I was in the kitchen when the front door slammed.

“Jack? Is that you?”

There was no response.

I stopped slicing peppers, took off my apron, and walked to the foyer. Jack was leaning against the door, his forehead pressed gently into the hard wood.

I asked if he was alright, and he said “no.”

“Did you have a bad day at work?” I asked.

Jack didn’t turn around. I took a step towards him, but he held out his hand, urging me to stop.

“Please—don’t come any closer.”

“Talk to me,” I said. “What's going on?”

“I—I—” Jack stuttered. “I saw something.”

I wanted to help, wanted to be there for him, but I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

“Would you just explain what happened?” I begged.

Jack loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt, and let out an exhausted sigh.

“Lately, whenever I go to work, I just try to turn my brain off,” Jack explained. “I walk around without a single thought in my head. Well—Marty was talking to me about sales figures, how we’re not gonna hit our quarterly quota, and his words are going in one ear and right out the other, to the point where I’m not processing a thing he’s saying. I’m just existing. Staring straight ahead—totally blank. I’m trying so hard not to listen that I stare right through him and—”

Jack choked up. He swallowed hard and then continued.

“Do you remember those puzzles that they used to have in the Sunday paper? Where you had to put your nose right up to them and unfocus your eyes? And then you could see what was there the whole time? A hidden picture.”

“Yeah, Jack,” I replied. “I remember them.”

“Well, I saw, Jesus did I see. There was something controlling Marty like a marionette. Standing right behind him, moving his arms, flapping his jaw. It was so real that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it the whole time.”

“Okay,” I said, trying and failing to sound supportive.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“Jack,” I sighed. “It sounds like you’re under a lot of stress and—”

“Oh don’t give me that!” Jack blurted. “I know what I saw!”

“I’m not saying that you didn’t see something,” I gently replied. “I’m saying that it was probably just a figment of your imagination!”

“It knew,” Jack cried. “When I saw it, it looked back at me and there was recognition in its eyes, like it knew that I knew it was there. I had to walk away, but I didn’t make it far because they were everywhere. Gloria, Todd, Mara, it’s like the half the fucking company is being controlled by these god damn things! Once I started seeing them I couldn’t stop no matter how hard I tried! I had to leave the building and get the fuck out of there, but they followed me. All of them stopped what they were doing and followed me out into the parking lot. I thought that if I just got away from work then I would be safe, but then I started seeing them on the streets. Walking, or inside the cars that were driving next to me. They’re fucking everywhere!”

Jack pounded a fist on the door. 

“Jack,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Why won’t you turn around and look at me?”

Jack slowly slid the heel of his hand down the door. His breathing had become quick and sharp.

“I’m afraid that—”

“Jack,” I repeated. “Look at me, baby.”

Jack turned around, looked in my eyes, and then fell to his knees.

“Oh thank god,” he cried. “If you were one of them, I didn’t know what I would do.”

I got down on my knees and pulled his head into my chest, embracing him.

“Why don’t you grab a beer from the kitchen and I’ll draw you a hot bath. You can let all your worries soak away while I make fajitas for dinner. Then we can discuss what to do about these things.”

Jack nodded with a smile, content that he was safe for the moment.

I walked up stairs to our bathroom and locked the door behind me. I plugged the drain, turned on the tub, and then stood on top of the toilet. I pulled out the screws on the air vent, removed the grille, and reached inside the wall until my fingers found a cell phone.

I speed-dialed the only number that was in the phone.

“Hello?”

“He knows,” I said.

I was on my second colorful cocktail.

Not drunk. Happy.

Too sober, in fact.

The frothy, puke-green bubbling surface reminded me briefly of Shrek. 

The club was too loud.

My dress was too sticky against my skin.

And I could hear and feel my heartbeat everywhere but my chest.

Then I saw them.

Bathed in mesmerizing light that transformed them into two supernatural creatures, their beauty stood out against the unflattering backdrop of everyone else.

I saw him first, spinning around and around, his head tilted back, thick blondish curls hanging over his half-lidded eyes.

A total surfer dude.

There was something about him. The way he flung his arms out, bobbing his head and bouncing up and down on his heels.

Violent butterflies fluttered in my chest.

This grown-ass man was having the time of his life.

His eyes danced over the rafters above us.

His gaze found mine, not-so-subtly beckoning me.

Drawing closer, I pushed my way through the crowd toward him. He was glowing.

Literally. Dazzling violet eyes, and lips that I immediately wanted to kiss.

So, I did.

I lunged forward, and hesitated, before he grabbed my face, and kissed me.

Then I was poked from behind.

A girl.

The same shimmering smile, and long dark hair curling at her hips.

Normally the type I'd be envious of.

Gorgeous, and the cutest dress I'd ever seen, a black strappy knee length skirt and top.  I expected her to slap me.

Instead, her ice cold hands found my cheek, lips capturing mine. Oh. My first time kissing a girl, and… I really liked it. 

I found myself being passed between the two of them, bouncing between being sandwiched in the girl’s chest and wrapped around the boy’s neck.

“I’m Talia!” the girl said in my ear as the guy’s lips grazed my neck, pressing kisses down my chest. I shivered. “This is Sebastian, my boyfriend!”

“And my boyfriend.” 

A third voice caught me off guard.

I twisted around, and a pixie blonde stood, arms folded. 

Talia’s smile strained slightly. Sebastian ducked his head. 

“Hi.” The girl said, “You're dancing with my boyfriend and girlfriend.” 

“Oh.” I burst into nervous giggles. “Oh, shit, I didn't mean—” 

"Babe," Sebastian said a little too loudly, shoving me aside, "She was just leaving." He turned to me, his smile crumpling.

"Weren't you?"

Talia nodded, lip wobbling. "Yeah, babe, we weren't like, doing anything with her---"

The pixie's expression brightened. “But she's, like, SO cute!” She held out her hand with a wink. “Come with me.” She pulled me through a glittering curtain.

VIP section.

Before I knew what was happening, I was being led onto a bed, the three kneeling in front of me. I kissed Talia, my wandering hands finding her dress zipper. While, next to us, the pixie straddled Sebastian’s lap. 

Talia tasted like nothing, I realized. 

Part of me was hoping she tasted of fruit, like the cherry flavored lipgloss.

Talia perched herself on my lap, and my body knew exactly what to do: pulling her zipper further, kissing her, my cheeks on fire, my thoughts mush. 

I thought, for a moment, that I was feeling in the wrong place. No. 

I opened my eyes, and Talia was smiling too wide, her dress open, exposing her flat chest. No nipples. Huh. I didn’t think much of it until the act continued and I realized, bile filling my throat, that Talia didn’t have… anything. Her groin ground against mine, but there was nothing to grind into.

Sebastian kissed me, as if to distract me.

His shirt was already slipping off, jeans halfway down his hips.

A cry built in the back of my throat.

Sebastian, like Talia, was too smooth, too perfect. He lacked… parts.

Front and back. 

I shuffled back, detaching my lips from his.

“What?” I whispered, running my hands down his backside glistening, like fucking plastic. “What the fuck?” 

I grabbed his face, cradling his cheeks, checking he was real, human, and forcing him to look at me. He did. Under hazy lights, though, his gaze penetrated right through me. “Sebastian,” I whispered, “where are your… parts?”

“Sebastian had holes, sweetie.” The pixie spoke up. Lying on her side, a cigarette hung from her lips. “Honestly, I don't fuck with my SO's doing shit like… pooping.”

Her lip curled when she lit the cigarette. “I caught Sebastian pooping, and I was like… urgh. It totally ruined my image of him.” 

The pixie shrugged.

“So, I…. filled him in. Now, he doesn't need to do that stuff. The gross stuff.” 

Sebastian smiled, still acting, his mouth finding my ear. His breath shuddered, suddenly, breaking character, paralysing my bones. “If I were you, I'd start running,”

I was already moving back, trembling. 

“Talia.” The pixie sighed, tipping her head back. Talia, I noticed, was silent, her dark eyes drinking in oblivion, her hands trembling in her lap. “Women shouldn't pee or poop. It's gross. I hated the period thing too, you know? The way she was bleeding out of her ass? I'm sorry, I had to seal her before I threw up. And her breasts annoyed me. I prefer her smoothed down.”

The pixie stood, head cocked, discarding the cigarette. “I gotta ask before we hook up,” she said, eyes narrowing. In the corner of my eye, Sebastian and Talia hid themselves under the blankets, as if ashamed. “Do you have holes too?"

"No," I stood up, and did exactly what Sebastian told me.

I ran.

“Here’s your change, Sir.”

Mervyl grumbled a response, dropping the handful of coins into the ashtray.  He’d dig the silver out later for the cherry machines.  When she handed him his bag he shook it.

“Feels light,”  he drawled.  “You didn’t short me my slaw, did ya?”

“Everything’s there, Sir.   Thank you for visiting HunkaBurger.  Come again.”

“We’ll see,”  he growled as he pulled away.  “Better have my GD slaw in there.”

He tossed the bag into the seat beside him, dug out a smoke, and tapped the radio on in a series of fast, practiced motions.  He flicked his Bic and took a deep draw that ended in a wet, rattling cough.

“Cheap ass lighter.”

“WROP.  We play the beats that keep you awake in your seat.”

Quick drums, smooth guitar, and a familiar bassline filled the cab of Mervyl’s pickup and he began to hum along, drumming his fingers along the top of the steering wheel in almost perfect time.  Cigarette ashes flew everywhere as he was carried away with the song.  Radar Love was one of his absolute favorites.

Mervyl’s raspy caterwaul drowned out Barry Hay’s energetic lyrics.  The truck wove across the lanes like a squirrel in a hawk’s shadow as he bobbed his head and shoulders with the song.  A pair of headlights blinked up ahead in the dark and the tires squealed as he swerved hard to right the old Ford.

“Damn bright-lightin’ idjits.”
  
Something rustled inside the bag in the seat next to him.  

His eyes widened as he drew out a fresh coffin nail and stuck it between his teeth.  Surely the bag was just settling from his quick correction.  His thumb struck the wheel of the lighter, producing a flame just as the greasy paper bag crackled again.  The lighter fell into his lap.

