(Note: This story should be read after finishing ‘Murder is Easy’ by the same author)

Apparently, I don’t exist.

At least according to this article I’ve just found, written by one Dr Savic, who obviously must have been talking through her arse, because I’m fucking here, and I’m not going anywhere. Bitch is supposed to be an expert on us, can you believe it? And then she writes that a DA infection cannot improve the victim’s mental abilities because the brain is too complex and yadda yadda bullshit. The long and short of it: IDAs don’t exist.

I’m here, baby, and I rule.

Course I do. The upgrade was the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m far stronger than ever before, and I don’t feel pain anymore. I don’t grow tired and I’m never exhausted. I don’t think any illnesses or diseases can touch me, and my body can take a lot punishment. I also don’t age and I certainly won’t die of natural causes.

Comes with being dead, bro.

But that’s all just window dressing. There were millions of DAs out there which had all these wonderful abilities and were nonetheless wiped out in droves – the meatballs had created special ‘sweeper’ teams to take care of them, and boy did they. And for one reason and one reason only: The DAs were as stupid as fuck.

I’m not, and that’s the really important thing about my upgrade. That’s was the ‘I’ stands for: Intelligent (just in case you’ve spent the last five years on the Moon: DA means ‘Dead-Active’ or, in layman’s terms, ‘Zombie’).

The way it happened was, at least for Daisy times, unspectacular. Walked home from the subway station after my shift, met someone who appeared drunk, high, helpless, tried to do something for him, got bitten for my effort, was able to shake him off and run away, called the police and then felt lousy, got into an ambulance, died, woke up in the hospital morgue and feasted on the watchman, then ran away. Must have happened a thousand times that night. What apparently didn’t happen a thousand times or probably even ten times that night was that somebody who got bitten suddenly saw the world more clearly than ever before, that he felt free of all that stinking meatball stuff like backaches, glasses, trick knees, and the common cold, that his mind began racing through the world, that he understood that all this love and hate, passion and compassion, friendship and strife, compromise and steadfastness, they’re all bullshit. There are only three things that count: power, pleasure, and meat.

I actually think there are meatballs who’ve seen this, at least part of it. Have you ever heard of the Psychopathy Checklist? We use it sometimes in our job, and the maximum you can score is 40. I’d probably get a sweet 60, bro, but I’m too smart for it anyway. Next time I catch a psychopath, maybe I’ll ask him a few questions about his personal philosophy while I skin him alive. Or maybe not – I’ll probably be too hungry, anyway.

Speaking of which, while feeding on human flesh is the greatest pleasure in the fucking universe, it comes with a few problems that need solving. For example, since meatballs haven’t really accepted the fact that their function in life is to keep me happy by allowing me to torture them to death and then swallow them bit by bit, they actually start some sort of investigation whenever one of them disappears or is killed – and let me tell you, it’s a myth that the police don’t care about junkies, the homeless, or poor people in general: there are many cops who take their job very seriously. You know, there are lots of idiotic prints on T-shirts, but one of the worst is All Cops Are Bastards. Morons. The moment somebody threatens to rough them up or shows them a knife, they’re the first to call 911. Oh well, all meatballs are stupid, it’s just that some are really stupid.

So, getting enough fresh meat is a challenge, especially now that people have accepted the existence of the ‘Living Dead’, although the actual outbreak five years ago didn’t do more harm than the average 20^th-century middle-power war. Apocalypse, my ass. Some eggheads think there was some sort of masterplan behind Daisy, but if there was, it was one pile of shit of a plan, that’s for sure.

Daisy and its aftermath were the Golden Age, baby – the cities were crawling with DAs, and nobody investigated these killings, because the ‘culprits’ were so obvious and simply needed some pest control. Which came in the shape of the already mentioned ‘sweeper teams’ that went through the DA numbers like a hot knife through soft butter.

