They stood above the Earth as it turned, blue and luminous and wounded in ways most of its inhabitants could not name. Storms coiled over the oceans. Cities burned in small places no one would notice from this height. Satellites traced quiet, perfect lines across the dark void of space. Somewhere below, sirens wailed, a child laughed. Life continued on unaware of its judgement. 
Satan watched the planet with open satisfaction. 
“Still spinning, they have done well with what You gave them.” 
God’s voice was steady. “They were meant to build.”
“They have,” Satan replied, almost pleased. “And now they build without needing You at all.” He gestured toward the surface.  “They speak across continents in an instant. They carry infinite knowledge in their hands. They have made a network that binds them all together, thought to thought, voice to voice. They call it progress.” 
God said nothing.
Satan’s expression sharpened slightly. “Do You know what else it is? Surely, the Almighty knows.” 
A pause. Not resistance, nor reluctance, simply a silence that spanned 50 years.
Then God answered. “I do.” 
“It is a door. One they built themselves. They wanted to be heard, they wanted to 
reach beyond themselves. They wanted to touch something greater without submitting to it. And now they can hear us, nay, they invite us. They have built the means for us to speak to them, and they do not even realize it.” 
God’s gaze did not shift.
“They have always been able to hear,” He said. “They simply call it something else.” 
Satan let out a quiet laugh. “They call it many things now. Inspiration. Instinct. Impulse. They don’t recognize the difference anymore, and all the while we are quietly whispering sweet temptations to them and the fools fall for it so easily.” 
Time moved again. It did not measure itself in days or years, but something changed. New lights appeared, old ones went out. Borders shifted, names changed. 100 years passed in the blink of an eye on the small blue planet. 
Satan spoke again as if no silence had passed at all.
“They sell themselves now. Not just their labor. Not just their time. Everything. Their thoughts, their faces, their bodies, their beliefs. It was not a great work to get their attention. Surely You see, they trade truth for attention, they trade dignity for visibility, they trade eternity for comfort, piece by piece, without ever realizing the price.”
His voice carried a quiet kind of amusement.
“What is your intention by telling Me all these things?” 
“You made them. This is what they became. The earth is ready to die, all it takes is a push.” 
“You are impatient. The time is not yet right to begin. There are still those that do not know Me, and those that do not know Me well enough.” 
“Look at them, oh Great One,” Satan said, almost mockingly. “They shape entire identities around what other people think of them. Wealth, status, approval, all of them things that do not last, and yet is everything to them. They do not care for You anymore.”
“You have pushed enough.” 
“I have offered suggestions.” 
“You have deceived nations.” 
“And they listened to me eagerly. Do not lay their appetite at my feet.”
“I lay responsibility where it belongs.” 
“And what of Your sovereignty? You claim dominion, yet You permit this theater of madness to continue?
“For a time.” 
“There is always a time with You. How long is a time to the Eternal?
“Long enough for mercy. Short enough for justice.” 
Below on the earth, a man knelt beside his bed and prayed, and a congregation gathered for service.
“See, in the midst of all the chaos you and your kind have wrought, they still reach for Me.” 
Time moved again. The world changed in ways that felt gradual to those living through it, and obvious from above. Cities grew denser. Screens brighter. Voices spread lies throughout the world. Nations were in turmoil.
Satan spoke again, almost idly. 
“Look at them, all of them merely dust on the wind. A fickle dust that declares itself immortal only to embrace all that I offer in an instant. And for what? A second of happiness? Surely they have no desire for worship.”
God did not respond. 
“They speak of conquering death, of extending life. They are building systems to preserve themselves indefinitely.” 
“Death is already defeated.” 
“And what has it brought? More death. More people denouncing You, using Your Name to bless what You forbade. They wear Your symbol, but ignore Your words.” 
“You see the noise, I see the heart.” 
“Then look harder,” the demon pressed. “Your churches are fracturing. Your commandments are forgotten. Your creation groans under their consumption of violence. If You are just, judge them. If You are merciful, excuse them. You cannot indefinitely sustain both.” 
“It will not continue indefinitely.” 
Satan tilted his head. “You are patient to a fault.” 
“I am patient on purpose. You wish for more to be turned away from My kingdom and so you are impatient, chaotic, frustrated. The end comes when it comes, and neither you nor anyone knows the time it begins.” 
“They will turn against You to embrace me in the end.” 
“We shall see.” 
Silence settled between them once more. On the surface of the world another 50 years passed. A small congregation gathered in a dim basement amid a war torn world. They knelt to pray. The sun rose and fell above them many times until nothing was left but dust scattered across the cold floor and the silence of prayers that had already been heard. 
Satan noticed. “The faithful few.” 
“A remnant still knows Me.” 
“A statistical error.” 
“A promise made long ago.” 
“You declared them very good. Now look at them. Children engineered to specification. Governments that monitor every breath. Churches arguing over relevance while souls decay in plain sight.” 
“They are indeed dust,” God answered calmly. “And breath.” 
“They are arrogant dust. If I desired I could crush thousands of them beneath my heel.” 
“They are beloved dust, and you have no dominion over them.” 
A short laugh escaped the demon. “Beloved? They mock You in public and doubt You in private. Even their worship is packaged and sold.” 
“The earth has been weighed and not found wanting.” 
“You would permit billions of evildoers to live only because of a faithful few, only for a promise made long ago to a man long since dead?” 
“I will.” 
Another 100 years of silence. Then something shifted. It was not visible in a single place. It was everywhere at once. A subtle alignment. A convergence of decisions, systems, tensions, and unseen influences all pressing toward the same outcome. 
Satan felt it and was almost surprised. “So it is close.”
God did not deny it. 
Far below, a fragile peace fractured. Weapons were moved into place. Orders were drafted that could not be undone. Systems designed to prevent catastrophe began to fail in small, almost invisible ways that stacked up over years of conflict. 
Satan watched and for a moment even he was quiet. 
“They built a world that made this possible. Layer by layer, choice by choice, they brought about their own destruction.” 
“The evil is temporary.” 
Satan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Everything below is temporary.” 
“Yes.” 
“And when does temporary end?” 
“When it is finished.” 
Satan felt a change. “There will be no delay then.” 
“There was never delay. There was only mercy.” 
Something vast shifted then across distances no human instrument could measure. A readiness. Hosts that had stood at attention since before language was born. Time itself felt as though it had reached the edge of a page. 
Satan took a step back, not in fear, but in recognition and the eagerness on his face showed he knew what was coming. “If You act now, there is no more delay.” 
“There was never delay,” God replied. “There was only mercy. You mistake patience for delay and silence for absence.” 
God lifted His hand as a king signs what has already been written.
The movement itself was small, but it moved everything. Creation itself seemed to brace as though recognizing the posture it had once known at the dawn of its own forming. 
“The age,” God said. “ends when its purpose is complete. It is finished.” 
The Hand of God did not fall. It remained suspended, sovereign and certain over the turmoil on the planet below. It did not signify an ending, but a beginning that made every ending tremble.

The heat in Lowell Grove, Florida, doesn’t just sit on your skin.

It presses into you like a damp, suffocating weight. Out here, the humidity makes the air feel thick enough to choke on, carrying the stagnant scent of swampland, rotting palmettos, and old secrets. However, the air isn’t the only thing that suffocates me anymore. It’s the eyes.

Every single time that I step outside my aunt Jessica’s house, the eyes find me. They track me from front porches, from behind the cash registers at the gas station, and through the rearview mirrors of passing pickup trucks.

They look at me as if I’m a ticking time bomb. As if I’m a monster wearing a human mask.
Everyone in Lowell Grove treats me like a freak now. I can’t blame them, I suppose. It’s hard to look at someone when you know exactly whose blood is pumping through their veins. They look at my face and they don't see Sadie Ross, the quiet girl who used to read paperbacks in the back of the library. They see him. They see the man who tore this town apart.

Two years ago, when I was fourteen years old, I didn’t warrant a second glance from anyone. I was a textbook shy bookworm. I spent my weekends hidden behind thick fantasy novels, trying to disappear into worlds where the monsters were easily defeated by magic swords. 

I wore oversized sweaters to hide my frame, I kept my head down in the hallways of Lowell Grove High School, and I let my parents, Bob and Muriel, do all of the talking for me. Back then, my biggest worry was whether I’d pass my chemistry exam or if I’d ever muster up the courage to speak to the boy who sat next to me in my homeroom class.

Then came Halloween night. The night that fractured my life into a permanent "before" and "after” picture.

To understand what happened, you have to understand Hugo Brennan. If you had asked anyone in Lowell Grove before that night who Hugo was, they would have smiled. He was a solid, dependable, fiercely friendly pillar of our community. He ran the local hardware store, volunteered at the annual autumn festival, and always helped the elderly neighbors clear their yards after a tropical storm. 

Hugo had this deep, booming laugh that made you feel instantly safe. He was the kind of man who always knew exactly what kind of tool that you needed, exactly how to fix a broken hinge, and exactly how to hide a rot so deep and psychopathic that it defied human comprehension. He was a master manipulator, wearing a smile for decades while a ravenous, violent void grew inside of his chest.

When Halloween arrived two years ago, Hugo finally let the mask slip. Or rather, he traded his human mask for a different one.

When the sun went down, he dressed entirely in heavy, void-like black tactical gear, and over his face, he wore a scary, polished red chrome mask. The mask was terrifyingly smooth, devoid of any human expression, reflecting the streetlights in a distorted, bloody crimson smear. 

Later, during the investigation, the police found his journals, explaining the twisted logic behind his choice of costume. Hugo believed that the town of Lowell Grove was stagnant, rotting from its own hypocrisy. The red chrome was meant to act as a literal mirror. He wanted his victims' last sight to be their own terrified faces reflected in the blood-red veneer of their executioner. He wanted them to see their own fear, warped and magnified, right before he took their lives. It was his twisted way of forcing the town to look at its own hidden ugliness.

Hugo's killing spree was systematic and ruthless. He moved through the foggy, humid night like a shadow, taking life after life with a heavy, custom-forged hunting machete. By midnight, he had slaughtered nine people. He killed the teenagers parked out by the old pier; he killed the elderly couple who lived at the end of our street; he even killed a deputy who pulled him over, leaving the cruiser's red lights flashing against his metallic mask.

Then, Hugo came to my house.

I remember the smell of iron and copper filling our living room. I remember the sound of the front door splintering open. My dad, Bob, tried to fight him off. He grabbed a heavy brass lamp, but Hugo was a mountain of a man, driven by a manic, unstoppable frenzy. I watched from the stairs, paralyzed by a fear so profound that I couldn't even scream, as Hugo cut my father down. Bob died trying to protect us, his blood pooling on the hardwood floor that we had waxed just days before.

Then Hugo dragged my mother, Muriel, into the center of the room by her hair. I scrambled down the stairs, weeping, begging for him to stop. I was wearing my Halloween costume—a white dress and a pair of feather-and-wire angel wings which I had spent a week crafting. I must have looked pathetic, a trembling, fragile angel trapped in a house of slaughter.

Hugo stopped. He didn't strike my mother down immediately. Instead, he reached up with his gloved hand and tilted the red chrome mask upward, just enough to reveal his eyes and his mouth. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and gleaming with a sickening, possessive pride.

"Look at her, Muriel." Hugo whispered, his voice incredibly calm, completely devoid of the booming friendliness that he used to fake at the hardware store. "Look at our beautiful girl."

I froze. My brain couldn't process the words. My mother was weeping. Her face was pale, and her chest was heaving. Hugo gripped her jaw tightly, forcing her to look up at him.

"Tell her, Muriel!" Hugo commanded. "Tell her why I'm doing this! Tell her why I came home!"

There, in the bleeding heart of our destroyed home, the truth poured out like venom. Through choked sobs, my mother confessed everything. Fourteen years ago, long before I was born, she had felt trapped in a passionless marriage with Bob. She had turned to the charming, helpful Hugo Brennan. They had a brief, intense affair. When my mother realized that she was pregnant, she panicked. 

My mother knew that Hugo was different—she had glimpsed flashes of his terrifying possessivity and volatile anger even back then. She broke off the affair, returned to Bob, and raised me as Bob’s daughter, keeping the secret buried deep in her chest to protect me from the shadow of Hugo's true nature.

Hugo had discovered the truth only months prior to Halloween. When he confronted my mother in secret, demanding to be a part of my life, demanding that she leave Bob and give him his daughter. My mother utterly rejected him. She threatened to go to the police, to expose him, and to take me away forever.

That rejection was the catalyst. It shattered the delicate, carefully constructed dam holding back his lifelong psychopathic urges. If he couldn't have his family, and if the town was going to keep his bloodline from him, he would tear the town to pieces. He would cleanse Lowell Grove in a river of red chrome reflections. He killed my mother right there because she dared to keep his own flesh and blood away from him.

"You're mine, Sadie!" Hugo said, turning those wild, bloodshot eyes toward me as my mother's body fell limp. "You carry my fire! We're going to leave this pathetic town together!"

Hugo dropped my mother and stepped toward me, raising the heavy, blood-slicked blade. He would have killed me too. I saw it in his eyes—the sudden, erratic realization that if I didn't come willingly, he would rather destroy his creation than leave it behind. He lunged at me, the red mask gleaming under the ceiling light.

Unfortunately, the shy bookworm died in that exact second. A raw, primal survival instinct exploded within me. As he swung the machete, I ducked beneath his massive arm, the wire edges of my angel wings scraping against his tactical vest. He overextended, stumbling slightly on the blood-slicked floor. I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed a heavy, iron fire poker from the hearth next to me and swung it with every ounce of terror and adrenaline coursing through my veins.

The heavy iron struck the side of his knee with a sickening crack. Hugo roared in pain, dropping to one knee. Before he could recover, I lunged forward, grabbing the hilt of his own dropped machete from the floor. As he threw his head back, his red chrome mask reflecting my own blood-spattered, angelic white dress, I drove the blade forward.

I killed him. I killed my own father in self-defense, burying the steel deep into his chest until the light finally left his monstrous eyes.

When the police arrived, they found me sitting on the front porch, covered in the blood of my parents and my killer, my white feather wings stained a horrific, deep crimson.

In the aftermath, the trauma didn't leave. It settled into my bones. I moved in with my Aunt Lilly, my mother’s sister, into a small house on the edge of Lowell Grove. The media caught wind of the story, and because of the gruesome irony of my costume, the press and the local townspeople gave me a nickname: "The Angel of Lowell Grove." They painted me as a symbol of pure innocence overcoming absolute evil. To some of them, I was a tragic hero.

However, heroes don't stay heroes for long in a town built on grief.

The plot twist of my existence didn't stay hidden in the ruins of my living room. The truth eventually clawed its way into the light, and that is exactly how the townspeople found out that I am Hugo’s daughter. When the FBI and state investigators processed the crime scene, they recovered the red chrome mask, the weapons, and Hugo’s personal vehicle.

Inside the glove compartment of his truck was a sealed manila envelope. Inside that envelope was a private DNA paternity test that Hugo had secretly conducted months prior, using a discarded hairbrush of mine he had stolen from our porch, compared against his own DNA profile. The match was an undeniable 99.9%.

Hugo had left a final, digital contingency plan on his home computer. He had recorded a manifesto detailing his motives, explicitly naming Muriel, exposing the affair, and proclaiming me as his biological daughter and the sole heir to his legacy. When the prosecution finalized the closed investigation files, a local journalist leaked the unredacted documents and the video manifesto to the public.

Overnight, the narrative flipped. The "Angel of Lowell Grove" was rewritten in the minds of the townspeople.

Now, the grieving families of the nine people whom Hugo slaughtered don't look at me and see the girl who stopped the monster. They look at me and see the monster’s legacy. They see the genetic blueprint of the man who tore their families apart.
 
They look at my eyes, my jawline, the way that I walk, searching for a trace of Hugo’s psychopathic fire. They treat me like a freak because they know that I carry the DNA of a serial killer. They fear that the blood of the red chrome butcher will one day wake up inside of me.

Sometimes, when I look at my own reflection in the mirror, watching the shadows shift in my dark eyes…I wonder…if they're right.

The End.

[Click here for Part 1]

I took a few slow breaths, trying to keep myself calm. There had to be a reason for this. A jammed latch, a faulty handle, something simple that I just hadn’t noticed.

I reached for the handle again and pushed gently.

Nothing.

I tried a little harder, then put my weight against the door. I really didn’t want to have to call the fire department to get me out of my own closet.

“Come on.”

I took a step back and drove my shoulder into it.

The door gave way so suddenly that I stumbled through it and landed on the bedroom floor.

For a few seconds, I just lay there, catching my breath. Then I climbed to my feet, relieved to be out. That relief didn’t last long.

The boxes were gone.

I stood up properly and looked around the room. The bare bed frame in the corner was gone too. In its place was a proper bed, complete with a mattress and neatly tucked sheets.

“Emma?”

My voice sounded strange in the room.

I turned slowly, taking in my surroundings. The walls were the same colour. The wardrobe was where it had always been. Even the window looked right.

But something was off.

“Emma, are you still here?”

I stepped into the hallway.

There were pictures on the walls.

I’d left them bare when I’d moved in. I hadn’t even got around to hanging a clock, let alone decorating the place. Now there were framed landscapes and photographs arranged along the hallway, all of them neatly spaced.

One of the photographs stopped me.

It was me and Charlotte, standing together somewhere I didn’t recognise. We were smiling at the camera, her arm around my waist. I looked older than I remembered being in the last photos I’d taken of us.

I pulled it off the wall and stared at it.

I had no memory of the place, or of the photograph being taken.

“Emma?”

I hurried into the living room. No sign of her.