“What in the blistered shit was that?”  

Mervyl reached over and grabbed the bag, pinching the folded top with two nicotine-stained fingers.  He lifted it up to eye level and almost dropped it when it twitched in his hand.

“Nuh-uh,”  he tossed it out the window and heard it land in the bed of the truck.  “Fuckin’ rat.  Damn things are everywhere."

He sparked his new smoke and ate up some miles.  He was only thirty minutes from home, and good Lord willing the old lady might get her a drilling.  Mervyl chuckled at his own wit and his daddy’s old words.  It had never occurred to him that his old man had been talking about his mama when he said that.  

Mervyl wasn’t much for hidden meanings.

Something tapped the back glass pulling him out of his Skynyrd song.  Several rapid scratchy tinks followed and he almost went into the ditch.  When he heard it on the roof he grabbed the window handle and started turning it.  He held the wheel with his knee and banged his fist against the headliner.

The window was almost up when a crawling nightmare the size of a healthy rat or a sickly cat pulled its flat body through it.  It was long and likely mean and covered with more legs than a Kentucky Fried buffet.  Mervyl shrieked and batted it away.  The horrible thing flew across the cab taking his two lesser fingers with it.

“Lord, Sonny Jesus, and all the saints!”  he howled.  “It’s a goddam scorpion cat.”

It scuttled up the door in a flurry of furry chitin and onto the dash.  He watched in horror as a fingertip vanished into its terrible four-way split mouth.  The skittering terror crouched low and hissed at him.  

Mervyl growled back at it, raising his bloody fist and driving it down onto it with a satisfying crunch.  He leaned all his weight into the attack, sending the truck sliding onto the gravel shoulder.  As he pulled his maimed hand away from the tiny beast a few legs fell away from it.  They snailed down the front of the glove compartment on long gray slimy trails.

“Yeah, you sneaky shitwrangler!”  Mervyl tried to flip his fuck finger at it but only his thumb remained.  He looked at its crushed body and saw his ring and bird hanging out of its mouth.  The creepy little hellbug slurped them down like the world’s worst spaghetti.  Its body crackled and throbbed as it pulled itself back up on its remaining legs.

“Oh, you want another’n?”  Mervyl waved the chunk of useless meat that used to be his fist threateningly.  The creature wasn’t scared though.  It leapt at him, causing him to jerk and stomp down hard when it landed on his chest.  The last thing Mervyl saw before passing out was the guardrail in front of him as the old Ranger flipped over it and went airborne.

He woke up facedown in the ditch a short while later.  His chest hurt like a son of a bitch and his clothes were soaked through. Mervyl rolled over onto his back and checked his front.  There were bits and pieces of the thing stuck in his flannel shirt.  Deep gashes covered his chest where its legs had dug in.  

A thick spatter of blood landed on his shirt and he followed the line of red spittle up to his mouth.  Most of his lower lip and several bottom teeth were missing.  He spat out a mouthful of what tasted like a mixture of blood, motor oil, and canned salmon.

Mervyl stood up on shaky legs and appraised the wreckage of the truck that had served him well for over thirty years.  If he had a hat he would have taken it off for it.  He’d flipped the odometer on it twice and it still ran true.  Well, that was before he’d rolled his luck on a cup of takeout slaw.

“Fuckin’ Hunkaburger.  What a hunk of shit.”

Mervyl clambered up the embankment to stand on the shoulder and waited for headlights.  He reckoned a thumb was the only finger he needed in his present condition.

‘Look, Daddy, that man has your tattoo on his uniform,’ Mia said.

Joe turned guiltily. He’d put a bottle of Jim Beam on the gas station counter.

The man in the queue behind him laughed, addressing Joe, not his daughter. ‘You got my tree logo tattooed on you?’

Joe was awkward in that way adults are when children suddenly involve total strangers in their business.

‘It’s similar,’ he said, ‘As above so below. The alchemical symbol.’

‘Alchoholchemical?’ the man answered. ‘Well, I ain’t ever heard of that. My wife just saw it online and thought it would do for a gas drilling outfit’s logo.’

The clerk put the Jim Beam, cigarettes and snacks into a brown bag. Father and daughter departed into the balmy southern day.

The motorhome window was down, and as they were about to pull away the guy came out.

‘The name’s Frank Persie… You folks on vacation?’

People in the Deep South were chatty, far chattier than the North.

‘Uh huh,’ Joe replied a little defensively.

‘You’re monster hunting?’

‘We’re monster hunting,’ Mia jumped in.

‘We’re not monster hunting,’ Joe answered.

‘You’re in the right place for it,’ Frank said. ‘You’ve heard of the lizard man of Petrie Swamp?’

The gas station was selling tour maps under a picture of the swamp man. He was a little like one of those snapping turtles that sits so long it gets covered in moss, except this turtle stood on its hind legs and was 8ft tall.

‘The swamp monster eats people?’ Mia said.

Her dad shushed her. He was waiting for a sociably acceptable time to pull away.

‘Ah, missy, I didn’t say that now.’

‘So you haven’t seen him?’

There was something of the devil in Frank Persie. He smiled a gap-toothed smile. ‘Oh, I saw some things in my time… Deep in the swamplands… Now if you speak to a scientific man he’ll say that the sightings are hunters in ghillie suits, but some say it’s related to the great chimpanzee fiasco of ‘65.’

With every word, it was like the man was planting fantastic seeds into Mia’s subconscious.

‘Chimps!?’

‘You see, a circus was in town, and there was a breakout. Maybe what folks is seeing is mangy chimps…’

‘Have a good day now,’ Joe pulled away to the protestations of the little girl.

‘You folks be careful out there,’ Frank called after them.

…

Joe picked a secluded spot.

‘Daddy, when is Mommy coming?’ Mia said.

‘Soon, sweetie, soon.’

But of course Leanne wasn’t coming. Leanne was the reason they’d fled. She’d started using again, but good luck proving that to the courts, especially with a record like Joe’s.

Anyway, could you really kidnap your own kid?

The swamp outside was still, covered in a thick layer of algae. They were enclosed in a web of cypress trees, their fine leaves like hanging lace.

‘What are those?’ Mia said, coming up to the window beside him.

She was pointing at the water where the trees’ roots protruded outward.

‘They’re called tree knees.’

‘They look like fingers,’ she broke out. ‘The swamp man’s.’

Suddenly, Joe found himself inexplicably angry. Then again, he’d driven almost 15 hours straight.

‘Stop! Mia. I don’t want to hear anymore about goddamn swamp monsters.’

The girl flinched more than if he’d raised his hand at her.

He went over to the shabby table and, with a shaking hand, he poured himself a bourbon. Just like that, 6 months sober gone, but God, did it feel good.

‘Daddy, you promised.’

‘Just one,’ he said, ‘or I won’t sleep.’

The bourbon stilled something in him. The thing that had been stirring and percolating since he was 10 years old and the great terrible thing had been done.

He put a movie on, and they lay side by side on the pull-out couch. He didn't stop at one; he drank two-thirds of a bottle.

Mia had stopped watching the movie, and she traced the outline of his tattoo with her small fingers. No tree can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.

‘I’ll have a tattoo, one day, Daddy.’

‘Yes, sweetie,’ he was dozing now.

The camper van was nearly dark. She switched off the screen and kissed Joe on the forehead. His eyelashes fluttered but did not open. The bourbon sat on him like a rock.

And then something stirred outside. She glanced out the window. Eerie moonlight bathed the swamp. The drooping cypress branches looked like a woman’s silvery hair.

A low rumble emanated from the swamp, as if something or someone was emerging.

Mia darted away from the window.

‘Daddy, daddy, wake up… I… Think. I think the swamp monster is here.’

But Joe did not stir. He was breathing so deeply, and so drunkenly, every outbreath was like a sigh of contentment.

Mia cuddled into him and closed her eyes tight.

…

The campervan was taped off when Frank Persie arrived.

‘Thanks for consulting, Frank.’

‘Consulting, huh?’ he answered.

The deputy smiled. ‘We think the father might’ve done it with the gas burner. Double suicide job. Turns out he’s wanted.’

The deputy pushed open the camper door, and instantly Frank recognised the little girl and her dad. They were curled up together, sleeping the long sleep.

Frank continued. ‘Peaceful, peaceful as hell, but no time to go. No time… You smell that? Rotten eggs.’

‘Yeah, we smell it.’

‘Swamp monster,’ Frank fired back.

‘What’s that now?’

‘Swamp monster… Sheeet… Now let’s back up outta here.’

‘What is it, Frank?’

‘Hydrogen sulfide. From the swamp bed. Overcome them… And it's a good thing you can smell the eggs, because if it were stronger, it’d paralyse your olfactory nerve and you would be smelling nothing at all.’

They retreated, but not before Frank took one final look over his shoulder at the pair lying like waxworks, and then back at the swamp, where more gas bubbled to the surface.

"Welcome, everyone. Today, we’ll explore the extraordinary history of life on Earth. Please stay together as we move through the galleries.

"We begin with the insects. Among the most resilient creatures ever to exist, they survived dramatic climate changes, shifting continents and several mass extinctions. Some lineages endured for hundreds of millions of years. Others left behind nothing but fragments in the fossil record.

"Through here, we have the ancient oceans. Trilobites, armoured fish and enormous marine predators. The ammonites were particularly successful, spreading throughout the world's oceans before disappearing entirely. Their fossils can now be found where no ocean has existed for millions of years.

"Next, the dinosaurs. For more than one hundred and fifty million years, they occupied an extraordinary range of habitats, from tiny feathered hunters to enormous herbivores.

"Then, approximately sixty-six million years ago, an asteroid struck the planet. The resulting catastrophe ended the reign of the non-avian dinosaurs. Of course, birds survived. Life is remarkably good at finding a way forward.

"Now, the mammals. Mammoths, giant ground sloths, sabre-toothed cats. Many were perfectly suited to their environments until those environments changed. Some disappeared as the climate warmed. Others lost their habitats or were hunted by an increasingly successful predator.

"Which brings us to our final gallery.

