Silence. Then Savic said aloud, for everyone to hear:

“No, you won’t, Mr Howard. You can’t because you never called them in the first place.”

Howard looked shocked. “Yes, I did. You can check my teeth if you wish.”

“Oh, we will.”, Savic replied. “We will slowly break out all your teeth one by one in a few minutes, but don’t expect any anesthesia. And I’m sure we’ll find a transmitter that sent a message. But it never reached its intended recipient because all communication from this center goes through a secret relay station and is bounced back without the sender realizing it. As I said, we spent a lot of money on security, and this is where some of it went.”

Howard stared at her, then at the staff, then back at Savic.

“Oh God.”, Howard stammered, almost inaudibly. “Oh God.”

“Cat and mouse, Mr Howard – or should I say cats and mouse? – and this adorable, chubby, juicy mouse has overstayed its welcome. You know, I’m almost tempted to fulfill your last wish. An IDA like you would definitely be an asset. We had actually been thinking about meatball agents working for us, but we couldn’t have guaranteed their … bodily integrity.”

More cheers from the audience; they appeared almost drunk with anticipation.

“And I really can’t guarantee yours, Mr Howard. In fact, what I can guarantee is that you are going to die very soon, and it won’t be quick and painless.”

“Please, please no.” Howard crawled from his chair and lay down on his belly, causing it to wobble in all directions. He began to cry.

“No, no, no, no. Let me go. Let me go, you monsters.”

Savic made a gesture to the audience, and all IDAs in the room except Petey moved closer to Howard while making slurping, chewing, and swallowing sounds. The carnival atmosphere was back, and this time there was no need for patience anymore; the first IDAs were grabbing Howard’s extremities to make it easier to get at the juicy parts.

]]] Turn the bastard around. [[[, the director said and raised her arms for emphasis. Lying on his back, Howard was giving an impression of absolute helplessness, flailing his arms and screaming under tears.

“Kill me! Kill me! Please, please, Dr Savic, tell them not to – “

He cried out in pain when ‘Marylou’ broke his left index finger. Some other IDA did the same to Howard’s right pinky, and ‘DeShawn’ went straight for the agent’s left wrist, which he snapped without much effort; he was rewarded with a piercing scream from his victim. Others, ‘Freddy’ first and foremost among them, stripped Howard of his jacket, shirt, and undershirt to get access to his belly, the slicing up of which ‘Freddy’ had been looking for all night; he had even brought his ‘razor glove’, a collection of blades strung together and attached to his right hand to allow him to make deep cuts by simply moving his fingers – something he had seen somewhere on TV but couldn’t remember where. The stronger IDAs were first; the weaker ones tried to grab the others’ shoulders and push them away, but to no avail.

Savic looked at the unfolding pandemonium and knew she had to exert her authority fairly soon to ensure that everyone would get their piece of meat.

Howard, obviously in great pain, still managed to whisper:

“Please, Dr Savic. There is something else I have to tell you. Please.”

She bent down and brought her face close to Howard’s.

“There, there, Mr Howard. There, there.”

Then she ripped out his right ear and began chewing it while his blood was splashing onto her face. Howard screamed again but did not faint; the director almost admired his toughness, and she put her left cheek directly above his mouth to hear what he wanted to say. Howard whispered:

“Cat and mouse, Dr Savic. Cat and mouse.”

Some IDA bit into Howard’s left leg and took out a piece of flesh. Blood was everywhere, and Howard twisted his face in pain but did not scream.

“Indeed, Mr Howard. As I said. So what is it you want to tell me so urgently while you are being ]]] eaten alive, you fat fool? [[[

“Just one thing, Dr Savic.”

With enormous effort, Howard raised his head so that his lips almost touched the director’s left ear. Then he whispered the last sentence of his life:

“I may be a fool … but I’m not fat.”

(end of part V)

Do you know what it smells like to rip a corpse from under the floorboards? There’s a specific odor, not one you could imagine on your own. It is not like the slaughterhouse you drive past on the way to work every morning. No, this is a foul mix.

Imagine walking into a house that’s been abandoned for a year, still fully furnished, with all its clothes still stuffed in a closet. Now, imagine that closet is jammed with mothballs and old dresses from 1964 left to dry after being washed in cat piss.

That’s your first odor.

Now, imagine you walk behind the dumpster at your favorite grocery store and someone has just thrown a bunch of animal fat inside a bag with three dirty diapers and left it to bake under the sun for three days.