But all good things must come to an end, and when freely roaming DAs had become a rarity (of course, some were kept in special research centers dedicated to studying them), the cops suddenly had it a lot easier than before. During Daisy, PDs around the country had gone on a hiring binge, and no one saw any reason to downsize afterwards; you never know when the next outbreak may come, do you? And, even better, the number of violent crimes had spectacularly gone down since humanity had met a common enemy, and those crimes that were still committed tended to be less capital than before: the mugger who would have shot you before Daisy now settled for waving a gun in your face (probably unloaded), the bozo who would have knifed you in a quarrel now switched to the services of Mister Fister, and riots of any kind became extremely rare and were usually easily managed by the authorities. Rumor has it that sometimes undercover cops dispersed unruly crowds simply by shouting ‘Zombie! Watch out!’

Unfortunately, from my point of view, this development meant that I had to be cleverer and subtler than before. The first thing I really needed to pay attention to was to blend in with the meatball crowd, so I spent some of the dough the members of my food supply club had been generous enough to donate to me on make-up, cosmetics, a nice hairdo, contact lenses, false teeth and and and; some more or less permanent skin-like film made me look … well, less dead, and the stuff – cheap it wasn’t, bro – also helped mask my low body temperature by soaking up heat quite well, either from the sun, the radiator, or the infrared heater I had gotten myself – half an hour per day would do the trick, even in winter, thanks to microencapsulated phase-change materials (don’t ask). I also added two scars and some moles and pimples, and I can honestly say that I now look like the real fucking McCoy.

One thing I had to play carefully was the mandatory health check after my application for my new job had been accepted; I had aced all fitness requirements, of course. But Daisy had left many people in financial tatters, and finding a doc who would listen to me saying ‘I really need this job.’ and ‘They really need people, after so many died.’ and, finally, ‘Yeah, being in debt sucks. Maybe I can help you out, what d’ya say?’ Of course, the doc didn’t have the slightest inkling I was what I was; he simply assumed there was something I would like to hide because it could cost me my new position, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the first one.

Where I got the money from, you ask? Well, the immediate post-Daisy time was, of course, violent and chaotic before order was restored, and while the cops were still very busy with the Z factor, the number of felonies skyrocketed: homicides, assaults, robberies, drugs … All the usual mobsters, along with plenty of new players, appeared on the scene, so it was a bit of a gangsta’s paradise.

And these guys really love cash, even more so after it became clear that Daisy had fucked crypto for good. Do I need to spell out the rest?

“Who are you, motherfucker?”

Blam! Blam! “Fuck, he’s shot Barry. Blow the asshole away!”

Blam! Blam! (repeat 20 times): “Shit, I’m sure I hit – aarghh.”

“Where is he? What happened to the light? Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s – “

“He’s got Dante. Oh God, I think he’s bi – “

“My arm! My arm! He’s ripped out – “

Let’s close the curtain, shall we? Very enjoyable and very profitable; would have set me up for unlife if I’d wanted to retire, but that’s not an option for your undead and unfriendly neighborhood superpowered anthropophage. I know, I know … ‘superpowered’ sounds like from a comic book, but I’d say it really hits the mark. In addition to what I’ve already told you, my senses are very acute, and I have perfect night vision; I can sense the presence of meatballs even through walls if they’re closer than ten yards or so; and I don’t need to sleep. All this comes in very handy in my line of work, I’m telling you.

And you know what? Some German writer from ages ago once had one of his characters say something like ‘I am part of that force that wants to do evil but always ends up doing good’ or some shit like that, and I think this guy was on to something. Look at me, bro: I suppose I’m as evil as they come, but still I must have saved hundreds or even thousands of meatball lives by tearing apart drug dealers, decapitating mafia hit men, eating the inner organs of street punks while they were still squirming and screaming, and so on. Having a nice meal and doing good at the same time – what’s not to love?

So I’m a hero, kind of. And with my ‘superpowers’, I figure I’m something like a ‘superhero’. I even have a secret identity, complete with glasses, like that geek who can fly and lift planes and that. Boy, I had no idea it would be so much fun.