"This species walked upright, developed complex language and possessed an extraordinary ability to manipulate its surroundings. It constructed cities, cultivated crops and spread across almost every continent. It developed art, music, mathematics and the ability to study its own origins.

"Despite its considerable intelligence, it struggled to recognise the limits of its own growth. Its activities contributed to the disappearance of thousands of other species.

"It understood the consequences. It documented them extensively. It even predicted many of the events that would threaten its survival.

"Yet its efforts to prevent them proved insufficient.

"They built cities, explored the oceans and travelled beyond their atmosphere. They believed their intelligence would allow them to overcome any obstacle.

"They were also the first species to document its own extinction while there was still time to prevent it.

"Records show that the final transmission was received on the fourteenth of October, 2029. It contained just ten words. Its significance remains unclear."

The guide paused.

"'Is anybody receiving this?... Please... We need help. There are-...'"

The gallery remained silent.

"Unfortunately, nothing else was recorded.

"They preserved the remains of extinct species so future generations might learn from their mistakes.

"It is rather fortunate that they did.

"After all, there would be no one left to tell their story otherwise.

"Thank you for visiting. This concludes our tour."

The guide turned towards the exit.

"This museum of extinction serves a purpose... let's make sure it doesn't happen to us..."

It’s hugely satisfying to watch the person who murdered you go bonkers. Gyrsen was thrashing like a madman as company security restrained him outside the boardroom. He frothed and spittle flew everywhere as he pointed my way, screaming, “He’s here! He’s right here! He’s going to kill us all. Don’t you see what’s happening?”

What was happening was revenge. I used to be a lot more live-and-let-live, but that was before Gyrsen and the rest of TurnTech’s board gave R & D the green light to spaghettify me. The suits didn’t like that term, but what else do you call it when trying to pull every molecule of a person’s being through a “controlled” black hole.

Yeah. Controlled. As if designating the riskiest experiment in scientific history as “controlled” made it okay to put me in a chamber designed to produce one of the most inherently unstable remnants of the early universe: a micro black hole,

Why mess with something so cataclysmically unstable? Initially, TurnTech was looking to harness micro black holes in order to create ultra-dense batteries that would hold tremendous amounts of energy. It’d be a revolutionary innovation for humanity’s insatiable energy needs, and I couldn’t really fault the board’s pursuit of that goal.

In fact, I spearheaded a lot of the R & D. But then our early testing indicated that micro black holes could also form peepholes into other dimensions. And that’s where things went sideways with Gyrsen and a few other suits on the board. They asked me if a human might be able to squeeze through one of those tiny blackhole peepholes.

I flat out told them, “No.” Even though I knew it might be technically feasible after decades of testing and innovation. I knew how TurnTech’s suits operated, and a patient, nuanced, costly approach to R & D was not their bailiwick, so I wanted to quash any crazy speculation on their part.

But Gyrsen relentlessly hounded me about setting up a test. I refused, at first pointing out the incredible risks, and then as he pressured me with more strident demands, I threatened to complain to HR and the board president, if he didn’t stop badgering me.

When he did stop I should’ve realized that was the real danger. Because it’s how I ended up in the micro black hole test chamber, supposedly as a willing experimental subject. Gyrsen had orchestrated my “participation” with Machiavellian cunning, Faustian double-dealing, and Rasputin reality bending.

Gyrsen turned me into his thrall using a new form of psy-ops AI hypnosis. I was brain-washed and then put through the wringer. Literally. Spaghettification doesn’t come close to describing what happens when one is squeezed through a micro black hole.

Nothing can prepare you for what happens to your mind, your human essence, your very soul. I was bereft, totally alone. It seemed eons before I became self aware again, though simultaneously in multiple dimensions. Time and space and matter had little effect on my tenuous existence. My consciousness could seemingly manifest anywhere at any time, yet only the most threadbare of my thoughts remained. Only the sense of being completely undone.

Undone. Undone. Undone.

That’s what brought me back from the void: I remembered exactly who had undone me.

It’s been said that ghosts are just unfinished business. And Gyrsen was the first of many to see how much I had left to do at TurnTech. It felt good to be back at work in my old haunts.

The old, abandoned chapel off Farm Road seventy-two had sat silent for over thirteen years. Soot lined the stone walls of the derelict building. The once-bright red tin roof was now almost entirely rusted through, and the grey windows had grown cloudy with years of dust.

Elio parked his Mr. Sparks Electrician van, hooked his tool belt to his wide waist, and walked around the small stone wall toward the crumbling structure. Morning sunlight broke into thin rays as the sun rose through the dense thicket of trees that lined the isolated chapel.

“Over here!” a voice called from the shabby entryway. A slender man in a clerical collar stood and extended a polite hand. “Pastor Thorne. Thank you, son, for coming on such short notice.”

Elio shook it, suppressing a shudder at how limp and unnaturally cold the Pastor’s grip was. He wiped his palm on his work pants and fought the urge to leave. “Happy to help, Pastor. Mr. Sparks, my name; electricity is my game! Let’s see what we’re working with, shall we?”

Inside, the chapel nave smelled heavily of rot and decay. Splintered pews lined the aisle, as sunlight trickled in from the large stained-glass windows high above the altar. Elio pulled out his trusty voltage tester and traced the main line to the floor, where old copper leads vanished beneath the decrepit floorboards. He grabbed a crowbar and wedged it under the oak planking in the middle of the room.

The worn wood cracked as board after board was torn away, then Elio’s brows furrowed at the sight of the cables. No copper wire connected to a breaker or box; instead, the lines wove into an intricate, concentric web across the building’s foundation. To Elio, the electrical cables formed a vast sigil on the ground. Elio’s heart pounded as his eyes darted around the interlocking spirals, as Roman numerals bent from cable. Then he bent down and saw bizarre runic symbols painted in dark red pigment along the yellow insulation of each cable.

“Ahh, so you found it at last. The abysmal circuit,” Pastor Thorne said, his voice echoing from the shadow behind the altar.

Elio stood, gripping his crowbar defensively as dark clouds blotted out the morning sun. The Pastor’s pupils glowed an ominous orange in the dim light.

“Pastor, what is all this?” Elio asked, stepping back.

“It’s something like a grid, Mr. Sparks, a type of conduit…to the other side,” Thorne said softly as thirteen figures in black cloaks surrounded Elio. Each cloaked figure held large, sparking daggers. “All we need is blood…a sacrifice, you could say, to complete the circuit.”

The copper wire beneath Elio’s boots started to vibrate as the doors slammed and the cultists began to chant in Latin. Elio fought them back as long as he could, but a flurry of stabs across his back sent him to his knees. Elio’s eyes widened as the cables where his fresh blood splattered began to glow. Then, a horrifying low-pitched buzz at the center of the shape seemed to fold space and time in on itself, creating a wretched dark void. At the center of the break in reality, a horned, winged figure emerged from fire.

My job isn’t for the faint-hearted. I mean, I say it’s not. I work with the FBI. Mostly at the murder scenes, with my camera.

  Sometimes I don’t even think I’m strong enough to do this, but the pay is just too good for me to quit because of a weak stomach. I don’t really want to disclose the amount, but it’s enough so that my parents can retire when they're ready to, and I can support us all. The only real sacrifice is my ability to sleep soundly. Some of those scenes are just... Extremely graphic. But that leads me to what happened three days ago. Something that just felt too surreal. Like I was having a fever dream. And yet, the photo on my desk speaks for itself.

  It was supposed to be just another murder scene. Some young girl - too young to have her life cut so abruptly - was found in her deceased parent’s house after she was trying to settle back in. I was just taking photos, like I’m paid to do, but something about this whole scene rubbed me the wrong way; maybe it was the fact that the police couldn’t locate the murder weapon, or it was just the stuffy air in the whole house, like it was **holding its breath**. When you take photos of murders, as long as I have, you’ll find things that don’t add up in certain moments.

  I know I should’ve minded my business, but after I was done, I listened in on what the police were mumbling about- nothing important, just what they had planned for the weekend. How they can plan their lives with a dead girl in the room is beyond me. I slowly sneaked towards the back door. Conveniently, it was raining, and something in my gut just told me to go there.

  But outside were no footsteps, not even the police went out.

  That alone made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I turned and started walking around the house, checking all the closed doors.

  The downstairs bathroom, unlocked and empty. The storage under the stairs, unlocked and empty, only with some full trash bags of random shit.

  I was checking all over the bottom floor while more and more officers were yelling at me because I was contaminating the crime scene. No one stopped me, because why would they risk touching a 6-foot-8, buff man that could bench-press them like it’s nothing?

Had to try and explain my theory.

Most said they didn’t believe me, even if their faces said otherwise, but I didn't blame them. Still, one gave me gloves and started looking with me.

 The whole house turned out empty, but it still didn’t feel right.

  So I looked again, and in that storage beneath the stairs? The one with the trash bags? One bag had shifted when I opened the door.

  I came closer, one slow step at a time. “Police, put your hands in the air!” I said, trying to fiddle with my camera to make it sound like a gun.

  Out of the bag jumped a dude, knife in hand. The damn murder weapon that they couldn’t find.

  I got startled, and in my shock, I took a photo by accident- snap! Falling to the ground, I waited for the end. Only, I just heard a thud, and I didn't feel the knife anywhere in my body.

  Opening my eyes, I was horrified to see the dude, dead on the floor, eyes wide with terror, mouth still open in that damn scream that made me nearly jump out of my skin.

  Back home, after a checkup at the hospital and a talk with the police, I was staring at the camera, confused. That dude couldn’t have just dropped dead like that.

  It was impossible, right? Even a heart attack wouldn’t be this quick. Maybe the autopsy will tell the police more. Maybe.

  I had photos that needed developing.

And it nearly caused me to drop dead, because when I developed the last photo I took- the accidental one of the guy who attacked me? Yeah, there was something behind him, hands wrapped around his throat, as if crushing his windpipe. And the thing, even if it was just a black fog, seemed to have been staring past the camera. At me.