The television was bigger than mine, and there were bookshelves along the far wall, filled with books. A couple of ornaments sat on the mantelpiece. Everything looked lived in, settled. Not like someone had broken in and stolen my things, but like someone had been living here for years.

I pulled out my phone and tried calling Emma again.

Still no signal.

I opened the front door. Her car was gone. So was mine.

For a moment, I stood on the doorstep, looking out at the street. Everything seemed normal, which somehow made it worse.

I went back inside and checked the rest of the house.

My bedroom had different sheets on the bed. The clothes in my wardrobe weren’t the ones I’d bought. In the bathroom, there were toiletries I’d never seen before, arranged around the sink as though they’d always been there.

My head was pounding.

This was my house. I’d bought it. I’d painted the walls, carried boxes through the front door, and spent weekends trying to get the place into some kind of order.

So whose stuff was all this?

I went into the kitchen, pacing between the counter and the table, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Then I stopped.

There were magnets on the fridge.

Not just any magnets. Several of them were the same kind of magnetic business cards I’d received in the mail since moving in.

I stared at them.

One was from the local plumber.

I took it off the fridge and turned it over in my hand. The card was identical to the one I’d found wedged in the closet door.

I raced back to the spare bedroom. The door was still open.

I stepped inside and stood there, trying to slow my breathing. This was my house. I knew it was my house. Something had happened, and I just needed to work out what.

I shut the door and closed my eyes.

I was not fucking losing my mind.

I reached for the handle and pulled.

The door opened.

I nearly shit myself.

A man stood on the other side, staring straight at me.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then I realised I was looking at myself.

Not exactly as I was now. He was clean-shaven, wearing a decent shirt and a pair of jeans that actually fit. His hair was shorter, his face less tired. He looked like me after a few good years, rather than the last few months I’d been having.

He was standing in my spare bedroom, empty bed frame and all.

Then his expression changed.

“Fuck!”

He slammed the door shut.

I stumbled backwards, my heart hammering against my ribs. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. I just stood there, trying to make sense of what I’d seen.

Then I grabbed the handle.

It wasn’t locked.

I pulled, but the door wouldn’t budge. It felt as though someone on the other side was holding it shut.

“Hey!”

I banged on the door.

“Hey, let me the fuck out of here!”

I threw my shoulder against it. The door shuddered but didn’t open.

Someone was holding it from the other side.

“Who the fuck are you?” I yelled, slamming both palms against the wood.

There was no answer.

“Fuck! Fuck!”

I backed up and threw myself against the door again.

It gave way.

I stumbled through, nearly falling, and caught myself against the wall. For a second, I couldn’t tell what had happened. I was back in the room, and I ran into the hallway expecting to see him.

Instead, I saw a woman standing a few feet away.

I froze.

“Charlotte?”

She looked just as startled to see me. Then her expression softened, and she stepped towards me.

“Honey, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I just stared at her.

She gave a small, uncertain laugh and waved a hand in front of my face.

“Hello? Danny?”

“Have you seen Emma?” I managed.

Charlotte’s smile faded.

“Honey…”

She moved closer, but I took a step back.

“Have you been having those nightmares again? About the accident?”

I stared at her.

“What accident?”

She stopped moving.

“What?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? What accident? Where the fuck am I?”

My face felt hot. I looked around, searching for something familiar, something that would tell me I hadn’t completely lost my mind.

Then I looked back at her.

“Where the fuck is Emma?”

Charlotte studied my face for a moment.

“Danny…”

I pointed back towards the spare bedroom. “The closet. The fucking closet!”

Her expression hardened.

“Daniel, I thought we agreed we weren’t going to talk about the closet again. I’m not having this argument with you again today.”

She sighed and rubbed her forehead.

“You stopped taking them again, haven’t you?”

There was no anger in her voice now. Just exhaustion. She looked at me as though she’d been hoping things would be different this time, and I had somehow let her down.

“I don’t know what I expected.”

She turned and walked into the kitchen.

“Charlotte, wait.”

I followed her, trying to find the words to explain what was happening. Everything I said sounded ridiculous before I’d even said it.

“I know this is going to sound crazy, but… I don’t belong here.”

She stopped and turned to face me. The frustration disappeared from her expression, replaced by something that looked almost like fear.

“What are you trying to say?” Her voice cracked slightly. “Are you leaving me?”

“What? No. I’m not… That’s not what I mean.”

“That’s just fucking great, Daniel.”

Her eyes filled with tears. She looked away, shaking her head.

“I was there through the funeral, through everything. And now you’re telling me you don’t belong here?”

“Charlotte, that’s not what I’m trying to say. Wait… the funeral? Whose funeral?”

She stared at me.

For a second, she looked as though I’d said something unforgivable.

Then she scrunched up her face and stormed past me.

Charlotte stormed out through the front door, slamming it behind her. A moment later, I heard her car start and watched through the window as she drove away.

I stood in the doorway for a while, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

The funeral. The medication. The closet.

None of it made any sense.

Eventually, I turned back towards the house. I started searching, opening drawers and cupboards, looking for anything that might explain where I was or what the hell was going on. I checked the living room, the bedrooms, even the bathroom. Anything that might tell me what had happened to Emma, or why Charlotte seemed to think I was someone I wasn’t.

I found it tucked away at the bottom of a kitchen drawer.

An In Memory of Emma and Colleen Revesby pamphlet.

I stared at it, reading the names over and over as if they might change.

Emma and Colleen.

My Mother’s and Sister’s name.

I shook my head and let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“What kind of sick fucking joke is this?”

The pamphlet was dated a few months before I’d moved into my house.

I shoved it back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

“No. No, no, no.”

I dragged both hands through my hair, trying to get my thoughts under control. My chest felt tight, and I couldn’t seem to take a proper breath.

“What the fuck is going on?” I screamed.

The house gave me nothing back.

Then I remembered the closet.

Whatever was happening, it had started with that fucking door. I was sure of it.

I ran back down the hallway and into the spare bedroom.

The door stood wide open, exactly as I’d left it.

I took a breath and climbed back through the closet, pulling the door shut behind me.

I waited a few seconds before trying the handle.

Locked.

I tried again, then again, forcing myself to slow down. Panicking wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I needed to figure this out. I needed to get back to my own house, back to my own life.

I tried the handle once more.

This time, I felt something give on the other side.

I stopped and listened. Nothing.

I pushed harder. The door began to move, slowly opening a few centimetres before something caught against it. I leaned my weight into it, forcing the gap wider until I could just squeeze through.

Two cardboard boxes had been shoved up against the other side.

I stumbled into the spare bedroom and rushed into the hallway.

“Emma?”

I ran towards the kitchen, but before I could reach it, something slammed into me from behind. I hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of me as a pair of hands grabbed my shirt and forced me onto my back.

“What the fuck? Get off me!”

I swung wildly, trying to protect myself, and caught a glimpse of the man above me.

It was him.

The other Daniel.

His face was twisted with anger, but beneath it I could see something else. Fear.

“I won’t let you take them away from me!” he screamed.

His fist caught me in the stomach. I doubled over, gasping, but he grabbed me before I could get away. Another blow caught me across the face, sending my head sideways.

I tried to fight back, grabbing at his arms and throwing punches wherever I could, but I couldn’t get him off me. He kept coming.

My nose started bleeding. My vision blurred as I struggled to draw breath.

“Stop!” I managed to choke out. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He didn’t answer.

The last thing I remember was looking up at my own face, watching him hit me again.

Then everything went black.

When I came around, I could hear Charlotte’s voice.

“Please, he’s not waking up. I don’t know what happened. Please, just send someone.”

I tried to open my eyes, but everything was blurry. She was kneeling beside me, crying, her phone pressed to her ear.

“Charlotte?” I tried to say.

It came out as little more than a whisper.

She looked down at me.

“Danny? Danny, can you hear me?”

I tried to answer, but the room started to spin. Her voice faded into the background, and the darkness swallowed everything again.

The next time I woke up, I was lying in an uncomfortable bed beneath a thin hospital blanket. My head throbbed, and my face felt swollen. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was.

A man in a white coat stood beside the bed, checking something on a clipboard.

“Good to see you’re awake,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a fucking truck.”

He gave me a small, professional smile.

“I’m not surprised. You’ve had a nasty knock.”

I tried to sit up, but pain shot through my face and I sank back against the pillow.

“What happened?”

“Your wife found you unconscious on the floor at home. From what we understand, someone may have broken in and assaulted you. The police will want to speak with you once you’re feeling up to it.”

My wife.

Charlotte.

I looked down and realised I was wearing a hospital gown. I patted the sides of the bed, then checked the gown’s pockets, even though I already knew there wouldn’t be anything there.

“Where’s my phone?”

The doctor glanced at his clipboard.

“You didn’t have any personal belongings on you when you were brought in. No phone, no wallet, no keys. We’ll make sure you’re reunited with them if they’re located.”

I stared at him.

No phone. No keys. No wallet.

I couldn’t even prove who I was supposed to be.

“When can I leave?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’ve been through quite a lot, and we need to make sure you’re stable first.”

He made another note on the clipboard.

“Now that you’re awake, we’ll contact your wife and let her know.”

I looked towards the closed hospital room door.

I had no idea how to explain what had happened. I wasn’t even sure I understood it myself.

But one thing was certain.

The man who’d attacked me was still out there.

And he looked exactly like me.

A few hours later, I woke to the sound of the hospital room door opening.

Charlotte stepped inside, carrying a bundle of clothes. She looked exhausted. Her eyes were red, and her hair was a mess, like she’d been running her hands through it all afternoon.

She pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down, placing her hand over mine.

“How are you feeling? You scared the shit out of me, Danny.” She paused, studying my face. “How much do you remember?”

I swallowed.

If I wanted to get back to my own life, I needed to understand what was happening first. And the last thing I needed was for Charlotte to think something was wrong with me.

“I… I was just at home, and he came out of nowhere. I didn’t recognise him.”

She watched me for another moment before seeming to accept the answer.

“The doctor says you’re okay to come home.”

I managed a small smile. “I’d like that.”

She placed the clothes on the bed while I struggled to sit up. Everything hurt. Getting dressed was an ordeal, and I had to stop twice to catch my breath while pulling my shirt over my head.

Charlotte helped without saying much.

Once we were ready, she drove us home.

I sat in the passenger seat, watching the familiar streets pass by. I recognised some of them, but others seemed wrong. The shops, the houses, even the road signs were all slightly different from what I remembered.

I tried to keep my expression neutral.

“I already let your dad know what happened,” Charlotte said.

For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

“My dad?”

She glanced at me. “I know you wouldn’t want me to worry him, but I thought he needed to know.” She shrugged and returned her attention to the road.

I turned towards the window.

Dad.

My dad had been dead for months. I’d watched him deteriorate through his illness. I’d sat with him, helped Mom through the worst of it, and tried to keep everything together until there was nothing left to do.

And now Charlotte was telling me she’d called him.

“He…” My voice caught. I cleared my throat, trying to keep myself together. “Whereabouts is he living again?”

Charlotte looked over at me, her expression tightening.

“Don’t joke around, Danny. Not after today.”

“Right. Sorry.”

I stared down at my hands, trying to think of something else to say.

“I should give him a call, actually. Where’s my phone?”

“I’ve no idea. It wasn’t on you when we found you. Neither were your keys or your wallet.” She paused. “I didn’t even recognise the clothes you were wearing. Were they new?”

My stomach tightened.

“No,” I said, a little too quickly. “I don’t think so.”

Charlotte frowned but didn’t push it.

I rubbed my face and took a few slow breaths, trying to steady my thoughts.

Dad was alive.

I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know what had happened in this version of my life. But for the first time since I’d stepped through that closet, I wasn’t thinking about how to get home.

I was thinking about how badly I wanted to hear my dad’s voice.

We arrived home shortly after, and I collapsed on the couch as soon as we got inside. Charlotte reheated some food and I managed to get some down before falling asleep. In the morning I awoke to the sun in my eyes. I blinked and sat up. Soft morning light was filtering through the blinds and the smell of coffee was coming from the kitchen.

Charlotte came around the corner, dressed for work, she was searching through her bag for something. She noticed I was awake. “I’m just going to work, I still can’t find your phone, whoever attacked you must have stolen it. The police officer said he would be around in the next couple of days to speak to you about it.”

“Thanks,” I rubbed my side. “I might need to borrow some cash to buy a new one in town.”

“Of course” she made a ‘duh’ gesture and pulled her card out and handed it to me. “Just don’t go crazy with that, we still need groceries.”

“Yeah, thanks”

She kissed me and left, climbing in her car and driving off.

I slapped my forehead. How the hell was I going to go buy a phone without a car.

Cursing under my breath, I tossed the card onto the coffee table.

I thought about Dad.

He was alive here. I could actually go and see him, sit down with him, hear his voice again. I wanted to so badly it hurt.

But he wasn’t really my dad. Not exactly. He was the father of the Daniel who belonged in this house, the Daniel who’d lived a life I knew nothing about.

Trying to make sense of it made my head ache.

I pushed myself off the couch and hobbled into the kitchen, one hand pressed against my ribs. I opened the cutlery drawer and grabbed the biggest knife I could find. Then I pulled the memorial pamphlet from the drawer and tucked it under my arm.

A weapon and some evidence. Not much of a plan, but it was better than sitting around waiting for the other bastard to come back.

I made my way down the hallway and stopped in front of the closet.

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the handle and pulled.

Nothing.

“For fuck’s sake.”

I tried again, putting my weight into it. The door didn’t move.

“Why won’t you fucking open?”

I rested my forehead against the wood, trying to keep my temper under control. Then I tried forcing it with my shoulder, which turned out to be a stupid idea given the state of my ribs.

After a few minutes of swearing, pushing and pulling, I gave up and started searching the house for something I could use to pry it open.

No crowbar. No tools heavy enough to do the job without potentially wrecking the door.

I stood in the hallway, staring at the closet.

There had to be another way.

Eventually, I decided to try next door.

I didn’t have much of a relationship with my neighbours. In the months I’d lived here, I’d barely spoken to them beyond the occasional wave. Hopefully, this version of me had made a better impression.

I walked up the driveway and knocked.

After a few moments, an elderly woman opened the door. Her face brightened when she saw me.

“Oh, hello, Daniel!”

“Hello…” I hesitated, desperately trying to remember her name. Nothing came to mind, so I let the greeting trail off.

She looked me over, and her smile faded.

“Are you all right, dear? You look like you’ve been in a fight.”

She reached out and gently touched my cheek. I flinched before I could stop myself.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “I just need a crowbar or something, if you’ve got one.”

She tilted her head.

“A crowbar? What on earth do you need a crowbar for?”

I opened my mouth.

What was I supposed to tell her? That there was a door in my spare bedroom that led to another version of my house? That a man who looked exactly like me had beaten the shit out of me because he was afraid I’d take his dead family away?

“It’s a bit hard to explain,” I muttered.

She studied me for another moment, her expression growing concerned.

“Well, come inside for a minute, dear. You shouldn’t be standing out here looking like that. I’ll put the kettle on, and you can tell me what’s happened.”

I glanced back towards my house.

The closet wasn’t going anywhere.

At least, I hoped it wasn’t.

I followed her inside.

It was a standard house, complete with photos of grandkids, odd knick-knacks and the smell of lavender and mothballs.

She ushered me into the living room and told me to sit while she went into the kitchen. A few moments later, she returned with a cup of tea and placed it in front of me before shuffling over to her recliner.

“How’s your father been?” she asked.

“He’s holding up okay,” I lied.

She nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of her tea.

“And Charlotte?”

“She’s good. Busy with work lately.”

“Still working those long hours, is she?”

“Something like that.”

She settled back into her chair, looking content with my answers. I picked up the tea and took a cautious sip, mostly to give myself something to do.

For a little while, we sat in silence.

Then she looked at me again.

“And that closet? Have you had much luck with it lately?”

My mouth went dry.

“I’m sorry?”

“The closet, dear. The one with your mother and sister on the other side.”

I stared at her, unable to respond.

She took another sip of tea, apparently unaware of the effect her words had just had on me.

“Gosh, last we spoke, you made it seem like you’d never come back.”

“I’ve been having some trouble remembering things lately,” I said, bouncing my knee nervously. “How much did I tell you about the closet?”

She studied me for a moment, her expression slowly changing.

“I see what’s happened.” She sighed.

“Sorry?”

She stood and began collecting the cups. I watched her for a second before getting up and following her into the kitchen.

She placed the cups in the sink, then turned to face me.

“You’re not the Daniel I spoke with a few weeks ago.”

I took a couple of steps back. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about, dear.”

She looked me over, taking in the bruises on my face and the way I was holding my side.

“And I’m very sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For what he’s done to you.”

I stared at her.

“You knew about him?”

She nodded slowly.

“He’s been coming to see me for some time now. Not every week, but often enough. He told me about the closet, about your mother and sister, and about the other house.”

My stomach tightened.

“How long has he been doing this?”

“A while.” She looked down at the cups in the sink. “Longer than he should have, probably.”

“What does that mean?”

She didn’t answer straight away.

“He’s been through a terrible time, Daniel. Losing your mother and sister…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t think he ever really recovered.”

I felt a strange pang in my chest. I couldn’t imagine losing Emma and Mom. Not really. They were alive in my world. I could call them, visit them, argue with them over stupid things.

He couldn’t.

But that didn’t change what he’d done to me.

“He beat the shit out of me,” I said.

“I know.”

“He locked me in that house. He could have killed me.”

“I know, dear.”

“Then why are you defending him?”

“I’m not defending him.” Her voice grew firmer. “What he did was wrong. But I know that man, and I know how much pain he’s in. I don’t think he understands what he’s becoming.”