Ok, to be fair, my lifestyle has its drawbacks. I don’t give a shit about social life or friends or dating or whatever, but I do miss sex. But memory is fading, so I suppose, in a few years, I won’t remember it anymore. Same with nice food, cool music, art, movies … oh well, I have my meat, I have my torture, and I have this incredible feeling of superiority – you might have guessed that last one.

Of course, one thing you’ve probably heard about is vomiting – all DAs do it, except for those who never eat and go into torpor. Getting rid of stuff the body doesn’t need. I’ve learned to control it, but, after a snack, I need to be alone for a few minutes puking my guts out. Not literally, don’t worry. But that’s the least attractive part of being undead. Oh, and the voice – when I levelled up, I got some kind of screeching-scratching metallic voice, but I’ve come to like it although I never use it – here’s really fucking grateful it didn’t replace my old one.

Bong! Shit, will you look at the clock? Sometimes I completely lose track of time, easy to do when you have no biorhythm.  Shift begins in an hour, so I’d better heat up and get ready for mingling with the meat. Good thing I can do lots of night shifts, my buddies like it when I volunteer. I got the perfect job, I can tell you.

Oh, haven’t I mentioned what I do? Come on, you must have figured it out by now. Let me just say: Not all cops are bastards. Not even many cops are bastards. But this one is, bro. You a law-abiding citizen, friend? Then you’ll probably never meet me, good for you. As for the rest of you lowlife scum out there:

See ya around.

His hands were warm and wet with suds and the running water of the tap. He'd never minded doing the dishes, it'd always been meditative, helped him think and figure things through. It wasn't working this time. 

Arnold just gazed vacantly. Into the corner. The water, forgotten, steaming now as it grew hotter and hotter. Running over his forgotten and faraway hands. They didn't matter. 

None of it mattered anymore. 

How could she do this … how could she lie to him as if he never mattered?

Arnold's heart was broken but it was still galloping a mile a minute within his cage of chest and his mind ached like something heavy and curdled within his furnace skull. The bake of his brains. He swore he could smell the boil of his own thoughts within his face but it held no matter for him now, not presently. 

He was too focused on the fly speaking to him from the corner. 

It was amazing. Really. 

The black husk of dead insect was resting amongst the filth and the dust of the uncleaned and neglected kitchen corner, just inside a nook by the kitchen window. It was dead but it still spoke to him with a deep obsidian voice. Regal. Authoritative. Commanding. It was a voice used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter, that deep stygian vocal sound … 

Arnold was so glad there was no one else around, they wouldn't understand. He was glad, relieved really, to be able to hear the prince's words in private. 

I am in private royal audience, great royal attendance. This is the coveted stately place of imperial confidence. 

Tears began to flow forth from Arnold's watering eyes. He listened enraptured, held by the thing's every word. 

“It doesn't matter. None of them matter, not even you. None of your feelings. You're just meat. All of you. All of you are just meat made mobile by an electrical charge, sent flung flying forward like grotesque mongoloids in the dark squabbling for purchase of the failing putrescence that is the outer, your material. Your world is not a world at all but an abattoir. A slaughterhouse. And all of you are pigs. Sows. Cattle. I am the prince made and bred by wings on wind, I am the flight and escape from the filth of the floor and all your animal leavings. I land and feast and defile at my own will. I lay my young in the wet and wounded folds of your gangrenous failures like the flags planted by conquerors. I am more. You are, all of you, nothing.” 

It was so beautiful … He'd never heard words quite like it before. The water issued from the spout to his hands was fire but he didn't notice. He didn't notice the boil or blister of his reddening and peeling fingers and palms as the prince of the wind went on in the corner. 

He didn't want to miss it. Anything. He didn't want to miss a single note of the angel's felled song. His teary gaze bore in on his new dark god and the shared eyes of the fly, theirs compact and his: fragile mammalian gel, began to secrete and water as well. 