The inpatient bed in Room 604 was absurdly comfortable for a room where people came to break down. It didn't have the cold, clanking iron cage bars of the emergency department. Instead, it was framed in sleek, padded plastic panels that adjusted with a soft pneumatic hiss, sliding down silently at a touch, designed to make you feel cared for while keeping you securely boxed in. An indwelling IV line hummed quietly in my left arm, and a capped angiocath port sat taped flat against my right hand, waiting for whatever scan came next.

I only had that bed because my potassium had bottomed out around seven in the evening, crashing low enough to force the hospital's hand and give Dr. Hayes the narrow administrative keycode he needed to pull me upstairs.

Day one brought with it the initial CT scan with contrast. High-precision imaging accurately mapped the anatomical absence of my gallbladder removed back in 2018 and confirmed a pristine pancreas. When Dr. Hayes first reviewed the charts before my crash, he had swiped past the glowing cross-sections, muttered that the tissue architecture was completely unremarkable, and closed the file. Yet those same scans remained entirely blind to the heavy, softball-sized mass tucked firmly in my right upper quadrant beneath the muscle wall.

By day two, Dr. Hayes looked less like an attending physician and more like a man standing over a mistake he couldn't undo. He brought in a trusted colleague who was finally on rotation for that day. The second doctor stepped up, glanced at Dr. Hayes, and turned to me with quiet respect.

"I've been asked to consult," he said. "Would you like to show me what it is?"

I pulled back the heavy blanket and shifted the front of my double hospital gowns aside. I reached out and guided his palm directly down against my skin over the cage of my lower ribs.

His fingers sank in, and then they hit it. A dense, unyielding mass, heavy as a fistful of wet cement. It didn't shift when he pushed.

"What is this that I feel?" the colleague asked, staring down at his own hand in confusion.

"I don't know," Dr. Hayes replied, his voice thin and hollow. "Everything we run comes back completely unremarkable."

The colleague pulled his hand back quickly and immediately ordered an ultrasound.

Ten minutes later, the ultrasound technician rolled her machine across the linoleum. She pressed the cold transducer over the exact coordinate, her free hand instinctively digging into my opposite side to steady herself as she felt the heavy, undeniable mass pressing outward against her palm. I watched her eyes dart up to the monitor in disbelief, only for the screen to display absolute, pristine emptiness. She stared at the glowing black-and-white display, shook her head, and whispered, "The machine has found everything normal and, according to the software, entirely unremarkable."

Day three brought a desperate pivot. Out of sheer clinical frustration, Dr. Hayes considered performing a needle aspiration to decompress or check for trapped fluid or pocketed air inside the anomaly. To clear the procedure safely, he ordered a targeted MRI and drew fresh blood panels. When the lab arrays and the targeted MRI populated the wall terminal, the blood work and the scan both came back completely unremarkable. Because the database registered zero parameters for what sat inside me, the system legally and procedurally pulled the rug right out from under his procedure, stripping away his last tool.

Day four arrived with stabilization. My potassium lab numbers came back within the acceptable window, and because the Electronic Health Record lacked a category for an uncodable anomaly, the hospital cleared me while Dr. Hayes was locked away in a morning conference. Discharge papers were handed over by a nurse I had never seen before.

We walked out through the heavy sliding glass doors into the open afternoon air. I stopped on the concrete sidewalk, threw my hands up in sharp frustration, and looked over at my husband.

"No follow-up appointment, no news, nothing they can do," I said, my voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. "The mass is still right here, but according to the bullshit system, everything is completely unremarkable."

I jerk awake, my forehead smacking the metal handrail.
The bus has come to a screeching stop.
I blink and look around.
Empty.
Somehow, I fell asleep.
I’ve never done that before.
Must’ve been the long shift at work.

The bus lurches forward again.
I glance up at the overhead display.
Blank. Just a black screen.
Weird.
I look out the window instead.
I’ve taken this route every day for the past week.
Only a week but I should recognize where we are... yet I don’t.
No trees. Just a few rundown buildings scattered along the road. Hardly anyone walking outside.
None of it looks familiar.

I stand, grabbing the seatbacks to steady myself.
Then I make my way to the front.
“Excuse me,” I say. “What’s the next stop?”
“Your stop is soon,” the driver replies.
“Archer Boulevard?”
No answer.
The light above the driver’s seat is strangely dim.
All I can make out is his silhouette.
I take another step toward him.
Before I can ask again, the bus slows.
Then comes to a stop.

The doors hiss open.
I peek outside.
A single bus stop.
One flickering streetlight.
And a kid sitting on the bench beneath it.
He can’t be older than ten.
He doesn’t move. Just sits there.
I lean toward the window, trying to read the stop name.
There isn’t one.
“What stop is this?” I ask.
“This is not your stop,” the driver replies.
The doors close.
The bus pulls away.
I glance back out the window.
The boy is smiling. At me.
He lifts a hand. Waves. Like he’s saying goodbye.
For just a second, he looks exactly like me when I was ten.
Then the stop disappears behind us.

“Sorry, sir—“
The bus speeds up.
I frantically grab for the bar and fall into the nearest seat.
“Excuse me, please. When will we get to Archer Boulevard? Did we pass it?”
I try to stand, get closer to the driver, but the bus is going too fast.
Finally, the bus starts to slow again.
I stand.
“Excuse me—“
The door opens.

I look outside.
Another bus stop.
Another person waiting.
A young man this time.
Early twenties.
He’s wearing an orange sweatshirt.
Grand Canyon across the front.
My stomach tightens.
That was my sweatshirt.
The one my parents bought me on our family trip in high school.
Before I can take a closer look at the man or search for the name of the stop, the bus starts moving again.
Growing frustrated, I turn toward the driver, about to speak—
“Your stop is next.”

I sink back into my seat.
Trying to convince myself I’m overthinking this.
The kid.
The young man.
The streets I’ve never seen before.
The bus must’ve changed its normal route.
Maybe this is its normal route. Considering I haven’t ridden it for long.
Or I’m still asleep. I chuckle to myself.
Either way, I’ll be home in a minute.
I close my eyes. Rub my temples.
Then, the bus slows.
Stops.
“You’re home,” the driver says.
I grab my backpack.
“M-Thanks.”
The doors glide open.
I step off the bus.
Both feet hit the pavement.
I look up.
My stomach drops.
This isn’t Archer Boulevard.
It’s a desert. Flat. Endless. Nothing in any direction.
Just a rusted bus stop.
And a weathered sign.
YOUR FINAL STOP

BREAKING NEWS
Bus Crash Claims 14 Lives Near Archer Boulevard

Authorities have confirmed that fourteen people were killed Thursday evening after a city bus left the roadway just before reaching Archer Boulevard and overturned into a drainage ditch.

According to investigators, emergency responders arrived within minutes, but all passengers and the driver were pronounced dead at the scene.

The cause of the crash remains under investigation.

The woman sitting across from me has been crying for nearly an hour.

Or at least, I think she has.

Her eyes are red, her fingers are trembling, and she keeps staring at the closed office door as though someone might come out and tell her this has all been a prank.

Well, I know the feeling. When the person you love dies suddenly, the world doesn't stop. It simply becomes impossible to understand why everyone else keeps moving.

My husband died last night. Now, I am waiting for his death certificate to be issued.

It happened too fast. Only a few days ago, we were celebrating our anniversary. We went to our favourite Italian restaurant for lunch. We took photographs and reminisced about the day he proposed to me at that very same restaurant.

That day was romantic. I even asked him if we could get matching tattoos bearing our initials, just above our hearts. He laughed at first, asking whether I was trying to make sure he could never escape me. Then he kissed my forehead and agreed.

We spent the rest of the evening shopping. He even let me pick the music in the car on the way home, something he normally complained about.

It was a perfect day.

I suppose that's why I keep returning to it. Grief makes you collect the smallest things, as if enough happy memories might somehow explain the ending.

But there is something else I remember.

That bitch.

The bitch from his office.

Just a week before our anniversary, I found her text messages on his phone. They were hidden between ordinary conversations about meetings, along with intimate little jokes that made my stomach churn. Then I found condoms and Viagra in his work bag, tucked beneath a folder of documents.

I was speechless.

After that, I couldn't sleep. I would lie beside him and listen to him breathe, wondering how many times he had touched another woman and come home to touch me with the same hands.

Eventually, I made a decision.

Yesterday, I tampered with the pills. I won't pretend I didn't plan it all along. I wanted him to suffer, to feel even a fraction of what he had made me feel.

I never expected it to end so quickly like this.

He died of a sudden heart attack last night at her house. When the ambulance arrived, the paramedics said there was nothing they could do.

So, yeah, that was on me.

Now I sit here, waiting for his death certificate, wearing the face of a grieving wife. Nobody knows what I did. I knew that bitch wouldn't be stupid enough to expose the affair.

Instead, she told everyone that my husband had suddenly collapsed while visiting her. The office accepted her statement and closed the case.

Finally, the office door opens.

A clerk steps out, holding a document.

“Mrs. Richards?”

I look up, raising my eyebrows.

"Pardon?”

“Daniella Naomi Richards?”

“Yes, that's me.”

All my life, I chased the shadow of the man who raised me. He kept his promises and fiercely protected those he loved.

My father was a constant presence. He never missed a single soccer game or concert, always cheering me on from the sidelines.

I loved him dearly.

It wasn’t long before his illness became an unbearable weight on us both.

I watched his chest rise and fall slowly with each breath as he lay in that hospital bed.

His glassy eyes looked into mine. The man who used to hide his pain was gone. There was a sadness inside him. A sadness I hadn’t seen before.

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. I leaned over, wiped it with a tissue, and gave him a soft smile. A smile I hoped would show him that everything would be okay. That I would be okay.

Still, his face grew pale, and his eyes widened with fear.

My father pulled the oxygen mask off his face with shaking hands and a quiet whimper.

“It’s okay, Dad. It’s to help you breathe.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

I put my hands on his. They felt cold. “You don’t have to be sorry, Pop. Everything is fine.”

“No.” He licked his lips. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

“Pop—”

“I know what’s waiting for me on the other side.” His heart rate monitor climbed steadily. “I never told anyone.”

I wanted to calm him down. I wanted to put the mask back on and get him to rest.

