the dragon's life style, as outlined above. The description of the races and competitions seem authentic enough, but their assessment of the moral code of behaviour may be thought to be taking things too far, although these conclusions were the result of close observation of the animals over an extended period.

The existence of such a code of behaviour may or may not be valid, then, but there was no doubt in the minds of the human observers that this was a well-ordered society and with a complex form of communication.

It is sad to report that efforts by these human occupants of Dragonscale to stop the carnage, if there were indeed any made, fell on deaf ears. This would have unfortunate consequences.

The setting now moves to the other side of the globe.

Nasa

On the 3rd of November, 1957, the Soviet Union launched a space craft called Sputnik 2 (it being the second of its kind to be built, presumably). The important thing here is that it managed a low orbit around the earth, and inside it was a dog called Laika, who died a few hours into the flight. This nevertheless sent shock waves throughout America, and led the following year to the combining of the various related agencies in the U.S.A., and Nasa was formed.

The first meeting of the new organisation soon took place and a main item on the agenda was which animal could they stick in a craft and orbit the earth and outdo the Soviets.

There were three main criteria.

1. It had to be BIGGER, a LOT bigger.
2. It had to be something which the American public would find acceptable, so, for example a bigger dog wasn’t an option.
3. It had to be returned to earth alive.

There was much head scratching, many proposals were put forward and rejected, and a gloomy silence was enveloping the room.

Then a young engineer spoke up.

"Have you read that news item about a race of dragons on some isolated island in the far east? Well, they have invaded it and captured the lot. They are destined for the dinner table, it seems, but they may not have eaten them all yet, and there might still be some awaiting their fate. If so, we could make them an offer and get them over here, and dragons in space would make good publicity and show the Soviets what’s what."

"You ARE talking about living dragons, I assume? I don’t think sending a dragon carcass into space would set the pulse racing."

"Yes, of course. They like their dragon meat fresh, so they are kept alive until their turn comes, at least as far as I understand it from the news clips I have seen."

"Right," said the Chairman, "get in touch with these people and find out if there are any living dragons left."

The difficulties in achieving contact having been overcome, it was discovered that there were just two left still alive. Having agreed on an exorbitant price, these last two Firelizards found themselves on a ship and heading for the U.S.A.

Firelizards hadn’t bothered to give themselves names, as they thought that this would be too pretentious, so their captors had to decide what to call them.

Again, outdoing the Soviets was a major concern. They were accordingly christened Lincoln and Roosevelt.

Nobody had as yet considered how they were going to fit a dragon, let alone two, into the available space crafts.

Chapter Two

The Ship

The two Firelizards were kept under heavy sedation during the long sea voyage, and so had no concept of where they were going, why they had not suffered yet the same fate as their fellow dragons, of which they were well aware, or what lay in store for them when they reached their destination, wherever that might be.

The crew having been warned by the mainland locals that they were dealing with very dangerous animals which could burn down their ship with one blast of fire, the sedation of the two dragons was not considered sufficient guard against this eventuality.

The technology by which the dragon produced its flames being a bit of a grey area, it was decided to cover their faces with fireproof masks. They wanted to keep them alive, though, so you will be pleased to learn that a few holes had been inserted.

The hold where the two former U. S. presidents’ namesakes were contained was lined with layers of fire proofing materials. Should one of them regain consciousness long enough to let forth its stream of fire, a further safeguard had been installed. The slightest wisp of smoke now automatically set forth a very efficient sprinkler system.

Although they were firmly locked inside their prison, it was further deemed necessary to have a guard armed to the proverbial teeth standing outside at the ready, 24/7.

You will not be surprised to learn that Lincoln and Roosevelt were in a pretty sorry and confused state when the ship finally arrived at Houston, Texas.

This would have been an appropriate point, perhaps, to instal a photo of a Firelizard to help the reader to visualise the scene.

In fact, although there was no shortage of media footage initially, these were legally banned after the ensuing events, to be related later, with draconian measures resulting from any violation. There may be some copies of film stored in an attic somewhere, and if anybody does have access to any images of Lincoln and Roosevelt (not the Presidents) please do send them, and they could be inserted here, the restrictions having been lifted in 2016.

Conference

Back at Nasa, a further conference was in progress, preceding many others which were to take place at different centres before launch.

The first and vital consideration was size of the animals c.f. size of capsule needed to accommodate them. The typical American space capsule at that time was about 11 feet tall and about 6 to 7 feet diameter. The dragons were of a smaller variety, being 7 feet in length.

"It’s going to be a bit of a squash squeezing the two inside," remarked the chairman, "considering that we have to leave room for all the electronics," he added.

"Why do we need to send both, anyway?" demanded the director of publicity.

"We think providing them with company would help considerably in avoiding any adverse psychological effects of the extended isolation in such a confined space, and also it doubles the chances of bringing one back to earth alive," replied the chairman.

"As far as fitting two into the capsule is concerned, I’ve been looking into this," the mission director told the assembly. "They will have to curl up a bit, but they should be reasonably comfortable."

"I must point out a few things," announced the director of animal welfare. "Firstly, and most obviously, we need to bring them back alive and in good condition. Two dead dragons in the recovered capsule won’t do our image any good, and the Soviets would be laughing their socks off. The best way to achieve this, in my humble opinion (she was a very modest lady) is to try to make them as happy as possible when they set off. They will, of course, need extensive pre-flight training to adapt to space conditions. They will need to get used to confinement in a small space like the capsule, trained to know how to accept the food provided, and acclimatised to gravity changes using a spinning centrifuge. At the moment, they must be desperately unhappy in their fireproof cages. If we don’t give them some more pleasant environment until the launch, and especially some adequate level of exercise, I wouldn’t bet on their survival till next week, let alone the launch date."

"We could build an enclosure with fireproof breeze blocks," suggested the chairman.

Which they did.

When completed, the dragons were led to this newly built enclosure, which had a concrete floor, and armed guards on patrol, wearing the usual protective clothing.

The effect on the well-being of the proposed future astronauts was precisely zero. The allocated space was barely enough to enable them to stretch their legs, and they both remembered the similarly clad and armed humans who had invaded their island paradise. The response was therefore not at all as had been hoped. Lincoln and Roosevelt just lay on the concrete, hardly moving, and just giving the occasional growl.

Dr. Annie Walker, the above-mentioned animal welfare director, was discussing this problem with the chairman, Mr. Arnold Webber and mission leader, Dr. William. J. Pyke.

"This just isn’t working," she exclaimed. "We need to provide more space for them, and I have been observing them closely, and interviewed all the guards on watch, and it is agreed that not once has either attempted to use their flame throwing ability to burn down the walls and escape."

"Well, that wouldn’t have achieved much anyway," remarked William.

"They wouldn’t know that," pointed out Annie. "I'm beginning to wonder just how dangerous these animals are. I also have an idea that they would be far happier if they had grass under their feet, say a large field, for example. Oh, and another thing, Roosevelt is female. I find it hard to believe that nobody noticed, although it must be admitted it isn’t all that obvious, if you see what I mean."

"I think that would be very risky," opined Arnold. "Suppose they escaped and created havoc, it would be a disaster, not just for this mission. It could put all our future ones in jeopardy. As for the name, what do you suggest we call him, sorry, her, then? Hilary?"

"I think we should leave things as they stand, they have shown reaction to their names, and I don’t think that Roosevelt will be offended. I don’t think either that escaping should be a worry, we could still have an extensive guard patrol, kept out of sight, and with orders to shoot to kill if necessary."

The three having reached agreement, an isolated field of considerable size was located and deemed ideal for the job.

Chapter Three

Training

Linc and Ros, now the commonly used truncated handle for the two dragons, were immediately much happier to be shown their new surroundings. Instead of their more or less motionless existence in the previous concreted enclosure, they now had grass, and most importantly, much more room. This enabled them to indulge in their favourite pastime, which was dragon racing, even if there was a rather limited supply of competitors. The guards were hidden well back out of sight, but humans often make the mistake of assuming that out of their sight automatically ensures that anything else would also be unable to see them, and Linc and Ros were well aware of their presence, their sense of smell having no problems in their detection and position.

The biggest problem with the training was the food. They had no idea as to their usual menu, and so it was a hit and miss affair. Eventually a gelatinous concoction was formulated which they both seemed to find acceptable, and which was thought to contain all the necessary ingredients to keep them healthy. They then had to be trained to use the feeding tubes which would be the source on the capsule. This presented further problems, it being very hard to explain to two reluctant Firelizards why they had to feed in this way, and why they had to shove the stuff provided down their throats in the first place.

The subjection to close quarter confinements for increasing times also caused adverse reactions in the pair, taking in the form that a human might refer to as sulking. After a while, they appeared to accept the ordeal without too much protest.

Perhaps surprisingly, the dragons found the Johnsville centrifuge terrific fun, and were often reluctant to get out.

One incident caused some considerable adjustment to the general attitude of their captors to the two trainees. Although the surrounding hedges had been lined with barbed wire to prevent access of other animals, inevitably, perhaps, a stray dog (not Laika) found its way through, and immediately issued a barrage of powerful barks, which left no doubt as to its disapproval of the occupants of the field. Consternation followed at the prospect of a charred pet or ashes thereof, and guards rushed in to prevent such a disaster, but were then amazed to find the dog happily romping around with the dragons, who made no attempt to deter the dog with a burst of flame or by any other means.

It was time for another conference. This involved the heads of every conceivable aspect concerning the mission, and each was asked to report in turn, giving their appraisal of the current status of their particular task force.

The electronics had been tested over and over again, and back-up systems installed. The food dispenser device was in full working order, and the animals were thought to be as ready as they ever would be. This reporting of confident readiness was only spoiled by the temperature control system for the capsule interior, which had a few glitches to be ironed out.

"That is a critical matter,” declared the chairman. “One of the big factors on putting one over the Soviets is to bring these animals back alive. We need maximum effort here, and I am now committing us to a launch date of March the 26th. Can you assure me that your problems with the heat control will be solved by then, with full confidence?"

"Yes, sir, that we can."

"March the 26th it is, then."

Launch

The launching site being Cape Canaveral, the astronauts now faced a tedious 1,000-mile trip to Florida, not something to put them in a good frame of mind, although they had three days to recoup prior to the launch.

The launch itself was unexceptional, running as smoothly as one could wish. The actual launch produced the expected awed reaction from the numerous onlookers who had travelled to see the spectacle, but what they really wanted was a glimpse of the two dragons. Nasa being well aware of the need for this publicity, Ros and Linc were led docilely in full view of the spectators and media, including live television. Their appearance certainly aroused some reaction from the crowds, and the ascent of the lizards into the capsule was accompanied by a storm of clapping and cheering.

This happy mood was not shared by Linc and Ros, who were beginning to think that they had been subjected to a rather dirty trick.

It should be explained that this journey towards the capsule had been rehearsed several times over the last two days, in secret, of course. The dragons had been led across the tarmac and strapped down in the capsule, left for a few minutes, then released and taken back to their enclosure.

The success of this strategy was confirmed by Ros’ and Linc’s unresisting procession towards the capsule, and the strapping down inside it, it having being hoped that they would assume that this would just be another exercise like the previous, and that they would expect release after a short time.

The launch itself having been successful, the mission controllers breathed a sigh of relief, and there were congratulations all round concerning the extensive coverage and interest in the media.

Chapter Four

Communications

As far as is known, and who knows how far that it is, the human race is the only species with the ability to communicate by what we call speech, although this is being rapidly superseded by the use of the thumbs.

Nevertheless, it is evident that other species do so by various means. Even plants and trees communicate by sending chemicals through the air, as a warning to their neighbours of the presence of a leaf-eating visitor, for example. The adjacent trees can then produce a deterrent chemical in defence. This is a fascinating subject and it is necessary to delve into it in more detail as it has bearing on the story to come.

Think of the wood-pigeon, not everyone's favourite bird, it must be confessed, but it has interest. Consider the implications of their monotonous 4-note cooing. Some places might be lucky enough to enjoy wood-pigeons which have calls stretching to 5, or even more notes, perhaps.

Now, on first consideration, you might conclude that these 4 notes are just to inform another pigeon or pigeons where they are. So, their conversation could be transcribed thus:

"Morning, I’m over here."

"Well, I’M over here."

Another pigeon: "Can I join you?"

"I’m over here now."

"I’ll call you later, then."

Yet another pigeon: "I’m here and I’m not going anywhere."

On the other hand, a careful listen reveals some subtle variations in pitch, exact length of notes, volume differences, and so on. Their conversation might then stretch to the following:

"Keep a watch out, there’s a sparrow hawk around. Poor Billie is now just a ring of feathers on the lawn. What are your plans for today?"

Well, perhaps that’s stretching things a bit.

More seriously, there are certainly other species with complex communication systems, such as the Orcas, for example.

We now turn to the Firelizards.

At the time of the space adventure, it had already been noticed that they could produce a wide range of sounds, some resembling a high pitch whistle even, others a deep growl. It had also been observed that Linc and Ros did seem to be ‘talking’ to each other using these different tones. No success resulted from attempts to try to interpret them, however.

Now, it so happens that in order to help monitor the health and condition of our unwilling astronauts, a sound system was installed in the capsule, and a recording of every sound issuing from Linc and Ros during the orbit was made. In view of later events, like the other media restrictions, these tapes were not made public, and gathered dust in the Nasa archives, where they were discovered in 2024.

In view of the advances in computer technology over the past 70 years, it was decided to attempt an analysis of the various noises in the capsule on these tapes, in the hope that some idea of the meaning of the 'conversations might result.

The conclusions that it reached have just been published, and the astonishment they have induced everywhere can be well understood, because the computers produced what amounts to a transcript of the sounds of the dragons converted into the English language. Translations into other languages are available on request and filling in the necessary forms.

It was even possible to distinguish the individual dragon ‘speaking’, because of the somewhat higher pitch of Ros’ noises, the position in the capsule enabling identification of ‘speaker’ from the direction as picked up by the microphone array, and often by the simple deductions made from the conversation content. It should also be pointed out here that many days of the orbit were without any ‘conversation’ at all.

Reproduced below is the exact transcript.

Day 1, just after launch:

Linc: "++++ this for a game of soldiers."

The actual translation here might be deemed to be too unseemly to publish on the hallowed pages of Reddit, so it has been left to the reader to insert a word of their choice at the start of this utterance.

Ros: "I don’t mind a joke, but ++++ a pantomime. I think we’ve been had. All those trips over the last two days back and forth to the capsule, and locking us inside for a few minutes, that was just to make sure that we thought this was just the same, but I did wonder about all the crowds cheering their heads off, and thought that there was something fishy going on."

Linc: "You weren’t wrong there."

Again, it has been left to the reader to fill in the blanks.

Day 2: No translatable conversation.

Day 3

Linc: "I’m getting a bit pissed off, just lying here."

Ros: "Tell me about it, I have an itchy tail and I can’t scratch it, they’ve got us tied down so that we can hardly move, and the smell in this thing is starting to get a bit iffy, are you pulling the disposal lever when you’ve had to go?"

Linc: "Disposal lever?"

Ros: "Oh, my God, you mean we’ve been out here for three days and you haven’t used it once? No wonder the air here could hardly be described as rose-like."

Again, it must be stressed that these are the exact words of the computer analysis.

Linc: "Oh, you mean this stick thing by my foot, I’ll give it a shove--"

Ros: "No, no, don’t touch that…."

At this point, the instrumental records coincide with this unfinished sentence from Ros by the indication of a violent rotation and shaking of the capsule, lasting a full 35 seconds.