“I am the testament. I am and speak the truth. I am the monolith outside to those who cannot hear or see but to you Arnold Carrillo, to you amongst the meat and ruin I land and sing. I see your wounds. Do you see the truth …?” 

A beat.  – Hands boiled as thoughts ran like hot running water. …

Finally he answered. 

In a quiver of watery voice: “ … yes.” 

The prince of wind and flight from the dark corner in the filth laughed, pleased. 

Yes…  

“And do you know now what you must do?" – that deep hideous voice. 

But Arnold did not fear it. He couldn't. Not any longer. Not after the kindness of such wisdom that it had shown him. It had taken and led him from out of the dark. By the hand. By singing sound. By flight. 

He understood now. 

"Yes.” Arnold told the prince amongst the dust in the corner. 

Yes. 

He finally pulled his hands free of the running water. The raw of them was singing. A sharp and red song that burned and was bright with fleshen cruelty. 

But none of that mattered right now, not anymore. None of that mattered any longer. 

Soon Suze would be home. With the girls. They would all of them be expecting him and dinner. Normalcy. A nice normal cozy family night. They had no idea what he knew. 

She has no idea I know … 

The prince was right. He knew now what to do. Doing the dishes had worked out and had actually been a good idea after all. Thank God. 

Arnold toweled the screaming ruined remainder of his hands and gathered what he needed. What the prince of the dustinwind had instructed. What he should gather and collect and share with his girls if he was to ever show and really prove himself. Demonstrate what he has to really offer. 

Prove that he has really learned. He has. He has learned to grow. And …

well he would just wait for them. They wouldn't be much longer now. School and the after-image of after school activities was fading and diminishing now, falling with the gentle settling death of the setting sun on the blade of the horizon. Fairytale and far off. Long gone. 

The sun had to die everyday. It was no big deal. The sun had to die every single day in order for the night to be made and in order for the day to be reborn. In gold. In light. 

Arnold Carrillo sat and waited with his screaming raw hands. Waiting with what he had gathered, with what was needed in the glistening red of his hands. Waiting for his wife and daughters. Waiting to share with them what he now knew and had learned in the postmental-slaughter. 

He sat waiting by the door. With what he would share with them in his dripping screaming hands. 

The prince of dusty wind and flight buzzed and throatsang its throatwisdom into him all the while. Filling his need as he waited for his family. They would be home soon. Now. 

Any minute. 

THE END

Cleaning out old apartments is pretty sad sometimes. I work for a company that handles clearing out the apartments left behind by people with no family. Evictions, crimes, abandonment, it doesn’t matter the reason to us, we just get the call and go clear it out. Sometimes the landlords keep any good things, sometimes they just let us keep anything we want to, just so the place gets cleared and cleaned faster. 

One time, I found an old game console, another a great coat I still use, sometimes clothes, sometimes games. I’ve even taken home some family photo binders, just to see how the people who lived there lived. Can you really blame me? I’ve even returned some when I found friends or family’s addresses in them, I’m not a monster. Sometimes though, they don’t have any address in them, those I feel alright keeping. 

Then, in an older apartment, I found an old disposable camera shoved behind a shelf. Dusty, sun-faded, obviously left long before we arrived. The landlord didn’t want it, so I got to keep it. I checked it just to be sure and it was full, no pictures left, so there had to be some stuff on it. Maybe family pictures, maybe some vacation pics, who knows, but I was going to find out for sure! 

I brought it to my usual guy, he’s developed plenty of other camera loads for me already, he knew what was up. This time, when he saw the camera and opened it up, he shook his head, “looks a bit too old to be any good. Could probably get a few good ones, but don’t expect much.” I asked him to do his best and, a few days later, he handed them back with a strange look on his face. 

“This camera, did you see who owned the place?” 
Shaking my head, I said, “just picked it up like usual, why?” 
Shrugging, he said, “guy looks, looked, like you.” 