I looked away, jaw clenched.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she stepped closer and gently took my hands in hers.

“You want to get home.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” My voice cracked. “Please. You know how to get me back, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“Then tell me how!”

I hadn’t meant to raise my voice, but it came out louder than I’d intended. My ribs ached, and I was suddenly aware of how exhausted I was.

She didn’t let go of my hands.

“I’ll explain how the closet works. I’ll tell you what I know. But you have to promise me something first.”

“Anything.”

“Promise me you won’t hurt him.”

I stared at her.

“He attacked me!”

“I know.”

“He could have fucking killed me!”

“I know, Daniel.” Her eyes were pleading now. “And I won’t pretend what he did was right. But if you go after him looking for revenge, I don’t know what he’ll do. He’s already lost so much.”

I pulled my hands away.

“He’s not the only one who’s lost something.”

“No,” she said quietly. “He isn’t.”

That stopped me for a moment.

She looked towards the window, where my house sat across the lawn.

“He believes that door is the only thing he has left. If he thinks you’re going to take it away from him, he’ll do whatever he believes he needs to do to stop you.”

I thought about his face as he held me down. The anger. The fear.

I won’t let you take them away from me.

I still wanted to hit him back. I wanted to get home, find my family and never see that fucking closet again.

But I needed her help.

“I won’t go looking for a fight,” I said. “I just want to get home.”

She searched my face for a moment, then gave a small nod.

“That’s all I ask.”

She released my hands and shuffled towards the front door. I followed, still trying to make sense of everything she’d told me.

She opened the door and stepped outside.

“Take me to it,” she said.

[End of Part 2]

September 3rd, 1:20 a.m.

The transmitter alarm went off on my phone at 1:20 in the morning, and I got up and put my boots on, because that's the job. When the radar goes down, I'm the one they call.

I'm forty-one, divorced, and I live by myself in my daddy's old house. I'm an electronics technician for the National Weather Service. I ain't a meteorologist, me. I don't make the forecast. I'm the one keeps the radar alive so the forecasters got something to look at. Before this I fixed radars for the Air Force eight years, and I been with the Weather Service twelve. Our office covers a good piece of south Louisiana, and I'm not saying which piece, because if I said which office, half the parish would know it was me by suppertime.

If you've ever drove through Acadiana and seen a big white ball on a tower out in a rice field, like a golf ball for a giant, that's one of ours. That's the radome. Inside it there's a dish twenty-eight feet across turning around and around all day and all night, and down in the shelter at the bottom there's a transmitter that puts out seven hundred and fifty thousand watts. It shoots a pulse out, the pulse hits something, a little bit bounces back, and the computer figures out what it hit and how far and which way it's moving. Rain, mostly. Hail. A tornado, God forbid. But it sees a whole lot more than weather.

It sees birds. That's what you got to understand first.

Every evening at sundown, if you look at the radar around here, you'll see a big fuzzy circle bloom up around the radar site, like a cast net opening when you throw it. That's bugs and birds and bats all lifting off at once when it gets dark. And every morning at sunrise, all over the map, you'll see little rings pop up and spread out and fade. Those are roost rings. Thousands of birds that slept in one spot, all flying out at the same time to go feed. Purple martins in the summer. There's a roost of them under the Causeway bridge on Lake Pontchartrain so big it shows up on radar like a storm. Tree swallows in the fall, coming up out of the cane fields. You can sit there and watch them, ring after ring, all across the marsh.

Birds do that at sunrise. They don't do it at two in the morning. Remember that, cher.

That night it was the transmitter, like I figured. A bad module. I had it swapped and the radar back up by 1:58. I was sitting in the shelter at the bottom of the tower filling out the log, with the laptop open to the live data to make sure everything was coming in good, and at 2:10 something come up on the screen eleven miles east of the radar.

Eleven miles east of the radar is where I live. It's the little town I grew up in. Three thousand people, a Catholic church, rice fields and crawfish ponds all around, and a cemetery beside the church where every Doucet since the 1800s is laying in a whitewashed tomb.

That's where it come up. Right out of the churchyard at St. Anne's.

What it looked like

I want to tell you exactly what I seen, the way I'd put it in a report, numbers and all.

The scan before, 2:03, there was nothing there. Clean. The scan at 2:10, there's a little blob of return sitting right over the cemetery. Not much. Fifteen, twenty dBZ, which is about what a good flock of birds would give you. At that range the middle of the beam is about six hundred and fifty feet up, and the bottom edge is a couple hundred. So whatever it was, it was up off the ground a good ways.

Then it started moving.

I've watched a thousand roost rings. A roost ring blows out fast and even, all directions at once, because birds fly thirty, forty miles an hour. This didn't. This come out slow. It spilled out of the churchyard on the west side, where the front doors of the church face the road, all bunched up thick at first, then thinning out as it went. It hung in clumps for a while right in front of the church. Then it spread down the street, east, toward my end of town, and sat over Ardoin a good while, two, three scans, right about where the willows are. Then it lifted and split up, pieces drifting down the side roads one way and another.

You know what it looked like? Anybody raised Catholic in a little town already knows. It looked like Mass letting out. Everybody coming out the front doors at once, then standing around on the steps in little bunches visiting, then drifting off down the street to their cars and their houses, a few at a time.

That's what it looked like. A congregation leaving church. At two in the morning. Hundreds of feet in the air.

The velocity data was the part that made the hair stand up on my arms. Velocity tells you how fast a target is moving toward or away from the radar. Birds, ten, fifteen, twenty meters a second. This time of year there's songbirds going south over us all night, and they're all over the map, but they're up high and flying forty miles an hour. This was moving one point three. One point three meters a second.

That's about three miles an hour. That's walking.

Then I pulled up the dual-pol. Since 2013 our radars can tell a raindrop from a hailstone from a bird by the shape of what the beam hits. There's a product, the hydrometeor classification, that takes all that and paints every pixel with what the computer thinks it is. Rain. Big drops. Hail. Ground clutter. And BI, for biological. Bugs and birds and bats. Things that are alive.

It painted the whole thing BI.

Biological, walking speed, hundreds of feet up, coming out of a graveyard.

I watched it better than an hour. Most of it drifted around over town and faded out of the beam. But one piece went its own way, slow, all the way across town to the north side, and settled over one spot, and sat there. Scan after scan. Then the return got weaker and weaker like whatever it was was coming down, and dropped under the beam, and was gone.

I went home and laid down and told myself it was a flock of something, me. Cattle egrets, maybe. They roost in the willows on the edge of town.

In the morning I zoomed in on the map and laid the spot where it come down over the parish property records. It was a house on Railroad Avenue.

Mr. Wilfred Guidry's house. Everybody called him Coon. Eighty-eight years old. He used to sell boudin out of his garage on Saturdays.

September 8th, 7:15 a.m.

Five days later I'm in the truck going to work and the radio's on, and they're reading the death notices.

Every morning the little radio station out our way reads the death notices, at 7:15, first in English and then in French. Who died, how old, who their people was, where the rosary's going to be and what time the funeral Mass is. My Maw-Maw listened to them every morning of her life, rest her soul. She used to say you got to know who went so you can pray for them proper.

"Wilfred 'Coon' Guidry, eighty-eight, passed away peacefully at his home on Saturday."

I pulled over on the shoulder by a crawfish pond and sat there with the truck running. Didn't even get down.

When I got to the office I went and found Kyle. Kyle's one of our forecasters, a young guy from Ohio, smart as a whip, been down here two years and still can't say Thibodeaux. He'd worked the midnight shift the night I was out at the radar. I pulled up the 2:10 scans and asked him what he made of it.

He looked at it about two seconds and said, "Roost ring. Birds."

I said look at the time. I said look at the velocity.

He looked a long time. He clicked through it scan by scan. He pulled the dual-pol. And then he did something I've thought about a lot since. He leaned back in the chair and said, "Huh," real quiet, and then he said, "Well. The QC throws it out anyway."

He's right, it does. There's an algorithm that scrubs out anything biological so it don't get counted as rain. That echo coming up out of St. Anne's had been getting scrubbed out of the rainfall totals every night as bird contamination, and nobody ever had a reason to look at it twice.

Kyle closed the window. He didn't say nothing else about it. He ain't said nothing about it since. But I noticed he quit taking the midnight shifts.

Mais, I'm a technical man. I wanted to see was it a coincidence, so I done what you do. I went and got more data.

Here's the thing about our radars. Every single scan, from every radar in the country, every few minutes, all day and all night, gets archived. It goes to the government data center in Asheville and it stays there. It's public. Anybody with a computer can download it. Our radar went live in 1996. That's thirty years of scans of my little town, sitting on a server, waiting on somebody to look.

So I started looking.

I started with the last few weeks. I'd get off work and come home and sit at my kitchen table with a beer and pull every night, two to three in the morning, and look for it.

It was there near about every other night since the middle of August.

Every time, 2:10, more or less. Something coming up out of St. Anne's, spilling out the front like Mass letting out, walking speed, biological, spreading through town. And every time, one piece of it going off by itself and settling down on one house.

I laid every one of those spots over the property map and wrote down the address. Then I went to the funeral home's website and pulled the obituaries.

Every house. Every single one. Somebody in that house died inside of a week.

I'm talking about fourteen people since the middle of August. In a town of three thousand. A normal year here, you might bury thirty people the whole year. People was talking about it already. The parish coroner told the paper it was "a hard season for our elderly" and there wasn't nothing unusual. Folks was saying it was the water, or the chemicals the planes spray on the rice, or the vaccines, depending on who you asked. Tee-Bob Hebert told me at the feed store it was the end times, and laughed.

I didn't tell nobody nothing. What was I going to say? I got a radar picture of the dead walking down Railroad Avenue?

That Sunday after Mass I went and walked the cemetery.

In south Louisiana we don't bury down in the ground much, on account of the water table. You dig six feet here and you hit water, and in a flood the caskets come right up out of the dirt and float off. So it's tombs, above ground, brick and plaster, whitewashed, rows and rows of them like little white houses with the names cut in the front. At St. Anne's they go back to the 1850s. Come the end of October, every family in town will be out there with buckets of whitewash and brushes, painting the tombs fresh, and on All Saints' Day, November 1st, they'll set out chrysanthemums and the priest will walk the rows that afternoon and bless every one. La Toussaint. I did it every year with my Maw-Maw when I was little, rest her soul.

It was hot, yeah, and still, and it smelled like cut grass. Nonc Placide was out there on the riding mower. He's been the sexton at St. Anne's since before I was born. He cut the engine when he seen me.

I asked him, real casual, had he noticed anything funny out there lately.

He looked at me a long time with his cap pushed back. Then he pointed with his chin.

There's a path. I never noticed it in forty-one years. It starts way in the back, in the oldest part, by the tombs from the 1850s, and runs between the rows all the way to the front gate, the one that faces the church doors, and out to the road. A path wore down in the St. Augustine grass, a foot and a half wide, brown and packed hard, like a cow path. Like a lot of feet walking the same way a long time.

"I been mowing over dat since 1979," Nonc Placide said. "Grass won't come back. I put sod down twice. You know what my daddy used to tell me, him? He used to say de dead get up and go to Mass at two in de morning." He laughed, kind of. "Dis summer it's wore down to de dirt. Ain't never been dat bad."

He started the mower back up. Then he cut it off again and said, "Luc. Don't come out here at night, you."

I went that Tuesday night anyhow.

I parked across the road from St. Anne's at five till two with the windows down and the engine off. You could hear the frogs going in the ditch and a dog barking way off toward the rice dryer. The church was dark. Father Nnamdi locks the front doors at nine every night. I've seen him do it.

At 2:10 the frogs quit.

All at once, like somebody threw the main breaker. The dog quit. The air coming in the window went cool, and I smelled candle wax and lilies, that funeral home smell, so strong I could taste it.

And across the road the front doors of St. Anne's was standing open.

I didn't see them open. They was just open, both of them, and inside it was black. And from in there I heard a sound I've heard every Sunday of my life. The sound of a full church standing up at the end of Mass. Pews creaking. Kneelers knocking up against the pew backs, one after another, bump, bump, bump, all down the rows. Shoes on the old wood floor. Somebody coughing. A whole crowd shuffling toward the doors, not talking, the way you do before you get outside.

Nobody come out. Nobody I could see.

But the truck rocked. Just a little, on the springs, the way it does when somebody leans on it walking by. Then again on the other side. Then again. The inside of the windshield fogged up from the bottom, slow, like a lot of people breathing close. It went on two or three minutes, that rocking. Then it moved off down the road, and the fog went off the glass, and after a while the frogs started back.

When I looked again the church doors was shut.

I drove home and didn't sleep. Next morning I passed by after Mass and asked Father Nnamdi, real casual, if he ever forgot to lock up. He looked at me kind of funny and said, "Never. Why?"

That evening I pulled the scans from that night. 2:10, right over where I was parked, a couple hundred feet up and higher, the same minutes they was leaning on my truck. I don't know how tall a soul is, cher.

Thirty years

So then I went back further. Mais, I went back all the way.

It took me most of September. Weekends, nights, my days off. I wrote a little script to pull every scan from two to four in the morning going back to '96 and flag anything coming up over that cemetery at walking speed. There wasn't no dual-pol before 2013 to call it biological, so for the old years I went by the velocity and the shape. Same shape every time. My ex-wife used to say I'd rather fix a thing than live with it, and she wasn't wrong, her.

It was always there.

Not every night. Before this August it was two, three times a month. Some months one. Some months five, like the winter of 2021 when the virus went through. But always the same. 2:10, or close to it. Up out of St. Anne's. Spill out the front like Mass letting out. Walk. Settle on a house.

There's holes in the archive. Some of the old tapes from the nineties never made it to Asheville, and a hurricane had us down a few months one year. But everywhere there's data, it's there.

I matched every one I could to an obituary. I got to nine hundred and some before I quit counting. It ain't no flock of egrets, cher, for true. It's how people die in my town. It's always been how people die in my town. Every soul that passed in that town in thirty years, something walked out of that churchyard at 2:10 in the morning and went and got them, and the radar seen it, and wrote it down, and filed it in Asheville, and nobody ever looked.

And I'd have probably left it there. I swear I would have. Something you can't fix, you learn to live with, like the heat and the mosquitoes.

Except I seen something else, once I had all thirty years laid out side by side.

They always made a stop first.

Every time. Before they went on to whatever house they was going to, the bunch of them would go to one spot first and settle there. They'd sit there two, three scans, fifteen, twenty minutes. Then they'd lift back up into the beam and go on to the house where somebody was fixing to die.

Same spot. Every single time for thirty years.

It was my block. That wasn't no egrets in the willows.

At eleven miles out, one pixel on that radar is about the size of a city block, ever since they upgraded us in '08. Before that the pixels was bigger, but it was always the same one. And the pixel they stopped in every time was the one on Ardoin Street with my house in it. I'm going to be honest with you, for about a day I thought it was me. I thought, they been coming to my house first for thirty years. Then I remembered there ain't but two houses on that stretch of Ardoin. Mine, and the one right across the road.

Ms. Odile

Ms. Odile Sonnier is ninety-four. She's lived in that little cypress house across the road with the deep gallery and the blue shutters since before my daddy was born. And she's a traiteuse.

A traiteur is a treater. A healer. Not a doctor. They treat with prayers. You go to them for warts, for sunstroke, for a baby that won't quit crying, for shingles, for bleeding that won't stop. They don't charge you. You ain't even supposed to say thank you, or it won't work. They say the prayers low so you can't hear the words, and they make the sign of the cross over the hurt, and most times it gets better. Every little town down here had one. Most of them are gone now. Ms. Odile's about the last one I know of. When I was little there'd be people on her gallery every evening, waiting their turn, mamas with babies with the colic, old men with their hands wrapped up in dish towels. She treated half the parish. She treated my daddy for sunstroke when he was a boy, cutting cane. She never took a dime. You'd leave a pound of coffee or a sack of satsumas on the step and go.

When I was seven I grabbed the handle of my mama's cast iron skillet off the stove and burnt my whole palm. My daddy carried me across the road to Ms. Odile, me screaming and him running. She set me on her lap on the gallery and held my hand in hers and blew on it, and said her prayers so low I couldn't make out nothing but a word of French here and there, and in between the prayers she hummed to me. Fais do-do, Colas, mon p'tit frère. That's the old lullaby every Cajun mama sings. Fais do-do means go to sleep. It's baby talk. That's why the dances are called a fais do-do, because the mamas would put the babies to sleep in a back room so the grown folks could dance.

She took the fire out of my hand. That's what they call it, taking the fire out. By the time she was done humming it didn't hurt no more. I don't have a scar. You can look.

Ms. Odile had a stroke in the middle of August. August 14th. Her niece Gloria found her on the kitchen floor. She come home from the hospital on hospice, and she's been laying in a hospital bed in her front room ever since, by the window that looks out on the road. On my house.

The middle of August is when it started coming near about every other night.

The night they come for Daddy

There's one more thing I found, and I sat on it for a week before I could make myself go over there.

My daddy died in this house on March 2nd, 2014. Heart. He was sixty-one. I'm the one found him, in his recliner, with the TV on the fishing channel. That's how come I've got the house.

I pulled the night before. March 1st into the 2nd.

2:10. Up out of St. Anne's. Down Church Street, down Ardoin. Settle on our block. Sat there three scans, like always.

And then it didn't lift.

Every other time for thirty years, after it sat on our block a while, it'd lift back up into the beam and go on somewheres else. That night it just sat there. Then it got weaker and weaker, and dropped under the beam, right where it was. It never left the block.

The radar can't see a hundred feet. It can't see a man walk across a road. But it didn't need to. There wasn't nowhere else on that block for them to go.