He refused and threw the mask across the room. “I have to tell the truth. I have to tell the truth.”

A knot formed in my chest as I knelt beside his bed.

“You have a right to know,” he whispered.

I leaned closer. “What is it?”

Tears ran down his face as he spoke. “The war. What it does to a man. It changes you. Makes you do things you never thought you could. I… I didn’t know what was inside me all this time.” He turned onto his side to look at me better.

“They sent us out into the desert. We were going to an outpost when our convoy was attacked. My best friend Jackson died in my arms. I tried to find his radio, but soon we knew we had to run. Run as far as we could into that endless heat.”

Dad had told me this once before. He was the only survivor after hiding from the enemy for nine days.

Nine days in the blistering heat and the unforgiving cold nights.

Nine days with only a small supply of food and water.

“We starved out there. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Water. Water and the undeniable dread that crept across that desert. We were meant to die out there. I was never supposed to live.”

I shook my head and held his hands tight. “Don’t say that. It’s not true.”

“They found us a few times at night, and we kept running and running until our feet bled. Until I was the only one left.”

“I already know this story. You eventually found help. What happened on that convoy wasn’t your fault, Dad.”

My father waved his hand to stop me. He cleared his throat and went on. “There was something else in that desert. Something I found. Something I kept from you and your mother.”

“What did you find?”

“A home.” He coughed. “I found a home on a lonely road. I knocked and banged on their door, begging for shelter. No one answered. So I went inside and drank their milk. I drank their water and ate their food until my stomach hurt. Then I heard something under my feet. I looked down between the floorboards and saw tiny eyes staring up at me in pure fear.

“You see… the insurgents scared their own people. They didn’t care if it was women, children, or even families of their own soldiers. They treated them badly, like a pack of demons spreading across the land. Many hid as best they could, hoping to be saved.

“Then on their kitchen table, I found a radio. It was Jackson’s, still covered in his blood. I felt something rise inside me. A feeling I had never felt before.” My father rolled onto his back and stared at the bright ceiling lights. “Rage. A wild, animalistic rage. So I grabbed the radio and called for help. Told them where I was and that I found people inside the house. When the operator asked if there were any survivors, I said no.”

I released my father’s hands. The warmth between us faded.

His breath lightened.

“I killed every one of them. Twenty-three people were hiding in that basement. Men. Women. Children. And I killed them all like it was nothing.”

He turned to look at me.

I felt sick. “How… how could you?”

“And then I look at you, Jackson. And I see how you would look at me. How much you love me. I see a man who admires the devil himself.”

The audio program’s music faded as Lars slid the fader down. Veronica, sitting next to Lars at the control booth, hit the radio station’s ID audio line.

“You’re listening to ninety-four point five!” Chimed the prerecorded trio of womanly voices as the jingle played in his headset.

In his signature husky voice, Lars began, “Good evening, those of you burning the late-night oil on this All Hallows’ Eve.” He adjusted his soundboard to bring his voice up on the monitor. “It’s your host, Lars Buchanan. I hope you enjoyed that bit of AC/DC. Before we get to our next classic tune, Let’s take a line.”

Lars clicked the blinking red audio channel for the caller waiting on the other end to go live.

“Howdy, fellow rock’n roller, you are live on 94.5,” Lars said, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his microphone in the soundproofed radio studio.

“Hi Lars, it’s been a while. How have you been?” said the man with an unnerving, smooth cadence.

“Well, now? A repeat caller?” Lars said with a chuckle. “I’ve been living, loving, and sharing rock’n tunes with the good people across the airwaves. Tell us your name and what’s on your mind this evening.”

“It’s Nick, old Nick, you remember, don’t you?” Said the man.

Lars swallowed hard; the studio felt like the thermostat had been turned up by ten degrees or more. He forced a dry laugh.

“Old Nick, huh? Well…what can I play for you tonight, my friend?”

“I’m just calling to check in,” the voice said in a sinister tone.

“Listen, buddy, I don’t know what kind of prank this is, but if you don’t have a request—”

“I do,” Nick interrupted softly. “Play ‘The Number of the Beast’ for me. I’m a huge fan, Lars. What do you think her last thoughts were? It’s impressive how you got away with it. I can’t wait to meet face-to-face. Tell me…How well do you like the heat?”

The line went dead with a sudden click.

Lars’ breathing became heavy. He wiped fresh sweat from his brow onto his sleeve.

Veronica hit play, and the heavy metal track roared out into the night.

Lars took off his headphones and stumbled to the bathroom trembling. His face was pouring sweat. He took off his glasses and splashed sink water on his face. Three red numbers, 666, glowed on his neck, as if a hot iron had just branded them. His hand instinctively went to cover the strange mark, until the glow slowly faded. When he removed his hand, his skin looked normal.

As Lars left the bathroom, his producer, Veronica, waited for him outside the recording booth.

“You ok? What was that all about?” She asked, her arms crossed.

“It’s nothing, I just need some fresh air,” Lars said as he pushed through the double doors towards an exit.

The cool night air rushed into Lars’ lungs as he inhaled the fresh smell of the pine forest behind the radio station. Above, the cloudless night held a sliver of the crescent moon surrounded by the pinpricks of stars. The tall radio tower’s periodic red glow blinked steadily across the October sky. Lars stepped toward the road, pulled a Menthol from his jacket pocket, ignited it, and took a deep breath to calm his nerves.

“Lars, wait, that was really weird. Did you know that guy?” Veronica asked in hot pursuit.

“Fuck, just drop it, V! Let’s forget about it. Just two more hours and we get to go home,” Lars yelled.

“I just, watch out—” Veronica shouted.

Lars turned and saw the blinding headlights of an 18-wheeler barreling straight at him. Before the metal grill crushed his body, he felt a red-hot chain wrap around his throat. It yanked him down, through a crack in the asphalt into a blinding, fiery abyss. As the surface world vanished from his eyes, Old Nick’s laughter echoed in his ear, drowning out his final scream as he watched his body explode into bits of flesh and bone.

Some cities appear cleaner and more prosperous, with fewer unhoused people, for a reason. And it’s not because they have more opportunities or homeless shelters than other cities.

Have you ever noticed that when several dead bodies are discovered within a short period, it’s usually the mayor who addresses the public first to deny that a serial killer is at large?

The rot comes from the very top.

I’m going to tell you a little secret. Most major cities allow a serial killer to operate within them, with the understanding that they mainly target the homeless. These cities usually don’t even allow them to kill criminals. There’s money to be made from incarcerating people who have families and connections. But there’s absolutely nothing to be gained from the homeless.

That’s why cops don’t even bother arresting them for committing petty crimes. They don’t have family members who care enough to send them money to buy things inside Jail/Prison, and it costs more to house and feed them than it does to simply let them go.

Plus, if you let someone wither away and starve to death inside a prison, there are usually lawsuits and investigations. But if they starve to death on the streets or disappear altogether, no one will bat an eye.

I’ve seen many homeless people around my side of town stick around an area for a few weeks, begging for change, only to suddenly disappear forever one day.

The homeless people around the city know this. That’s why they often appear paranoid and shaky, always looking out of the corners of their eyes. They know someone is out there, watching and waiting for them.

They call the one around here The Cleaner.

The local homeless say he wears a Halloween mask of a demon when he gets you. If you see him while begging for change, you’d better not fall asleep or stay in that area for too long. I recommend you run as fast as you can. Because the minute there are no witnesses around, you’ll go missing. 

And if you’re lucky, you might get a missing person poster.

You can go to the police all you want. They won’t do anything. They’ll call you crazy. But they know. They just try not to think about what’s going to happen to you. They view it as a necessary evil that keeps the community clean.

That’s often why the unhoused sleep together in tent cities in some major cities. They've seen what happens if they sleep alone.

Elected officials and society try to pretend that most of these people are just drug addicts and undesirables. But I’ve seen regular people who lost their jobs and homes only a few months ago end up missing very quickly.

It’s tough getting back on your feet.

If you aren’t homeless and you see The Cleaner operating. I urge you not to report it to the police.

A single mother of three reported what she saw to the police last week. She claimed that a tall man wearing a scary mask attacked a homeless man before shoving him into a van and driving away.

This week, her kids are being forced to grow up without their mother.

Her body was found chopped up and stuffed inside the trunk of her own car. And the police claim to have no leads on who could have done it.

But they damn well know.

Today I visited my friend's tent. He's also homeless.  It was slashed open with fresh blood everywhere inside. I knew I'd never see him again, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

The next time you wish there were fewer homeless people around, just know that your wish may very well come true.

But don’t ever assume it can’t happen to you. Almost every city has a cleaner and you're only one car problem away from losing your job.

There was once a small town in the suburbs. Ordinary, indistinctive, just like every other suburban town you might've seen, a town you might've even lived in.
In that town there stood an old-fashioned tobacco shop.
Again, nothing special; just a shop filled to brim with tobacco, tobacco papers, filters, pipes, lighters, matches, herbal paraphernalia, but most of all... cigarettes. Cigarettes as far as the eye could see, cigarettes from all around the world, cigarettes of varying strengths and packet sizes. But one would expect that from a tobacco shop. It was the man who ran it that ought to be paid close attention to.
The Tobacconist, the friendly old man who stood behind the counter day after day. Sweet looking yet wise, wholesome but sharp, like an uncanny Colonel Sanders. If someone came in to buy a pack of cigarettes from this old timer, they wouldn't suspect a thing. But of course, this shopkeeper held a secret, a dark secret, a secret so sinister that he couldn't allow for it to simply leave the building. Underneath the floor to this very plain, very dull smoke emporium, was an underground room, a basement. And this basement held captive a rough figure of twelve people… dads.

The old man had a basement full of Dads. Why, you may ask?
Why indeed. Evidently, the Tobacconist has been doing this for years. Any time a man who looked like he wanted to leave his family behind walked into the shop, they were treated to a once in a lifetime opportunity. A "way out" situation for a fella to take in order to get out of his newly unwanted patriarchal role. New name, new location; for a small sum. At least that's what The Tobacconist had told them, when in actual fact, the old man had no intention of doing any such thing. It was really just a trap to get the dad down there, to his unforeseen doom.