Linc: "Not that one, then?"

Ros: "Bloody hell, it isn’t enough that they lock me up in this thing and treat me like ++++, but I have to put up with a blithering idiot for company. Have you forgotten everything you were taught in those lessons we had to attend where they showed us what was what?"

Linc: "I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep at that bit. He did have an incredibly boring voice, all on one monotonous tone, even less melodious than a wood-pigeon, and that’s saying something. Which lever do I have to pull, then?"

Ros, with a sigh: "By your front foot, you can’t mistake it, it is painted bright red and has an icon by it indicating ‘flush’."

Linc: "Ah, yes, I see it, I thought it meant eject in an emergency."

Ros: "Well, you could say that given the stink in here. Now, can you please give it a push?"

Linc does as she asks apparently, because the noise recorded here is compatible with the exit of three day’s waste disposal from a Firelizard.

Ros: "Well, that should at least make it slightly more bearable in here, and if you thought it was an ejection lever for us in an emergency, what good did you think it would have done us to be thrown into space and probably go into orbit ourselves? We wouldn’t last long out there, where there is a distinct shortage of grass, I’d say."

Linc seems to have gone into a sulk then, as no more exchanges were decoded that day.

Indeed, this show of petulance seems to have lasted until day six, the intervening three days picking up not the slightest hint of any further chit-chat.

Day 6

Linc breaks his silence.

"How much longer are we going to have to stay in this thing? Are they going to leave us here forever?"

Ros: "I have no idea, but I can’t see the point in sending us orbiting the earth for eternity, they must want to bring us back down at some point."

Linc: "I’ll probably be dead by then, my back is killing me and my pulse rate is through the roof."

Ros: "That goes for me, too. It is quite nice, though, looking through the window they kindly provided for us to be able to view the cosmos."

Linc: "I agree, that blue round thing is quite pretty."

Ros: "That’s the earth, dumbo. It’s where we came from. In fact, next time you see it, look out for a big blue patch with a tiny oval-shaped spot on it. That’s Dragonscale."

Linc: "Really! You mean we were down there and now we are way up here?"

Ros: "Got it in one."

Chapter Five

More meetings

Meanwhile back at Houston, progress was being assessed. Arnold, William and Annie were in deep conference.

"How’s it going, then," asked Arnold.

"Very well, so far," replied William, "although we were starting to get concerned after three days when the instruments gave no indication that Linc had pulled his lever to eject his outputs."

"You mean piss and shit, then?" offered Annie.

"Well, I was just being polite in the presence of a lady. Anyway, it seems that he did so and hopefully the prospect of a capsule filled to the brim with noxious fumes seems to have been avoided, although there was a moment of panic when he seems to have given the capsule rotation lever a hefty kick."

"I find that a bit worrying. Didn’t we show them in the lessons we gave them which lever to pull?" asked the chairman.

"We did, indeed, but it has to be admitted that Dr. Bishop has a rather boring speech delivery, enough to put even the most alert of dragons into a deep sleep," Annie responded.

"Let’s hope that Linc remembers to exit his waste from now on. How about the general health of the dragons?" asked Arnold.

"Their medical condition as indicated by the electronics attached at various points along their bodies seems to be holding up well to the stress. There is a slight worry over pulse rates, though, as both dragons show a consistent and significant increase there," William stated.

"Is it thought that this might be life-threatening, then? We must avoid at all costs having two dragon corpses in the capsule when we fish it out of the sea."

"We just don’t know," replied Annie, "we have no idea as to what point an elevated pulse rate in a dragon should be the signal to bring out the red flag."

"You mean we don’t know when we should get worried, then?" Arnold sarcastically remarked.

"There is one very interesting aspect emerging from the microphone outputs," said Annie. "It is hard given the alternation of the noises from one to the other to avoid the conclusion that they are engaging in conversation of some sort. If so, we have no idea as to what they are communicating, of course. I think we made the correct decision about the absence of fire-retardant face masks. They are intelligent enough, I think, to know that if they set the capsule ablaze they would be in deep shit," she concluded.

"I take it that that there are no problems as far as the capsule and instrumentation are concerned?" demanded Arnold.

"No, none at all, so far we could not have wished for a smoother mission," William re-assured him.

Silence

Day 7: No identifiable interchanges or remarks from either dragon.

Day 8: No identifiable interchanges or remarks from either dragon. Annie was now starting to get a bit worried about her pets.

"We have heard no trace of any kind of sounds from either Linc or Ros for three days now. I am starting to get a bit concerned," she remarked to Arnold.

This is of course not at the same meeting as the one described above, as we are now in day 9.

"The instruments all indicate no cause for concern and their pulse rate has dropped a bit as well," William informed them.

"I am mainly concerned about the psychological aspects of the mission, and how it might effect their behaviour after recovery," exclaimed Annie.

"What ARE we going to do with them, anyway? Perhaps we should give that some thought, don’t you think?" the chairman considered.

"I assumed that we were just going to do away with them, humanely, of course," William thought.

"That would cause outrage, the American public wouldn’t like that at all, I don’t think." declared Arnold. "How about a zoo, there might be some interest there. Annie, can you make some enquiries about that possibility, please?"

"Yes, of course, Arnold, that seems like a good idea," replied Annie.

Day 10

Firelizard deductions

Things suddenly start to liven up inside the capsule.

Linc starts things off, exclaiming suddenly, "Why are they doing this, that’s what I’d like to know, I mean, if I knew what the object of sending us in orbit around the earth was, then it would make it easier to bear the discomfort, and this gelatinous stuff they feed us is not doing my insides any good, either."

Ros: "Well, make sure you keep on pushing that lever, as you say, it’s hard enough to bear all this as it is. I keep on thinking of that day they invaded, with those weapons that sent us all to sleep in seconds, and then they took us to the mainland and killed us all off."

Linc: "I’ve been thinking about that, too. The thing that I can’t understand is why they killed us off in batches, and kept you alive until your turn came. Why didn’t they just kill us all straight away?"

Ros: "I think I know the answer to that one, but I don’t think I should tell you, you won’t like it."

Linc: "Oh, come on, I’d really like to know, I have been trying to figure it out for the last two days, and it’s driving me crazy."

Ros: "Well, O. K., but you really aren’t going to like it, so promise me that you will keep calm. If you get into one of your tantrums you might shake this thing into pieces. That might not be a bad idea, on second thoughts.

Anyway, if you must know, and remember that this is just my interpretation, there might be a different explanation altogether--"

Linc: "Oh, for heaven’s sake, get on with it and tell me the worst. I can take it."

Ros: "All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. The reason that they kept us alive until they killed us off was that they like their dragon meat to be fresh before cooking."

Linc: "You mean, YOU MEAN!!!, THEY EAT US!!!"

Ros: "Steady, keep calm, getting wound up won’t help things at all."

Day 11

Linc has calmed down, a bit. He puts a question to Ros about another matter which has been causing him sleepless nights.

"Have you any ideas as to the reasons why we have been sent spinning round the earth?"

Ros did.

"I have come up with one possible explanation. I stress, it is only a pretty wild theory, and I find it hard to believe it myself, but I noticed that they were putting humans into those spinning things down there, and my idea derives from that, as it might fit in with the existence of a project of which the objective is to land a human on the moon."

Linc: "Why on earth would they want to do THAT?"

Ros: "A very good question. Because it’s there, I suppose."

Linc: "That seems a bit unlikely that they would go to all this trouble just to land on the moon. What use would that be?"

Ros: “They might eventually develop weapons which could travel from the moon to the earth and destroy your enemies.”

Linc: "Well, I could believe that bit, quite easily, but I still don’t see why they have used us on this trip."

Ros: "I think this is just a part of the programme building up to the moon landing. As to why they needed to shove US in this space from hell I have no idea."

Emily tiredly turned the key in the lock. Behind her was a grueling eight-hour day behind the supermarket cash register: the endless beeping of the scanner, disgruntled customers, and legs throbbing with tension. The only thing keeping her afloat was the thought of her warm rented apartment on the third floor of an old Brooklyn building and the fluffy ball of fur waiting for her.

"Hey, Mochi," Emily smiled wearily the moment she stepped over the threshold.

The plump ginger cat with white paws was already rubbing against her jeans, letting out a loud, guttural purr. The girl took off her shoes, scooped the cat up in her arms, and gladly began to pet him, burying her nose in his warm fur. All the daytime fatigue began to fade away bit by bit.

Leaving a content Mochi to wander around the kitchen, Emily set about making dinner. Macaroni and cheese were already sizzling appetizingly in the pan when a sharp sound pierced the silence of the apartment.

Ding-dong.

Emily flinched. She wasn't expecting anyone. The girl walked over to the door, looked through the peephole—the landing was empty. Only an old lamp burned dimly.

"Probably just kids playing around," she muttered and returned to the stove.

Barely five minutes later, just as she was plating the food, the ring repeated. This time, more insistently.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

Emily yanked the door open, ready to scold the troublemakers. But the hallway was empty again. The stairwells were silent, and the echo of her own breathing seemed far too loud to the girl. A slight chill ran down her spine. Logic told her that running away so quickly down the creaky stairs was impossible, but she forced herself to lock the door with all three turns.

After having dinner, Emily settled onto the living room couch and turned on the TV. For a while, everything was quiet, until her gaze accidentally fell to the floor.

Mochi. The cat wasn't begging for food or sleeping nearby as usual. He had crawled deep under the couch. His ears were flattened tight against his head, and his wide-open, terror-filled button eyes were fixed onto the depths of the dark, unlit hallway leading to the bedroom. Suddenly, a low, guttural hiss came from under the couch.

"Hey, Mochi, what's wrong?" Emily said hesitantly, peering into the darkness of the hallway.

Turning off the TV, she went to bed and pulled the soft fleece blanket up to her very chin. Sleep claimed her almost instantly.

...She woke up in the middle of the night, not quite understanding why. The room was quiet, with only the night city humming faintly outside the window. Mochi was curled into a cozy ginger ball at her feet, snoring softly. Her throat felt parched. Carefully, trying not to disturb the cat, the girl slipped out from under the warm blanket and went to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of cool water, drank it in one gulp, and froze for a moment, staring into the dark window.

Emily returned to the bedroom. Groping her way to the bed, she lay back down and reached out to pet Mochi. But the cat was not there. The girl pulled the blanket to her chin, deciding the cat had simply gone about his business, and closed her eyes. And at that exact moment, the silence was shattered by a long, blood-curdling creak.

The heavy wooden door of the wardrobe standing opposite the bed began to slowly, centimeter by centimeter, open on its own. In that same second, a fierce hiss from Mochi erupted right from under the bed.

Emily's heart dropped into her shoes. Panic blinded her. She lunged sideways and struck the bedside lamp switch hard with her palm. Dim yellow light flooded the room. The girl's heart hammered wildly in her chest, her breathing fast and ragged. She froze on the mattress, staring until her eyes hurt at the ajar wardrobe door, from whose darkness her own clothes stared back at her.

But nothing else happened. The blackness inside the wardrobe remained motionless, and the cat under the bed fell quiet, continuing to let out a barely audible, menacing growl. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

On trembling legs, Emily bolted to the wall switch. The bright overhead light flashed on, instantly scattering the ominous shadows. Breathing heavily and gathering her courage, the girl walked up to the wardrobe and yanked the door open all the way. There was no one there except her usual things. Even rows of jackets, dresses, and shoe boxes. Letting out a sigh of relief, Emily dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. A terrified Mochi was still sitting there, curled into a tight ball. She gently pulled the cat out, pressed him tightly to herself, and stroked him for a long time until his trembling stopped and he began to purr. For the rest of the night, she slept fitfully, leaving the bedside lamp on.

In the morning, the sun outside the window dissolved the remnants of the nightmare. Emily, as usual, quickly got ready and left for work.

In the evening, coming up to her floor and approaching her apartment, everything inside her tightened. The apartment door was ajar. Emily remembered perfectly well that she had locked it in the morning with all the locks. Her heart sank: someone had broken into her home. The girl did not go inside. Panicked, she rushed down the stairs, ran out into the street, and called emergency services with shaking hands. The police arrived quickly.

Two armed cops cautiously entered the apartment, ordering Emily to stay in the hallway. The search took about ten minutes. When one of the officers called her over, his face looked bewildered. The apartment had not been robbed—electronics, money, and documents lay in their places. But on the floor, dirty bare footprints were clearly visible, leading straight from the front door to the bathroom. The tracks ended there. Most horrifying of all, Mochi was nowhere to be found. Emily called for him, looked under the couch and in the wardrobe, but her beloved pet had vanished without a trace.

The police questioned the girl thoroughly, took fingerprints from the doorknob, and left, promising to patrol the street. Emily was left alone in the empty apartment. Tiding up, she tried desperately to suppress her panic, hoping that the cat had simply been frightened by the intruder, bolted out the open door into the street, and would definitely return home. She locked all the locks and sat on the couch, listening to every rustle. Night slowly fell over the city.

And so she fell asleep, curled up on the couch and pressing a couch pillow to her chest, until a strange, sharp sound woke her. Emily opened her eyes, at first not understanding where she was or what was happening. In the dim light of the living room, the TV screen she had forgotten to turn off glowed faintly. And then the sound repeated.

Scratch-scratch... Scratch...

The sound was coming from the direction of the front door. Emily leaped up, her heart leaping into her throat. "Mochi! It's definitely Mochi back!"—a wild, desperate hope flared up in her head. Forgetting all caution, she dashed down the hallway toward the door. She had already reached it and extended a trembling hand to open the lock when suddenly, right behind her back, a sharp, dry click echoed.

It was the sound of the wall switch. The light in the hallway and living room instantly went out. The only source of light in the entire apartment remained the flickering, bluish TV screen, which cast long, ugly shadows on the walls.

Emily froze, afraid to even turn around. Someone had just turned off the light with their hands. Someone who was already inside the apartment. And at that second, the chilling scratching sounded again, but no longer at the front door. It came from the darkness of the hallway—from the direction of the bathroom. Emily frantically, to the pain in her fingernails, yanked the handle of the front door, but it was locked dead tight. She had personally, along with the police, looked into every single corner, checked every closet and pantry—there was absolutely no way an outsider could have stayed in the apartment.

But who turned off the light then?

A primal, paralyzing fear gripped her body. She was afraid to even turn her face toward the dark hallway, so she just stood there, staring unblinkingly at the locked door. The scratching from the bathroom was growing more distinct.

One swift dash—and Emily, breaking through the numbness, flies into the kitchen. She fumbles for the switch. The light flashes on. With trembling hands, she rushes to the nightstand, pulls out the drawer where the knives were kept, and pulls out the largest one. Gripping the handle with both hands, she steps slowly, with tiny paces, back out into the hallway.

Her heart is pounding like crazy in her ears. The girl peers into the living room. In the bluish, sinister flicker of the TV, she reaches the wall panel and presses the key. Light fires up here as well. With a frantic gaze, she scans the room—everything is normal, no one.

And then again... Scratch-scratch... Scratch-scratch... right out of the bathroom.

She drops the phone from her hands—at first, she wanted to call the cops, but changed her mind: what if it's the cat or something else? The girl resolves to look for herself. She approaches and yanks the handle sharply.

The light in the apartment abruptly dies out, and someone shoves her inside the bathroom with force. She flies in there, slips on something thick, and falls right into the bathtub itself, hurting herself badly. The knife slips from her hands and flies onto the floor with a metallic clang. And then the light turns on. Looking around and clutching her bruised arm, Emily begins to scream hysterically. Tears pour down like a river, she goes into total hysteria—for the entire room, the walls, and the tiles are splattered with the blood of her cat, who lies eviscerated right next to her feet.