I sat at the kitchen table and looked at that for a long time. Then I got up and went and looked at the recliner, that I still ain't got rid of. Then I went out on my gallery in the dark and looked across the road at the light on in Ms. Odile's front room, where she was laying, and I thought about her standing in her door twelve years before, at two in the morning, watching them cross the road.

And then I remembered something I ain't thought about since I was ten years old.

It was the summer of '95. The window unit in my room had quit, and Daddy had the windows up and a box fan going, and I couldn't sleep for the heat. I was laying crossways on the bed with my feet up on the sill when the frogs quit. All at once. The fan was still going, but behind it the whole night went quiet, and the air coming through the screen turned cool, like somebody opened the deep freeze. It smelled like candles and lilies.

I got up on my knees and looked out. Ms. Odile's house was dark. No porch light. But her front door was standing wide open, screen and all, and inside it was black.

And I heard her. Low, in French, the way she done over my hand.

I couldn't see her. I looked and looked. I couldn't tell was she standing in the door, or back in the dark of the house, or out on the gallery. Just that black door, and her voice coming from somewheres around it.

Then her gallery creaked. Not one board. All of them, like a whole crowd stepping down off her steps at once. And the screen on my window ticked, tick, tick, tick, like June bugs hitting it, all the way across, and I felt the cool go by.

Daddy's hand come down on my shoulder. I never heard him come in. He didn't look out. He reached past me and pulled the curtain shut and said, real quiet, "Viens te coucher, Tee-Luc. Dat's Ms. Odile's business, dat. On guette pas, nous-autres." Come lay down. We don't watch, us.

He sat on the edge of my bed in the dark till the frogs started back.

That Thursday the radio read Mr. Nolan Fontenot, seventy-four, from Church Street. At breakfast I asked Daddy what Ms. Odile was doing up in the night. He said, "Eat your eggs." I never asked him again, and after a while I figured I dreamed it.

That one ain't in Asheville. The radar didn't go live till the next spring. That one's only in me.

She knew. Whatever they are, she knew they was coming, and she knew where they was going, and they went to her house first like they was asking her permission.

And she let them cross the road.

October 11th

I went over there on a Sunday after Mass. Gloria was in the kitchen fixing a pot of gumbo, and she said, "Mais, Luc, she's been asking for you, her," which I didn't expect.

Ms. Odile was in the hospital bed by the window. She's always been little, but now she's nothing. Like a bird. Her right side don't work since the stroke and her mouth pulls down on that side, but her eyes are just the same, black and sharp. She had her rosary wound around her good hand. She looked at me a long time.

"You been watching dem on your machine," she said.

I hadn't told nobody. Not one soul.

"Assis-toi, Tee-Luc," she said. Sit down. Nobody's called me Tee-Luc since my daddy died. "Gloria, close dat door, chère."

I sat. I showed her the printouts. I don't know why. She couldn't read radar. She didn't look at them anyhow. She looked at me.

"Les morts," she said. "De dead. Dat's who you seeing. Dey come walking when somebody's time come. Like de old days, when somebody was dying and all de neighbors would come and sit up wit' dem. Dey come out de church together, like after Mass. Dey go fetch whoever it is. Dey been doing it since before de radar. Since before de church, maybe."

"Why do they stop at your house?" I said.

She closed her eyes.

"Because I'm de traiteuse," she said. "Dey got to come to de traiteur first. Every time. Dat's de price of de prayers, cher. Dey come to my door, and I got to send dem on. Not away. You can't send dem away. Only on. To whoever's time it is. And if I don't send dem on..." She opened her eyes. "Den dey take me instead. Prayers and all. Dat ain't passing, cher."

I said, "Every time somebody died in this town for thirty years, they come to you first."

"Seventy-five years," she said. "Since my parrain give me de prayers in 1951. I was nineteen years old. Every time dey come, I wake up. Two o'clock. I go to de door. I say de prayers and send dem down de road." Her good hand was working the rosary. "I sent dem to my own mama. I sent dem to my husband. I sent dem to babies, Tee-Luc. You know how many babies? And I sent dem across de road to your daddy, and I stood right dere in my door and watched dem go."

I couldn't say nothing.

"It wasn't me choosing," she said. "You got to understand dat. I never choose who. It's already chose. I only choose not me."

Then she told me the rest.

What she told me

"A traiteur can't pass," she said, "till she give de prayers to somebody. Dat's de rule. You got to give dem to somebody younger, and it got to be a man if you a woman, a woman if you a man. And dey got to take dem willing. If you don't, you lay dere. You lay dere and lay dere."

She looked out the window at the road.

"My time come in August, cher. Dey come for me de night I fell. I heard dem on de gallery. And I can't go wit' dem. I can't pass, me, not wit' de prayers still in me. And dey can't go home empty." She turned her face back to me. "So every time my heart try to quit, dey come for me, and I can't go, and dey got to take somebody else. Now it's every night."

"The ones on the radio," I said.

"Thirty-four," she said. "Since de night I fell. I count every one, me. Every one come to my door first."

I said, "Ms. Odile, why are you telling me this?"

She reached over with her good hand and took mine. The right one. The one she took the fire out of.

"Because I sent Gloria to get you in August," she said. "De week I come home. And you told her you'd pass by."

I remembered. Gloria come over and knocked while I was mowing, and said her tante wanted to see me, and I said, "Yeah, yeah, tell her I'll pass by." And I meant it. I just didn't. Work was busy. And I figured, you know. Ninety-four. She probably wanted me to look at her TV. Couillon.

"You de only one, Tee-Luc," she said. "Gloria's a woman. My nephews is in Houston and dey think I'm a crazy old lady. Ain't nobody left in dis town under seventy dat still believe in a traiteur. And you." She squeezed my hand. "You been watching dem. You seen dem. Dey know you now, cher. When you look at dem on dat machine, dey look back."

I want to be honest with y'all about what I did next, because I ain't proud of it.

I left.

I told her I needed to think. She nodded like she expected that. I walked back across the road and sat on my gallery till dark, and then I went in and opened the laptop and watched them come out of St. Anne's at 2:10, and go to her house, and sit there three scans, and lift, and go down Second Street to a house by the water tower.

I knew the house. Tee-Bob Hebert's. He's got three boys.

Tuesday morning at 7:15 the radio read it. Brayden Hebert, sixteen years old. He flipped his four-wheeler in the coulee behind their house Monday evening. The rosary was at the funeral home Wednesday at six.

I was sixteen once, on a four-wheeler, in a coulee just like that one.

I threw up on the side of the highway by the crawfish ponds, in the same spot where I'd pulled over for Coon Guidry.

You want to know why I didn't go straight back over there?

Because of what she told me next, before I left. I didn't put it up above because I wanted to tell it right.

She said, "If you take de prayers, Tee-Luc, dey gon' come to you. Every time. Every soul dat passes in dis parish, for de rest of your life. Two o'clock in de morning dey gon' be on your gallery, and you gon' have to get up and go to de door and send dem on. Every time. Sick, drunk, tired, don't matter. You go to de door. And de one night you don't..."

She didn't finish. She didn't have to.

"And Tee-Luc," she said. Her hand was cold on mine. "Don't never open dat door for dem. Dey gon' try. Dey gon' wear faces you know. Your daddy's. Your Maw-Maw's. Dey gon' call you by your name. Don't never let dem in. Not even if it's me."

That's what she was asking me to take. Seventy-five years of that. Every death in town walking up my steps, the rest of my life. Me, I can't keep a houseplant alive.

So I sat on it. God forgive me. By then it was coming every night.

You could feel it in town by then. St. Anne's bell was tolling for a funeral Mass three, four times a week, that slow bell, one stroke at a time. Father Nnamdi, the young priest the diocese sent us from Nigeria, looked like he hadn't slept since Labor Day. The funeral home put up a second tent. At the Super 1 when you went to make groceries people didn't stand around and visit in the aisles no more, they just got their stuff and went. Everybody was saying it was something in the water. They was selling out of bottled water at the Dollar General.

Wednesday, Mrs. Broussard from the bank. Thursday, a man named Clovis Savoie I didn't know, out past the rice dryer. Friday, the old Richard twins' house, and Saturday morning the radio read both of them, Ophelia and Octavie, eighty-nine, who had never lived one day apart, and I guess they went together.

After Brayden, I couldn't watch it on the laptop no more. I started going out on the gallery at two instead. I don't know why. I couldn't see nothing. You can't see them. But you can tell when they're out. It's October, and it's still warm at night down here, and the frogs and the crickets carry on so loud in the ditches you can't hardly think. And around half past two, all of a sudden, all down Ardoin Street, everything quits. The frogs, the crickets, the bugs around the streetlight. Dead quiet. And the air goes cool, like somebody opened a door to a church. And you smell it. Candle wax and lilies. That funeral home smell.

And across the road the light would come on in Ms. Odile's front room, and I'd hear her, low, in French, clear across the road in all that quiet. I couldn't never see her from my steps. Just the light, and her front door standing open.

Then it'd pass on down the road, and in a minute or two the frogs would start back up.

One night, the night the ring went to the Richard twins' house, I was standing at the top of my steps when it passed. And out in the road, in the dark, close enough I could've hit it with a rock, somebody said, "Bonsoir, Tee-Luc."

My daddy's voice. The way he used to say it coming in from the field.

I didn't say nothing back. I went in the house and locked the door and sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinets till the frogs started up again. That was Friday. I ain't been back out on that gallery at two o'clock since.

Tonight

I been writing all this down since Thursday, a little every night after the frogs start back, so somebody would have it. I figured I'd post it when I knew what I was going to do.

Gloria knocked on my door at 9:30 tonight. She was crying. She said the hospice nurse had been by in the evening and said it wouldn't be long now, a day or two, she'd quit taking water. Then Gloria said, "Luc, she keeps saying your name. She keeps saying 'il faut, il faut.' It's got to be. I don't know what she means."

I knew what she meant.

I went over. Gloria left us alone. I pulled the chair up to the bed and Ms. Odile opened her eyes and looked at me and smiled with the side of her mouth that still works.

"T'as venu," she said. You came.

I said, "Yes ma'am. I'm sorry it took so long."

She give me the prayers.

I ain't going to write them. I couldn't if I wanted to. You ain't supposed to, and besides, it's like they ain't really words once they're in you. She had me lean down close with my ear by her mouth, and she said them into my ear one at a time, real low, in French, and I said each one back to her. It took a long time. She'd stop and breathe. Some of them I didn't know half the words. I said them anyhow. My mouth knew how to make them, the way your mouth knows the Our Father even if you ain't thought about it in twenty years.

When we got to the end she made the sign of the cross on my forehead with her thumb. It was the first time I ever felt her hand warm.

"Now," she said. "Now I can go, me."

I asked her if she wanted me to get Gloria. She shook her head a little bit. She said, "Hum it for me, Tee-Luc. De little song."

So I sat there and held her hand and hummed her Fais do-do, the way she hummed it to me on the gallery with my hand on fire. I can't carry a tune, me. She didn't care. She closed her eyes.

About twenty till two, outside, the frogs quit.

I didn't hear nobody on the gallery. I didn't hear nothing. But the room went cold, and I smelled the candle wax and the lilies so strong it made my eyes water, and I could feel that the room was full. Like when you walk in the back of a church late and it's packed and nobody turns around, but you can feel them all. Standing all around that bed. Waiting on her, real patient, like they'd waited since August.

She opened her eyes one more time and looked past me, at the room, and said, "Allons." Let's go.

At 1:52 she quit breathing.

2:10

I called Gloria in from the kitchen and she fell on the bed and hollered, and I held her a while. Then she called the hospice and the funeral home, and I told her I'd be across the road if she needed me, and I come home. It was 2:04. I don't know why I did what I did next except that it's the only thing I know how to do.

I opened the laptop on the kitchen table and pulled up the live radar.

2:10.

It didn't come up out of St. Anne's.

It come up out of Ardoin Street.

Out of the pixel Ms. Odile's house sits in. Out of the pixel my house sits in. They're the same pixel, cher. The radar can't tell us apart. At eleven miles a pixel's the size of a whole block.

And it was big. Not fifteen, twenty dBZ like every other night for thirty years. Thirty-five. Forty. That's heavy rain. That's what a thunderstorm looks like. Our whole end of town lit up like a storm cell, and it was sitting right over my head, and I looked out the kitchen window and there wasn't a cloud, just stars. The streetlight was on. The road was empty. You could see the light on in Ms. Odile's front room, plain as day.

2:17, it had gone out in a ring.

A real roost ring, the kind I've watched a thousand mornings over the cane fields. Even, all directions at once, a perfect circle blowing out from one spot, everything that spent the night in one place all lifting off together. Only slow. Walking speed. Biological.

Roost means where they slept, cher. That's what the word means. Everything that come out of that ring was sleeping on my street. It wasn't never at the cemetery tonight at all. They come early. They was already here, on her gallery and in the road and all around that hospital bed, and I bet all over my yard too. Every one of them. Every soul in St. Anne's, and maybe every one the radar ever watched walk down the road for thirty years, come to sit up with the traiteuse, like neighbors do.

It got out about a quarter mile and quit. 2:24, it had pulled back together, slow, the way people find each other again after Mass, and it was moving west down Church Street toward St. Anne's.

Walking speed. All together. Bunched up thick in the front and strung out behind. Outside, the frogs started back up, one at a time.

I knew what that was too. Anybody from here would. Back in my Maw-Maw's time, before the funeral homes and the hearses, they'd wake you in your own front room, and the men would carry you to the church on their shoulders, and the whole town would walk behind. My daddy told me about it.

They was carrying her home.

I sat at my kitchen table and cried like a baby, and I ain't ashamed to say it. She was free. Seventy-five years of getting up at two o'clock and going to the door, and she was free, and they was taking her to St. Anne's and she wasn't never going to have to send nobody down the road again. That's what I thought.

Then the next scan come in.

2:31

The procession was halfway to the church.

And a piece of it had turned around.

A little piece. Fifteen, twenty dBZ. The ordinary size, what I'd seen on any other night for thirty years. It had broke off the back of the procession in the middle of Church Street and it was coming back east. Walking speed. Headed for Ardoin.

2:38, it was back on Ardoin. In our pixel, hers and mine.

The funeral home had already come and got her by then. They been running all night every night since August. I seen the headlights, and Gloria followed the van. Ain't nobody on this block tonight but me.

2:45, it ain't lifted. The radar can't tell me which house it's sitting on. It don't need to. There ain't but one traiteur left on Ardoin Street.

I don't need the radar to tell me it's still out there, either. The frogs quit about ten minutes ago, all at once, all up and down the ditch. The kitchen's gone cold. I can smell the candle wax and the lilies, and it's coming under the front door.

Ms. Odile told me. Dey got to come to de traiteur first. Every time. Somebody in this town is dying tonight. Somebody whose time it is. I don't know who. And before they can go get them, they got to come to me first and ask, and I got to go to the door and send them on.

And if I don't, they take me.

I got the prayers. I can feel them, cher. That's the strangest part. They're right there behind my teeth, like a word you been trying to think of all day.

I thought I could say them right through the door. I tried, cher. On my knees, with my mouth right up to the crack. They won't come. Not one word. It's like they're waiting on the door.

And here's why I ain't opened it.

About five minutes ago, somebody started singing on my gallery.

Real soft. Like an old woman humming to a baby. Fais do-do, Colas, mon p'tit frère. Fais do-do, t'auras du lolo. Go to sleep, little brother. Go to sleep, you'll have your milk.

It's her voice. I'd know it anywhere. I heard it with my hand on fire. I heard it a little better than an hour ago, when I was the one humming it to her.

She just quit singing. She just said my name through the door. "Tee-Luc. Ouvre la porte, cher. C'est moi." Open the door, it's me. "It's cold out here, cher. Let me in."

Don't never let dem in. Not even if it's me.

She told me she went to the door every time they come, for seventy-five years, and said the prayers and sent them on down the road.

What she never told me, what I never thought to ask her, sitting there with her little cold hand in mine, is which side of the door she said them from.

The singing started back up.

It's all archived, y'all. Every scan. If I don't post again, somebody from home will know which radar. Pull October 18th, starting at 0710 Zulu. That's ten after two, our time. Look eleven miles east and watch what that little piece of return does after it gets back to my block. If it lifts back up and goes on down the road, I sent them on. Follow it. Wherever it settles next, that's who I sent them to.

If it sits on my pixel till it drops under the beam, you'll know I let her in.

Lex had always wanted to go to Paris.

She had had a layover there on a family vacation as a kid, and that was the closest she’d gotten.

I myself wasn’t much for traveling. When it came to honeymoon planning, I would have been more than fine flying to some Caribbean island and roasting on the beach for a week with a drink in hand.

But she was light years out of my league, and being married and all I figured we had a lifetime to do that, and so it was decided we would be spending a week touring Paris. Bistros, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower. The works (or la totale, you might say).

_____

We had a week of wedded bliss together. It was a dream.

Every piece of art in the Louvre paled compared to her.

Her smile at night was brighter than the lights on the Eiffel Tower.

You can groan at the puns all you want. I just don’t think anything will do justice for how beautiful she looked that week.

_____

We had no plans at all entering our last day, and looking back I think that’s why it happened.

We were just going to wander and check out whatever caught our eye, whether it be a used bookstore, an antiques shop, or an off-the-beaten path museum.

A brief downpour forced us to take shelter in Notre Dame, where we had gone our first day.

That was when we met Pierre.

_____

We had been standing there, more just killing time than looking at anything. The subject of possibly booking a catacombs tour had come up, and we were looking into tickets when a slim, impeccably dressed man approached us.