But don't get me wrong, there was plenty to do in the little basement. The Tobacconist had placed a baseball in the middle of the room, so all the Dads could "play catch" with each other.
And The Tobacconist wasn't a complete monster, he would still feed the Dads, and give them a tiny amount of hydration.
Naturally every now and then a rebellious dad would start acting up, with a plan for some sort of half-baked mutiny; this would rile up all the other dads when it came to feeding time.
The Tobacconist used to try to act threatening towards them by saying to them "I'm your worst nightmare." He soon gave up on that little ploy however, when a dad responded with, "Hi, 'Your Worst Nightmare' I'm Dad."
The Tobacconist even found it humorously ironic that he was slowly killing people with his products above ground and slowly keeping people alive below. Now, I'm not going to get into the origin of why The Tobacconist commits these bizarre crimes;
I'm no psychologist and don't want to chalk it up to whether it was because his own father disappeared when he was younger, or some other catalyst. The Tobacconist didn't even know why he did what he did, nor did he know what his intentions would finally be with them. He just liked to own a basement full of Dads. Maybe because it amused him.
By now, you may be asking which tobacco shop in which town in which country could be doing such a thing. You see, it is not a sole incident. There are thousands of evil tobacconists around the world. It happens a lot more than you think.

So, the next time you hear a dad saying that he's "just going out to get a pack of cigarettes" and doesn't return, just consider... he may be held somewhere against his will.

Munira Akhaad ran towards the end of the dock, her full breasts swinging side to side in her bathing suit. Sun gleamed momentarily off the gold pendant hanging between them, reflecting light onto the polished white yacht to her right. The glare partially blinded her, but did nothing to slow her pace; the first swim of the season could be postponed no longer. All she had to do was run straight. With a whoop of delight, she jumped. 

Only when she was on her way down did she notice the water, her delight turning to terror. Though it produced no steam, and gave off no apparent heat, it was boiling. 

Munira flailed briefly as she splashed into the lake, sinking several feet before she buoyed back to the surface, motionless. The water, bubbling with pleasure, continued to cook her until her skin and organs had sluiced off in large bobbing chunks that slowly carried to shore. 

My son Nick- he has done so much, hurt so many people, and part of me feels it is my fault. This is not the stereotypical blaming of mothers when children go wrong. It is something else. I tried my best. Maybe I should have made a different choice that night, when he was still a teenager. I don’t know. I just know that as always, I was only acting in his best interest, and that I will always love him, no matter what he does.

I am his mother after all.

That night, I was waiting for Nick to return home when my phone dinged. I looked down at his name, flashing on my screen

-Will asked me over to his place can I go pls

I texted back.

“No. Home by 9 please.” I simply could not come to terms with my son’s and his friends' insatiable need to spend all weekend evenings together.

Ding!

“Please please mom everybody is going Will asked me to go”

I was about to text back “when Will pays your bills, you can follow him wherever he asks” but then I felt a change of heart. There was no point in refusing- he would just sneak off after I fell asleep. And how could I refuse my son anything? How could I make him upset and miserable, excluded from his friend group? He is the light of my eyes, the beat of my heart.

-Ok picking u up 11:30 no drinking 

-Tks mom luv u

-I love u too

My last text remained unread.

I sighed. Another lonely Saturday evening.

I listened to the creak of the pipes in the walls, echoing around my living room.

Something snapped inside the belly of my house. I stared at the wall, which appeared to be moving. What the hell- Was it an earthquake? Our area did not have earthquakes. The front door flew open and a tall thin man perfectly dressed in a beautiful dark blue suit complete with a crisp white shirt and a Cheshire cat smile entered and stood before me.

“Hello Lisa” he exclaimed in a friendly voice. His eyes were blank, small silver discs of nothingness.

The walls stopped heaving and the pipes were silent.

The front door slammed shut.

I jumped, but couldn’t say anything. I just stared at him.

“I’ve come to take you,” he said.

I shook my head.

He stretched out his hand and said in a softer tone. “Come along my dear. It won’t be as bad as you’ve been told.”

“No!” I gasped. “Please. I have to be here- for my son. I’m all he has- he’s only sixteen.”

His grin grew deeper, running all the way round his head. “You silly woman! Why do you think I’m here?”

I shook my head, refusing to believe.

“Sad but true my dear. He sold your soul to go to Will’s party. Anyway, don’t worry. Lilibeth here will care for him.” He snapped his fingers, and then for the first time I noticed a woman’s figure, standing silently beside him. I don’t know how she got in.

Her face- I can’t describe how terrible - a distorted face with angled teeth jutting out.

“Lilibeth you stupid cunt, your face!” snapped the man. I blinked, she flickered and I found myself staring at a woman who looked exactly like me. I shook my head again, willing the two to disappear.

But they did not.

“See? Lilibeth can take perfect care of him.” said the man. Lilibeth smiled and I could see her sharp white teeth.

Desperation made me speak. “No- this is not possible! How could he sell my soul for something he wanted? You’re lying!”

He rubbed his hands together. “In most cases you would be right, poor Lisa. But for mothers and sons, ahhh, that most delicious of relationships, we make an exception. Your souls are so tightly bonded, in such a terrible way- the laws of the universe bend in awe. The transactions are different, different, you know. Now come along, stop arguing with me. I have other things to do, places to be.” And he took a step towards me, his silver eyes dancing.

“No” I cried. “I’ll make another deal with you! A better deal! Tell me what you’d like”.

He raised his eyebrows, his cat grin growing almost splitting his skull. “How amusing. Let me see. Actually I know exactly what I want. You realise, the bitter truth is that even in hell, men’s souls are valued more than yours, especially a fresh young man. The potential for doing evil! Oh my goodness!” He paused and rubbed his hands together, before continuing, “And especially compared to that of a jaded old hag, if you’ll pardon me for pointing out the obvious, such as yourself. Call me sexist my dear, but that’s just the way it is. So, his soul for yours?”

“She- she will leave?” I gestured at my doppelganger.

He threw his head back and roared with laughter, a truly terrifying sound. “Lilibeth you are so unwanted, my poor bitch!”

He snapped his fingers. Lilibeth hung her head, turned, and walked slowly to the front door. She paused a second, her hand on the knob, but the man gestured impatiently and snapped “Go on go on! I said we haven’t all night!”

She opened the door and disappeared into the darkness.

“There you go. No Lilibeth. Just you and your precious son- but his soul is mine.”

I nodded.

“Wonderful! Well, I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your Saturday evening- I heard there is an excellent party at Will’s place - I might pop in.”

He turned and left.

I was alone. 

I have not had a peaceful night since then. My son, Nick. You may have heard about some of the things he’s done, sometimes he’s in the media. But it’s not my fault. I was only trying to protect him. I swear.

I’m Kyro, and I work at Sunshine Mental Asylum. This morning, I was rushing because I slept in. I dropped the kids off late for school and ran into the building, cutting my hand on the edge of a door. Ignoring the pain, I went to assess Roma, the schizophrenia patient I’ve been trying to cure.

She is a single mother who was involved in a tragic car accident that took her child's life. My team and I don’t know what triggered her to develop schizophrenia; we can only speculate that it was the accident. Either way, whatever happened to her causes her to have unpredictable outbursts. Sometimes, during those outbursts, she says things that do not seem to fit the moment, as if she knows more than she should.

I sat across the table from her, trying to keep the conversation normal while she sat in her restraint jacket.

“Can you tell me where you are right now?” I asked her calmly while she sat there slumped in her chair.

“I am interviewing my patient," Roma said, looking blankly at me with a smile. The words sounded so eerily familiar, as if she thought she was me.

That response took me off guard, but I decided to continue the interview as we still needed to know her thought process.

“Can you list the months in reverse order?” I asked. Roma looked to a random corner where the CCTV was, smiling, rocking back and forth in her chair before looking back at me and saying, “December, November, October, September… August?… June?” I replied, being a bit sceptical myself, as my head suddenly started to ache. Her answer felt strangely off, as if she were steering the interview somewhere else.

“How has your mood been over the past few weeks?” I asked, still trying to help her get well.

“Frustrated… but let's go; you start talking about your stay here,” Roma said. This time, my headache increased as an elephant stomped on it. Her words felt oddly familiar, and I could not shake the sense that the interview was slipping out of my control.

It felt like a blink; however, when I opened my eyes, I was in Roma’s body. In that instant, it became clear: I hadn’t just been treating Roma—I had been hallucinating that I was Kyro all along. The reality was that I was Roma, lost in a delusion, believing I was my own doctor. I struggled against the restraint jacket as I screamed.

“What happened!?” I screamed, thrashing against the jacket.

Security guards barged in, pinning me to the ground. “No! I’m not the crazy one,” I tried to explain. When they pushed me into the mental room, I realised it was I who had lost the baby, and it was I who drove the car into that wall on purpose. I was living in an illusion where I imagined a family; I was a psychopath, and a psychopath always thinks he is righteous.

I’ve been a journalist for 10 years. Always traveling through Eastern Europe, visiting small towns and villages, looking through the archives, hoping to find something interesting from the past.

Well, today, I found something that I must share with the internet. This is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever read.

It’s a letter from August of 1436, written by a bishop called Kálmán. I tried my best to translate it from latin.

“To the Most Holy and Blessed Father in Christ and Sovereign Pontiff, by Divine Providence shepherd of the Universal Church, your humble and unworthy servant Kálmán, by the grace of God and the Apostolic See Bishop of Veszprém, offers obedience and kisses of the sacred feet.

I’m writing to Your Holiness from a small village named Folt, part of the duchy of Veszprém, and the kingdom of Hungary. I was called here by a young man, and your humble servant, Chaplain Nicholas. I regret to say that he’s the only person who’s still living inside the local church after the tragedy that happened here, resulting in the death of the local priest, Lord Lajos, my dear friend, who died protecting the people of Folt, as he always did.