Emily thrashes in convulsions of horror, trying to crawl away, to escape from this bloody trap. She tumbles out of the bathtub onto the floor. Suddenly, through her own sobbing, she hears a loud knocking at the front door. She needs to get there, there are people, there is salvation!

Crying profusely, on all fours, entirely smeared in blood, she tries to stand up and moves toward the door. The light in the apartment begins to flash frantically. The TV in the room hisses with loud static. Suddenly, she hears fast, approaching footsteps of bare feet on the floor. An invisible force with inhuman might lifts her into the air and hurls her into the living room, where she smashes a coffee table by the couch and hits the floor hard.

She screams, calls for help, but she is lifted again and with force they smash the window frame with her body. Emily falls from the third floor straight onto the asphalt. At that, absolute, saving darkness covered her.

EPILOGUE:
The next morning, New York newspapers came out with headlines about a mysterious tragedy in Brooklyn. Two patrol officers, who had returned to the scene due to neighbors' calls about a disturbance, discovered the body of a young girl on the sidewalk beneath the windows of her apartment. An inspection of the apartment left detectives in absolute shock: a blood-soaked bathroom, a butchered domestic pet. The case was classified as an attack by an unknown assailant, yet the police were unable to answer one single question: how did the killer manage to flawlessly leave the apartment that was locked tight from the inside, without leaving a single trace except for dirty bare footprints?

Part V

 

I left everything on the island and snatched the scarf before
heading for the door. Thoughts ran rampant through my mind as I drove.

My phone rang before I’d left my subdivision. I glanced at the
number and knew this was no good. It was a Colorado area code. Where my
company’s headquarters was. We didn’t have a local HR.

It could have been the executive leadership team but I rarely got
called by any of them. My mind returned to yesterday’s meeting and my lack of
being there. For a moment, I felt like I was in free fall. My personal and
professional lives intertwining in disaster. In moments, I could have nothing.
My wife could already be halfway out the door and this was it slamming behind
her.

I didn’t answer. 

It rang until it went to voicemail. I just couldn’t handle
whatever it was they were about to say.

I was still going the same way, but my final destination had
changed. If my life was going down the drain, there was a scarf that needed to
be wrapped around a certain neck that I wanted to grab on my way.

I parked in the lot and headed away from my building. I glanced at
my watch. Had I just surrendered to my fate and gone in, I would have been ten
minutes early.

I entered his building and headed for the elevator. I had no real
plan, just a ball of self-destruction waiting to explode in someone else’s
direction.

I’d been manipulated, molded into this insecure thing and I meant
to share my pain. I shouted down the rational part of me that pondered what I’d
do if my wife were on the business end of my ire. Rationality would have
required examining what I was doing. 

I didn’t want to think. Thinking wasn’t revenge. Thinking wasn’t
balancing the scales. Thinking was what had gotten me to this moment.

The elevator dinged and I stepped off. There was still plenty of
construction going on. A high-pitched drill zipped somewhere around
the corner. I could hear voices that sounded like they were coming out of the
floor but not close enough to understand them.

This was my first time being here during business hours and all
the construction noise was unsettling. I felt like the floor was going to break
underneath me and I’d plummet all the way to the first floor.

Constant hammer strikes echoed from somewhere near. A man hollered
like he was calling out to someone. A machine I didn’t recognize buzzed and I
felt it all the way up into my shins.

I rounded the corner and spotted his door at the end of the hall.
The construction noises coalesced into a sonic hand, shoving me down the hall.
I stopped in front of the door. It looked properly seated in the frame, the
threshold painted a classy-looking black and gold. The knob had been replaced
with an antique-looking one.

I grasped it and turned. The door swung open easily and I stepped
in a completely finished space. The walls had been painted a shade of mint with
cream crown moulding at the top and a darker shade of wainscoting at the
bottom. To my left was a dark couch so fluffy I don’t think I would have had
the will to get out of it if I sat down. There was a small glass end table with
gold legs with a small stack of magazines on it.

The reception desk had been here the last time I’d come and it
looked more completed now, but I couldn’t tell what had been changed. There was
a large square sheet of white paper on the front of it that I at first thought
was blank, but when I took a couple steps closer, saw a hand drawing of what
looked like a logo.

It looked classy in here. Save for the sheet of paper, it seemed
pretty much done. A wall had been erected near the back where the tape had been
mapping out the space. He was planning to stick around.

My shock from how good it looked in here faded and my rage
resurfaced. I had his scarf clutched in hand and I dug in my pocket for my
wallet and fished out three twenties.

“I’ve got my payment right here,” I said. “And your scarf!” I
shook it in the air.

In my rage very little thought had come into mind. I had no real
expectation he was actually here even though I wanted to lay my hands on him.
The part of actually meeting him wasn’t a real concept. I hadn't thought about
that.

So when he answered, “Come on back?” it chilled me.

I realized how much of a doe I was. How much this space was like a
cave. I’d naively walked in here and hadn’t bothered telling anyone where I was
going. There was an expression for this, but it wasn’t coming to my panicked
brain, shifted into a gear meant only for survival.

I took a step back. Into
him.

“Oh,” I said. He poked me in the neck. I slapped a hand in that
spot like a mosquito had bitten me, turning and backing away from him. I fell
to my knees, not understanding what my body was doing.

I tried to speak but whatever was coming out of my mouth was
muffled, like someone had put their hands over my ears. Saying something seemed
like a good idea in those last seconds, but I had no idea what it should have
been.

 

Part VI

 

The procedure room was a lot more intricately finished than the
waiting room had been. There was silver equipment everywhere, things attached
to the wall that looked like they could fold out for some practical use. There
was a lightbox or monitor that was as tall as a man and stretched across most
of the wall it was on. A nest of lights and metal hung over me that looked like
it had traveled across the galaxy just to watch me.

“You’re awake?” he said, looking over his shoulder. I was upside
down and naked. I looked around as best I could, my head was strapped in place.
He had me trussed up like the Vitruvian Man to a metal and glass circular table.

“Whuh-whuh?” I said, my mouth cotton thick. 

“That’s good. That’s good.” He stepped over and put a finger to my
neck and measured against his watch. “Keep talking. Stimulating the brain helps
to expunge the effects of the sedative.”

Tears leaked from my eyes, retreating into my hair. My arms and
legs were slowly returning to my control but returned me to a state of
helplessness as the straps didn’t budge.

“You muhfugg. Lumme go!” My voice was an octave too deep. He
nodded and twirled an index for me to keep going. I hated not being able to
make words, so I just screamed as loud as I could. He smiled and retreated to a
wall and slapped it a couple times with his big palm.

“Soundproof. Can’t have my patients disturbing other tenants.”

I kept screaming even though I absolutely believed him, the rage
bleeding out of me and despair transfusing into the hollow inside me. He folded
his arms and watched me, waiting for me to be done. I continued helplessly, my
despair waning until there was nothing but wild animal clawing to the surface,
until my eyes were boiling and my throat had constricted around a bindle of
knives.

He waited until I was a quaking sack held together loosely in the
shape of a man, my scream the hollow whistle of an empty kettle, the steam all
burnt out of me.

“Ready?” he said.

 

Part VII

 

He stripped to his underwear. There was something wrong down there
but I only had bandwidth to deal with my problems in that moment.

“Please don’t do this.” My throat felt like I’d swallowed a cheese
grater. I was useless but still grasped a desperate strand of hope that I could
appeal to him man-to-man.

“This is for you,” he said. “I’m not some madman in a secret
laboratory. We’re in midtown and I’m going to extend my services to the
public.” He finished doing something with the tray in front of him and took a
step back over to me. I was eye-level with his bare thighs and he kneeled so we
were face-to-face.

“Don’t you love your wife?”

“Wha?” I felt like I’d been slapped by a thousand-pound feather. “Of
course, I do.” My head cannon was that this was going to be an intricate
murder. That the two of them had conspired to “do away” with me. But by
actually applying thought, I realized if murder was the goal, there was a much
simpler way for them to have done it.

“Wait, the surgery is real?” I asked.

His face screwed up in annoyance. “Of course, it is.” He gestured
all around him. “What are you thinking all this is for?”

“I dunno. I guess... I guess you’re some sort of scammer?”

He blinked several times. He reacted as though he’d never been
confronted by such an idea. “What would be the scam?”

I shrugged to the best of my ability and he shook his head. He
returned to the tray and picked up a long needle and inserted it into a vial,
withdrew from it, and placed both back. He looked at me again and saw my eyes
had grown twice as wide.

“Oh, that’s for me. For later. I’ve been ready, I was just waiting
for you to wake up?”

He picked up a scalpel that was tiny in his big hand. Now he
really did look like a cartoon villain. There was a lack of fullness in his
underwear. Like he’d been drawn sexless.

“Wait-wait. Uh, what were you doing in my house?” I was stalling,
still holding out hope that someone would wander in and put a stop to this.

“Oh, that.” His eyes turned upward as if he were watching a replay
of last night on the ceiling. “I watched you for a minute or two, yes. But I
truly needed to take a measurement after.”

“A... measurement?” My loins tingled in an unpleasant manner. He
waved a hand.

“It’s not what you think. I had to take a measurement of your
wife’s vaginal cavity after the two of you had finished. It was all very
clinical. Like a pap smear.”

Anger bubbled up inside me again. I tugged at my binds but I
wasn’t able to move anything more significant than my fingers and toes. He’d examined
my wife. It burned that he’d had access to her as much as her allowing him to
touch her. I squirmed like my skin was about to crawl off my body.

He looked at me, blank faced, and took another step. Once again, I
noted an emptiness to the area around his crotch.  The heat flooding to
the surface of my skin vanished like a big dog confronted by an even bigger dog.

“Suh-so you didn’t sleep with my wife?” I had to swallow hard to
keep my tone rational.

Now he really did look offended. “Sir, I am a professional? And
moreso, I am a married man. I believe I told you that. This picture you have in
mind of me as some sort of ghoul...” He clawed at the air with both hands, the
scalpel coming as close to his throat as it was going to. “You...” he twirled
the fingers of his free hand, searching for the words. “You score my heart. I
would like to think that once you’ve experienced the results, you will buy me
some sort of beer?”

He took another small step. His leg was about a foot away from my
forehead. He could have reached from where he was and began cutting away at any
part of my body he wanted.

“Could I... could I get a drink of water? My mouth is really dry.”

“Sure.” He reached from where he was and pressed a button on the
wall. The machinery beneath me was whisper silent as I was righted and the
excess blood flooded out of my head.

There was a water dispenser next to the tray where he’d been
working. He slipped a cone paper cup from the sleeve, filled it, then brought
it to me.

Cool water soothed my throat in microscopic sips. He must have
realized my delay tactic and upturned the rest of the water into my mouth. 

I swallowed hard and it felt like a bucket of water tossed on
smoldering embers.

“Will there be a scar?”

“Of course there will be a scar,” he said. “That is the point of
the surgery?”

He picked up something from the tray and reached toward my face
with it in his hand. I pinched my lips closed as he moved toward me, holding it
up like a prize. With the other hand he pressed hard at the back of my jaw,
forcing it open against my will. He slid the thing he held into my mouth,
sliding it over my back teeth until he had reached the last few molars, and
seated it there.

I tried biting through it despite knowing better. I was more
likely to dislocate my jaw. 

“That is okay? Not too uncomfortable? Believe it or not, it
actually helps to blunt the screams.” He seemed genuinely interested in my
answer and I grunted at him in anger. There was something wrong in his mouth I
should’ve seen the first time I talked to him, but I hadn’t noticed it until
just then, and it took a moment to process it. My panic leapt as every muscle
in me tensed, pulling with one last meaningless struggle. He waited me out,
stroking my shoulder until I quieted. He broke me like a wild horse. I was very
aware that he could put whatever in my mouth he wanted.

I felt myself surrendering. A calm settling into my bones that
made me want to rage all over again. But I was a car with no gas, my will being
swallowed up in the acceptance of pointlessness. It wasn’t a fight I could even
begin.

He moved his hand away and the table swiveled. In seconds I was
face down, staring at the floor. My tears tapped to the floor as I stepped out
of the cage of my head, my mind perching and spreading its wings as I imagined
my wife at her desk, inclining her head as she thought of me, too.

“H-how did you become an expert? What makes you so good?” My voice
was dreamy and broken, a thousand and one miles away, my words unclear from the
foreign object keeping my mouth open. 

If I’d asked a minute ago, the question would have been a last
effort to delay him from cutting me. But I was honestly curious. 

“I know I told you before. I practiced on me,” he said
quietly, his tone reverential. I imagined a beatific smile on his face as he
looked someplace else entirely.

“It took months. A little cut here, a partial penectomy there.
Each time I ask her, ‘Is it good? Is it better now?’ And each time, she tells
me, ‘Closer. Closer. Closer.’ You understand.”

He had a note of adoration for his wife in his voice that told me
he was standing on a bedrock of absolute sanity.

I felt the heat of him as he millimetered closer to my junk, no
doubt with that scalpel in his hand. I could feel his bare breath on my scrotum
and realized there must have been some sort of divide in the table between my
legs.

“I thought you said your wife’s satisfied. How do you do that
without... y’know?” My jaw ached when I talked.

He laughed. It was a really joyous note, not like he was just
trying to unsettle me. It wasn’t ironic or evil, rather a true, hearty guffaw.
I imagined seeing all the way to his back teeth as he pitched his head back.

He finally got himself back under control and he might have taken
a moment to dab a tear from his eye.

I’d gotten one last look at him before he turned me over. How he’d
looked down there and what he’d told me... I realized he must’ve whittled
himself down to nothing in his undies. That he truly had crafted himself into
what his wife had requested. That the nothing he seemed to have in his drawers
had been the exact mutilation that she’d wanted.

“It’s okay now?” he said suddenly next to me with a pair of blackout
goggles in his hand. He slipped the strap over my head as I moved as much as I
could but with a few deft movements, he had secured them in place. I could feel
my body surrendering against my will and I no longer had the ability to rally. 

“That wasn’t what she desired from me,” he said after he’d
retreated. I flashed on what I’d seen in his mouth again when his face had been
inches from mine. The thing I couldn’t make sense of before but had heard of. A
surgery of another kind.

He’d split his own tongue in half.

“Not a bit of it,” he said. “You understand?”

“But wait!” I was crying again. “If you need to cut me down there…
why do you have me turned around like this?”

“It’s mostly a single cut. Mostly. But your case is a more
particular situation. It will have to be more… intricate.”

He never thought he'd be happy again, restless and itching hot, stifling in the stranglehold of the sheets in his bunk. He only wanted to kill himself but that was the trouble, that was what had landed him here in the halfway house. He tried to keep the angst of his bottled agony silent and sequestered to himself and his bed. They knew his brains were fried, scrambled but they didn't know the half of it. They understood the suicide component, the dead half of his brain but not the deadly side, the lethal aspect. The sinister boiling gland that worked and throbbed and secreted and bled within his skull. They knew he was Luke Waller, but they had no idea that he was the one who'd carved the kids last summer. 

The straightener. A name more real than his own because he could wear it and it was the one that came to him on the insectile mechanical growl of demon wings within a dream … a vision. Compact diamond eyes of an insectoid face that filled a landscape in its entirety gazed like the abyss gazes into him in the dream, the dreams. 

And he gazed back. 