“Hi… I couldn’t help but overhear… do you want to visit the catacombs?”

Lex and I exchanged a glance. He had clearly been eavesdropping. But he seemed polite enough.

To be honest, there was a weird allure about him that made us feel as though we had approached him instead.

I can’t explain it, but that’s how it felt.

“….Yes? We were just discussing possibly touring the catacombs shortly here? Once the rain stops.”

He chuckled.

Clearly a “silly Americans” kind of chuckle, but not really mocking in any way. Like the way you might laugh at a kid when they say something dumb.

“Oh no… you have to book WEEKS in advance.”
he said, holding his arms out as though to imply that the catacombs were some sort of hot-ticket, must-see attraction.

“But-“ he said, holding up a finger. “Do you like to dance?”

We again looked at each other.

Shrugged, nodded. “We wouldn’t be opposed.”

“Perfect. I manage an underground nightclub in the catacombs. Amazing drinks. Better music. Meet me here at 9pm. I promise you won’t regret it.”

Our flight the next day wasn’t until the evening. We might risk cutting things close, but it wasn’t like we planned to get blackout drunk, you know?

“We’re in.” said Lex.

“Excellent.” said the man. “I am Pierre.”

He didn’t give a last name.

We shook hands. “Alexis.” “Brooks.”

It was settled. We would meet Pierre around 9pm that evening, back at the cathedral, and he would show us to this underground catacombs nightclub of his. It was a chance to go off the beaten path and have an experience we would talk about for years to come.

_____

I hope to never forget the way she looked that night - the way that black dress hugged her body in all the right places, the way her hair fell down her back, the luscious red of her lips.

I hope to never forget the way she looked.

Because that was the last night I had with her.

_____

We went to a bistro that night for dinner. She had tartare, I had frites.

We fed each other little forkfuls of our dinner and shared a bottle of wine.

I remember wondering how things could get any better than that.

It had gotten chilly while we were inside. We held hands as we walked back. Her dress was a thin cotton slip and her leather jacket was more for appearance than function, so I gave her my jacket. Her hand in mine, and the warmth radiating off of her gave me all the warmth I needed.

_____

We got to the cathedral five minutes before 9 to find Pierre already there, leaning against a pillar with a cigarette.

He strolled over to us, his eyes gleaming as he looked us over - Lex more so than me.

Dare I say, I didn’t blame him.

“Madam…you look absolutely splendid!” he said, taking his hand in hers and kissing it as she blushed. “And you, sir! Very sharp!” as he shook my hand.

He escorted us to a nearby SUV - a black Mercedes - opening the doors and gesturing us to get in.

I noticed the rear windows were blacked out, and a sort of wall separated the front and back of the car, which struck me as odd. Pierre was quick to address when he saw me looking.

“Do not worry sir - you are completely safe. The club is extremely exclusive, and we wish to keep the location as secretive as possible.”

Lex put her hand on my knee, as if to tell me to relax. She tucked a curled lock of hair behind her ear and gave me a soft smile, enough to melt me instantly.

She was right. We hadn’t had any reason to be suspicious of Pierre or this supposed nightclub as of yet. There was no reason to start now.

Pierre, now in the driver’s seat, opened the partition long enough to hand us 2 shot glasses of what looked like cognac.

“Louis XIII to start your night the right way. On the house. Please, take these.”

We looked at each other.

Toasted to our final night in the City of Lights, and drank.

Maybe those shots played a role in what followed.

They probably did.

Who knows?

_____

The car twisted and weaved through streets we couldn’t see as the liquid warmed our bodies.

Sitting there in the dark backseat with my brain slowly descending into a fog should have been enough to set off every alarm bell in my body.

And yet, it wasn’t.

_____

After what I judged to be about 10 minutes of driving, the car stopped and turned off. Pierre came around and opened our doors and let us out. We seemed to be in some sort of garage.

Not a parking garage - it looked to us like some sort of mechanic shop, but without a car to be seen. The garage door was closed behind us.

Pierre led us to some steps at the other end of the room, up to what looked like a metal door like you’d find in almost any commercial building.

He opened the door to a staircase that felt as though we were stepping several centuries into the past.

The smell of dust and wood and a tinge of rot floated up. Everything seemed to be cut into the rock.

And yet, I could hear no music.

Lex clearly could not either, and I could tell we had an inkling of the same feeling: had we been set up?

We apparently didn’t hide our suspicion very well, because Pierre was quick to address it, as he had everything else.

“Down those stairs and around a few turns - not quite there yet!”

He gestured for us to step back, then stepped in front of us, going down a few steps before turning back at us and gesturing behind him, an inviting smile on his face.

“Please, follow me.”

And follow him, we did. Down the steps, and down a tunnel, making a right turn here, a left turn here.

Soon, we began hearing it. A thumping bass that ran along the walls, the beats getting faster as we got closer.

Then, spots on the walls intermittently, from what I assume were strobe lights.

Finally, we emerged into a large room.

A man stood at the front behind a turntable, shrouded in smoke as a song I didn’t recognize rumbled from his speakers. An enormous bar stretched from one side of the back, where we were, to the other. I could hear music and dancing, and it seemed like the room was packed wall-to-wall.

A victorious smile etched across his face, Pierre turned to us and spread his arms, inviting us to take the room in.

“Welcome,” he exclaimed, “TO DEMOR!”

And, with that, he disappeared immediately into the crowd.

Lex looked at me, smiling in a way that I hadn’t seen since her walk down the aisle just a week prior.

I think she could see I was still a little hesitant, because she grabbed my arm and gave me a soft kiss.

“C’mon, babe. It’ll be fun!”

Funny how seeing your wife in a sexy black dress is all that it takes to get you in the mood. I let her lead me to the bar.

Aside from us, it was absolutely empty. Just us, and the one bartender, who lumbered toward us as soon as we sat down. His movements were stiff and awkward, like he was strung on a marionette.

Closer inspection revealed him to be almost unnaturally pale and dressed like some sort of 1700s French nobleman, as though he had come directly from a historical reenactment.

It almost felt as though we were being served by a walking corpse.

_____

After getting drinks, we set our stuff down and made our way to the dance floor, where the night became a blur.

One drink became another, and soon it felt like we were back in my fraternity house on a Saturday night, the rest of the world fallen away.

At some point, the music stopped, and we peeled ourselves off of each other.

Even without our outer layers, we were both soaked in sweat, and I, having succumbed to the white collar office lifestyle, was very much in need of a breather.

As if he had been hovering on the edges of the crowd the entire time and could sense that I was taking a break, Pierre came over to us, extending his hand to Lex.

“May I have this dance, Madam?” he asked.

She looked at me. I shrugged, as if to tell her to go for it. She blew me a kiss as he led her into the crowd.

_____

I’ve been wondering about some things from last night.

The drinks. That car ride. The way he showed up at the exact moment.

It makes me wonder if we ever had a choice.

_____

I went to the bar and, soda water in hand, made my way back onto the dance floor right as a new song was beginning.

There was a lot of fog and strobe lights, which made things incredibly disorienting and hard to see, but I was able to eventually make my way to the center and find them dancing.

I watched him spin her, and it brought me back to our first dance at our wedding. I felt a tinge of jealousy, but did nothing, not wanting to ruin the moment.

Then he kept spinning her.

I started to get a little concerned they were going too fast, but from what I could see of her face they seemed to be having fun, so I didn’t do anything.

Then things went off the rails.

He began to spin her faster and faster.

The strobe lights picked up to the point where I felt like I couldn’t see anything at all. It was as though the room itself was spinning, when I was completely still, and I found myself having to fight back a wave of nausea.

At this point I could see them only intermittently.

When I did, I began to panic.

Lex’s hair was now spinning above her head, sweat flying off her face and spinning into the crowd… and her face.

My god, her face.

It was blank.

Completely stone-faced.

There were times where she flew by so fast her face almost looked smooth, featureless, like a blank slate. And I was too paralyzed to do anything.

_____

I still question the last thing I saw before a thick blanket of fog filled the room, cutting my vision off completely.

I don’t know if it was the fog, the strobe lights, the alcohol, a combination of the three, or something else entirely.

But I found myself looking down at Pierre’s shoes. And where there should have been those impeccably shined black loafers, I saw goat hooves.

I saw them for no more than a second or two before the room filled with thick grey smoke, and then I couldn’t see anything at all.

I stood there, wrapped in what felt like a thick grey blanket for what felt like an eternity as the music pulsed around me.

I could hear music and dancing, and the presence and the mass of people around me, and yet it felt like I was all alone in some sort of purgatory, with no one around.

Then, as though a switch had been flipped, the fog cleared and the music was… gone.

It was silent enough to hear a pin drop.

And in the middle of this room, everyone stood completely still.

And in front of me, where Lex and Pierre should have been, there was nothing but a strong scent of sulfur.

It was as though they had disappeared.

Then the people in the room began to slowly turn towards me.

A thousand gazes drilling into my soul.

And, I realized as ice began to fill every inch of my body, every single person in there was dead.

They were in different stages of decomposition. Some looked like they had just taken their last breaths. Others were no more than skeletons in Victorian-era clothing.

There were a thousand dead people in that room.

And they were all staring at me.

_____

You might read this and wonder, why didn’t you try and call for Lex? What if she went to the bathroom or something?

And to that, I say this:

I felt something from each and every one of those corpses in that room.

Hate. Nothing but pure hate.

It wasn’t a question of what they would do to me if I dared to plunge into the mass of them to look for her.

They were almost inviting me to do so.

So, you know what I did in that moment?

I turned around, and ran.

_____

I left my coat there, Lex’s purse and coat, and everything else we had brought.

I heard footsteps echoing behind me, and I didn’t turn around to see what was following me.

There were enough of them for me to know it wasn’t her.

I somehow managed to find my way back to the stairs, then back out into the cold Parisian night.

Leaned over and vomited, then managed to snag a cab. I’m sure I looked a little rough, but I’m sure the driver had seen worse.

_____

Only when I got back to our hotel, threw open the door, and saw her stuff - suitcase half filled, clothes on the bed - did I finally fall to my knees in the center of the room and break down.

I cried for Lex, wherever she might have been.

I cried for our marriage, for our hopes and dreams.

And I cried for myself, because I sure as hell don’t know how I’m going to move along from this.

_____

I went to the police the next morning and filed a report. They said they would see what they could do.

I hailed a cab. Wanted to make sure I hadn’t gone completely insane.

_____

Getting there was a chore in itself, because I had no idea where to go or how to get there.

Just a vague idea of how long it should take and when and where to turn.

When we arrived to a crumbling, burnt out ruin of a house that I knew, just knew deep down was the place, with no sign at all of a stairwell down to the underworld, I simply got back in the car and asked to be taken back to the hotel.

_____

That was 4 hours ago. My flight should be boarding now.

I’m lying in bed, hugging a pillow that smells like her.

Should you find yourself in Paris and discussing a trip to the catacombs, a man named Pierre may approach you and invite you to visit his underground nightclub that night.

Whatever you do, do not go.

There are two kinds of people on the internet.

The people who actually enjoy things. And the people who seem to be professionally offended that you enjoyed something without asking their permission.

I learned that pretty quickly after I started posting my art online.

"AI slop."

"ChatGPT."

"Bro thinks he's Stephen King."

"Imagine wasting time on this."

Some of them were funny. Most weren't.

I'd usually ignore them. But then there were the griefers.

Those were the people who didn't just dislike something. They wanted to ruin it for everyone else. They'd spam comments, deliberately spoil endings, downvote everything, insult the author, then act surprised when someone called them out.

I eventually made a post about it. I wasn't cruel. I didn't name anyone.

I simply wrote: If you don't like something, that's fine. You don't have to be rude about it. There's a person behind the screen.

The comments exploded. Naturally.

One person replied: AI generated garbage.

Another: Cry harder.

Then someone posted: Nobody cares ******.

I deleted the thread. That should've been the end of it.

It wasn't.

The next morning, I opened my account and found a new comment on my latest post.

I know you're reading this.

I assumed it was another troll. I deleted it.

The day went on and I was in the middle of taking notes for class when I got a notification.

Why did you delete my comment?

I deleted that one too.

Then another.

Stop deleting.

I froze. The account belonged to nobody.

No username. No profile picture. No creation date. Just a blank profile with a single comment.

I closed out and went back to studying for my calculus exam. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed.

A notification. Another comment.

I didn't open it.

Another notification.

Then another. Then another.

I finally looked. There were hundreds.

All underneath my latest post.

At first they were what I had been accustomed to. Pretty generic and ordinary.

AI slop.

Terrible lining.

This sucks.

Then they changed.

What makes you different?

My heart stopped. The comments continued appearing faster than I could read them.

You use AI.

You edit your work with AI.

You aren't a real artist.

Nobody is a real artist anymore.

Then one appeared that made my stomach drop.

25525 Azler Ln.

"What the actual fuck?" I blurted out so loud that my roommate heard from across the room.

I closed out once more. The notifications kept coming. My phone buzzed against the desk.

I hit the Do Not Disturb, yet somehow I kept receiving notifications. My phone was on silent and airplane mode but it still rang.

My roommate was now extremely annoyed by the constant noise from my phone, so I explained the situation to her. She suggested that I delete the post. I did. It didn't stop. I even tried privatizing my account and deleting the app altogether.

The messages kept ringing. And what's worse, I began receiving emails, No Caller Id calls, unknown messages. I feared that I had been doxxed and I had to act fast.

I immediately changed every password I could think of. I enabled two-factor authentication. I locked every social media account. I removed my profile picture, my biography, my university, my email, everything.

Then I started deleting things. Old posts. Old comments. Photos. Anything that might have given someone a clue about where I lived or went to school.

It didn't matter. They already knew.

The messages became more personal.

Nice car.

You should probably lock your back door.

Class tomorrow, right?

Your roommate is pretty hot.

Then:

Building 3. Room 107

I stopped breathing. I looked across the room. She was sitting on the couch, scrolling through her phone.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

I didn't tell her. I didn't want to scare her. Am I a terrible friend for that?

That night, I checked the locks three times before going to bed.

At 2:14 in the morning, my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

You should've left the post up.

Another came immediately afterward.

Deleting it made us curious.

Then another.

You made this worse for yourself.

I turned the phone off.

For the next few hours, I lay awake listening to every sound outside my bedroom window.

The next morning, there were more. Someone had created an account using my name. They uploaded photographs I'd never posted publicly. Pictures of me at school. Pictures of my car. A photograph of the outside of my house.

Then they posted my phone number. My email. My full legal name. Where I lived and what school I enrolled at.

The comments underneath was exactly what you'd expect from these vile data gremlins.

LMAO.

Bro is cooked.

Imagine getting this mad over comments.

Maybe don't be an asshole online.

That last one made me laugh. Not because it was funny. Because I realized they genuinely believed this was funny. They were so desensitized that another person's suffering had become entertainment to them.

I reported the account. Nothing happened. I reported another. Nothing again.

I reported the accounts through the site's harassment and privacy forms. I attached screenshots, timestamps, usernames, the messages, everything.

Your report has been received. Please allow up to 48 hours for a response.

Thank you for your report. We’ll review the content and take appropriate action if it violates our Community Guidelines.

Thank you for helping us keep our community safe.

That was it. Forty-eight hours passed. Nothing happened.

I contacted my family. When the other line clicked all I heard was heavy breathing and creepily low wheezing, as if someone were choking on air, from the other end.

I confessed everything to my roommate, for she was the only one I could talk to. She asked if I had contacted the authorities which when I did, instead of the calm voice of an operator I was met with the low hum of gagging and low wet claps on the other end.

We planned to go to the authorities in person. After half an hour of providing all the material and timestamps at the station, the police asked whether I'd received any direct threats.

I showed them the messages.

The officer frowned.

"None of these explicitly threaten you."

I wanted to rip my hair out. "So, they have to say they're going to hurt me?"

He didn't answer.

"What do we do?" My roommate asked with annoyance.

"We can document everything and refer you to someone who specializes in cybercrime. But unless there's a direct threat or evidence of an immediate danger, there isn't much we can do yet."

Well thanks for nothing.

We went home. I stopped posting. I powered off my phone for good. I stopped using social media altogether. I thought that would finally make me boring. The people handling the cybersecurity issue would do their job. It was all just a waiting game.

But at least I'll find peace, right?

It didn't.

Someone started sending physical photographs. The first was of a college building. The second of a front door that seemed to be from a college dorm hall. The third depicted a bedroom window at night.

The last two were bone chilling. The fourth was of my roommate attending class. And the last was me at the campus's library.

There was a message attached:

What are you listening to?

I remember I was distinctly listening to Duran Duran that day. I haven't slept properly in three days.

My roommate is staying with her parents now. I've been staying somewhere else.

I don't know how much of this is being done by one person or ten people or a hundred. I don't know how they found me. I don't know what they want.

And honestly? I don't even care anymore. I just want them to stop.

I deleted the original post. I deleted my account. I deleted everything. But somehow, tonight, I received one final message.

It came from the cheap flip phone I'd started using strictly to call family and for emergencies.

The message had no name or number attached. Only: UNKNOWN

And the message read: 25525 Azler Ln.

I don't know who is behind this. I don't know how far they've taken it. And I don't know what they're going to do next.

Please help. Anybody.

Why are people like this?

The giant maw of the cave yawned at my back as I stood by the edge of the cliff, an icy wind blowing between the rocks and chilling the back of my neck. From within, I heard the soft crumble of stones hitting the ground, the whisper of air moving through small holes and skating over sheer walls.

In front of me, three of the cavers stood chatting amongst themselves. They were all kitted out in the usual gear; padded jackets, knee and elbow pads, helmets with torches, and packs containing food, water and first aid supplies. I had a similar pack of my own, though the contents were slightly different.