According to Nicholas, these events commenced two weeks ago, when a peasant family residing near the forest at the edge of Folt was murdered. The master of the household, Ferenc, was discovered in his chamber, suspended upside down. A wound had been pierced into his chest, and his heart was missing. His wife and three children were likewise slain, each bearing deep lacerations upon their necks.

None knew what had occurred. Their neighbor, an aged woman named Sára, reported that she observed a man of tall stature entering Ferenc's house at nightfall. When she knocked upon the door the following morning to collect the cheese she had requested, no one answered. She returned thrice more during the day, until at last she peered through a rear window and beheld the horrific scene.

Following these atrocities, the villagers of Folt united to arrange their burial. Lord Lajos announced an inquiry to apprehend the murderer, declaring that whosoever committed such deeds served the Devil and would face divine and temporal justice.

He commanded the erection of a wooden cross, ten feet in height, upon Ferenc’s farm, and painted a white cross upon the door. This act appears to have enraged the murderer, for on the subsequent morning, the entire farm was consumed by fire, together with every structure and the cross itself, which had been inverted. As it had required three men to erect that cross, we surmised the culprit was either possessed of extraordinary strength or assisted by accomplices.
Thereafter, the men of Folt established night watches to guard the village. Lacking proper weaponry, they armed themselves with pitchforks, sickles, hammers, and other implements.

After several days, Chaplain Nicholas, Lord Lajos, and two devout men who had volunteered to guard the church were conversing near the altar. Having no other living witnesses, I relay that which Nicholas communicated in his testament.

A man entered the church, and the four turned to face him. Nicholas described this individual as a monstrous and unholy creature, resembling the Adversary himself. The man was half-naked, clad only in footwear and leather trousers. A scabbard hung from his girdle, containing a sword. His eyes were dark and malevolent, and his grin was broad, stretching nearly to his ears and filled with small, sharp teeth.

His hair was dark, his skin of a reddish-brown hue, and two structures protruded from his back. Wings, perhaps, though Nicholas noted they appeared hideous, akin neither to those of a bird nor a bat, but something monstrous between the two.

One of the guards, a valiant young man, charged toward him with his pitchfork. The tall beast, without strain or hesitation, seized the pitchfork, wrested it from the poor man's grasp, and cast it aside. He then drew his sword from its sheath and ran it through the young man's heart. He kicked the body from his blade, casting it across the sanctuary where it struck the wall with great force.

The second guard held a sickle and prepared to strike, but the creature was swift, reaching out and plunging its claws into the man's eyes. Drawing them forth, it seized the guard’s lower jaw and tore it from his head. The guard fell to the stones, screaming until death took him.

As he advanced past Nicholas, the tall man struck him with his talons, severing poor Nicholas's throat. The young man collapsed, watching the horror from the floor. He remains unable to speak, nor shall he ever speak again, for his throat was irreparably damaged, leaving him able to communicate only through writing.

Lord Lajos grabbed his cross necklace, and pointed at the tall man, praying to God to protect his house.

The tall creature was filled with wrath. According to Nicholas, his countenance changed, and he instantly swung his blade, severing the hand of Lord Lajos at the wrist as it held the cross.

Lord Lajos cried out in agony. The tall man returned his sword to its sheath, stepped past Lajos, inverted the great crucifix behind the altar, and seized Lord Lajos, pinning the unfortunate priest upside down upon the cross by driving the sickle and pitchfork through his arms.
Nicholas lost consciousness shortly thereafter, wherefore the subsequent events remain unknown to us. The villagers discovered them only on the following morning. The creature presumably believed the young chaplain would succumb to his hemorrhage, thus leaving him behind. Poor Nicholas was spared only to lose his voice.

I arrived here this day, and regrettably, Nicholas's account was confirmed to be true. I have examined the remains. Poor Lord Lajos… I address Your Holiness to entreat your aid, for whatever entity wrought this destruction was no creation of God.

Your humble servant,
Bishop Kálmán”

“You weren’t lying,” Anna-Leigh gasped, pushing back on the passenger seat, as they crept to a slow stop. “Did your aunt think she was doing you a favor leaving this place to you?” She broke into a smile brighter than the dome light Percy had just pressed on.

From the outside, the orange glow from the car was the only mechanical light shining within half-a-mile in every direction.

He tapped her on the knee. “Can you grab the deed and house key from the glove box and I’ll bring the suitcase in.”

She quickly grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Did you just see that?”

“See what?”

“The curtain… is there anyone… it moved.” Her brain glitched her question out in one breath.

“Oh yeah,” he laughed. “I forgot to mention, it’s haunted.” He widened his eyes and tickled her ribs.

“Stop messing around. I swear these next two weeks… if you try freaking me out.” She crossed her arms and didn’t blink, staring at him dead in the eye. “I’ll leave!” She narrowed her eyebrows and clenched her jaw. “Promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

He smiled, “I won’t,” and laughed.

She slapped him on his lap. “Promise me. I’m not joking,” she said, staring at him, seeing flashbacks of her brothers always terrifying her with cheap paranormal gimmicks.

“I promise, babe. I won’t mess with you.”

Anna-Leigh used her phone to illuminate a path to the front of the one-hundred-year-old, classic, white Victorian, with steeply pitched gables.

The dark green front door was divided into four raised panels with stained glass in patterns of complex geometric shapes hidden in a floral design. There was an ornament with a cross inside out on it.

The door never made a sound when it opened. The air was still as if the house held its breath when they walked in. The further forward they pushed, the slower the house started to breathe again.

There was a moist scent of rainwater beating down near a lake, lingering in the hallway but it changed towards the stairwell leading to the bedrooms. It would come and go.

It was nothing like the misty spray of swamp water. It was heavy, carrying the odor of a barnyard filled with a diseased stock.

They tried ignoring it, accusing the wretchedness on wildlife using their floorboards as nature’s new cemetery. What couldn’t be so easily brushed off as leaky old pipes was the pressure that followed a couple of nights later.

It started with Anna-Leigh, an uneasiness pressed down at the edge of her end of the bed by her feet. A feather settling between her toes had woken her up and a light mass lifting off the mattress, like a spring popping, made her scramble to the headboard, shaking Percy awake.

Percy didn’t notice anything odd ever, and he assumed Anna-Leigh let the surroundings play on her psyche.

The next night, the weight grew. She woke up to it sitting on the edge of the bed and never rose off as she stirred awake. She shook Percy but he wouldn’t respond.

“Percy!” She whispered loud. Something sat at the edge, staring at her. A blank figure she could only visualize in her mind. It was there, physical, only invisible to the human eye.

She froze, her hand gripped around Percy’s arm, digging her nails into his muscle, clasping her eyes shut and began singing under her breath until the loud static filling the room went completely silent.

The air became dense, and a dread of humidity peeled over her skin. The smell of sulfur was numbing her tongue as a moist exhale heated the nape of her neck, trailing down her chest.

She gasped a cold breath. The truth of honest horror hovered in front of her. An entity without skin, wet and hot leaning over her, breathing slow, dampened breaths on her face. She’d exhale and it’d inhale hers, breathing it back onto her, a metallic steam that wore like a blanket.

She attempted to turn, to get up and squirm but a pressure clamped down on her stomach, squeezing her chest and compressing her lungs. The sheets began tightening to her body, pinning her legs together.

A long cloak, shaped as the thickness of night began crowning her vision as it started draping over her head. She swallowed a heavy gasp of swamp water air into her lungs and a cold finger traced her jawline, pinching her skin. It waited for her to close her eyes so it could move its mouth against hers.

Percy woke up and Anna-Leigh was sitting upwards, looking straight ahead without blinking.

“Anna-Leigh…? You okay?” He placed his hand on her and she snapped her head at him in one quick motion.

“Yes?” She said.

“I’m going to finish taking the pictures of all the rooms and we can head back before noon.”

“No. You go. I’m going to stay here.”

“How about Venice? I’ve always wanted to go to Venice.”

“If that’s where you want to go, let’s book it,” he replied.

David had just gone into remission, again. For the fifth time. Stage 4 lung cancer. We had a tradition that, every time he recovered, we’d take a trip, and it was my turn to pick the destination. I loved these trips; we’d gone through a rough patch early in our marriage, and these vacations had really brought us closer together again. 

“Great!” I said. “I’ll make the reservations.”

I went online and pulled up some options. Finding a good price on a package (travel points are awesome), I went online to book with our credit card.

Declined. 

That was weird - I knew we had room on the card. I went online and checked the statement. 

I saw the problem. 

“David?”

“Yeah, hon?”

“I forgot to ask, how did your meeting go the other night? The one with your boss?”

“What? Oh, it went fine. You know Jim - always thinking of something else he wants that he didn’t think of in the first place.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how you put up with it. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Great! Like I was never sick at all! It’s amazing - I had a lot of friends I met when I first got sick who are no longer with us because the cancer came on quickly before the doctors could really do anything. I have others who got lucky and went into remission; some are even still in it. And for some, the cancer came back and they couldn’t fight it off a second time. But to go into remission FIVE TIMES!?! It’s unbelievable! The folks in my support group are asking for my secret. The nurses at the hospital treat me like a good luck charm. Even our friends in church are using me as an example of how God can perform miracles. I can’t explain it, but I’m grateful.”

“That’s great to hear, honey. I’m glad you’re doing better. How’s Allie?”

He blinked. “Allie?”

“Yeah, you know, the new secretary at your office? The one you’ve been banging on the side?”

He froze; I could see him running the calculations in his head. 

“Sweetie, what are you talking about? You know I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

I just looked at him. 

“Ok, yeah, I did at the beginning of our relationship, but that was then. We’ve been so much better since then, haven’t we?”

“I thought we had,” I agreed. “But I also thought the cheating was behind us. I thought your getting through cancer had given you a new lease on life, a new appreciation for what we had. That’s kind of why I did it.”

“Why you did what?”

I looked him in the eyes. 

“Tell me, in all the time you’ve known me, have you ever seen me sick?”

“Come to think of it, no.”

“Have you ever seen anyone in my family sick?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Have you ever wondered why that is?”

“I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Of course not. I have a gift. All the women in my family have it. I can take illness and ‘reallocate’ it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can take a sickness or disease from one person and give it to someone else.”