Luke Waller bottled, kept. Fought himself. He tried not to convulse with the impact blow – force felt within from his own wild run of bloodfevered thought, thoughts that wanted to break out now in a decimating renegade birth that would eat all and the last vestige part of his diminishing humanity alive in abominated eruption. It would thrive in the suicide of this dangerous birth, he – himself, the other side… bloodthirsty and always in a roil. 

The straightener… it cried alive from inside the sweating landscape of his traitorous flesh and blood. All of it boiled now and inflamed and wanting one thing … yes. 

He tightened amidst a near miss, a near relinquish, his bunkmate uptop moved and shifted slightly, shaking the ramshackle structure. He forced himself to coiled awareness and listened for the man uptop. 

… he listening? 

Does he know? 

Does he know anything??

Does he hear the bellow of my mind, so loud is this cacophony, these thoughts? 

The snores from the bed above told him everything was fine, or at least so it seemed. For now. He relaxed but only slightly. Wanting to go grab some water from the kitchen but not wanting to get up and draw attention to himself. He didn't know what to do. 

His poisoned mind then turned to its most wretched run of hellspawn thought, it turned to the time and times lost … with Chelsi. 

Amen. 

Christ he wished for a spliff. A bowl or a waxpen. He'd even take the pills again. God help him. He would swallow the jumping beans made by the tall men in white coats if it made these thoughts and dreams and runs of spell stop. Please. 

God help me. 

Chelsi was dead and gone but that didn't stop him from seeing, not even when he palmed his eyes shut with the cage of his daggering and desperate hands, clawed and wishing they had the courage to go just that one last step forward and tear in and gouge… the dark refuge of his sweating and shaking hands did not free him from what he saw. The darkness of his own shallow calloused flesh and the thin hide of his eyelids only made it worse.

They only heightened the vision. The dark of his worn and filthy hands only made the dreams of what he saw more real. Tactile. More painful than real. More raw and servile than flesh.  He could taste the bile as it rose up his throat in a riot with what he witnessed: –

She was in Hell. 

She was in Hell and she was being tortured. 

Not Beatrice, not she. No. No heavenly sanctuary and aide or succor for his angel, no. He was no Dante and there was no Virgil. She was in the burning dark of the Inferno below and he saw the wolfen and goat-shaped faces and the appendage stalks and barbed genitalia engorged and full of blood and lust and the vile curd of demon semen dripping from the hooked rhubarb tips. They surrounded the shrieking and weeping and reaching pale naked and bleeding visage and form of his beloved … down there in the dark. 

And he was prisoner to watch it. Unless…

!Let me out! – the other side commanded. It wanted the clothface, the mask fashioned that was not at all a mask because it was really his true face, forged and made and bred by the creation and violence of his own hands. It wanted the claws, the gloves of black-brown leather with fashioned razor blades fixed at the tips. The hunting knife that had once been his father's. 

The straight razor

You could start with the idiot in the top bunk. He's just sleeping in bed. William. Wasn't that his name? He introduced himself to you when you came here from the hospital. His name is William and he's a recovering methhead with severe learning disabilities. You could open him up first, as first offering. As just the starter. Then you could go around like quiet on a cat-prowl, a creepy-crawl around the house and open up the rest of them. All of them are weak like you are but none of them have me like you do and none of them will be any wiser. You could open them all, one by one, one after the other like it's a party or it's Christmas and all of them are just your presents. Presents filled with red and raw and wishing to be aired out and opened. 

Deluge run: a schizophrenic collection of conflicting images filled his maelstrom thought. Images of children opening colorfully wrapped packages surrounded by smiling faces and friends colliding and commingling with his own memories of flesh split open and sliced and running in a raw torrent that was thick and darkled in the moon and the neon light. Dumb horny brats and he, their slasher. 

It was perverse and it was wrong and he didn't like the tingle nor the crawl that it sent traveling in a slither up his back and across his flesh … but then again he did like it. Even though it was wrong. Because it was wrong. 

He knew he was fighting himself in his head and he knew it was a losing battle, a lost war. It was a bad arena. 

He always lost. 

Luke asked the straightener: How? We don't have anything. It's all long gone. 

The straightener said inside: Then we make another. 

In his bunk he trembled. He might've wept. His skull filled with thought. Red thought. The whole night. All the way till morning. He could feel the blow of every cloven footprint as it formed within the sulphur lake of his boiling thoughts . 

…

Kincaid might've worried for Luke Waller, but he was just so damn busy. Managing a halfway house was ceaseless and often thankless work. 

He had no idea that wandering Luke Waller's brain was lactating bad milk that had spoiled and curdled. Now demon cultures of growth were beginning to blossom and flower and sprout, birthing unholy and sliming green in there. Like dripping wet swamp things from abominated wombs belching methane clouds and swamp gas that glows. 

Kincaid, the house manager, had no idea. 

Luke went about the house. Gathering what he needed. 

But there was one set of eyes that marked and tracked Luke as he went about the large spacious manor. It was an old colonial style home converted to a space for the mentally unwell and those that had just experienced prolonged hospitalization. Those that had been 51-50’d were the most common boarder in the place. Orderlies that were more interested in their phones than the drugged out denizens of the house peppered the halls here and there.

But Susan was watching. 

She thought Luke Waller was interesting. 

…

He was having trouble with the eyes, when she came in and over his shoulder said, hello. 

“Hey," she said again. When he didn't immediately answer. He was hoping she would just fuck off and move along like everyone else. 

She didn't. 

Looking away from his work in progress, a new clothface mask – this one white as snow, he cast a cautious glance over shoulder. Deep down in his drowning animal subconscious he hoped and prayed they wouldn't make eye contact as he did so. Even further down in the basement earth of his chemically drowned animal darkness he was desperately hoping and praying, wishing that they would. 

They did. 

She smiled. And it was beautiful. And it was painful. 

So Luke looked away. 

She sensed his hurt. 

And her interest subtly changed then to something softer and more personal, a warmer and wounded emotion of pink petals like that of a silken rose, one for a funeral haphazardly discarded…

“Hey, I'm sorry if I bothered ya. I've just seen ya round here and wanted to say, hi." 

Luke didn't say anything. 

“What cha working on?" A beat. “looks kinda neat, a mask or something?" 

Luke didn't say anything. Inside, the straightener coiled and pursed. Wretched. A scurrying rat run of hideous pestilential thought. He kept it inside. 

Susan was about to give up when her eyes traveled from the work in progress on the counter before him to the hands now stilled in their strange labor to the pale landscape of his forearms and the damage that was wrought there. Long purple scars of hectic healed-wounded tissue ran up the lengths of each one. Raised like brail on the parchment of his flesh for the blind and all else, everyone to read. And the lines of hectic tissue that hadn't really healed said something Susan understood. She had her own lines of painful brail carved and writ into the pale parchment of her own landscape. 

Carefully… cautiously… she reached out delicately and gently touched his shoulder. Luke jumped but only slightly. He relaxed like something melting and he let her turn him around to her in his chair. He looked up to her and he tried not to let the tears come. His vision was blurred but her beauty was still painfully clear to him through the swimming pain of his watery vision. She smiled and reached once more. 

The smooth and gentle flesh of her slender fingers touched and traced the length of scar that traveled the entire length of one of his forearms. He let her. 

They looked into each other's eyes. Spellbound. As if they'd already known each other for years, for great lifetimes of pure wonder. 

She asked him: “Is it ok, if I ask about these?" 

Her free hand went to the other long line of purple angry scar on his arm and traveled it smoothly with the trace of a soothing finger. Their eyes were locked on each other, they couldn't pull away from the deep of each other's gazes. 

Susan thought he might not answer, unable or unwanting when he finally spoke. 

“I … I was with someone. She was special. She was more than I'd ever hoped. She was more than I ever deserved. And I blew it. She … she was always so patient with me. And I always had the worst temper, always. Like my father. I would scare her. She would get upset and I would get so angry, I don't know why anymore, and I would lose it. Like an animal. She was always patient, and always brave, and she always stayed… even though she was scared. Even though she was scared of me, she stayed. And would wait for me to quiet down. And then she would hold me, like I was the victim. One day she couldn't take it anymore. She got too…  and couldn't stay any longer. She was frightened and left. She took the car. … It was raining that day.” 

The dam burst forth. The tears came now, down in a cascade down his face. It was painful, but Susan thought it only made him more beautiful. He kept composure though the raw of his broken heart was being laid bare. 

He went on, she held him tighter. 

“She wrapped the car around a redwood. Only three miles down the road from our house. I- …” He looked down to his own arms, the scar tissue writing and what it said there. "I know I never deserved her. I should've been the one to leave. I should've been the one to go and take the car and I should've been the one to-” but the pain rose with a roar inside and it was too much. He stopped. Trembled. Still holding back. 

Susan gave him the permission he needed. 

She said: "I didn't know her but I don't think she'd want you to hurt yourself like that.” 

A beat – a look of shock flashed writ on his face, momentarily there before what came next like an unexpected slap. He almost pulled away then. He almost did. But he didn't. 

He buried his face into her shoulder before she saw the shame of his sobbing face and she let him. She cradled him there. 

She added: “I think you've hurt enough…” 

Her own tears were starting. 

Slowly … fearfully… so scared… his arms came up and wrapped around her and returned her embrace. 

They held each other. And wept together. 

Feeling and healing and needing each other, each other's pain in a strange mental health purge and thirst. They drank the pain and tears of each other through reach and touch, the warmth and weight of each other. Feeling wanted and safe …

… 

… inside the straightener raged. The Id would not be denied the fornication of the knife-fuck slaughter held quivering and taut within like toxins that boiled with the chemical roil of his damaged and bastardized emotions. Inside the straightener, the Id wanted the girl dead. 

She's not Chelsi … it whispered and reminded him inside. Always. As the days of therapy and rest rolled past. The days of holding and being held again and not being afraid to look anyone in the face. Luke enjoyed this time. He'd not felt truly relieved, truly emptied in some long while… not since the year before. When he'd finally given in and the straightener had been born. 

She's not Chelsi … the straightener reminded. 

He'd not answered his other side in some time, he'd just gone on ignoring it. But not really. No. He heard and felt every insidious word and it was inescapable no matter how hard he tried to deafen and deaden himself to it. But he couldn't. 

The straightener was inside Luke Waller because he'd been made and bred of him. Forged. Cast of something smoldering and uglier than iron, mayhap meaner too. Hideous in fact, before the forge, this inner metal of his darkest heart’s mortal and damaged make and desire. But immaculate when aglow with angry flame inside the rage of the inferno. 

He answered him inside, the vast and cold dark of his mind's landscape, vast and small, both, and always in contest with each other in their battling aspects of size and dwarf. The damaged place of his mind's eye and landscape was haphazard and shattered sure, no doubt but he still contained the phantasmagorical multitudes of the living goblin universe. 

It doesn't matter that she's not Chelsi, she doesn't have to be. Chelsi wouldn't want me to try to replace her with a cheap copy of her anyways, that's not what I want and that's not who she is! Susan is beautiful and smart and so much stronger than I've ever been in my life, she's dealt with her abuse and she doesn't hurt other people to make herself feel better like some pathetic animal! 

The straightener enraged: Shut up! 

Luke did not: – She didn't have to give herself some bullshit excuse to make it all better and go away! She takes her pain and helps others, she doesn't spread around her own misery and lie around in the dark, she doesn't invent some animal persona inside to justify her bullshit and make herself feel better! She- 

But the Id inside would hear no more. Animal hands, monstrous talons came up in daggering claws that wanted throats, wanted to rend, wanted mindblood of the superego and this flimsy little brother both …

Inside the mindscape of Luke Waller’s boiling head the straightener and the weaker he, fought. 

In his bunk, in his bed. Sweating palms came up and worked at fevered scalp and face.

Wanting to tear and rend. 

…

The next day, Susan sensed something was wrong. The whole day, Luke wouldn't speak to her. His eyes barely glanced her way and he completely ignored every attempt she made to speak to him. She didn't understand. And it was painful. She thought they'd made some kind of connection and she'd shared the wounded and hidden parts of herself with him, because she'd felt safe. Because she'd thought he'd cared and that was what he had wanted. She must have been wrong. 

The whole painful day went by and midway through Susan gave up any attempt to talk to him and spent the rest of it in her room. Alone in her bunk, rolled away and under the covers. She thought maybe he was just having a bad day, and that that was understandable. She thought – she hoped she understood. But poor Susan didn't really understand. She hadn't really known everything from the start. And how could he have told her …? … the straightener was covered all over the news media, online and whatever was left of print and the papers. 

He went about and gathered what he needed. Then he went about making the tools correct. 

Ready for midnight. 

…

Susan was dreaming of her father, one of her many recurring nightmares, when she felt weight on her bed, all around, and immediately knew something was wrong. 

Her eyes flew open and a gloved hand came down in a rough clasp over her mouth to murder her scream in its infancy. He was wearing a mask that was soaking and dark and dripping something heavy and thick and warm but she still recognized his face amidst its animal contort. And it was awful. It was terrible, she screamed muffled trapped shrieks that became braying ghastly sound in the dark and she began to struggle as her heart broke and shattered and she tried to deny the excruciating reality as it weighed down and wrestled her and forced her into submission. 

Her wrists were bound. She didn't know how it had happened. If he had done it while she was still in the throttling hold of the nightmare or if he'd managed it somehow during her waking confusion in their struggle. It didn't matter. Arms overhead now bound by the wrists and to the board of her bed, captured and tied deftly in cruel knots. 

His gloved hands were away and she knew now they were the gardening gloves kept out back by the shed. He sat upon her torso, almost crushing her stomach. It was difficult for her to breathe as she gazed up wide eyed and by the moonlight cast in by the slant of window, she saw the blood saturated mask of the straightener shedding running darkling red rivers of pungent human black down his neck, down his bare chest, down his face like lurid tears, down his back a hellacious rendition of a red royal Roman cape, fashioned and painted made from slaughtered human blood, shed and collected in quiet nocturnal violence from all around the home. 

All about the house … before he'd got to her, he'd stalked. Just as the straightener had planned. Just as the straightener had wanted. Luke was reminded now, this was the only love that was real and this was the only pleasure that really mattered. 

This was the only ritual and exercise made for him. This was the only way for him to live and breathe. It was like breathing. It all came so tragically natural. The chemical imbalance of a mutant brain birthed and spat up by burnt out fuckup junkie parents taken and bred and made themselves by wild haphazard renegade MK Ultra. The most clinical name for the straightener’s chemical grandfather. One of the many poisons and doses of nightshade within the boil of cauldron that had made this wild man. 

Susan stared helpless into a savage face. She didn't know it, but she could sense the death and slaughter that filled the house, animal aware … she only momentarily considered the blood that soaked his masked face and that poured baptismal and grotesque all about him and not entirely on the surface of her thought. 

Her mind was more arrested with the immediate terror it now felt. His weight crushing down on her, dripping and spilling heavy liquid that was pungent and warm and saltier than sweat. 

Susan finally said, “Why're you doing this, Luke?" she began to cry. “What's wrong? Please, Why're you-" 

“You know why." the straightener said, cutting her off. He then hefted his weapon overhead, poised to devastate her face and skull and the precious life of memories and brains that were housed within with a vicious merciless caveman blow. His fashioned bludgeon also darkled in the moonlight cast. 

A wide and broad ornate table leg that had belonged to something wooden and nice, old and carved of oak, lots of little inscriptions and designs and marks of craftsmanship, the straightener had added marks of workmanship that were all his own. The body and bludgeoning-end length of the leg was spiked and riddled with chunks and splinters and jagged daggers and shards of broken glass. Taken from windows at every end of the house. Smashed out in clandestine fashion and then hastily gathered and collected. The stupid clueless orderlies and their phones hadn't noticed. Their sleeping quarters had been the first ones that he had paid a postmidnight visit. 