Now, you have your stuffy smell and your rotted odor, and all you need is one more.

Here’s where the eggs come in. Yes, boil a few eggs, peel them, mush them up, and leave them on your stove. Walk out of the room and walk back in.

Mix all those odors—the mothballs, the cat piss, the dirty diapers, the rotted flesh, the eggs—and you have your corpse, who instead of wandering the afterlife as a ghost decided to haunt your floorboards with a rancid odor instead.

Smoking cigarette after cigarette until I choked offered a bit of relief compared to the dust and rot from under the floor.

I mean, yes, of course I have a respirator, but it does a horrible job of filtering out the psychological weight. Plus, I could still smell the body and I need to smoke when I work. I mainly use it for when I’m actually moving the remains.

The suit I wear is a white hazmat suit that makes me look like what a mad scientist Pillsbury Doughboy would look like on a radioactive, post-apocalyptic Earth.

See, I’m a bit of a specialist—a fixer, really. Well, at least that’s how I see myself. I don’t just fix things, I also clean up things. When shady landowners or homeowners have an issue from past tenants and they want to keep it hush-hush, they call me.

I come in and get rid of the evidence. Usually, it’s people who have died alone and weren't discovered until weeks or even months later.

The odd time, though, it’s a body under the floor, or behind a wall, or worse, in the crawl space. I hate spiders. Hate, hate, hate.

I’ve never really minded the rot of a human body. I guess I’m just used to it. I am not sure. I just find something honest in a corpse. The living world is a huge lie. I see people as teeth replaced by dentures, a stink covered by perfume, a dirty shirt flipped inside out. To me, the truth in people can only be found in what they leave behind.

I have a bit of a ritual, and it’s pretty simple and straightforward. Maybe it is a little odd, depending on how you see it, but once I’ve bleached everything and scrubbed the floors, the walls, the carpets, and even the air with four fans, I usually search for something to keep. You know, a little souvenir.

A small keepsake.

It is nothing like jewelry or money or anything valuable. It’s kind of weird, but I like stuff that will last, stuff that has some significance to it. I like digging in the drains and finding pieces of hair or some fingernail clippings.

Oh, my absolute favorite is teeth, especially when people have them saved in tiny boxes. I keep mine in vials. My collection is huge. I’ve got my own small library.

Baby teeth are cool and super easy to find, but it’s adult teeth I’m always on the hunt for. I’ve always wondered why people don’t save them.

The last job I worked was in a neighborhood with no streetlights because the gangs there shoot them out. The tenant was on the fifth floor, maybe in his sixties or seventies, and he had a collection of these really awesome stuffed animals—real animals.

The man himself was on his couch, slumped over and glued into the leather, almost as if he were a Halloween prop that came with the sofa. He had mold and fungi growing out of his chest like shreds of rotted cauliflower and broccoli sprouts.

As I peeled him off the sofa to scrub it down, something strange happened. I felt a connection with him. It was a profound realization, to be honest. I stared at the decayed skin revealing the veins under it and thought about what it would be like to absorb into the environment.

That’s when I saw something glimmer inside the fungal farm on the man’s body. It was shiny. I reached in but couldn’t grip it with my fingers, so I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and cut around the area. It was like trying to tear apart braided tendons, but when I cleared a path, I pulled out a gold tooth stuck to his chest cavity, attached to a piece of jawbone.

Later that night, after cleaning up there, when I got home, I didn’t put the tooth and bone in a vial. I kept it under my lamp, in my basement, on top of my desk, in front of my collection, and left it there to study after my shower.

In the bathroom, I eyed the steam on the mirror blurring my reflection and became disgusted by how alive I looked.

I examined my face—the pink in my gums, the elasticity of my skin, the color of my blood when I pinched it, my breathing, and the beating of my heart.

And right at that moment, I went to the garage and yanked a pair of pliers from my toolbox. I was tired of fixing everyone’s mess, hiding all their secrets, and cleaning stuff up.

For once, I wanted to be the evidence. I stood at the mirror for hours, pulling each tooth out of my head one by one like they were extra hairs on my eyebrow, and tossed each one of them into the sink.