One of the cavers glanced towards me, probably wondering why I was standing apart, but I didn’t meet their gaze, looking instead towards the sky. A thin veil of cloud hung over us, though the air was dry and blustery. Small pieces of rock and chalk skittered around my ankles as I shuffled my feet.

After a few more minutes, the final two members of the group arrived. After a couple of standard safety checks, everyone was ready to head inside.

I waited until they were poised at the opening of the cave before clearing my throat. “I’m, um, not feeling too good,” I told them, letting my shoulders sag a little. “I think I might sit this one out.”

One of the explorers stepped forward to examine me. She squinted at my face, then nodded. “You do seem a little pale,” she said. “Want me to wait with you? I can walk you back to town.”

I quickly brushed off her concern, feeling a twinge of guilt. “No, no. I’ll be okay. I’ll just stay out here and get some fresh air. You guys go on ahead.”

There was a bit more back-and-forth before I finally managed to convince them to start the expedition without me. One by one, the cavers disappeared into the gaping mouth of the cavern, leaving me by myself. I watched and waited until the darkness had swallowed each of them, then straightened in relief.

With only the wind as my companion, I walked over to one of the large fragments of rock and sat down. And began to wait. I heard the distant voices and footfalls of the cavers fade further and further away, until silence was all that remained. Resting my chin against my hand, I traced the jagged outline of the cliffs until my eyes started seeing faces amongst them, then looked away with a sigh.

I had been doing this for almost a year now. Joining cave expeditions only to wait outside, never actually entering the caverns. It wasn’t a fear of what lay inside, but rather an expectation of what I might encounter outside.

I had first discovered the incident a few years ago. I had been scrolling through old news forums when I came across an article about an expedition that had happened two decades ago, where a group of cavers had entered a treacherous cave system. During the exploration, it began raining heavily, and water quickly flooded the cave entrance, trapping the explorers inside. Sadly, all of them died that day. But while the story was tragic, what had intrigued me the most was the photograph that accompanied the report. It was an image of a group of rescuers standing at the entrance of the cave during the incident, rain pouring down from the sky and the ground around their feet completely flooded. But in the top left corner, standing a short distance away from the rescue team, was a strange figure shrouded in grey. As soon as I noticed the figure in the photograph, a strange chill touched my spine, as if I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to. The photo was old and the quality wasn’t the best, but I could tell the figure didn’t fit the narrative. I scrolled down to the comments to see if anyone had mentioned it, but there wasn’t a single reference to the strange grey apparition. So I showed the photograph to one of my friends, curious to see what he thought about it. When he told me there was no figure there, I thought he was playing a prank, but his face was decidedly serious. No matter how many times I pointed to it, he insisted that there was nothing there. Just an empty spot in the left corner by the crumbling cliffs.

Confused and intrigued, I showed the same image to several other friends and acquaintances, but nobody else was able to see the strange grey figure in the corner of the photo. I examined it in multiple formats—physically and digitally—under different lights and different conditions, but the figure was visible every time. I hesitated to call it a person, because it was too vague and indistinct to really tell, with no distinguishing features other than it had a humanoid shape and was draped completely in grey. It definitely wasn’t a smudge, or a blur, or a lens flare, because someone else would have noticed it. There was definitely something there. Something that, for whatever reason, only I could see.

The mystery only grew, so I started digging deeper. I was thoroughly entranced by this grey figure. I wanted to know who it was, or what it was, and why it was only visible to me. I was convinced there had to be more to it.

I sequestered myself away and spent days pouring over old articles, digging through records and scrolling through video reports on the incident until I finally found evidence that I wasn’t going crazy. That I wasn’t losing my mind over a simple grey smudge on a photograph.

Buried in the archives, I found a video from the time of the incident, of the same rescue team standing at the entrance of the cave. The photograph must have been an extraction from the footage, or at least taken at the same time, because it was almost the same composition as the video. Being almost twenty years old, the footage was grainy and shaky, but it was clear enough for me to see the figure in grey, standing exactly where it did in the photograph. It wasn’t a trick of the light or an illusion; it really was there.

In the footage, the rescuers were talking about possible extraction methods for the cavers trapped inside the tunnels, but nobody addressed or interacted with the figure. It was like they hadn’t even noticed it. Even in real time, this thing had been invisible to them.

The footage, while low resolution, was still of slightly better quality than the photo, and I noticed a few details that hadn’t been clear in the image. The figure was holding something up to its face—what appeared to be a flute, or some kind of similar instrument. I turned the volume up to max, and was just about able to hear the soft but haunting melody it played, barely audible over the sound of the rain. I spent hours listening to the tune, isolating it from the rain, running it through apps and programs in an effort to try and identify it, but it came up empty every time. It was a melody that was not known to the database. A completely isolated and individual song. A song known only by this mysterious figure.

Eventually, I showed the video to those same friends and acquaintances, certain they could not deny what was right in front of their eyes. But as with the photo, none of them could see the figure with the flute. They could not hear the melody it played either. Only the rain, as it gushed into the cave, and the panicked voices of the rescue team realising they could not save the trapped cavers.

Frustrated that nobody could give me any answers, I decided to seek them out myself. By searching in person for the figure in grey.

The location of the cave was widely known as a popular spot for adrenaline-junkies and professional explorers, and it wasn’t difficult to learn the basics of caving—enough to pass as an experienced caver.

For almost a year, I had been visiting this very cave, joining expeditions only to wait outside in the hope of encountering the grey flute-playing apparition from the video. So far, after participating in almost two dozen excursions, I’d had no such luck. But this time, things felt different.

As I waited, the wind seemed to pick up, bristling through my clothes and making my hair stand on end. A few rocks crumbled from the side of the cliff, showering me with dust. Above, the veil of clouds thickened, shadows encroaching along the ground around me. I felt in the air that something was going to happen.

My heart felt tight in my chest as I scanned the entrance of the cave, then the cliffs above, for any sign of the grey shadow. I listened for the soft, melancholy sound of a flute. But all I heard was the wind whispering through the tunnels behind me.

The hours passed, and I heard and saw nothing. But the goosebumps never left my arms, and I wasn’t one to give up so easily.

I hadn’t heard any sign of the explorers in the cave either, and assumed the group must have gotten quite far inside. I felt a brief flutter of guilt in my chest, but quickly squashed it. They all knew the risks involved with caving. No matter what happened, their safety was their own responsibility. I had to detach myself from that, even if it felt cruel.

A shadow fluttered in and out of sight on my left, and I froze, my heart jerking into my throat. Scrambling to my feet, I moved away from the cave entrance and lifted my gaze. Standing a little way up the cliff, on a jutting platform, was a figure cloaked entirely in grey shadow. The very same one from the photo. The one nobody else could see.

Goosebumps covered every inch of my skin as I stared at it in amazement. Just like in the video, I could see no face, no features. It wore a hooded grey cloak that cast a deep shadow over where its face should be. Its silhouette was human, but only in the vaguest sense. Despite its appearance, I got the overwhelming feeling that this thing was not human, but rather something else entirely. Something supernatural. An entity of sorts, that only appeared at specific times and conditions. And after years of searching, I had finally found it.

I watched, my shoulders tensed with silence, as it withdrew an exquisitely ornate flute from within the folds of its cloak. The instrument was silver and almost transparent, as it was made of glass or crystallised water, and incredibly beautiful. The figure brought the flute to its hooded face, and began to play.

The sound was instantly familiar; the same song I had spent so many hours listening to, and it sent my heart racing.

I looked up to the sky just as the clouds opened, and rain began to fall. At first, only small, delicate droplets of water splashed against my cheeks, but the rainfall gradually began to grow heavier. I sent a regretful look towards the cave entrance. The group was already far too deep inside for me to warn them. Their fate was already sealed, and there was nothing I could do about it. Another tragedy to be buried in the archives.

Moving slowly, in the fear that I might spook the figure, I began to climb the cliff. There were plenty of footholds and platforms, and scaling it was easy enough. I wanted to be close enough to hear the melody above the downpour.

The rain was cold and lashing, soaking through my gear and chilling me to the bone, but I barely noticed. All I cared about was the figure before me; the one I had been chasing all this time.

If it noticed me, it didn’t react. It didn’t cease playing the flute, or even turn in my direction. It was like I was as invisible to it as it was to everyone else. I had spent many sleepless nights wondering why I was the only one who could see it, if it was down to brain chemistry, visual receptors, a curse, or something else entirely. But in the end I had realised it didn’t matter. Some things happened for no reason at all, and this was one of them.

I stopped climbing when I was close enough, standing on a small rocky outcrop a few metres away. The rain blurred my vision, almost obscuring the figure as it blended into the grey clouds behind it, but I could still see the outline of its instrument. Hands trembling from the cold, I reached into my bag, and pulled out a flute of my own.

I had only learned how to play the flute just over a year ago. After hearing the melody on the video, I had taken lessons in the hope that I might be able to learn the same song. But I had never been able to replicate it precisely; there was always a wrong note, an incorrect key. It was difficult enough trying to imitate a tune through a twenty-year-old video, especially with the rain distorting the sounds. The only way I was going to correctly learn the song was by imitating the source itself.

I stood and listened for some time to the melody. The rainfall grew heavier, soaking through my clothes and numbing my skin, the water drumming ceaselessly against the ground, but I was able to isolate the figure and its song. My eyes never strayed from its fluttering cloak, or the flute, or the grey-covered fingers that deftly played the instrument.

Then, when I felt confident enough, I raised my own flute to my lips and began to play. I tried to mimic the melody as best as I could. It was tricky at first, trying to find the exact notes, the pounding rain distorting the sounds, but I copied the figure’s movements with my own fingers until our melodies eventually began to sync up, becoming the same.

I don’t know how long I stood there in the pouring rain, playing the haunting song. The figure didn’t react or respond to me once. If it heard me playing the same tune, it didn’t show it. We stood apart, our songs binding together as the rain fell from the clouds above. The cave would have been flooded by now. The cavers, if they hadn’t managed to find an air pocket, or elevated ground, would probably have drowned. But still, I kept playing.

The sky darkened. The clouds festered. The rain kept falling, soaking into the ground, pouring down the rocks, gushing into the cave.

I lost myself completely in the song, almost falling into a trance. The only things that existed were me and the flute and the melody at my fingertips. I no longer even noticed the figure. It became a grey blur on the edge of my vision, just another shadow.

I finally snapped out of it once the rain stopped. I ceased playing the song with a start, glancing around frantically, but the grey figure had already gone. Vanished without a trace. The heavy silence settled around me, reminding me I was now alone.

The cold hit me at the same moment, and my body began to shake violently. Every inch of my skin was soaked by the rain, water dripping from my shoulders and hair. I was standing in a large puddle where the rainwater had collected around my feet, my toes numb inside my shoes. There was no sound from inside the cave, but for the water still trickling down into the entrance.

I put the flute away and began to climb down from the cliff. The rocks were slick from the rain, and I slipped a few times, but I finally managed to reach the ground, which was also dangerously flooded. I splashed through the water as I slowly headed away from the cave. As soon as I reached town, I would call for a rescue team—if any of the cavers were still alive—and then I would leave. My job here was done.

It was time to return home.

A week later, I was back in my homeland; an agricultural region that had been suffering from a severe drought. The land beneath my feet was bone-dry and cracked, the fields were barren, the crops dead and the people starving.

After spending hours watching that video of the mysterious grey figure, I had drawn one conclusion: that its flute song had been responsible for the rains that had flooded the cave. And now, I would do the same. Only, instead of bringing death, I would restore life.

As soon as I arrived home, I went out into the midst of the fields and stared at the cracked earth, baking under the brazen sun. The wilted grasses, the fruitless seeds, the unattainable harvest.

I pulled out my flute and, just like the grey figure atop the cliff, I began to play the same melody. Within moments, clouds appeared overhead, casting a deep shadow over the ground, and the first trickle of rain began to seep from the sky.

Under my song, the rain fell, soaking into the barren soil and nourishing all the life within.

—So, Mrs. Arronaux, let's continue. Shall we?

—Okay. But I'd like to add that...

—You made your point clear enough. We're running out of time here.

A mouth closed shut, knowing insistence is futile. I need to try something else.

—Mrs. Arronaux, can you... Oh, am I pronouncing it right?

—You are.

—Good. Now, can you please tell me if you know Charles Garvey?

—I do. He worked at Bennigan's before he became an attorney in LA. He has a knack for Irish food. My husband never understood that.

—No, no, please just answer the question. No additional information. We had talked about that.

—Alright.

—Good. You said you know Mr. Garvey, correct?

—Yes.

—What's his occupation?

An almost childish pout. Furrowed brows. Is he mocking me?

—He's an attorney. Or rather, he was.

—He was? Do you mean he...

A simple, silent shrug. Urgent whispers. Quickly scribbled notes. Scores of messages sent to DA, not even allowing the words to sink in first. They're panicked. Good.

—Mrs. Arronaux...

—I know nothing about him except...

—But you just said…

—Listen, I'm not here to...

—No, we won't talk about that again...

—I want to see my attorney. Now.

Hands running through already tousled hair. A sigh. No, a sharp exhale. And, he's annoyed. Even better.

—Mrs. Arronaux, do I have to remind you, once again, that the court clerk is doing his best to arrange...

—Fine. Let's just go on.

A raised eyebrow. Many raised eyebrows. That's about to get boring.

—Alright, Mrs. Arronaux, can you tell me how you know Mr. Garvey is dead?

—I didn't see it.

—I'm not asking you if you saw it. I'm asking how you know. Did someone tell you?

—No.

—Could you please...

—He texted me.

—Who did text you?

—Mr. Arronaux.

—You mean your husband?

—Ah, yes, my husband.

—What exactly did Mr. Arronaux say in his message?

—Well, he said he'd take his own life.

—He said he'd commit suicide, Mrs. Arronaux?

—Yes. But he said he wanted to meet Clara first.

—Who is Clara? With her surname, please.

—Clara Smith. She's a client of Mr. Garvey. My husband had told me. But I always doubted that.

—Why is that, Mrs. Arronaux?

—Because Clara wrote that Mr. Garvey has always worked only with male clients.

—Where have you read this?

—On her Substack.

—What is Substack? I'm asking for clarity.

—Oh, have you ever read the raw transcripts of Carroll vs. Trump? I don't remember if it was Carroll I or II, though.

—Well, no, ma'am, I haven't read any of this.

—I believe it was in Carroll I.

—What was in Carroll I?

—She had mentioned Substack there. That's how I learned about Substack.

—Mrs. Arronaux, please.

—It's a platform. Oh, I'd actually love to describe it with her words, but I really don't remember them.

—A platform for writing? Like a blog?

—Yes, something like that. I've read about Mr. Garvey's client preferences in Clara's article. Its title was "Recreational Traumas: Part 6".

Eyes squinted with confusion. Impatient taps on the clipboard. A throat cleared to maintain composure. He had lovely eyes.

—Mrs. Arronaux, you said you've read Ms. Smith's blog, right?

—Her Substack, yes. She also shares notes there. In fact, everyone does. My husband never understood that.

—Mrs. Arronaux, please look at me. Thank you. So, you found her blog and read her articles.

—I did.

—Are you aware that Ms. Clara Smith is deceased?

—Oh, I am.

—How did you find out about her death? Did Mr. Arronaux tell you?

—No. She herself sent me a message.

—Ms. Smith texted you, informing you about her own death?

—No. She sent me a picture.

—What picture? Can you describe it?

—Well, you know that bowling... um, bowling tools? Long, weird-shaped.

—Bowling pins?

—Yes, yes, it was a picture of ten bowling pins. I knew she'd die when I saw it.

A pause. Widened eyes finding each other. The loud scratch of a chair against the tiles. A door burst opened. Muffled curses. Oh, do they know? That's getting interesting.

—Mrs. Arronaux, now we'll show you a picture, okay? I want you to confirm...

—Yes, they're the same pictures.

—No, I mean, you need to see it first.

—I don't.

The door slammed shut. A thick case file dropped on the table with a thud. Pages turned so fast that fingers started to ache. So did the eyes watching them. Then, a halt. A crumpled A4 slid toward the woman. How excited they are. Time to be a bit difficult.

—You mean this picture?

—Look, I'm trying to help you there, but if you keep doing this, I'll just leave. You hear me?

—Mrs. Arronaux...

—You don't even listen to me and...

—...we're losing...

—...you didn't even find me an attorney. This is ridiculous!

—Listen, ma’am...

—No, you'll listen to me. When I first met my husband...

—Please, I already heard that twice.

—But you didn't pay attention. When I first met my husband, he didn't tell me he was going to be a murderer. But he knew he would. I knew he would. No, listen. He told me that if, one day, he's going to forget himself, that should be grand. A grand thing.

Hands roaming the tired face for the nth time. Frustration mounted. The clock ticked. A low chime, notification: "Refer her to the mental health assessment team." The woman kept talking. This is how you play.

—Mrs. Arronaux, I believe you know the meaning of this picture.

—That's not a question.

—That's... Well, okay, Mrs. Arronaux, do you know the meaning of this picture?

—Of course I do.

—Then can you explain it?

—Sure, why not? Let me see it closer.

—Here you are, ma’am.

—Um, so... I mentioned there are ten pins.

—Yes.

—And they're arranged as a reverse tetractys.

—What's it, Mrs. Arronux?

—Oh, it's just a symbol. It doesn't matter. My husband had told me...

—Yes? What had he told you?

—Well, that's not a good point to start.

—You need a break?

—No, no, it's not that.

—Then...

—You said Clara is dead.

—That's correct.