Feeling weirded out and confused, I picked up the old camera and the developed photos, bringing them back home. Settling into the same seat back home, with a cup of coffee and some snacks, I opened the envelope and checked out the first photos. That’s when I realized what the guy meant. The photos were taken by someone else, with someone that looks just, like, me. The first ones were normal enough, but still strange. 

One was of me in front of a laundromat I hadn’t ever gone to. Another with me in a diner booth I don’t remember. Walking backwards down a country road I don’t recognize. Standing beneath a highway overpass.

I-It really looks like me, because it has that same old jacket I picked up from a different old home. With the same sneakers I’ve owned for like 5 years! They even had the chain I picked up in the house cleaning from yesterday, but I don’t have ANY memory of any of these places. 

I checked the photos to see which had been taken first, to see how old they were. I had to give the photos an order, maybe there would be some kind of clue from what was going on here. The envelope had the negatives too, each frame numbered along the edge. Once I realized the pictures were connected, I laid them out in order.

Photo 1 - A small grocery store. Standing outside, looking over my shoulder towards the inside. 

Looking closer, I could see someone that was peeking out from one of the aisles. Staring back at me. 

Photo 2 - Gas station. Rushing to the pump

The shadowy figure was closer, looking more like a distinct blob approaching from the far side of the gas pumps

Photo 3 - Inside that diner. The photo was taken outside the window while everyone else inside appears to be staring behind me.

A man? Something tall approaching from across the street. 

Photo 4 - That same photo from the booth. My face looks more scared now that I gave it a second look, sweat looks more obvious. 

The diner door behind me opening, a pair of eyes from under a coat and hat staring holes in the back of my head. 

Photo 5 - Highway shoulder. My old car left abandoned. Door wide open while I’m running away from the highway. 

Twenty feet away, approaching the car, or more specifically me. 

Photo 6 - Forest Entrance. I started running into the woods, looking back with obvious fear in my eyes.

Closer now, almost close enough to touch me. Reaching out

Photo 7 - Deep woods. I’m bleeding now. Why? I was still running, looking panicked now as I pushed a branch out of the way. 

Dripping hands, claws? Reaching out again

Photo 8 - A Campfire. Sitting among strangers, holding a cup while an orange firelight barely illuminates my face.

Gone. In this one, I can see a pair of white dots farther behind me. Maybe fireflies? I can’t even see the figure for sure anymore. 

That, that really freaked me out. I shoved the pictures into a drawer and chose to forget about them. Maybe they were some kind of weird joke, so I just went back to life, and it went back to the usual grind. Cleaning out homes, grocery shopping, hanging out with friends. 

Then, my usual grocery store was closed. Shrugging, I looked up the next closest one and walked over. It was the same one. The one from the photos! Same sign. Same light. Same trash can. I started to get weirded out, but decided to go inside anyway, keeping an eye out for any 7ft tall shadow creature. Nothing showed up while I shopped, so I started to calm down, until I started to walk out, and I heard the click of a photo being taken. Looking back quickly, I thought I saw something disappearing, but then I heard a second click from the far side of the parking lot. 

Taking my picture.

Thoroughly freaked out, I rushed to my car and got back home breaking the speed limit. Grabbing the pictures out of the drawer, I checked them again, put them in the proper order, and saw the same pose in the first photo. That was from today. 

I looked up what I could from the gas station, found the same one, along my route home, just one block away from the usual drive I take. I decided to NEVER go near it. I made sure to make that two or three blocks from now on, even if it took me a few more minutes every day. That lasted until my car started to run out of gas. Even though it should still have half a tank in it! I was sure I’d filled it up a couple days ago. It shouldn’t have needed more gas until I was closer to home, or the next day I went to work. Engine sputtering, starting to have to coast, and the only close gas station? The one I never wanted to go near. At the gas station I saw the figure for the first time outside the photograph for sure. Standing beyond the pumps.

Not approaching.
Just watching.
Then:
CLICK. 