As soon as I finished, I remembered the tooth with the jawbone, raced out to grab it, and ran back into the bathroom with it. Where the hole was in my jaw, I took the piece of bone and tooth and jammed it into my gums, deep into the bloody socket. I stuck it in and leaned close to the mirror. When I smiled, my grin reminded me of the truth. For the first time ever, I saw honesty.

I left the bathroom and went to lie down. As I closed my eyes, I imagined the man melting into his couch and the fungi surrounding his chest, and I wondered how it would be if it could grow inside me too.

[LEATHERNECKS VS. MONSTERS: LOOSE ENDS]
EPISODE FOUR
THE GIFT OF FORGETTING
The Vektor Institute, January 1919, by Leatherneck1993

They went back up the ravine the way they had come down, beside the frozen fall, with the engine clattering behind them in the dark.

Adams went last. Ahead of him Hunt climbed with his rifle slung and one hand on the ice, and ahead of Hunt, Thorpe, and LaFontain, and Higgins at the front going slow, one-handed, kicking his steps into the drift. Nobody spoke. Up on the crest Muldoon and Talbot were two dark lumps against the wrong stars.

Halfway up, the wind stopped behind them.

Adams felt it on the back of his neck before he heard it. The snow blowing up the ravine from the gorge hung in the air and came straight down. The clatter of the engine went on below, and nothing else moved anywhere.

LaFontain had stopped climbing. He was looking back past Adams, down the ravine, and his face had gone the color of the snow.

Then Adams smelled it. Ammonia. Wet fur.

The whiteout came up the ravine from the gorge. It filled the ravine wall to wall and came on, turning in on itself, silent, a hundred yards below them and then less, and inside it things were climbing. Adams saw them, first the shoulders. Then the  horns. Legs reaching, and then another pair of legs reaching under those, and then more.

"Go!" he said. "Go, go!"

They went. Thorpe slipped and went down to her knees and Hunt had her by the collar and up before she could fall farther. Adams turned with the trench gun and could see nothing to shoot at but white.

Higgins stopped. Pistol drawn. 

He stood in the ravine above them with the white things coming, he wanted to scratch at his empty sleeve, at the place where the arm had been, but he held his pistol steady, slowly, with his head cocked, listening to something none of the rest of them could hear. Then he turned his face up toward the crest. The creature exploded from the snow feet from him. 

"Muldoon!" he shouted. "Now!"

The first shot came down from the crest followed quickly by a second. 

Claws raked the Major’s chest. He is body flew, tossed like a rag doll, landing with a sickening crunch against the ravine wall. 

But Muldoon’s aim was true. Her shots went into the white twenty yards below Adams, and the Manchurian Special caught. The whiteout lit up both creatures from the inside, like lanterns with bones, the horns and the long skulls and the ribs and their six legs folding. They screamed. It was not a sound Adams had heard an animal make, high and long and going up, and it came out of the white burning and fell, and rolled, and went past them down the ravine end over end, and fetched up against the ice of the frozen fall and lay there with blue fire coming out of its mouth.

Its blood hung in the air where it had passed, pink, a fine mist of it, and froze, and came down on them as ice. It ticked on Adams's hat. It ticked on the barrel of the trench gun.

The white went thin and blew apart and was gone. The wind came back. Nobody said anything for a while. Hunt was breathing hard. Thorpe was looking down the ravine at the thing against the ice.

"Dadgum woodbooger’s," Adams said.

LaFontain stood over Higgins body.  

Then he turned and took a saw out of his haversack, and walked to the first of the white things, he worked quick. When he came back up he had the horns under his arm, each three feet long and spiraled and white, with the root of it black where the Special had gone in.

LaFontain said nothing.

#

In the hide Adams laid Barclay's crate open on the groundsheet and counted what was left in it aloud, row by row. Shotgun slugs. Rifle rounds. Pistol rounds, .45 and .38. Two hundred thirty Manchurian Special anti-cryptozoic incendiary magnesium-sodium-nitrate rounds, the bulk for the rifles. He said the number once and closed the lid and sat on it.

Thorpe was going through the colonel's pack for his maps. She found the maps. She also found his field book, the black oilcloth one he had carried since Haiti, and she opened it to look for the route he had drawn, and a letter fell out of the back of it onto her knee.

It was folded once. On the outside, in the colonel's square hand, it said Miss R. Thorpe. It had never been sealed.

Thorpe looked at it for some time. Then she unfolded it and read it.