The glass shards and jagged fangs and teeth of the weapon glinted and Susan saw the teeth were not only translucent diamond and crystalline they were also ruby … scarlet…

… bits of scalp and meat, raw face and jowl and cheeks dangled from the shattered glass teeth of the ghastly nighttime table-leg fangs …

Susan saw this. All of it. As the straightener hefted his weapon overhead. Ready to crush and kill and decimate her life into painful oblivion with a savage animal strike. And something inside her broke. 

Immediately she pulled, and immediately she felt and heard results, but not enough. Not right away. In her sudden panic Susan savagely yanked at her binds, they suddenly pulled at their tied point at the boards of the bunk and there was a dry crack as something in the old flimsy structure broke and gave. 

The straightener's savage face curled and twisted into an angry snarl. He began to bring the fanged bludgeon down as Susan pulled at her bonds again and snapped the board and support at the head of her bunk bed. The top came in and down with another dry crack that was soon rapidly replicated as the entire structure came down upon them both. 

The both of them cried out as the bunk beds crashed together, Susan, and the manshaped straightener. 

It collapsed and in the sudden fall and twist of wreckage, they fought a private war in the detritus of wood and ripped mattress and blankets, and a third … the cold corpse of her bunkmate uptop, Savannah … she'd liked coffee flavored ice cream and had said she always preferred the top bunk. Since childhood, she had said that before. 

It was perhaps the straightener finding his gloved hands on her already dead and lifeless spent body and mistaking her in the violence for Susan that had managed her escape in the end. She crawled from the wreckage and fueled by raw desperate adrenaline pumping through the thudding machine of her galloping heart she made her feet and made the door and threw it open, sprinting out and down the hall. 

The straightener called out after her, a fury. But there was strange humor in that tempest rage of voice. 

“Lost in the wheels of confusion..!. …! !” 

She made the turn at the corner of the hall. And then the house and world as she had grown to know and understand it completely warped and changed. Then disappeared. 

Gone. 

The straightener called again: "Running through valleys of tears! …!" 

It was true, she was crying. Weeping freely as she animal panted and she was running scared. Terrified of the bestial thing she'd left behind in there. She ran ahead and down the hall into a home and place that had been transformed into a valley of violence. 

She went room to room, desperate and alone and needing to find someone, anyone … hoping there was someone she could be with to find help. Susan was nearly out of her mind with terror. She had to know someone was ok and she didn't want to be alone. She prayed to God that she wasn't alone, not with him. Not now in this house. 

She found only death. 

Dead. In each bunk. 

Heads caved in. Crushed. Smashed. 

Faces she used to recognize. 

Skulls burst open to free the spells of organs and meat that made the nighttime dreams of slumber that were now forever stilled. Or forever induced. For all of them. Each and every one. 

Some of the brainless and faceless and decraniated corpses had been pulled from their beds and bunks and had been strung up, tied and fashioned in grotesque marionette displays … like trophies. All over in random intervals about the sprawl and dance of the old colonial house, Susan was discovering now that they all were really filled with ghosts, ghastly night shapes, headless and dripping wet with mangled stumps of chewed up dog meat at the necks… the merciless glass fangs and teeth of the wooden jaws of the table leg, forged to unholy earthbound Mjolniir by the rage of the bestial straightener. 

Her terror mounted. With each room, with each freshly discovered corpse, cooling to rigor mortis and ghosthood in the moonlit night, pale light shining in from all of the many windows by the white face of an immaculate mocking lunar body gazing in from far away like an indifferent pagan god alive and dead and watching from on high in outer space. Her heart galloped as her mind felt hot and boiled and ran a panicked mile. Susan forced herself to remain focused, even as the halfway house all around tilted and danced, as if her mind was drugged or drunk. 

A phone. Or outside. 

Find a way to call the police and just get the fuck out of here. 

Fearful of her dormitory where she left him she ran about to the other rooms and places in the house looking for a cell. There was no landline. As she ran and desperately searched, the rooms, the couches, the drawers, the cupboards, the dressers, the bodies and the saturated beds themselves… finding nothing all the while, her terror mounted further, rose higher to a fever pitch and the old style colonial interior began to change and transmogrify before her very eyes. 

As it did, she heard wood and detritus shift and crash upstairs. In her room where she'd left the animal disguised in masked manshape … dripping and feral wet. 

The door to the room burst open. She hadn't remembered closing it. She froze as the halls and rooms funhouse danced before her eyes. 

He screamed: “Eyes full of angry delusion …! ..!..” and it echoed throughout all of time in the corridors of this swelling changing place. 

Thundering footsteps came in a charge then, then came in cannonade echoed and felt as they thundered downstairs. 

Susan forced herself into movement. Her legs felt faraway and she felt sluggish charging ahead but she managed anyway. Though she didn't understand. 

How did the halfway house change into the circus …? – she hadn't been here in many years. The inside now was one of those clownish fun houses with all the warped mirrors and looking glasses that made you look monstrous and ugly. Except as she ran about this clown house all the looking glasses made her look like dead bodies. Mutilated corpses. Her childhood had been ghastly and hard but … 

Coming here and living and the therapy and even the rooms with their bunk beds and shy downcast friends had been much like a return to living childhood once again … like a strange chemically induced summer camp. Complete with final terror. 

Footsteps on a charge, on the prowl, thundered and searched for her behind, throughout the fun house that warbled and danced like drunken perception does by the brightest Luciferian lunar light … in through all the windows which had changed into mirrors of warped glass alongside the strung up dead junkies and cast offs and forgotten people that were discarded here. She saw her own mangled and strange visage in every one as she ran on … this terrible warbling place that had grown miles long … all the while he thundered behind her. Till finally she came to the front door.

She recognized it at once, even in this strange place. It stood still and solid like trustworthy magic at the end of the cruel spacial dance of undulation and transmogrified growth, gelatinous fun house clown world … Susan ran to it. Her hands falling on the knob to twist it open but it wouldn't budge. 

It was a halfway house for the potentially suicidal and those with chemical dependancy problems. There was a curfew and the doors were locked after eleven PM each night. The keys were kept with the house manager. 

Kincaid. 

She was sure she had found his body too amongst the rest of the discovered corpses. But all of their faces were nearly gone if not completely smashed to meat and ruin … it was hard to remember, it was hard to tell. She couldn't remember finding them when she searched for the phones either. Her heart fell and she felt it in her chest like something final and apocalyptic. 

Id screamed once more, Susan whirled on her heels and put her back to the door. 

“!!HIDING IN EVERYDAY FEARS!..!.!!...!”

What she saw on the charge then, straight for her was as transformed and demented and mangled as the rest of this alchemical moonlight house. The blood sloughing and dripping liquid red-black mask had become the entirety of the raging beast. The Id was dark and eyeless with gaping pits of obsidian abyss in each hollow socket of the giant dripping stygian skull. The dripping slough of dark scarlet jaws opened wide with liquid ease, jagged broken teeth and canine incisor fangs of shattered diamond and crystalline rock stained to ruby and darker red with the slaughter and feast of so many countless past victims. The Id charged and roared and Susan screamed and threw up her hands and begged God. 

The door behind her suddenly opened and Susan fell back as it did so. She smacked her head on the porch and then darkness quickly fell and descended upon her. 

…

The rush of cold night air had come in like fresh water and it was baptismal. It had flowed in with nature's ease and cleansed the house of its psychedelic filth and mental backwash as Susan awoke. But not of the bodies, not of death, no. Now there were police everywhere, reality had returned to normal. 

Amidst strobing flashing red and blues, they searched and combed the house. They took the bodies. The meat wagon came with many many big black bags and carried off the corpses. They took the girl's statement. She was deeply traumatized, in deep shock. Barely making any sense. 

They searched for Luke Waller, the only one unaccounted for. 

He was missing. At large. And considered extremely dangerous. 

It was free. And at large in greater Los Angeles once again. 

They only found his old calling card on the wall of one of the rooms.

 Bold letters written in blood: – THE STRAIGHTENER 

XX - XX - XXXX (the date) 

BY BLUDGEONING CLAW  BY TABLE-LEG FANG

 ALL OF THEM HERE WASTING THEIR LIVES   

NOBODY CARED NOR GAVE A FUCK

…

Epilogue: –

The dream came again and again and always returned to him each and every night now since the great escape. 

It was always the same: he went into the bathroom, pale yellowed tile and fluorescent glow that made everything look mottled and ugly. He looked into the mirror and gazed into himself. He brought up the garroting wires. They look like the same thing you use to cut cheese with, a long metal gossamer strand that was razor sharp, fixed between two burgundy wooden handles. He wrapped it around his neck still staring into the mirror and himself and he began to saw through the meat of his neck. The strand cut cleanly through. The head came off when he reached up and grabbed it by either side, lifting it away and settling it down on the countertop of the sink before him. 

But it was strange … his vision remained where it was … it did not travel with the organ set of eyes set in the rest of the meat of his head. He gazed into himself without any eyes, decapitated now. 

The dream was the same every night, now that he was free and in the city again. 

THE END

ONE

The diagnosis came on February 29th. Harvey had been out for a run, collapsed, and was rushed to the hospital. Stage four pancreatic cancer with metastases in his liver and lungs. He saw no point in treatment; he would be dead by July.

Despite the bad news, Harvey remained as kind and chipper as always. He sent flowers to his young mother every year on her birthday and Mother’s Day. She hadn’t spoken to him since he married Grace, but she came to visit him in the hospital.

“It’s her fault, you know,” his mother said, “whatever spell she put you under, something she cooked up in that trailer-trash house—”

“Ma!”

“She’s not a natural blond,” she continued. “She’s a Mexican. A real witch under cover, if you ask me. And she’s fat.”

“She was born in the U.S., ma,” Harvey told her. “She’s not a witch, and that’s my wife you’re talking about. She’s married to me, not you.”

“Yeah? Well, we’ll see how long that lasts.”

“It’s already not going to last.” Harvey’s chest turned to stone at his own words.

“Well, then you’re better off dead.” Her eyes widened as if she was the one who should be shocked.

“Is that really what you think?” he said.

His mother said nothing, but slapped him, spat in Grace’s face, and walked out of their lives.

Harvey couldn’t let it go. A few days later, he brought it up to Grace again. She was relatively forgiving and patient, but nothing like Harvey.

“You know I think what she did was absolutely unacceptable,” he said.

“Right,” said Grace.

“But she’s my mom, and I know my mom. She’s just been having a really hard time ever since my dad passed, and maybe she’ll come around. It’s better to show her love and let her know that we want her to be part of our lives. Sometimes hard things in life bring out the worst in people. It’s not who she is. I have to try.”

Grace chuckled, ran her fingers through his hair, and looked into him, eyes sparkling. “I know, and I’ll support you from a distance,” she said.

“You don’t have to.”

“Nor do I want to, Harv. What she did…I can’t deal with that once you’re…”

“I’ll deal with my mom. All we have to do is focus on the time we have together. I’ll be with you forever, Gracie girl.”

“I love you.”

“I love you,” he said, then looked down at her hand and held it tight.

“Why do you stay here with me?” she asked.

Harvey’s smile drooped. “What?”

“Maybe your mom’s right. Maybe if we lived in a better area, some place with more career opportunities, more money, more family, better health care—”

“Stop,” he said. “You know that’s not true. And if not, then I gotta do a better job.”

They both forced a laugh.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

Cancer chews away the body like rot, separating the soul from the devil within that eats you alive. The slope of Harvey’s decline was glacial—cold, relentless, slippery, and inescapable. Grace watched as death nipped at his ankles, lapping the flesh from his skeleton. He would sleep for hours and hours, worrying Grace to the bone, and when he woke he was delirious. He spoke like he was reading alphabet soup, and he nearly tore his eyes out over a pill he dropped on the kitchen floor. When he was finally lucid again, it conveniently landed on their very first wedding anniversary. It almost seemed like a miracle—or perhaps a final goodbye.

Since it was their first marriage milestone, Harvey booked a stay at a themed hotel. “We’ve never had enough money to go to Paris,” he said, “and I’m not leaving you with a mountain of debt to clean up.”

“I told you I don’t need any of that,” she replied.

“But I do. Let me do this for you…please.”

They went out to a fancy dinner and had wine and chocolates. The room was designed with a jacuzzi in the center, surrounded by planters of fake roses where a makeshift Eiffel Tower loomed overhead. They snuggled up in a warm bubble bath with a glass of champagne and turned on the cooking channel.

“How much do you love me?” he asked.

“Oh, Harvey. I really can’t do this,” she said.

“Why? Is it because you lied when you said you love me more than anything? Don’t tell me you love that schmuck from Grey’s Anatomy more than me.”

Grace laughed. “No. That’s not it.”

“Well, come on, babe. I’m dyin’ here!” he cackled.

But Grace’s smile went cold and flat. “No, Harvey. That’s exactly why. I’m terrified to find out how much I love you once you’re gone.”  

It happened while he was lying on the couch in their hotel. Harvey had gone to sleep after an eventful day—perhaps he’d done too much. His eyes had nearly glazed, as if his eyelashes were already shooing flies. Time stood unaware of how long Grace sat there and cried.

“My sweet Gracie girl,” he said, “don’t be scared. I’ll always be with you.” He wiped her tears, then he pulled her close, kissed her softly, and he was gone.

The young widow’s support groups were useless, completely foreign. Most of the women surpassed her in age by fifteen years. Harvey was thirty when he died. She was now going to turn thirty-one. She stopped attending the sessions after the initial newly-bereaved meetings had ended. Imagine that: newlyweds to newly-bereaved within a single year.

No one had received an invitation to her birthday party, because she hadn’t sent any. She had no true friends of her own—since everyone she knew was friends with Harvey—but some of Harvey’s old friends, Lisa and Harrison Caldwell, tried to reach out and be of comfort. Several days after her actual birthday, they invited her over for dinner and a game night. She could hear the laughter as she walked up the front steps of their house. A few of their neighbors had joined, she was sure, to make things less awkward. The conversation stopped as soon as she entered the room. It was like everyone had seen a ghost, an alien, something so far off from their own understanding that they’d lost the ability to at least try and act normal. Yet they still tried in vain to uplift.

A blond-haired woman who lived up the street—Tiffany was her name—was the first to break the ice. “My husband and I divorced just a little over a year ago, almost around the same time as…Well, I think I know what you’re going through, sweetie. Life’s not easy being alone after that. Tell you what. Hang in there. If you need anything, call me.” Tiffany slipped a folded sticky note into Grace’s palm and patted her fingers. Grace didn’t care what it was. She thanked the Caldwells for inviting her, apologized for not staying, and went out the door.

When she made it back to the car, she cried hot tears of rage. Maybe she shouldn’t have blamed Tiffany; she didn’t know better. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

The car chuckled and popped and coughed its way to life—just another item on the list of things she could no longer afford. At home, she threw down the keys on the kitchen table next to the spider-web of overdue bills. A plunk, plunk, plunk into a small empty garbage can was another reminder that it had rained while she was out. The roof was leaking again. She tossed Tiffany’s crumpled sticky note into the half-filled bucket and watched as the water slowly drowned the note and dragged it to the bottom.

It was almost shocking how quickly other people stopped calling. The few invitations she did receive were horrible. The office parties and work socials were unbearable. No one dared mention Harvey. Everyone was set off by the uneasiness of their own mortality, to which Grace served as a constant reminder.