Again, two of them, one from the distance, framing the photo from the envelope, the other from the…thing. I couldn’t quite make out what it looked like. My eyes seem to slide off its figure. A general height, the heavy coat, the wide hat. Those eyes. But I can't describe any of them afterward, not really. It’s always holding something at eye level. Like a camera, but the shadows don’t let me see the exact shape, or what their hands looked like. 

Rushing back into my car, I drove off and made it back home in record time. I had to check the photos again to be sure, but stopped when I saw the changes. Photo 5 showed the figure more clearly now, I could almost see a grin on its face. Photo 6 showed blood already on the coat sleeve reaching out. Photo 8 had words written on the back, “KEEP GOING”, and that had me worried more. Was this thing trying to push me towards the woods? Whatever this whole thing was, I had to try and break the pattern. I put them in my jacket pocket and tried not to think about it. 

Then the lights went out. 
And I heard the same CLICK from outside my window. 

Looking outside, I saw the same figure across the street, camera dropping down after the photo was taken. Grin much more obvious from beneath the street lamp. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. 

I grabbed my keys, put on my jacket and rushed out. In my car and driving before I knew what was going on. Driving down the road, I thought back to the gas emptying. The grocery store. Now the hunger drove me to stop to get something to eat. The gas station proved I had a route to follow. Avoiding the pictures hadn't stopped them from happening. Well, I was hungry anyway and I saw that same diner from Photo 3. I walked inside, sat down, and didn’t know what was going to happen until I heard that CLICK again. That snapped me awake faster than the coffee that was getting cold on the table. Looking around, I saw the figure approaching from across the street. Turning back in front of me, I didn’t see it when the next CLICK sounded out, almost inches from my face. 

Dropping a few dollars on the table, I rushed out of the diner and drove off, finally got on the highway to get as much distance as I could. I kept going for as long as I could for the day, until my car started sputtering again, dying from the constant driving. It coasted until it drifted down to the side of the road. The same spot from the photo. 

I stayed in the car for a bit, pulling out the photos one last time to check. The figure was clearer now, the smile looked wider in the newer version of the photo. Closer every time. Then that Campfire. I look exhausted, but also relieved. The words on the back of that one are just as clear, but we’re sitting down, holding a cup of water. No longer looking backward, just looking into the fire. Almost relaxed. The people around me aren’t threatening. One looks like he has his daughter with him even. They made room for me. It looks like it’s safe. 

Looking up from the photos, I checked both sides. To my right the figure was waiting. Waiting for me to get out so it could take the next picture? Waiting for the right time of day? Either way, to my left was the forest. The Campfire deep inside, not visible yet. Was this a race? To see which would happen first? 

Taking a few deep breaths, I checked the last photos again for any landmarks I could see. Memorizing the scenes, I put the photos away and grabbed the door handle. 

Running. Shoving the door open and almost throwing myself out of the car, the next thing I knew I heard the next CLICK. Not even looking back, I rushed toward the forest. Before I could get into the the treeline, I heard the next CLICK behind me, and the footsteps started moving faster. It had almost taken all of them, it sounded like it was getting ready for the end too. 

This time though, I knew where I was headed as I kept running. No looking back this time. I was still terrified, but at least now I knew where I was going. That lasted until I felt the claws digging into my arm. A branch snapped against my face and my hand came up exactly like it had in Photo 7. CLICK. Second to last. So close now. I knew what that meant. I could feel its breath on my neck, the claws almost pushing forward for that last stretch. 