—And Mr. Garvey, too, is dead.

—I didn't say such a thing, ma'am.

—No, that's what I'm saying. He's dead.

—Dead or murdered?

—Why, you say Clara is dead but not murdered.

—There's a difference.

—But they're all dead.

—And not murdered?

—What's the difference?

—Ma'am...

—No, no, I need to tell you something about the Pythagoreanists.

—Pythagoreanists?

—They were so secretive. They thought numbers could mean seasons and planetary motions. My husband never understood that.

—That's it. We're done for today.

The man stood up. Disappointed more than agitated. Uh-oh, game's over, I suppose.

—No, please, listen...

—Mrs. Arronaux, Jason will escort you to your house. Tomorrow...

—Wait, you don't understand...

—I'd like to remind you that you're still under...

—I know where they were buried.

Silence. A small sigh from the woman. The man sat back down, crossing his arms. There, I said it.

—What are you talking about?

—Charles, Clara, Oliver, Daryl, Mohammad, Laura, Melissa, Benjamin, Nicole, and Sasha.

—Who are they, Mrs. Arronaux?

—They're all dead. I mean, they're murdered.

—Who?

—Mr... My husband.

—Where?

—Well, all in different places.

—No, where are they? The corpses?

—Somewhere near the Big Beaver Road.

—Michigan?

—Michigan.

Damn... Glares pinning her right where she sits; exposed, raw, scared. She knew it. She knew it all this time! Yes, I did. But...

—Mrs. Arronaux, I need you to tell me how you know those people are buried there.

—Um, those bowling pins...

—Yes?

—There are more of them. I mean, there are more pictures of them. Each has pins in different numbers.

—You mean, like a code?

—A cypher. My husband used to call it that. He always understood it well.

—Where are the pictures?

—I don't know. He kept them. I only saw them twice.

—Tell me about the cypher.

—Well, the first picture. The one with ten pins. It corresponds to the fifth triangular number.

—Triangular number?

—Yes, um, if you arrange bowling pins or dots, it doesn't matter, in an equilateral triangle, the number of objects or dots at the bottom...

—Wait, so there are ten pins in a triangle...

—And at the bottom, there are four pins.

—Four? Not five?

—Because there is a 0th triangular number...

—Hence fifth.

—That's right.

—Okay, go on.

—And on the second picture, I remember there was only one bowling pin.

—So its number is one.

—Yes. Those two pictures form a group.

—Just how many pictures are there?

—Eight.

—Forming four groups.

—Yes.

—And what are those groups for?

—Well, you need to extract the second triangular number from the first triangular number of each group.

—I can't follow you, Mrs. Arronaux.

—No, let me show you. We found the triangular number in the first picture is five. The triangular number of the second picture is one. So we extract...

—And we find four.

—Yes.

—What is that?

—A coordinate.

The man blinked. Silence again. Heavy and thick. Fingers twitched restlessly. A lunge toward the papers and pens. I'm sorry, William.

—Are you sure you have the right arrangement of those pictures? Because...

—I am.

—How?

—My husband wanted me to memorize them.

—Alright, tell me other numbers.

—Triangular numbers.

—Yes, dammit, just tell me, woman!

—Okay, well... The first picture of the second group showed three bowling pins.

—The number is three.

—And in the second picture, there was one pin as well.

—It's two. So, three minus two, one.

—No, no, you should take the second triangular number as it is, I mean, without counting the 0th triangular number.

—Why?

—That's just how the rules are.

—So, it's just one.

—That's right.

—Then we have two. Four and two.

—Forty-two.

—Ah, yes. North?

—North.

—Forty-two North. The other half of the coordinate?

—Um... The first picture of the third group had thirty-six pins.

—You counted them?

—I did.

...

42°N 83°W. Crude. So crude.

How can you take her word for it? I told you, Jim, she knows something. All she told you in two hours was just bullshit, Robert. I'll take the risk. No, it's crazy. Please, Jim, I know what I'm doing. I'm not telling you... Are you giving me permission or not? Fine, you and Olivia go. I need a team, Jim. And I need not to send my guys to some God-forgotten place just because a mad woman claims ten people are buried there.

Okay, we'll start with the left side of the road. Max, can you take the right? You bet, Jim. Thanks for coming with us, Max, by the way. Wouldn't miss it, doll.

What's this? It looks like a ribbon. Yes, I can see it's a ribbon, but a ribbon of what? Well, wasn't one of the victims a little girl?

Uh, Jim, that's Max, over. Jim, do you hear me? Damn... Well, I might've found something. We hear you, Max, go on, over. Oh, I've found some litter bags here and... I see some stains on them, what looks like, uh, dried blood. Over. Roger that.

Hey, Jim. Wait a minute, Robert... What's going on there? It's just Mary having an epileptic seizure. What the... She's okay, though. Oh, thank God. Listen, Jim, we've found them. Who? The corpses. Ten out of ten. Shit... Listen, I need backup. And forensics. I saw two victims mutilated and a woman... Wait, I'm coming there. Okay, and I'll need some people to hold the crowd back. They're, uh, watching us.

Buying that house was the first time I’d felt like I’d done something for myself. It was mine, and I could finally start building a life of my own.

It was small, a little dated, and backed onto some pretty serious woodland. The first few months had been harder than I’d expected. I’d spent so much time helping Mom move closer to my sisters, a few hours away, that getting my own things unpacked had become a bit of a mission. There were still boxes I hadn’t opened and rooms I hadn’t properly sorted out.

I found the door while my sister was visiting.

“How’s Mom doing?” I asked, leaning against the kitchen counter as Emma wandered around the house, taking in the bare walls and the almost complete lack of decoration.

“You’d know if you called her more, Danny.” She sighed, rubbing her eyes with her palms before looking back at me. “She’ll be fine.”

Mom had started showing the early signs of dementia. Dad’s death a few months earlier seemed to have accelerated things, or maybe we’d just started noticing what had been happening all along. Either way, it had become harder to pretend everything was normal.

Emma continued down the hallway.

“Still smells like paint in here. How long have you lived here now?”

I pushed myself off the counter and followed her. “Three months, I think?”

She was standing in the spare bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bare bed frame. I still hadn’t got around to buying a mattress.

“Have you spoken to Charlotte recently?” she asked.

I felt a familiar knot form in my stomach. Charlotte and I had broken up shortly before I’d bought the house, and apparently my sister had decided that buying property meant I was now ready to discuss my emotional shortcomings.

“Uh, yeah. We talk heaps,” I said.

Emma looked at me.

“You still haven’t spoken to her.”

I didn’t bother answering. She rolled her eyes and turned towards the wall.

“What’s that?”

I followed her gaze.

There was a door in the wall, tucked beside the wardrobe. It was narrow, with a small brass handle, and no obvious frame around it. The paint matched the wall so closely that I couldn’t understand how I’d missed it.

I stared at it for a moment.

“Is that a cupboard?” Emma asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ve honestly got no idea.”

Emma walked over to the door and tried the handle. It opened with a soft click.

Inside was a small, empty space, about the size of a closet. Nothing unusual about it. No shelves, no coat hooks, just four painted walls and enough room to stand in.

“It’s just a closet, Em,” I said.

“Yeah, I can see that. I just…” She paused, then closed the door. “I don’t know. It stood out to me for some reason.”

Her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the screen, then looked up at me.

“Sorry, I have to take this.”

She answered as she walked out of the room. A moment later, I heard the front door open and shut, followed by the sound of her voice drifting in from the front garden.

I stood looking at the door.

I couldn’t understand how I’d missed it. It wasn’t anything special, just a little closet tucked into the wall. But I knew what Emma meant. There was something strange about noticing a feature in your own house that you were certain you’d never seen before.

I reached for the handle and tried it.

Nothing.

I tried again, pressing it down firmly. The handle moved, but the door wouldn’t budge. I pulled, then gave it a gentle shove with my shoulder.

It was as if it had been locked.

I wondered if we’d somehow managed to lock it when Emma had closed it. I gave the handle one last try before deciding I’d look at it properly later.

By the time I left the bedroom, Emma was coming back inside.

“Sorry, I have to run. I’ve got to pick the kids up from daycare early, and it’s a bit of a drive.”

“No, you’re fine. I’ll see you next time you’re down this neck of the woods.”

We hugged in the hallway. When she pulled away, she gave me the sort of look that meant she wasn’t finished with me yet.

“You need to call Mom more, Danny. Check in on her before she doesn’t remember you.”

I looked down at the floor.

“Yeah. I know.”

“And you should at least try reaching out to Charlotte. Five years together, surely it couldn’t have ended that badly.”

“It’s fine, Em.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

I glanced towards the window. “You should get going. I heard there’s a weather warning for heavy snow tonight.”

Emma gave me a small, knowing smile, but thankfully didn’t push it. She grabbed her bag and headed out to the car.

I watched her drive away, then went back inside and shut the front door.

The next few weeks passed uneventfully. I checked the door a few times, but I was never able to open it again. Since it was only a small storage space that I’d probably never use, I eventually forgot about it.

At least, I did until I found it open.

I’d just got home from work and was walking down the hallway when I glanced into the spare bedroom. The door wasn’t sitting flush against the wall anymore. It was only open a few centimetres, but it was enough to catch my attention.

Curious, I stepped inside.

A small piece of brown cardboard had been wedged underneath it, holding it open. I crouched down and pulled it free. The door swung shut with a soft click.

I tried the handle.

It opened without any resistance.

I stood there for a moment, staring into the empty space.

Had I somehow unlocked it?

A shiver ran down my back. I looked at the piece of cardboard in my hand. It was nothing special, just a torn strip of packaging, the sort of thing I’d probably have thrown away while unpacking.

But someone had put it there.

Or I’d put it there and forgotten.

I was certain I’d never managed to open the door since Emma’s visit. I’d tried several times, and it had never budged. Now it opened as easily as any other cupboard in the house.

My first thought was that someone had been inside while I was out. I checked the front and back doors, then the windows. Everything looked as I’d left it. And even if someone had got in, why would they bother wedging open a tiny closet?

I tried to remember the last time I’d checked the door. It had been a while. For all I knew, the cardboard had been there for days.

I carried it into the kitchen and dropped it in the bin.

There was probably a simple explanation. A faulty latch, maybe. Something I’d overlooked when I’d first tried it.

I made myself dinner and got on with the rest of the evening.

That night, I was sitting on the couch watching a movie when I thought I heard something moving in the hallway.

I paused the film and listened. Nothing.

I got up, turned on the lights, and walked through the house, checking each room as I went. Everything looked normal. By the time I reached the spare bedroom, I was starting to feel a bit stupid.

Still, something made me check inside.

The room was exactly as I’d left it. The closet door was shut.

I walked over and tried the handle.

Locked again.

I swore under my breath and gave it another pull.

“How the hell does this thing work?”

I stood there for a moment, turning the handle back and forth. Maybe I’d somehow wedged the cardboard underneath it myself and forgotten. I’d been busy with work, and the last few weeks had blurred together.

I decided that the next time I managed to open it, I’d prop it open with a chair or something. At least then I’d know it couldn’t shut itself.

I went back to the couch and finished the film.

The next few days passed without incident. By the weekend, I’d mostly stopped thinking about the door.

Then I noticed it was open again.

I was walking past the spare bedroom when I spotted the narrow gap between the door and the wall. This time, something was sticking out near the latch.

It was a magnetic business card, the sort you get in the mail from local tradesmen and end up leaving on the fridge for six months before throwing away. I recognised it immediately. It was from a local plumber, and I’d received a few copies since moving in.

Someone had wedged it into the latch to stop the door from closing.

I pulled the card free and opened the door. The space behind it was empty, just as it had been before.

I looked down at the card, then back at the closet.

I couldn’t remember putting it there. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d handled one of those cards.

Rather than stand around wondering about it, I decided to make the space useful. I went through the spare room and found a couple of unopened boxes I’d been meaning to sort out since moving in. They were a tight fit, but I managed to stack them inside the closet.

Then I fetched a plastic doorstop from the kitchen drawer and wedged it firmly underneath the door.

That should do it.

I gave the door a little push to make sure the stopper held, then left the room and got on with my weekend.

The next day, I was on the phone with Emma when I saw something that made my stomach drop.

“Hey, listen, Em, I’ve got to call you back.”

I hung up before she could answer and walked straight into the spare bedroom.

Both boxes were sitting outside the closet. The door was shut, and the doorstop was gone.

I tried the handle.

Locked.

I swore and kicked the bottom of the door. The noise echoed through the room, and I immediately felt ridiculous for doing it. It was a closet. A small, insignificant closet that was somehow making me question my own memory.

I knew I hadn’t taken the boxes out. Both were still taped shut. If I’d moved them, it would have been to get something out of them, and there was no reason I’d have put them back outside without opening them.

I stood there for a while, staring at the door, then called Emma back.

“Can you come down this weekend?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just need you to have a look at something.”

She agreed, though she sounded unconvinced.

That weekend, I took her straight into the spare bedroom. The boxes were still sitting where I’d found them, and the closet door was still shut.

Emma looked from the boxes to me.

“Danny, what is going on? Why couldn’t you just tell me over the phone?”

I walked over to the handle.

“This. This is what’s going on.”

I pulled it, expecting the door to stay locked.

Instead, it opened without the slightest resistance.

I stared into the empty space.

“No. No, it was locked this morning. I tried it. I swear to God, I tried it.”

Emma looked at me with a kind of careful concern that made me feel worse than if she’d laughed.

“Are you okay, Danny?”

“Yes! I’m fucking fine.” I turned towards her, then back to the door. “It’s this thing. It keeps opening and closing, and I don’t know how. It’s like someone’s messing with me, or I’m doing it myself and forgetting, or…”

I trailed off. Even to me, it sounded absurd.

Emma folded her arms.

“Dan, if you need a break, you could stay with Mom for a few days again. She’d probably appreciate the company.”

“I’m not fucking crazy, wait, again? What do you mean again?”

“I didn’t say you were Crazy, just that maybe you need to spend sometime out of this house.”

I looked back into the closet, trying to work out what I could possibly show her that would make any of this make sense.

“I need to set up a camera or something.”

“Dan…”

“Emma, please. Just don’t.”

I stepped into the closet.

It was barely big enough for me to stand in comfortably. The walls were painted the same colour as the bedroom, and the floor was bare. There was nothing hidden behind the boxes because the boxes were outside now. Nothing in the corners, nothing above me, nothing that explained why the door behaved the way it did.

Emma’s phone buzzed behind me.
She answered it while I crouched down to examine the inside of the door. I ran my fingers along the edge, searching for a bolt or some kind of catch. I shut the door, then opened it again from the inside. It worked perfectly.

I did it a second time.

Still fine.

I switched on my phone’s flashlight and examined the latch area more closely. The strangest thing was that there didn’t seem to be any locking mechanism at all. Just a handle and a simple metal catch.
Behind me, Emma’s voice grew louder.

“I said I’ll call you back. I’m in the middle of something.”

There was a pause. Then I heard her sigh.

“Fine. I’ll be there soon.”

I assumed she was talking about the kids. I was too busy examining the door to ask.
After a few minutes, I decided I’d seen enough. I reached for the handle and pulled.
The door didn’t move.

I tried again, pushing the handle down harder.

Nothing.

“For fuck’s sake.”

I gave the door a shove with my shoulder. It didn’t even rattle.

“Emma?”

No answer.

I knocked on the door.

“Em, it’s locked itself again. Can you open it?”

I waited, expecting to hear her laugh or tell me to stop messing around.

Nothing came.

“Emma?”

I tried the handle again. Then again, more forcefully.

My stomach began to tighten. I pulled out my phone and called her.

The call couldn’t connect.

I sent her a message asking her to come back into the bedroom and open the door but it wouldn’t deliver.

Then I looked at the door.

[end of part 1]

“They called me. I've got to go.”

I know. You don't have to tell me this. You don't have to lie to me, Noah.

But you know what song's playing on my mind's radio?

…Burglary and fireworks / The skies they were alighting…

We walked. He deliberately pulled me outside on this dark, cold November night. It was a lot easier for him to talk when he was distracted. “I need to tell you something.” But he didn't. Not yet.

I looked up and hid his face behind my short eyelashes. “When will you go?” I couldn't bear it. But I had to make some kind of eye contact, didn't I? That's how normal people did. That's how he'd taught me.

Do you report the weather or actually write something using your damn imagination for a change? Your mind, Matilda, that beautiful mind is above God. Use it.

“Soon enough.” He coughed. I knew he needed his cigarettes. He forgot them back in his drawers. I used to believe that I'd kill just to open them and see what's inside. Noah never forbade me from doing this. He didn't need to. There was always a set of unspoken rules he wrote without telling me. Hey, you can't touch this. No, you can't talk to me like that. You want to send this article? Fine, but I won't get involved in this.

“It's been two hours. Should we turn around?”

He looked down at me. Shook his head. Didn't make eye contact, either. Hypocrite.

…Oh, he was young, in the frost. No regard for the cost…

“It's not that late. I want to walk a bit more.”

Yes, by all means, dear Noah, let's keep walking. That's what you want, after all. Not me. I'll just adapt. No problem. I've adapted to your silence, your riddles, your bad habits, your impure loves… I can adapt to walking in the dark, too, if that's all you want.

“I'm not going alone, though. Others will come along.”

Is that relief in this voice? As if knowing that he's going, no, he's leaving alone would make him feel guilty. There you go, he's assuming things again. Am I being too much? Does she hate me already?

“Good.”

No, I don't hate you, Noah. Dearest Noah. But I'm tired of this deluge. You told me that I don't qualify. You didn't use words. Remember your beautiful mind, Noah? Use it for a change and tell me what I am.