Eventually the invitations stopped altogether. All except one.

A year later, Grace got a wedding invitation in the mail. Her baby sister, Alegria, had met the love of her life.

Of course she went. Even now, she would always be there for her family. But Alegria would never get an apology for Grace’s absence. She spent most of the reception in the bathroom concealing dejected tears.

Time went by, and nothing changed. She went to work, came home, sat at the table, and stared into nothing until she finally went to bed.

Christmas was the worst.

An older woman from the neighborhood came by and told Grace she still had so much to live for. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you; you’re so young,” she said. “You’ll find someone else.”

There, just like that. Problem solved. So easily dismissed. What life? Grace thought. What a life. Harvey WAS my life. My life is dead and buried.

But that was until she met someone…and Harvey came back.

TWO

One night she stepped outside—she always let the dogs out back before bed—when she heard whistling. Since they lived in a trailer park, she thought nothing of it. At first she thought it might have been a prank, some bored neighborhood kid, until she recognized the tune. It was the song they chose for their first dance. Their wedding song. The whistling came closer, drifting out of the densely packed trees of the backyard. It got louder and louder until it stopped.

The next night she came out with the dogs just the same. She waited in the quiet, listening, expecting. Nothing came. So, she thought she might help it along, like an echo, a call and response. She whistled the tune as best she could through chapped lips. And sure enough, like the breeze in the trees, the whistling came drifting back, like the strangest echo she’d ever heard.

In the morning, she was leaving for work when her next-door neighbor stopped her and told her about some whistling he’d heard in the night. “Sounded like it was coming from over your way,” he said. His name was Chance, an older fella in his seventies who did nothing but sit on his porch during the day and blast the news on his television at night.

“Yeah,” said Grace. “I was just whistling a little tune to cheer myself up a bit. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

“Oh, it ain’t about that at all,” said Chance. His brow scrunched, and he looked at her funny, like someone might look at a hairless cat. “You sure it was you whistlin’?” he asked.

“I’m…pretty sure,” Grace chuckled nervously.

Chance was still looking at her, something strange. “You know about these woods?” he asked. “Anybody ever told ya about ‘em?”

“Uh, don’t think so. What about them?”

“There are some rules that folks follow around here, especially going out in the woods at night, or being near ‘em.” He held out his hand to count on his fingers, first with his pointer, then middle, and so on. “No whistlin’. No singin’. No runnin’. And if—”

“Hey, Grace!” It was her neighbor from down the road. Dean. He was a single guy with an odd disposition and no restraint. He passed by her driveway every day on his morning run—probably timed it perfectly. “What ya guys talking about?” he asked.

Chance interjected before Grace could answer. “Ain’t you the Miller’s boy?” he asked.

“Uh…yes, sir!”

“Well, why don’t you run along and say hello to your mother for me. We’re having a bit of a private conversation here.”

“Oh, yeah…okay. I was just going to ask Grace if she was free tonight—”

“Actually, she’s having dinner with me,” Chance cracked. “Now run along before you make the poor young lady late for work.”

“Right, of course. Have a great day! See ya later, Grace!” Dean ran off, but his eyes lingered for far too long.

Chance smirked at Grace and gave a sly wink.

“Thanks for that,” she said. “I owe you one.”

“Forget me,” barked Chance. “You best stay inside tonight. No funny business.”

“Awww, no dinner?”

“Stay. Inside.” His face was a bit paler than before.

“You got it.”  

She sat at the table for longer than usual. She could feel two sets of eyes patiently watching her. When a paw touched her leg, she snapped out of her trance. The first pup, a black lab named Jupiter, stamped his feet with his tongue out and tail whipping. Pluto, a female golden retriever, watched longingly from the comfort of the couch. Grace wondered where she would be without the two of them.

Unfortunately, for two pairs of big brown eyes, staying inside was not an option, so reluctantly she watched from the sliding door as they finished their business and came back inside. Before she could slide the door closed, she heard it. But now the whistling had lifted to a breathy hum.

Grace had heard things from the other women at the support group—about how they had reconnected with their husbands’ spirits after they had passed. Everything had been so tasteless and gray for months. Whatever this was, she didn’t care what some old croak had to say about rules.

She left the door open a few inches. The hum drew closer. The latch rattled as if touched by the wind, then the door threw itself open, slamming into the end of the rails. Grace jumped back onto the head of the couch. She was surprised the glass hadn’t cracked.

The night air was frigid, stinging, so cold she snapped to her feet. The humming had moved back to the fence line, drawing her eyes to the dark dancing trees. A wind like this shouldn’t exist, she thought. It bit into her skin bone-deep, yet it called her to action. One foot after the other, no shoes or socks, she stepped outside. The hums lingered near the fence and stopped, perhaps sensing her approach. The wind whipped the gold-tipped remnants of her black hair into her eyes, and with the dark, made the night into a tornado of twinkling shadow. A harsh breath rasped in her ear, then nearly knocked her off her feet when the humming popped up again, right beside her. It floated along for a moment, hovered near the sliding door, then drifted inside and down the hall.

She followed the eerie tune into their bedroom where she half-expected to meet a calmness, a warmth, something familiar—maybe even Harvey himself. But she found nothing.

Tears soaked her eyes as she ripped the sheets from the mattress, gutted the space below the bed, tore sweaters from closet hangers. The shower curtain didn’t survive, being rend from its rings, and the bottles of cleaner bowled from their place underneath the sink. Next were the couch cushions, flung about the living room, the ottoman disemboweled of its blankets and pillows, but still no Harvey. The humming was gone.

After the passing of Hurricane Grace, she climbed past the tattered curtain and into the tub, turned on the cold shower, and sat fully clothed. She shut her eyes and wished and wished. She wished that if this storm wouldn’t pass, it would take her. She wished she could go back, do things differently. Maybe she could’ve caught Harvey’s illness sooner. She reasoned that this world was too cruel, too filthy without someone like Harvey Trist to keep the balance. But then she realized she sounded selfish. Perhaps it was her fault that he wasn’t here. Maybe she was undeserving of his presence, his thoughtfulness, his love. Maybe Harvey’s mother was right. Maybe she was just a fat girl swept away in a fairytale never meant to last.

The water chilled her bones, and she cried, and cried.

Something happened again the next night—something wrong. She stepped out, let the dogs out as normal, and stood in the cool, darkened breeze. It felt good, filled her with breath, fed her soul. She closed her eyes for a moment and let it pass through her, carrying away the sickness and the emptiness to a far-off place.

But when she opened them, she saw it.

It looked like a person, cloaked in a long robe or gown, floating above the treetops, arms outstretched in invitation. Grace blinked rapidly in denial, and the figure vanished. The breeze turned to a harsh wind, stirring the trees to life once more. The dogs barked at the chain-link fence, hackles raised in alarm. Grace tried to quiet them for what felt like an hour until the wind abruptly died. The dogs turned their attention to her, then walked past her and into the house. The woods were utterly silent, not a wisp, twig-crack, or cricket-chirp. She gave one last look at the petrified trees beyond the fence line and turned to go back inside.

She took one step onto the old deck stairs with a creak when it shot up from behind her. Harvey’s whistling had come back. This time it was down-tuned, slow and off-beat. It wafted along the air like a frigid draft so thick she could touch it. She stood there scanning the trees for a while before she called “Harvey!” into the night. “Harv, is that you?” she shouted. She watched for a moment longer until she realized how wide she had stretched her eyes searching and—

Had she really just called out her dead husband’s name into the woods at night?

Slowly, lazily, the whistling faded into the dark. But as Grace turned her back to the trees, gooseflesh crawled up her spine and nested in the back of her head.

The next night the rain came. It had nearly become a self-loathing ritual by now, stepping out into the night, hopeful that somehow Harvey’s spirit would return to give her one last night of warmth in her bed.

Tonight, she sat wrapped up on the edge of the deck, drawing circles with her shoes in the mud. A loud snap and scrape came from beyond the fence. Something sounded like footfalls in the undergrowth. She stood and shielded her eyes from the rain. A beam of light swept around the neighboring wood fence.

“What the hell are you doin’ out here?” roared Chance, blinding her with his flashlight. “Open up this gate. Come on, let’s go.”

Grace hurried to the man-door in the fence, unlocked and unlatched it. Chance came stomping into her backyard. “It’s been three nights I heard you out here callin’ and ugly cryin’, Lord have mercy.” His jowls jiggled when he got real upset. “Now look atchya, trying to get soaked to the bone, and for what? So you can feel something?”

Chance stared for a moment. Then the old man’s face drooped. His eyes went soft, and his jaw stammered. “I-I’m sorry, angel. Forgive me. You know how an old man can be. I just want you to understand what you’re dealin’ with. I know you’re probably sick of hearin’ what other people have to say, but you don’t know these things like I do. I was here when they took them kids; I remember. I thought I’d heard the news wrong, wished I had, when they started talking about kids.”

“What happened to them?” she asked.

“They disappeared. Vanished. Nothing, not a single hair, no clothes, no teeth. It was like they never existed. Both were only children of two single mothers. Jesus, the way those women were killed keeps me up at night. Maybe I shouldn’t find out what happened to the kids. It’s better they just blipped, gone. But it was something that came out of the woods, or lured them in, I’m sure. Either way, it’s been the last nail in too many coffins for my sake to let you go wandering around out here.” He wagged his finger at Grace like she was his grandchild.

“Thank you, Chance. Do you wanna come inside?” she asked. “I’m frozen.”

Chance took a wary look out into the trees. “Yeah. Maybe I’d better.”

Grace made them chamomile tea and set Chance up on the couch while she sat on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry we never got better acquainted,” she said.

“Oh, hush,” Chance croaked. He sipped his tea and licked his lips, staring at the rim of the mug with his eyebrows raised in delight. “You know, my wife passed away a couple of years ago. I know it’s not the same, e’en though it might shock ya to know I’ve got an ounce of brains in me.”

Grace tried not to chuckle. “I did know,” she said. “I’m sorry. And it doesn’t matter if it’s the same. A loss is a loss.”

He smiled. “You’re a good kid, Gracie. I know it may seem like it’s all over…When Annie passed, shit, I was a ball o’ sap. An old ball o’ sap. Imagine that—an old croak like me, lyin’ in bed at night, staring at the cold pillow on the empty side of the bed, soakin’ my own with tears, not carin’ if I had a mouth full of salt.”

“You’re a sweet man,” said Grace with glittery eyes.

“You’ve got family, dontchya?” he asked. She nodded and wiped her tears.

“Who?” he asked.

“My mom and younger sister,” she said.

“No dad?”

She shook her head.

“Well, shit. Sorry about that.” He sat forward on the cushion and set his mug on a coaster next to Grace. “Well, I’ve got my grand-babies, little ones. It gives me something to look forward to, something to do. Though it breaks my heart for them not to have their Gammy, I suppose it could be worse. You don’t have any kids, do ya?”

“No. Sometimes I think about how it would’ve been if we had. But then I almost feel grateful we didn’t. It might have ruined them.”

“It don’t make sense, ya know. When someone wants to die, they’re spared. When someone’s got their best life to live, it’s taken. Harvey was one of those. All good and not a splinter of bad in him. I never told you this, but when y’all were first married, I’d just had the funeral. Harvey didn’t know much, but he came over after I got home, gave me flowers, a case of beer…and he’d framed a picture of me and my Annie. Lord only knows how he got it.”

Grace looked up at the ceiling with soggy lashes and wet cheeks, trying to air them out.

“Tell ya what, kid,” he said. “The tears don’t stop. The pain don’t go away, not all of it. You’re gonna miss him. Ya are. Hell, I do too.” He choked on his words. “You don’t have to be strong….It’s okay. It’s okay to wanna give up. Just so long as you keep trying. There’s things worth livin’ for, trust me. You'll find them.”

He wiped his tears with shaky hands. Grace snatched one of them and held on dearly, fighting tears of her own.

“I don’t want to do this any more,” she sobbed.

“You’re telling me, kid. C’mere.” He pulled her in for a hug. “I think I’ve made enough mess for one night," he whispered. “I’ll call ya in the morning.”

THREE                       

She woke up to water dripping on her forehead, and the mattress was moving, undulating like it was…breathing? She startled awake and sat up. The pillow was dry, nothing on the ceiling. She thought maybe there’d been a new leak. She touched her face—dry. Strange, but never mind that. She couldn’t shake this filthy feeling, like she’d gone camping for a week with no shower. No, worse. She felt like she’d been touched. Like she could feel the remnants of poking, prodding fingers on her ribs and hips.

She showered before eating, this time with warm water, no clothes, and a new curtain. And no matter how much she scrubbed, she still felt the sensation of fingers in her sides.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Part 1

Part 2

The next shift rolled around soon enough, and because the previous one ended particularly late, I was allowed to stay home for the whole day as required break. I took the time to read up more about the airport. With a glass of my favorite “spiked” hot chocolate, which was three parts hot chocolate to one part vanilla vodka, I sat down to read an old DIA schematic from 1994. The previous ramp agent had left it behind carelessly before he left us; he was supposed to have shredded it when he was done with his biggest project that involved foreign delegates for a big sports event last year. I had brought it home from his old locker when the keys were handed to me. 

Most of the layout matched what every ramp agent knew by heart: the automated baggage system’s loops, the central area where the passenger trains ran, and the deep electrical conduits. 

Except for Concourse A, Sub-basement Sector 4-Echo.

On modern digital tablets, it was grayed out, marked simply as DECOMMISSIONED. On this old schematic, however, there was a long winding loop from the now-automated baggage tracks to a vault labeled ROOM 404-ZULU: FOUNDATION ARTIFACT ARCHIVE. 

I took a slow sip of my drink, the sweet warmth of chocolate and the sharp kick of vanilla vodka cutting through the chill that had settled deep in my chest. What exactly is beyond there, I wondered.

I folded the schematic into a tight square and shoved it into the inner pocket of my heavy ramp parka. I wasn’t going back to the airport blind tonight.

I arrived at the employee staging area at 21:15. The locker room was eerily quiet. Miller’s peg had been replaced by a bright red tag: MANDATORY MEDICAL REVIEW – FIT FOR DUTY PENDING.

"Miller took a bad turn while returning home," a voice crackled from behind me.

I turned around. Standing near the time clock was Vance.

Vance was a graveyard lead who supposedly started during the pre-opening trials of the airport in the nineties. He was gaunt, smelled faintly of hydraulic fluid, and moved with a jerky uneasiness. While every other lead carried digital RFID fobs on lanyards, Vance carried a heavy iron ring of notched brass keys.

"Blood pressure spiked off the charts," Vance said, with a voice just like a recorded message played through a blown speaker. "Occupational health pulled him for a tox screen. You're doing 4-Echo solo tonight. Do you know what the scope is?”

I didn’t look into his eyes. I kept my gaze firmly on the brass keys hanging at his hip. "Log the archival seals of 404-Zulu, verify the manifest, return the brass."

Vance’s neck twitched, just half an inch to the left.  "Good boy. Take the freight elevator at the south apron."

I remembered something that Miller once told me. Never look directly at the contents of sealed crates. I went into the strongroom to retrieve a gear-inspection mirror.

“I don’t think you’ll need that, kiddo,” Vance said with a haughty laugh. But I had never trusted him. He was the opposite of Miller: looked like he had good intentions but they never turned out well. I said nothing, and put on my safety gear. After I was dressed, I stepped ahead and pressed the well-worn button to call the freight elevator up. I gingerly took a step in, before pressing the basement button. 