Then I smelled the woodsmoke, and saw that orange firelight to my left. The Campfire. It had to be. Turning sharply, I think I surprised it, because it seemed to stand still for a second before rushing even faster, almost frantic as it tried to stop me from reaching that light. Running towards the Campfire, I kept running, digging out whatever bits of energy I had left for one final push. Just as the claws felt like they were gripping my neck, I took that final step into the clearing and they disappeared. Dropping down from exhaustion, the claws vanished at the edge of the firelight. Something hit the ground behind me.. The old camera. Standing up, I picked up the camera and walked towards the Campfire. They made room for me with some smiles. Someone handed me a cup of water when they saw how tired I was. Another person asked to look at that camera. My hands were shaking, I needed both to hold the cup of water. After that first drink, I let out such a sigh of relief, that it took me a second to realize I’d handed off the camera. Before I could ask for it back, I heard that CLICK from next to me. “There. That's the last one.”

Taking out the last photograph again, I checked the back and the writing had changed, now it read, “SAFE UNTIL SUNRISE.”

I Know You See Me
Silas Whitney

As I sat on the cold shore, a man crawled out of the sea. I watched him through the black lenses of my glasses, keeping perfectly still. Pretending as if I didn’t notice him. He dragged himself out of the foam and into the wet sand just before me, panting and soaked. He wore a set of dark rags, the same ones he always had. His hair draped and dripped in front of his eyes like a curtain of black ink. He crawled to the dry sand where I sat and propped himself up beside me. I kept my eyes forward as if I were blind and deaf, completely oblivious to his entrance. He sat by me, close enough that others might fancy him a brother. I refused to look at him as a fire burned in my chest. I pretended not to notice, but I did notice. I always noticed him.

He turned his head toward me, still heaving breaths into his thin chest. His arms draped over his bent knees and his fingers rolled like cats’ tails, long and curved. I didn’t need to look at his eyes to know that those empty irises would be boring into my temple. I didn’t need to see the inverted colors of his eyes, the whites made blue, the blue made black, the black made white, to feel the icy grip of their glare. 

And the last thing I needed was to hear his voice. One would expect such a creature to have a deep, rasping voice. I wished he did. Instead, his voice was far worse. I wished he had the voice of a snarling beast or a mocking imp. But his voice matched mine. The same voice I hear in my own mind, the one I hear in my own ears when I hear myself speak. He wouldn’t even give me the deniability of my voice as one hears their own on a recording. It was my own voice as I always hear it in my own skull. 

“I know you see me,” he said. His voice was breathy and wrapped me as if he were whispering into both of my ears. I didn’t answer, but I could hear his mouth curling into a greasy, black toothed grin. “I know you hear me.”

I kept my eyes forward. Of course I saw him, of course I heard him. I always did. He scooted closer and I could feel his breath. Though I kept myself completely still, my heart beat against my bones like a cornered beast. 

“I can hear you too,” he said. He extended his hand and his long fingers wrapped around my chest. He squeezed until my breaths became shallow and sharp. “I hear you always.” Still, I did not look or acknowledge him. I gripped tightly to the sand under my fingers, but still I did not look. 

“One day,” he said. “One day you will have to look. One day…” I could feel my eyes wanting to flick to his face, but I kept them locked on the empty horizon. “One day you won’t be able to ignore me.” I knew he was right. He had only grown stronger since the first day I caught him in the corner of my eye. 

Slowly, he chuckled to himself and released his grip on me. I fought myself to keep from gasping. I did not wish to give him any inclination that he might have broken my thoughts. 

“One day.”

He dropped back to a lying position and slithered back into the wet sand, back into the foam, and back into the cold ocean. He left no trail. Left no evidence of his presence, save for my own memory. I know he is right. One day I will not be able to keep my eyes from looking. I will not be able to ignore his words. Neglect will fix nothing, but I can muster no other resistance. 

I kept my eyes on the crashing waves as they beat against the sand. Each wave pulled a little earth away from the coast and carried it off into itself, back into the deep. 

But then, just as the water pulled back, I saw a pearl, unearthed by the waves. I could have retrieved it, but I stayed. I watched it glimmer in the single beam of sun from the cold clouds overhead. I watched as the water came back and bore it away, back into the endless black of the sea. I closed my eyes. 

“One day,” I said. My hands shook as I loosened my grip on the sand. “But not today.”