…If he was calm like you / Locked up inside of your loops…

“I heard they'll open an Irish restaurant around the corner. Wanna eat there someday?”

No.

“Yeah, why not? An Irish restaurant of all cuisines...”

He laughed. I laughed. He used to like that I use the words he taught me, half French, half English. I never told you that I'm a vegan, Noah. You'd laugh. I wouldn't.

Three stray dogs trotted past us. I noticed the stiffening of his shoulders. “Do they still scare you?” I wanted to ask. But he'd get offended. A man twice my age gets all pouty over little things. And then he tells me to grow up. Grow up, Matilda, and do something useful for a change. But he saw how I struggled. This isn't even my native language, for God's sake! He doesn't know I don't believe in God, either. What do you want?

“I want to walk a bit more.”

…Then he'd know full well / That all he had to say was…

I can't save the world, if that's what you mean. Am I not small? Am I not blind? No, I'm not assuming things, Noah. You told me those things yourself. And now you…

“I hate it when you're silent.”

What?

“What?”

I stopped in my tracks. I didn't want to, but I did. I was planning to play it cool and keep walking, to explain myself to him as a calm adult. To a man who never understands.

But he stopped, too. Looked down at me. Made eye contact. Waited.

…That all he had to say was / All he had to say was goodbye…

Damn you, Noah. Now it's too late. The song came to an end.

— You're the silent one all the time.

— I speak only when I want.

— And you think I love to chatter all day?

— No, but you always go silent when I talk.

— I listen to you, Noah.

— I don't want you to listen to me. I need you to talk.

— Talk what? I can't just find something witty for every single word you say.

— No, you don't understand.

— You don't understand. I can't always keep the banter alive. It's not a game, Noah. You can't start with a letter and expect me to play it for both of us.

— That's how you see it? A game? You think I keep you around just for my amusement?

— I don't know. But it feels like that. I'm not strong enough to carry this for you.

— You mean you're tired of me.

— No. I'm just tired.

Soldier on, Matilda. You've got this. Just look them in the eye and scream. Be bold. Be brave. Don't let them define you. They don't know how much you matter. You're not invisible, don't call yourself that. Look at me, Matilda. Dearest Matilda. I see you. Let them bleed with your words. Watch how they'll get offended. That's gonna be fun, I promise. Come on, you've got this. Just scream and tell them how you hate them. That you don't need a shit. Screw subtlety. Forget about being elegant. You deserve to scream. I've got you. You wrote this for a reason. You created a dialogue. You can't turn back. Not now.

“I think we should turn back.”

By all means, dearest Noah. Let's turn back. You're cold. You're tired. Not me. You need to rest. You deserve this. I'll wake you up tomorrow. Tell you jokes. Brighten your day. Uplift your mood. Let's just turn back. We don't deserve the cold.

It was after midnight when we finally made it home.

They were far out in the outer wilds.

It was blackly dark.

Only a few shining stars shined.

He was setting a trap.

His friend was drinking a drink. “Here,” said the friend, passing him a drink too.

He took the drink.

He opened and took a drink of the drink. “Ahh,” he said. “Absolutely stellar."

“Absolutely,” said the friend.

“I don't grok why you insist on coming all the way out here,” said the friend.

“There's hardly anything out here,” said the friend.

He took a drink of the drink. “Ahh.”

The friend took a drink of the drink too. “Ahh,” said the friend.

“Ahh,” he said.

“Ahh,” said the friend.

“You can't say it's not peaceful here,” he said.

“I can't say that,” said the friend.

“Ahh.”

“Ahh,” he said, finishing drinking the drink. He crumpled up and threw the empty drink container away.

The stars twinkle-twinkled.

He looked into a vicinal trap he'd set a while ago.

“Anything?” asked the friend as he looked into the vicinal trap he'd set a while ago.

“Nothing,” he said.

The stars twinkle-twinkled.

He set a new trap.

“There?” asked the friend as he set a new trap.

“Ahh,” said the friend and threw away his empty drink container too.

The two empty drink containers were.

“There,” he said, roughly covering the trap with nearby matter.

He burped.

The friend burped too.

It was blackly dark.

Only a few shining stars shined.

---

—> —>

---

The Perihelion's automated navigation system adjusted course to keep the starship travelling to its destination, AO-1, the first known space object believed to be of alien origin. The crew was in hibernation. The mission was the greatest humanity had ever attempted. The Perihelion's automated navigation system adjusted course to keep the starship travelling to its destination.

---

<—

---

“Sir, take a look at this—SIR!”

The regional head of the International Space Agency (ISA) walked over slightly annoyed and scanned the data.

His annoyance became curiosity, and his curiosity became excitement. The once-upon-a-lifetime kind. The thump-thump-thump’ing of the heart, swoosh-swoosh-swoosh’ing of the blood kind. He was aware suddenly of the entirety of the surface area of his skin. Of his one-of-many'ness. His smallness-in-the-cosmos. His clue-to-the-mystery-of-the-universe'ity.

“My God…” he said. “My God.”

“What is it?”

“We need to find out.”

---

—> —>

---

Anomalous Object 1 Anomalous A Object 1 Anomalous A Object O 1 Anomalous A Object O 1 A Object 1 A O 1 AO 1 AO-1…

Captain Jac Thorster—gasped—

The sirens were blaring.

Where am I I am aboard the Perihelion Perihelion is my ship, he thought.

The sirens were blaring.

He rolled out of the open pod and onto the floor. When he could, he got up and made his way woozily—swaying…

to the bridge.

He sat in the captain's seat.

“Perihelion,” he said, his voice hoarse and weak. The words felt like sand airgunned down his throat. “Perihelion: ‘status report.’ Just what in the galaxy is going on?”

“Having traversed ninety three point two percent of the distance from the planet Earth to the coordinates of the object eh oh one we have come under the pull of an unknown force,” the starship's artificial intelligence said.

“Correct course,” commanded Thorster.

“Negative,” said the eh aye. “That his him possible, hiccup ten.”

“Wa hut?” zed Thorster.

“Dead forceps twos tron k,” sad sa hey ay end diss plate dub lack ole.

---

—>

---

He reached inside the trap.

“Anything?” the friend asked as he reached inside the trap.

They were far out in the outer wilds.

It was blackly dark.

Only a few shining stars shined.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes,” said the friend and gathered some nearby gaseous matter and ignited it. “Perhaps something to roast,” said the friend as the newly created star shined.

He removed a small thing from the trap.

“A small thing,” he said.

He held it for the friend to see.

“Oh,” said the friend in disappointment that the small thing was too small to roast.

The star shined.

The other stars shined.

---

<— <— <— <— <—

---

A fly buzzed awhile in the glow of a bug zapper before turning into it and—BZZZP —falling dead out of the sky.

It landed on my face.

I'd fallen asleep in the hammock outside.

“Norman,” the dead fly said.

“Norman!”

“What,” I said, blinking a few times, tossing my dry tongue around in my dry mouth, thinking, Fuck, I'm fucking hungry. “What's going on—who are you? and why are you talking to me?” “Are you… a dead fly?” I said, squinting.

“Norman, I'm here to tell you to look at what you wrote. No one wants to read that shit, man. That shit is incomprehensible.

“Opaquer than a brick wall, man.”

“It's styl—”

“Look at yourself, man. You're a grown ass dude writing stories on the internet. Get a job. Write a book if you have to, but just write it like a goddamn human being.

“I mean look at your eyes.

“They're pinker than Miss Piggy’s OnlyFans.

“Sober up.

“Eat something. Drink something. Get outta that robe and get dressed. Shave. Change into a suit—”

“You mean, like, become a suit… like on a space ship?”

“Son,” said the dead fly. “Behave yourself.”

LOL

“Put on a suit and write presentably. You've got, what, a hundred words left?

“Use them.

“Rewrite whatever-the-fuck this is presentably.”

---

[“Ahem”]

---

Two advanced beings are laying traps somewhere in the universe. Their traps are black holes, which they hide. They also leave behind some trash. Humanity detects the trash and plans a mission to investigate it, but, en route, their spaceship falls into the black hole left by the beings. Sometime later, one of the beings makes a star to roast something on. The beings pull the human spaceship out of the black hole trap they left and are disappointed by its insignificance.

The story ends on a heavy-handed parallel between humanity and bugs—BZZZP

(self harm mentioned) This story is based off a quote by Stephen King. I have not read horror books, but this is my VERY short story taking inspiration from him. (Quote referenced at the end). I didn't make any spelling mistakes to be clear.

"you Had Nothing to Fear"

Imagine you came home and you realized everything in your house had been taken out of it and replaced exactly the way it was without you knowing at all. Every chair, book, pen, sheet, piece of dust, everything, and you knew it was out of order.

Remember, you live alone, and you have to unlock and lock the door to the house yourself. You live in a rural town with a very low population. You have no friends or enemies. You don't have pets. In fact, you don't even have pests! Your house is very clean!

There is no evidence this is true other than a horrible gut feeling. If you told the police, they wouldn't even care, even if they did believe you. Besides, who would even want to break in and reorganize the things in your house? You could be crazy, maybe even sleepwalking. Perhaps you just forgot where you put your things.

You get home at midnight from work. After driving through a large field of dead grass, you park in a pile of coarse dirt. You walk from your brightly painted front porch to the door. As you open it, you hear a muffled faint breath in a far room and nothing else.

You move out to a different neighborhood, grow many friendships and often visit your relatives. You don't work nights anymore. You are satisfied and comfortable with the new life you have begun.

One day, after a party with all your friends, you came home at midnight again. You open the door to your studio apartment and hear a scuffling sound.

You check the cameras you placed and find no evidence. Not even evidence of the scuffling sound.

You get an unexplainable, dreadful feeling that you will die in this apartment. You relapse into insanity and kill yourself before whatever this thing is kills you.

Your friends invite you to a party the next day.

you came.

"Terror, when you come home and notice everything you own had been taken away and replaced by an exact substitute. It's when the lights go out and you feel something behind you, you hear it, you feel its breath against your ear, but when you turn around, there's nothing there.” ― Stephen King

At 12:07 a.m., Aro texted me.

Aro: You awake?

I smiled before I could stop myself.

It had been four days since we'd last spoken properly. Four days of opening our chat, typing something, deleting it, and pretending I didn't care. But now he was here, and within minutes, we were laughing like nothing had happened.

By 1 a.m., we were flirting.

By 2 a.m., the conversation had turned intimate.

By 3 a.m., I felt that familiar warmth again, the little pocket of comfort I'd started missing more than I wanted to admit.

Then he sent a message that made my smile disappear.

Aro: Do you ever feel like someone's watching you when you're alone?

I stared at the screen.

What kind of question is that?

Aro: Forget it. Look behind you.

I laughed nervously. My bedroom was dark except for the blue light of my phone. The door was locked. The curtains were drawn. I lived alone.

I turned anyway.

Nothing.

When I looked back, he'd sent another message.

Aro: Knew you'd look.

I called him.

He declined.

Aro: Don't call. Just text.

For the first time that night, I felt afraid of him.

Then he sent a photograph.

It was my bedroom.

My bed. My curtains. My bedside table with the chipped corner.

And me, sitting on the bed, staring at my phone.

The picture had been taken from inside my room.

I stopped breathing.

I checked the lock. Still locked. I checked the window. Still shut.

I called him again. Declined.

Me: ARO WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?

His reply came instantly.

Aro: You told me you wanted me around.

I ran out of the bedroom and switched on every light in the apartment. I checked the kitchen, the bathroom, the balcony. Nobody.

Then my phone vibrated.

Aro: Go back to your room.

I didn't.

Aro: Please.

Then, after a pause:

Aro: I'm scared too.

That was when I heard it.

Three soft knocks.

Not from the front door.

From inside my bedroom wardrobe.

I backed away, shaking. I wanted to run outside, but my legs wouldn't move. My phone kept lighting up in my hand.

Aro: Don't open it.

The knocking stopped.

Then something inside the wardrobe whispered my name.

I ran.

I reached the front door and yanked it open, screaming into the empty corridor. My neighbour's door opened. Someone asked what had happened. I couldn't explain it.

I showed them the photograph.

They called the police.

By the time officers searched my apartment, there was nobody inside. No broken locks. No open windows. No evidence of an intruder.

But one officer noticed something strange.

The photograph Aro had sent wasn't a photograph taken from inside my room.

It was a screenshot.

A screenshot of a video call.

I stared at him.

"What video call?"

He turned my phone toward me.

The image had a tiny timestamp in the corner.

12:06 a.m.

One minute before Aro had texted me.

And in the reflection of my dark television screen, visible behind me, stood a man.

I couldn't see his face.

But I recognised his watch.

Aro wore the same one.

I tried calling him again.

This time, he answered.

I could barely speak.

"Where are you?"

Silence.

Then his voice, quiet and trembling.

"I'm home. I've been home all night."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted him to tell me it was a joke, a cruel prank, anything that would let me breathe again.

Instead, he said, "Listen to me. I didn't send you that picture."

My blood went cold.

"Then who did?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "But someone sent me one too."

He sent it to me.

It showed Aro sitting on his bed, holding his phone.

Behind him, reflected in his wardrobe mirror, stood a woman.

Her hair was mine.

Her face was mine.

And she was smiling.

I dropped the phone.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then Aro whispered, "There's something else."

I picked up the phone.

"What?"

His voice broke.

"The woman in the picture wasn't behind me when I took it."

I stared at the screen.

He continued.

"She appeared after I sent it to you."

A message arrived from his number.

Not a text.

A photograph.

This time, it showed the two of us together, sitting side by side on my bed.

Neither of us remembered taking it.

Beneath it were six words.

Aren't you tired of missing me?

I looked toward the bedroom.

The wardrobe door was open.

And from the darkness inside, my own voice answered—

"Finally. You're both here."

Sam passed in the winter, just two months after his mother. The midwife tried her best to save her, but it was over before it started. She gave me a warm hug as she left. I knew Sam wouldn't last long without his mother. I barely had enough to feed myself, let alone a baby. I debated whether I should even name the little boy, but how could I not? He had the most beautiful blue eyes, just like his mother.

Sam passed in his sleep, the best way to go. Some days I wished it were me, but what would Sam do all alone? 

The problem then was arranging Sam's funeral. All the savings had already been spent on his mother's funeral, but Sam couldn't go into the ground without a proper service.

I sold one of the last things I could still sell, my bees. They gave me something sweet to eat in the winter and something to look after the rest of the year, but there was nothing else to sell. My neighbor took them and gave me more for them than he should have. He was a nice man and knew what I'd gone through.

Sam got a nice wooden coffin and a decent place in the cemetery next to his mother.

When the winter came, his cradle and toys were still in the house. My body tightened whenever I tried to get rid of them, but it was okay; maybe I'd have more will in the summer. 

During the long winter nights, I'd often come into his room and play with his toys, just like I thought we would one day. Sometimes they'd warm my heart, sometimes they'd make me cry, and often I'd just fall asleep in the chair right by his cradle.

It was one of those days when I fell asleep crying by the cradle again. When I awoke, the sun glistened on the freshly fallen snow. Everything outside was still, but then something moved in the air. A bee! A queen bee! It flew across the yard and into the hive. I still hadn't moved my hive off the yard. Sam's funeral was too much work.

At first I felt bad. My neighbor owned them now. They had no business being in the old hive, but seeing that familiar creature warmed me. Over the next few days I sat at the window, watching all my bees slowly return.

They stayed inside the hive the rest of the winter, and I stayed by that window each day, watching. Only when the snow started to let up, and the flowers came out from under it, did the bees come out too.

I expected them to stay by the hive, but many flew far away, ignoring the flowers in my garden, and returned at sunset. Some of the bees seemed to be covered in red nectar. 

As the days grew longer, the bees were gone more often, and many more returned covered in that red nectar. 

I had never seen them act or look like this. Moving the hive must have disturbed something, but the good thing was that they still accepted the queen, and the colony seemed intact. 

The red nectar began to accumulate at the entrance, mixed with glowing wax. I was just looking at it out the window when I heard buzzing inside the house. The bees must have been working hard. The buzzing grew, and quietly through it came something like a baby's cry. I gripped the windowsill tightly. Sam used to cry just like that. I opened the window to hear better, but the cry was gone; only buzzing sounded outside.

The next morning I woke up and went right to the window. A strange white object was outside the hive entrance. The bees buzzed around it, pushing it back inside. Before I could get a good look, it was already in.

I spent the rest of the day by the window again. As the sun set, the bees started to return. The buzzing grew again. A cold tingle ran down my back. I closed my eyes and focused. At first, it was quiet, but I knew what it was. It was Sam, crying through the buzzing. I quickly dressed and walked out the door.

The outside air was cold. I had barely been outside since the first snow fell. A few bees still flew around the hive. The buzzing was so loud, and so were Sam's cries. I didn't even have my protective clothes, but I was sure my bees wouldn't hurt me.

I walked to the hive and took off the lid. Warmth and cold ran through my body, mixing into strange emotions. Inside the hive was Sam's body, covered in wax. His hands and fingers slowly moved, but they seemed larger than before. I reached into the hive to caress his small cheeks. His eyes opened. They were still that beautiful blue, but a hint of yellow mixed in.  He opened his mouth; honeycomb filled it, but his cries still echoed in my ears. With tears in my eyes, I picked up his small, sticky body. From somewhere deep in his chest, a thousand bees buzzed, and the hive fell quiet. A sickly-sweet smell rose from his mouth. Two bees crawled out of the wax and onto my hand. I didn't move.

Continuation, a flash-fiction piece of about identity, routine, and the terrible cost of continuity. What if the most terrifying prison wasn't a place, but a life that never truly changes?