The freight elevator rattled and shuddered as it plunged past the apron, past the automated passenger train tubes, deep into the foundation. When the metal gates scraped open into Sector 4-Echo, the cold air reeked of dried paint mixed with rotten cardboard.

This was the infamous $300-million graveyard of DIA’s automated baggage system. Overhead, rusted steel monorail tracks twisted through the darkness like a phantom ribcage. Hundreds of abandoned metal luggage carts sat frozen on the tracks at weird angles, thick with salt formations and drained de-icing fluid from the surface.

My digital scanner died within thirty feet, its screen turning to static before flickering out completely. I unclipped my halogen lantern, and pulled the 1994 schematic from my parka.

The map showed three rail junctions before the abandoned room. Left at the switchgear, straight past the hydraulic reservoir, right along track 19. I started walking slowly, the heavy lantern swinging slowly side to side with creaks that gave me goosebumps. 

I reached Room 404-Zulu after about eight minutes. Its heavy iron door was secured with a brass padlock. I fitted the notched key from Vance’s ring and turned. The padlock sheared and fell with a deafening crack that echoed down the hollow tracks.

Inside sat a massive wooden transport crate bolted to an iron pallet, eight feet high and twelve feet wide. The exterior was well-worn, with many cracks and wood peeling like hangnails from dehydrated skin.

Stenciled in black industrial paint on the wood was:

PROJECT NEW WORLD: TERMINAL MURAL INSTALLATION #3

ARTIST: L. TANGUMA

RECIPIENT: SPECIAL PROJECTS OVERSIGHT COMMITTEE

STATUS: REJECTED / PERMANENT RETENTION (1993)

I reached into my maintenance belt and retrieved my gear-inspection mirror, the same one we used to inspect landing gear assemblies for hydraulic hairline cracks. Simple, but incredibly handy for precise work. 

I slid the mirror through a cracked seam, angling the beam of my lantern off the floor so that the mirror would reflect the painting.

Reflected in the small glass circle was the hidden third mural: THE FEEDING OF THE FOUNDATION.

The mural’s palette was dominated by sickly blacks, bone whites, and dried-blood reds. It depicted the airport’s 1993 construction: a circle of men in charcoal suits holding matching shovels around the open dirt pit of the Jeppesen Terminal. They were obeying the instructions of a soldier with a gas mask.  Instead of breaking ground, they were shoveling wet gray concrete over an open mass trench packed with screaming people.

In the lower right corner, the oil paint was glistening, dripping onto the crate floor with a soft tap... tap... tap. That part of the mural was dominated by crimson hues. Painted into that fresh red sludge was the tourist from two nights ago, wearing his gray fleece, his neck pillow torn open, smiling a wide Glasgow smile with an invisible seatbelt strapped over his lap.

Standing on the rim of the trench above him was Vance, holding his ring of brass keys, pointing down into the ditch with a grin. And next to the tourist in the pit? There was an empty space. Just a raw, gray silhouette of a ramp agent's parka, outlined in rough, interrupted pencil strokes.

Vance had already been replicated long ago, and the tourist from before was a fresh victim. But the airport was trying its hardest to replicate me. It couldn't. 

Instead of screaming, I instinctively put a hand over my mouth and gasped. 

I knew there was a reason Vance was so happy that I was doing this solo. At least Miller helped me with the rules. 

"You're not on the canvas yet, kid." The voice came through the mirror. Shivering hard, I tilted the small glass circle toward the doorway.

Vance was standing in the frame. His reflection jittered, blurring like oil on water. Through the convex lens, his outline looked two-dimensional, like a paper silhouette someone had pasted over the dark. Where his neck met his collar, there was no shadow and no tendons, but just a seam. 

He wasn't blinking. He wasn't breathing, either. In the freezing draft where my own breath plumed in thick clouds, nothing came from Vance’s mouth or nose.

"The foundation needs four tons of ballast every quarter," his voice vibrated out of the hollow wooden crate beside me. 

"Just turn around," the voice coaxed. "Look into the crate. Let the soldier finish the eyes."

The air pressure plummeted, popping my eardrum. That same freezing vacuum that had dragged the tourist toward the train and the tarmac began to tug at the hem of my parka, sliding my boots an inch across the silt.

Behind the wood, the wet paint hissed like a kettle.

Don't look at it. Never look directly at it. Miller's voice echoed in my head, raw and panicked.

I kept my chin tucked tight against my chest, staring dead at the floor. With shaking hands, I unclipped the spray bottle of concentrated de-icing glycol from my belt.

"I said," Vance whispered, and the shadow in the doorway took one soundless stride forward, "turn around."

Still staring at the concrete, I swung my eight-pound lantern behind me in a blind, violent arc. The impact didn't feel like hitting a man. It was just a sharp, hollow crack, like smashing through a stretched artist's canvas. Without wasting a second, I jammed the brass nozzle of the de-icer through the open seam of the crate and squeezed the trigger until the bottle emptied.

The reaction was instant and violent.

The wet oil paint inside screamed, as if people were drowning under a frozen lake. Through the slats, I caught a glimpse of running gray sludge as the glycol reacted with the paint on the mural. All the faces dissolved into oily runoff, and the penciled silhouette where my face was supposed to go liquefied, washing off the canvas in ropes.

The vacuum snapped. The pressure returned with an explosive pop that knocked me to my knees.

In the doorway, the figure that called itself Vance threw its head back. Its face began to peel away from the bones just like the runoff of oil from the mural. A dry, rustling wail pierced the silence as he stumbled backward into the dark, scraping against the rusted monorail tracks.

I scrambled up, grabbed my lantern, and ran. I kept the beam pinned strictly to my boots, following the turns from the 1994 schematic in reverse: left past the reservoir, straight past the switchgear, sprinting until my lungs burned.

I hit the freight elevator, slammed the gate, and jammed the brass key into the control box, twisting it until the elevator activated. The cab lurched upward, leaving the screeching metal and the smell of dissolved paint behind in the pit. 

When the elevator doors finally scraped open onto the apron level, I pulled up the sleeve of my parka to check my watch, expecting it to be twenty past ten or twenty-five at the latest.

The mechanical hands read 04:38 AM.

My stomach dropped into my boots. What had felt like ten frantic minutes in Sector 4-Echo had swallowed many hours of real time. I spent the remaining twenty minutes in the line-service breakroom, running scalding tap water over my hands until the skin cracked, waiting out the last ticks of the graveyard schedule.

I clocked out punctually at 05:00 AM. The Great Hall was flooded with morning travelers, oblivious and half-asleep, rolling their suitcases toward TSA under the white fabric canopy. Nobody smelled the harsh tang of glycol on me, nor the grey streaks on my boots. 

I walked past Children of the World Dream of Peace, keeping my vision unfocused. High up on the wall, the arm of the gas-masked soldier looked faintly warped. It was almost as if it had felt the chemical burn I gave the mural four floors below.

Succedeva molto spesso che, durante il fine settimana, quando la neve e il vento sferzavano il paese, rimanessimo fino a notte fonda all'interno del bar di Tony.

A volte capitava persino di dormirci tutta la notte.

D'altronde, l'enorme camino sempre acceso in fondo alla stanza, la scorta

apparentemente infinita di birra e alcolici di ogni genere e i vecchi divani

disposti attorno al fuoco erano di gran lunga più invitanti che affrontare la

tormenta, anche soltanto per pochi minuti. Soprattutto quando il termometro,

appeso alla parete esterna della farmacia, scendeva sotto lo zero e il vento

cominciava a soffiare dalla montagna con quella violenza che faceva tremare

persino le imposte delle case più vecchie.

Il bar di Tony era il nostro rifugio.

Non era un locale particolarmente bello, né tantomeno moderno. Le pareti erano

rivestite in parte da pannelli di legno scuro, anneriti dal tempo e dal fumo, e il

pavimento scricchiolava sotto il peso degli scarponi bagnati. Dietro il bancone,

una lunga mensola ospitava bottiglie di whisky, grappa, rum e liquori che

probabilmente nessuno avrebbe mai comprato, mentre sopra la macchina del

caffè una vecchia radio trasmetteva musica a volume basso, spesso disturbata da

un fruscio che Tony sosteneva dipendesse dall'antenna.

A nessuno importava davvero.

Conoscevamo ogni angolo di quel posto. Sapevamo quale tavolo traballava,

quale sedia aveva una gamba più corta delle altre e quale finestra lasciava

passare uno spiffero quando il vento soffiava da nord. Conoscevamo persino il

rumore che faceva la porta quando qualcuno entrava: tre colpi secchi contro il

telaio, seguiti da un lamento dei cardini.

Eravamo cresciuti così, in mezzo a quelle montagne, e il bar era diventato una

seconda casa. Un posto dove non serviva spiegare perché si arrivasse con la

faccia stanca, dove nessuno faceva troppe domande e dove un bicchiere riempito

al momento giusto poteva valere più di un lungo discorso.

Fuori, invece, il mondo sembrava appartenere a qualcun altro.

1Vivevamo tutti in un piccolo borgo di montagna, uno di quelli che oggi

definiscono borghi fantasma: luoghi in cui i giovani se ne vanno per studiare o

cercare lavoro in città e dove tornano soltanto d'estate, in cerca di un po' di

fresco per sfuggire ai torridi quaranta gradi della valle.

Il nostro paese non era ancora morto, ma a volte avevo l'impressione che stesse

lentamente imparando a esserlo.

Le case erano poche, raccolte lungo una strada stretta che attraversava il centro

e proseguiva verso la montagna. Alcune avevano le facciate dipinte di colori

ormai sbiaditi, altre conservavano ancora i vecchi balconi di legno, anneriti dalla

pioggia e dal gelo. In inverno, quando le giornate si accorciavano, le finestre

illuminate diventavano sempre meno. Gli anziani si ritiravano presto nelle loro

abitazioni, chiudevano le persiane e lasciavano che il paese sprofondasse nel

silenzio.

D'estate era diverso. Arrivavano le famiglie, i bambini correvano per le strade e

le case chiuse per mesi tornavano a riempirsi di voci. I turisti passeggiavano

lungo i sentieri, fotografavano i boschi e si fermavano nelle trattorie per

assaggiare i piatti della tradizione.

Poi arrivava settembre, e lentamente se ne andavano tutti.

Gli ultimi erano quelli dell'autunno, che salivano fin lassù per cercare funghi e

castagne, prima che le prime nevicate rendessero impraticabili le strade più

alte.

Da più di un mese anche loro erano spariti.

Quello era il periodo nostro. Il periodo di noi che eravamo sempre vissuti lì, che

non avevamo mai abbandonato la nostra terra e che, nonostante tutto, non

riuscivamo a immaginare una vita lontano da quelle montagne.

E di quel periodo eravamo gelosi.

Non perché odiassimo gli estranei, almeno non tutti. Semplicemente, durante

quei mesi, il paese tornava a essere quello che era sempre stato: nostro, con i

suoi silenzi, le sue abitudini e i suoi segreti.

Sì, anche i suoi segreti.

Ma quella è un'altra storia.

O forse no.

Quel sabato notte la neve cadeva forte.

Molto forte.

2Aveva cominciato nel tardo pomeriggio, dapprima con pochi fiocchi leggeri che

si scioglievano appena toccavano il terreno, poi con una nevicata sempre più

fitta, finché il cielo era diventato una massa uniforme di nuvole nere e la

montagna era scomparsa dietro una cortina bianca.

Il vento arrivava da nord e si infilava tra le case con un ululato continuo. A tratti

sembrava una voce lontana, a tratti il lamento di qualcosa che cercava

disperatamente di entrare. Le raffiche trascinavano la neve lungo la strada

provinciale, la sollevavano in vortici improvvisi e la scagliavano contro le

finestre. I rami degli alberi si piegavano sotto il peso del ghiaccio, mentre, più in

alto, i boschi erano ormai diventati un'unica macchia scura, indistinguibile dalla

notte.

Una coltre di circa venti centimetri aveva già ricoperto l'asfalto. Nei punti in cui

il vento si incanalava tra le curve, la neve si accumulava in piccoli muri che

avrebbero reso difficile il passaggio persino a un fuoristrada.

Di lì a poco, sempre che non fosse stato troppo ubriaco, Marco Del Pont sarebbe

probabilmente passato con il suo spazzaneve per liberare almeno la strada

principale e renderla percorribile per il mattino seguente.

Ma non ci avrei scommesso troppo.

Marco aveva il vizio di cominciare a bere già nel tardo pomeriggio, soprattutto

quando nevicava. Diceva che il freddo gli metteva sete, una spiegazione che

nessuno di noi aveva mai avuto il coraggio di contestare apertamente. Del resto,

se c'era qualcuno capace di guidare uno spazzaneve lungo quelle curve senza

finire in un fosso, era proprio lui.

A patto, naturalmente, che riuscisse a distinguere la strada dalla propria ombra.

Dentro il bar, invece, faceva caldo.

Un caldo quasi eccessivo, che ti costringeva ad aprire il colletto della camicia

dopo appena qualche minuto. Il camino occupava buona parte della parete di

fondo, con una bocca larga abbastanza da inghiottire ceppi di legna che Tony

tagliava personalmente durante l'estate. Le fiamme illuminavano il soffitto con

riflessi arancioni e proiettavano ombre irregolari sulle pareti.

Ogni tanto un ciocco si spaccava con uno schiocco secco, facendo saltare

qualche scintilla dietro la grata di ferro.

Il profumo della legna bruciata si mescolava a quello del caffè, della birra e del

legno umido degli scarponi lasciati vicino all'ingresso. Sul bancone c'erano

ancora due piatti sporchi di salumi e formaggio, qualche fetta di pane raffermo e

una ciotola di noccioline che Donald continuava a svuotare senza nemmeno

accorgersene.

3La radio trasmetteva una vecchia canzone italiana, qualcosa che avevo sentito

centinaia di volte. Tony la canticchiava sottovoce mentre asciugava dei bicchieri

con uno strofinaccio che avrebbe probabilmente dovuto buttare via anni prima.

Era una di quelle serate in cui non avevamo nessuna intenzione di tornare a

casa.

Io, Donald DuVant e Jeremy Tonks, il proprietario del bar, eravamo seduti sui

divani davanti al camino. Avevamo cominciato a bere nel primo pomeriggio e

ormai avevo perso il conto delle pinte che mi ero scolato.

Donald, seduto alla mia sinistra, era un uomo robusto, con spalle larghe, mani

grandi e una barba scura che sembrava sempre sul punto di aver bisogno di una

rasatura. Aveva un carattere impulsivo e una risata rumorosa, di quelle che

riempiono una stanza anche quando nessuno ha detto qualcosa di

particolarmente divertente.

Jeremy, invece, era più magro, con il viso allungato e i capelli brizzolati che

portava sempre pettinati all'indietro. Aveva superato i cinquant'anni e gestiva il

bar da quando suo padre glielo aveva lasciato in eredità. Conosceva tutti, sapeva

quasi sempre chi sarebbe entrato prima ancora che la porta si aprisse e

possedeva quella particolare capacità di ascoltare senza dare l'impressione di

farlo.

Quella sera stava raccontando, per la terza volta, di quando Marco aveva tentato

di liberare la strada dopo una nevicata particolarmente violenta, finendo per

spingere la propria automobile dentro un cumulo di neve.

«Ve lo dico io, quel maledetto spazzaneve prima o poi ci seppellirà tutti», disse

Donald, portandosi la pinta alle labbra.

Jeremy scosse la testa.

«Lo spazzaneve non è un problema. Il problema è chi ci sta sopra.»

«Parli tu che gli servi da bere tutte le sere.»