“Honey, come on. That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Have you honestly never wondered how your cancer disappeared five times? Did you think you were blessed by God?”

“Are you suggesting that you did that?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I did it because I loved you and I thought we had something worth saving. Now I’m wondering whether I was wrong.”

“So where did my cancer supposedly go?”

“Do you remember those sluts you cheated on me with earlier in our relationship? Spoken to any of them recently?”

He stared at me. 

“I heard they all died from cancer. Unlucky, really - I’m told that none of them had a family history of it and that they all suffered a great deal before they died.”

“You can’t seriously expect me to believe this?”

“Believe what you like. By the way, how are you feeling?”

“What do you mean? I—”

His words were interrupted by a racking cough. He looked up at me in terror as he grabbed his chest and fell to the ground, coughing up blood. 

“What… what did you…?” he wheezed. 

“I just felt so bad about taking your cancer away from you, I figured it was only right to give it back.”

A scream that frightened even the very inhabitants made Maria run inside the wooden hut, startled and with her heart on her hands; and upon seeing, she could do nothing but cry. Upon entering, she witnessed her closely with sad eyes, while the stirring of her body prevented her from being able to speak and move toward the baby. Little Magdalena lay dead, a blanket covered her face, but she was not breathing. She didn't even move to greet her mother, her gray eyes like the brownish winter clouds, went out like all the seasons of the year. Her dark complexion looked yellowish, her palpable pain and the extinct agony with which she had died.

–What has happened, Maria?– asked Alberto, with the rifle in his left hand, and the freshly cut logs of firewood that they brought from the jungle. Upon looking at Maria, he could do nothing but cry.

–Magdalena has died– Maria whispered in his ear, but Alberto refused to accept it, rather he stood up and began to shout to the inhabitants:– Who has been the bastard that killed her?

Silence was his answer, and the echo of his words returned to him with more pain in his heart.

Maria turned Magdalena over and held her in her arms, squeezed her like she had never done before, kissed her forehead and uncovered her body in search of the reason. On her arm she had a small mark that the villagers called «The devil's own kiss» the sting of a scorpion.

A few months had passed since Maria had given birth to that first little girl, «that woman wanted her with her soul, there was nothing else in the world that mattered more to her than little Magdalena, nothing». And with good reason they said it, since she was the living image of her mother, a woman like few others.

–I know she will live again– Maria said to Alberto, he stopped her before she collapsed again.

–Forget it, woman– he answered her with his muffled voice–. What was, was... And God's will be done with her as she should be in His holy kingdom. I will go for Father Florencio in the night so that he may save her for us.

–He is not going to save her, Alberto– she murmured carefully so as not to anger him–. Magdalena will live again, of that I am sure, but you need to give her time to heal.

–You are crazy, woman!– her husband exclaimed to her–. Besides, you might as well tell your sorrows to the wind and crash head-on straight into hell itself. With your character and reason, you're headed straight out.

“Precious, Cihuacuacualtzin; you will see that we will wake you up,” Maria told Magdalena seeing how Alberto departed far away along the skirt of the hill. Maria's hope did not come in vain regarding the destiny of her daughter, certainly she could hear her mother's voice in mystical silence:

«The jaguar's eyes have come to heal the wounds of the sick, those of your father the jaguar looked at them and it was enough not to kick the bucket in his bed. The god of our ancestors, do not put him in vain, he knows when someone longs for his protection. Jaguars keep listening, death does not overtake the gods in the same way, they listen...»

She remembered her even after years of her passing, she listened to her unceasingly and believed every word she whispered in her ear. The wind dragged them everywhere, the faint greenish light entering from the copper tile, made her see in the distance that she was still waiting for something more.

«Remember, listen to me and do not forget me when I speak to you... that here I remain and I feel your pain.And do not worry about your little daughter, she will heal just like all of us, with the jaguar's eyes. Maria, Maria,Maria... Do not forget what I have told you, go to sleep and you will see it, child. She will be great, strong and like no woman that has ever been seen».

And gradually she had fallen asleep and Magdalena in her lap next to her. Then there were noises of crushed leaves. Footsteps that broke sticks on the ground. And voices from other corners she did not know. «Wake up,Maria... it is me». Visions appeared to her just like she saw them as a child. She woke up quickly. Finding herself face to face with an abyssal creature. A black jaguar with large thighs, long legs and orange eyes like two flames of fire - loomed over the two women -, Maria took her posture and straightened up. Erect and facing the jaguar that she had. She looked at it, the jaguar exhaled a new, almost magical air that she could not understand. «Magdalena will live again, Ni mitz tlazohtla». She fell mute, and the jaguar whispered some words to her: «Remember life, death and love... They belong to no one».

And a chill ran down her spine, she felt someone touching her shoulders and woke up.

She opened her eyes again, she was rocking, Alberto was cutting wood and the bed empty.

–About time you decide to wake up– said Alberto–. I have been waiting for you all afternoon.

–What for?– asked Maria, dazed by what was happening–. And Magdalena?

–Well... that is what we want to talk about. Hurry up now. Put on your dress.

–What's wrong?

–Well that our Magdalena is getting married.

–With whom?

–Don't you remember, Maria?

–No– answered bewildered.

–Well you slept for a very long time.

–It seems I have been remembering.

–What have you remembered, Maria?

–Nothing, nothing... let me get ready.

She saw the jaguar's eyes, felt them, witnessed them just like the sea is seen: naked, fascinating and warm.«Return to life, Maria; remember there is much to be done».

And so it was until the day the jaguar's eyes went out.

Something unexpected happened to me after the heart attack. 

It turns out purgatory, the dividing line between life and death, is a lot like viewing mode in a video game. 

You float from scene to scene watching people’s lives unfold, and if you can interact with the environment, it's only minimally. 

Viewing mode doesn’t conform to time. You’re just as likely to find yourself in 10,000 BC as 10,000 years in the future. 

The hiker was a woman in her early thirties, clearly inexperienced. She did not stick to the track up the mountain and would suddenly find herself knee-deep in snow, from which she’d have to extricate her bright green alpine boots. 

It took her many hours of extreme toil to reach the hut. In the final part of her journey, she was blanketed in snow and half dead with exhaustion. 

There, the hunter took her in. 

… 

The world dissolved, and I found myself on a mountain slope in clear, bright sunshine. 

It was the same hiker, the same green alpine boots, but now she was with her family, a husband and a small girl. 

I did not know the mountain, but I knew the time. A time when only the very rich could afford to be leisurely– flappers taking flight down the slopes. 

She was standing with her arms folded, her whole body angled away from her husband. He was remonstrating with her. 

‘Now, come on, Betsy. I rather think you’re blowing the whole thing out of proportion. I did not ‘high tail’ it.’

‘You did. You’re a coward. That avalanche was heading straight for us, and what do you do? You cut and run and leave your wife and child to be ploughed under by snow.’ 

‘Please stop arguing,’ the little girl said. 

‘I knew that avalanche was coming nowhere near you. I ran to warn the rangers on the next ridge.’ 

And that is when the hunter appeared from the evergreens, brandishing a rifle. 

… 

The story was not being told sequentially. 

I was back inside the hunter’s cabin with the hunter and the exhausted hiker. It took her a long time to recover herself; she was numb and insensate from the cold. Frostbite had almost set in. The pearls on her necklace were like spheres of ice. 

‘You were foolish to come here,’ the hunter said. ‘In a blizzard like that. Where do your people think you are?’

‘Do not concern yourself about that.’ 

Something about this woman’s steadfastness was admirable to the hunter. 

‘Now listen carefully. You’ve met my husband. You brought the elk’s head to the lodge. I have a deep suspicion that he’s a scoundrel.’ 

The hunter laughed. ‘All rich men are scoundrels.’ 

‘I don’t mean that kind of scoundrel. I mean he is a coward. We were caught in an avalanche, and would you believe it, he abandoned us, tried to save his own skin. I want you to put him to the test in the fashion of a highway robbery.’

‘But on the slopes?’

‘Well, yes…’ The woman brought a cup of hot water to her mouth. Her hands were shaking. 

The hunter repeated. ‘You were very foolish to come here.’ 

‘It was of the utmost importance. You see, I love my daughter, my precious Rose, and I cannot bear the thought that she does not have a protector, that she has a yellow belly for a father. Now you’re going to put the fear of god into him, and we’ll see if he… absconds.’ 

… 

The hunter was wearing a stalking cap and a scarf over his face. He spoke in a tone as cold and dead as the ice under their feet. 

‘Money and jewellery now.’ 

And the hiker, Betsy, she turned expectantly to her husband, expectant that he would flee as he had in the avalanche, but something hardened in him, or perhaps his conviction had always been solid, and the avalanche had indeed been a misunderstanding. 

He did not hesitate. He charged the hunter. He charged like a snow leopard, and the gun went off. 

And the hunter stood, and the hiker’s husband stood, and the hiker stood. The one who fell was the little girl Rose, her life force leaking red into the snow. 

… 

I was back at the beginning, back with that hiker on that terrible, desolate slope as the wind blew in her face and she made desperately for the hunter’s cabin. 

But this time it was different. Through the whiteout, she looked at me; she saw me as she’d never seen me previously, the observer now the observed. 

‘What year is it?’ she said. 

I hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, judging by your clothes, I’d say the 1920s.’ 

‘No… I mean… the year you… come from?’ Her speech came in short snatches. 

I didn’t feel the physical effects of walking beside her, but she was entirely consumed by fatigue. 

‘It is 2026; it was 2026.’

She nodded very slowly as the wind lashed her like a vengeful God. ‘100 years… You have seen?’ 

‘Seen what?’ 

‘What happens to my family, to my Rose? The accident.’ 

‘I have! Stop now. Turn around. Don’t test your husband’s bravery.’

She laughed ruefully and pointed down at her legs. ‘You see, I know what happens, but I am an automaton; I climb, I freeze, I suffer, knowing full well my fate. I have no free will. I am on tracks. I have been on tracks for 100 years.’ 

‘But…’ 

And she left me behind in the blizzard as she pushed onward toward her own destruction and would continue to do so forever, day after day after day.