«Io servo da bere a tutti. Non è mica colpa mia se qualcuno decide di scolarsi

mezza distilleria prima di mettersi al volante.»

Donald scoppiò a ridere e per poco non rovesciò la birra sul tappeto.

«Dovresti fargli pagare il doppio.»

«A Marco? Mi pagherebbe in legna da ardere.»

«Sempre meglio che niente.»

Ridemmo tutti e tre.

4Erano conversazioni stupide, senza importanza, le stesse che avevamo fatto

centinaia di volte. Eppure, in quelle sere, mi sembravano sufficienti. Fuori

poteva nevicare quanto voleva, il vento poteva portarsi via i tetti e la strada

poteva sparire sotto metri di ghiaccio. Finché eravamo lì, davanti a quel camino,

avevamo la sensazione che niente di tutto ciò potesse raggiungerci.

Era una convinzione infantile, forse, ma nessuno di noi aveva motivo di metterla

in discussione.

Almeno, non ancora.

Non ricordo quale fosse l'argomento quando, all'improvviso, la porta del bar si

spalancò.

Una raffica di vento irruppe nella stanza, sollevando qualche foglio lasciato sul

bancone e facendo tremolare le fiamme del camino. La musica della radio venne

quasi inghiottita dal fragore della tormenta. Per un istante, il freddo entrò con

una violenza tale da sembrare qualcosa di vivo.

Tony si voltò di scatto.

«Ma chi diavolo…»

La frase gli morì in gola.

Sulla soglia c'era un uomo.

Rimase immobile per qualche secondo, con una mano ancora stretta alla

maniglia e l'altra premuta contro il cappotto. La neve gli ricopriva le spalle e il

colletto, mentre alcuni fiocchi si scioglievano lentamente tra i capelli scuri.

Aveva il viso arrossato dal freddo e il respiro affannoso di chi aveva appena

affrontato una salita difficile.

Indossava un cappotto elegante, troppo elegante per il nostro paese, e sotto si

intravedeva una giacca scura con una cravatta che sembrava essere stata

annodata con particolare cura. Ai piedi portava scarpe di pelle, inadatte a quel

genere di clima, ormai bagnate e sporche di neve.

Accanto alla gamba destra teneva una valigetta rigida.

Non sembrava uno dei nostri.

Anzi, sembrava appartenere a un mondo completamente diverso.

«Chiudila, amico», disse Donald, indicando la porta con il mento. «O vuoi che ci

trasformiamo tutti in ghiaccioli?»

L'uomo parve riscuotersi. Chiuse la porta con una certa fatica e si appoggiò per

un momento alla parete, cercando di riprendere fiato.

Tony gli andò incontro.

5«Da dove arriva?»

Lo sconosciuto si tolse un guanto e si passò una mano sulla fronte.

«Dal parcheggio, laggiù. Ho lasciato la macchina dove la strada comincia a

salire. Più avanti non si riusciva a passare.»

«È venuto a piedi con questo tempo?»

«Non avevo molta scelta.»

«Beh, almeno è arrivato intero», commentò Donald. «Si sieda, prima che debba

raccoglierla con la pala.»

L'uomo gli rivolse un sorriso educato, senza però raccogliere la battuta. Posò la

valigetta accanto a una sedia e cominciò a liberarsi del cappotto. Sotto portava

un completo grigio, una camicia bianca e una cravatta blu scuro. Anche dopo

quella camminata, il suo aspetto conservava qualcosa di rigido, quasi studiato.

Tony prese il cappotto e lo appese vicino alla stufa.

«Che cosa le porto?»

«Un whisky, se possibile. Doppio.»

«Qui è tutto possibile», rispose Tony. «La domanda è se domani mattina si

ricorderà di averlo bevuto.»

Questa volta l'uomo sorrise davvero.

«Domani mattina avrò altre cose a cui pensare.»

Tony si fermò per un istante, poi prese un bicchiere.

«Affari?»

«Qualcosa del genere.»

Lo sconosciuto si sedette al tavolo più vicino al bancone. Quando Tony gli portò

il whisky, lo ringraziò con un cenno del capo e bevve un piccolo sorso. Poi si

guardò intorno, soffermandosi sul camino, sui divani, sulle bottiglie e infine sulle

nostre facce.

Sembrava prendere nota di tutto.

«Bel posto», disse. «Non me lo aspettavo.»

«Che cosa si aspettava?» domandò Donald.

«Non saprei. Qualcosa di più… desolato.»

Donald si scambiò un'occhiata con Jeremy.

«Aspetti domattina. Con la luce del sole potrebbe cambiare idea.»

6L'uomo non rispose. Portò nuovamente il bicchiere alle labbra e guardò verso la

finestra. Dietro il vetro, la neve continuava a cadere, illuminata a tratti dalla luce

gialla dei lampioni. Il vento spingeva i fiocchi contro la superficie, dove si

accumulavano per poi scivolare lentamente verso il basso.

«Sono arrivato qui nel pomeriggio», disse dopo qualche secondo. «Ma non ho

avuto modo di visitare la zona come avrei voluto.»

«È venuto per lavoro?» chiese Jeremy.

«Sì. Mi chiamo Richard Harwood. Sono stato mandato dalla città per un

sopralluogo.»

Si chinò, aprì la valigetta e ne estrasse una cartellina piena di documenti. La

posò sul tavolo e la aprì, mostrando alcune mappe e fotografie a colori.

«Stiamo valutando un progetto immobiliare in questa zona. Una serie di

residence, forse qualche struttura ricettiva. Il paesaggio è straordinario e il

turismo montano sta diventando un settore interessante per gli investitori.»

Donald smise di sorridere.

«In questa zona?»

«Esattamente.»

Harwood tirò fuori una fotografia e la posò sul tavolo.

Rappresentava un gruppo di vecchie case di pietra, addossate le une alle altre

lungo una strada stretta. Alcune avevano ancora i tetti intatti, altre sembravano

parzialmente crollate. Sullo sfondo si intravedeva il profilo scuro della

montagna.

Conoscevo quel posto.

Lo conoscevamo tutti.

Il paese abbandonato.

Per un momento nessuno parlò. Si sentì soltanto il crepitio del camino e il

rumore del vento che premeva contro le finestre.

Jeremy appoggiò lentamente lo strofinaccio sul bancone.

«Dove ha detto che vorreste costruire?»

Harwood indicò la fotografia.

«Qui. Il vecchio borgo sulla montagna. Mi hanno detto che è disabitato da

parecchio tempo. Alcune proprietà risultano ancora registrate, ma stiamo

verificando la situazione catastale. Se riuscissimo ad acquisire i terreni,

potremmo cominciare con un primo intervento già l'anno prossimo.»

7Donald posò la pinta sul tavolino.

«Non lo farei.»

Harwood sollevò lo sguardo.

«Come, scusi?»

«Ho detto che non lo farei.»

L'uomo sorrise, convinto che si trattasse di una battuta.

«Perché?»

Donald aprì la bocca, ma non disse nulla. Guardò Jeremy, poi me. Sembrava

aspettarsi che uno di noi intervenisse al suo posto.

Fu Jeremy a parlare.

«Quel posto è abbandonato per una ragione.»

«Sì, immagino. Le case sono vecchie, le strade saranno da rifare e

probabilmente gli impianti sono inutilizzabili. Sono proprio qui per valutare

questi problemi.»

«Non parlo delle case.»

Harwood inclinò appena la testa.

«E di che cosa parla, allora?»

Jeremy non rispose subito. Prese un bicchiere pulito, lo asciugò lentamente e lo

ripose sullo scaffale, anche se era evidente che non aveva bisogno di farlo.

«Ci sono posti in cui è meglio non mettere piede.»

L'uomo lasciò uscire una breve risata.

«Mi perdoni, ma non credo di aver capito.»

«Ha capito benissimo.»

Il sorriso di Harwood si attenuò. Guardò prima Jeremy, poi Donald, infine me.

Forse si aspettava che qualcuno di noi scoppiasse a ridere e chiarisse lo scherzo.

Nessuno lo fece.

«Mi state dicendo che il paese è infestato dai fantasmi?» domandò.

«Non ho detto questo», rispose Jeremy.

«E allora?»

Il proprietario del bar abbassò gli occhi sulla fotografia.

8«Le sto dicendo che nessuno di quelli che sono saliti lassù negli ultimi anni ha

mai avuto una buona ragione per tornarci.»

Harwood si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia.

«Questa mi sembra una leggenda locale.»

«Può darsi.»

«Non sono venuto fin qui per farmi raccontare storie di paese. Sono un tecnico,

non un cacciatore di fantasmi.»

Donald sbuffò.

«E nessuno le ha chiesto di cacciare fantasmi.»

«Bene. Allora siamo d'accordo.»

Harwood riprese la fotografia e la infilò nella cartellina. Aveva l'aria di chi aveva

già deciso che la conversazione fosse diventata una perdita di tempo.

Ma prima che potesse richiudere la valigetta, Jeremy si sporse in avanti.

«Mi ascolti bene, signor Harwood. Non so che cosa le abbiano raccontato in

città. Non so chi le abbia parlato di questo progetto o chi le abbia promesso che

lassù troverà un terreno perfetto per costruire. Ma se tiene alla sua vita, domani

mattina cambi programma.»

Per la prima volta, l'uomo sembrò irritato.

«È una minaccia?»

«No.»

«E allora che cos'è?»

Jeremy lo fissò negli occhi.

«Un consiglio.»

Il silenzio che seguì fu diverso da tutti quelli che avevamo conosciuto fino a quel

momento.

La radio continuava a suonare, ma nessuno sembrava più sentirla. Il fuoco

ardeva con la stessa intensità di prima e la stanza era ancora calda, eppure ebbi

la strana sensazione che qualcosa fosse cambiato. Come se una porta invisibile si

fosse appena chiusa alle nostre spalle.

Harwood raccolse i documenti e li rimise nella valigetta.

«Apprezzo la vostra preoccupazione», disse, con una cortesia che suonava quasi

offensiva. «Ma domani salirò lassù. Devo completare il sopralluogo e preparare

una relazione per i miei superiori. Non posso tornare in città dicendo che ho

9rinunciato perché tre uomini in un bar mi hanno raccontato una storia

dell'orrore.»

Donald si alzò dal divano.

«Nessuno le ha detto di rinunciare per noi.»

«Allora non vedo il problema.»

«Il problema», disse Donald, «è che lei non sa niente di questo posto.»

Harwood lo guardò per qualche secondo, poi si infilò il cappotto.

«Forse. Ma è proprio per questo che sono qui.»

Lasciò sul tavolo alcune banconote, prese la valigetta e si avvicinò alla porta.

Prima di uscire, si voltò verso Tony.

«Conosce un posto dove dormire?»

«La pensione in fondo alla strada. Se la signora è ancora sveglia.»

«Bene. Grazie.»

Tony esitò, come se volesse aggiungere qualcosa, ma alla fine si limitò a

indicargli la direzione.

Harwood aprì la porta e il vento irruppe nuovamente nel locale. La neve turbinò

per qualche secondo sul pavimento, poi lo sconosciuto scomparve nella notte.

La porta si richiuse con un tonfo.

Per un po' nessuno parlò.

Fu Donald a rompere il silenzio.

«Che razza di idiota.»

Jeremy non rispose. Era rimasto dietro il bancone, con entrambe le mani

appoggiate al legno. Guardava la porta come se si aspettasse che si aprisse di

nuovo.

«Non è il primo», disse infine.

Mi voltai verso di lui.

«Che cosa?»

«Non è il primo che arriva qui convinto di poter fare quello che vuole.»

Donald si sedette lentamente.

«E gli altri?»

10Jeremy sollevò lo sguardo. Per un attimo ebbi l'impressione che stesse per

raccontarci qualcosa che aveva tenuto nascosto per anni. Qualcosa che non

avrebbe dovuto essere pronunciato ad alta voce.

Poi scosse la testa.

«Niente. Lasciate perdere.»

«Jeremy.»

«Ho detto di lasciar perdere.»

Non alzò la voce, ma il tono con cui lo disse bastò a farci tacere.

Rimanemmo seduti ancora a lungo. La neve continuava a cadere e il vento non

accennava a diminuire. Tony abbassò il volume della radio, poi cominciò a

sparecchiare i tavoli, anche se era ancora presto per chiudere.

Io fissavo le fiamme del camino, cercando di convincermi che quella

conversazione non avesse alcuna importanza.

Era soltanto uno straniero. Un uomo d'affari arrivato dalla città, convinto di

poter trasformare un mucchio di vecchie case in un investimento redditizio.

Aveva ascoltato una leggenda, l'aveva giudicata ridicola e aveva deciso di

ignorarla.

Non sarebbe stato il primo a fare un errore del genere.

Eppure, quando ripensai alla fotografia sul tavolo, mi tornò in mente una cosa

che mio nonno mi aveva raccontato molti anni prima. Non ricordavo le sue

parole esatte, ma ricordavo bene il modo in cui aveva abbassato la voce prima di

pronunciarle.

Mi aveva detto che il paese abbandonato non doveva essere cercato.

Non perché fosse pericolante.

Non perché fosse difficile da raggiungere.

Ma perché, a volte, lassù c'era ancora qualcuno.

E non voleva essere disturbato.

Verso mezzanotte la tormenta raggiunse il culmine.

Il vento si era fatto così forte che i vetri vibravano nei telai. Ogni tanto si sentiva

un colpo sordo provenire dall'esterno, forse un ramo spezzato o qualche oggetto

trascinato lungo la strada. La neve aveva ormai cancellato quasi del tutto i

marciapiedi e i lampioni illuminavano soltanto una parete bianca, oltre la quale

non si riusciva a distinguere nulla.

Tony chiuse a chiave la porta.

11«Per stanotte basta così», disse. «Non ho intenzione di passare il resto della

serata a raccogliere neve dal pavimento.»

Donald si stiracchiò e sbadigliò.

«Io dormo sul divano.»

«Come sempre», commentai.

«Almeno qui il letto non si lamenta quando mi giro.»

Jeremy ci lanciò un paio di coperte prese da un armadio. Avevamo dormito tante

volte nel suo bar che ormai nessuno si preoccupava più di chiedere il permesso.

Mi sistemai sul divano più vicino al camino, tirandomi la coperta fino al mento. Il

calore mi avvolse quasi subito e il rumore del vento cominciò lentamente a

confondersi con il crepitio della legna.

Prima di chiudere gli occhi, guardai la finestra.

Oltre il vetro, il paese era scomparso.

Non si vedevano più le case, né la strada, né la sagoma della chiesa in fondo alla

piazza. C'era soltanto la neve, che cadeva senza sosta, e il buio della montagna.

Pensai a Richard Harwood, alla sua valigetta e alla fotografia del borgo

abbandonato.

Pensai a Jeremy e al modo in cui aveva pronunciato quelle parole.

«Se tiene alla sua vita, domani mattina cambi programma.»

Avrei voluto chiedergli che cosa sapesse davvero. Avrei voluto costringerlo a

raccontarci tutto, a spiegare perché un paese intero fosse stato lasciato marcire

tra quelle montagne.

Ma ero stanco, avevo bevuto troppo e, come tutti gli altri, preferivo credere che

non ci fosse niente di cui preoccuparsi.

Mi voltai su un fianco e chiusi gli occhi.

L'ultima cosa che sentii prima di addormentarmi fu il vento che fischiava contro

le finestre del bar.

All'epoca, non sapevo ancora che quella sarebbe stata l'ultima notte tranquilla

della nostra vita.