Adams did not mean to see the page. The lantern was on her knee and the page was on the lantern. Most of it was small close writing, the colonel's hand gone smaller than usual, as it did when he was tired. Near the bottom there was one line by itself with a single stroke drawn through it, and the stroke had not been pressed hard, and the line under it read plain:

If I come out of this, Rosamund, I should like to come out of it to you.

Thorpe read the letter to the end. Then she read that line again. Then she folded the letter along its fold and put it inside the field book and the field book inside her coat, and took her pistol out of its holster, and broke it down on the groundsheet, all the way down, every piece, and cleaned each one, and put it back together.

Nobody said anything to her about it. 

At dawn it was thirty-five below by Talbot's thermometer. The patrol came out from under the overhang one at a time and stood in the gray light stamping, and their breath stood out in front of their faces in clouds.

Smith looked at Sheehan. Then he looked again.
Sheehan's breath made no cloud at all.

Chavez's rifle came up. Then Dunn's. Smith backed off two steps and put his hand on his pistol. Sheehan stood in the middle of them with his good hand up and his numb one hanging.

"What?" he said. "What?"

"Easy," Adams said. "Everybody easy."

There was a pot of coffee on the spirit stove, boiling. Adams poured a tin cup full to the brim and walked over and held it out.

"Take it, Sheehan. Good hand."

Sheehan took it in his right hand. He held it for a second. Then he howled and dropped it, and the coffee went into the snow and steamed, and Sheehan stood there blowing on his palm and swearing in a long steady stream at Adams, at the coffee, at Russia, and every word he swore came out of him in a white cloud.

The rifles came down.

"I been holding my breath," Sheehan said. "Since the fire, back on the river. I seen you all looking at me."

"For two days?"

"Off and on. Been like that since that old hag of a voodoo priestess in Haiti stuck a pin in me. Hard to figure."

Somebody laughed, and then everybody was laughing, Smith and Chavez and Dunn and Hunt, standing in the snow at thirty-five below, laughing until they had to hold on to the rock, and it went on too long, Adams let it.

When it had run out he told them how it would go.

They would wait for the guns. When Dragonov's guns came up the valley, they would go in under the waterfall, by the passage LaFontain had heard running behind its ice.

"It is warm," LaFontain said. "It comes from the boilers. There is a way under the ice."

They would go in under the ice and find the colonel and bring him out before the first shell. Then LaFontain would put his saints in the three places he had marked, and the General could have whatever was left.

"And the men in the pens?" Thorpe said.

"Those are the General's boys," Adams said. "We don't shoot the General's boys."

"They are not quite the General's boys anymore, Gunny, they is as good as dead."

Talbot was turning his camera case over in his hands. "If there's a hall full of them," he said, "I got flash powder. Enough to light a ballroom. It won't kill a man. It'll blind him for a minute."

"We can give that a try."

"We don't shoot 'em. Not unless they come at us."

Hunt sat on a rock at the mouth of the hide with a whetstone and his bayonet, working the edge, long slow strokes.

"Trench raid," he said, to nobody.

#

"Which two?" Quarterburn said.

The small man had set the typescript on the bench. He fitted his monocle and opened it again and turned to the places without searching for them.

"Page forty. Page one hundred and twelve. You have written Bakanoff, with two Fs, the way the French spell us. I have never been to Paris." He closed the typescript. "Bakanov. Alexi Vladimirovich. Doctor, and in the old army a general, for whatever that is worth now."

He lit a Turkish cigarette and smoked half of it. Then he set it in the ashtray, took a glass thermometer from a case on the bench, shook it down, and put it under Quarterburn's tongue. He stood with his watch in his hand and waited. Then he took the thermometer out and read it and wrote the number in a notebook.

"Thirty-four point one," he said. "You are cold, Colonel. You are always cold, and calculating. I read that in your lectures too."

Quarterburn said nothing. His right hand shook against the strap. Bakanov looked at it, and wrote something else.

"Your German did not hang me," Bakanov said. "After the beach, in 1909. I expected him to. I would have. He put me in irons on his cruiser and in Kiel he sold me, Colonel, to a bureau with a long name and a short budget. The Sonderphänomene. They were very interested in what I had built for the Tsar. Then Vienna borrowed me. Then Constantinople. You know where I worked. You closed my doors in the Carpathians, you and your sergeant and your Englishwoman. Your Marines killed my children there."

He picked up the cigarette again.

"In 1916 a holy man in Petrograd found me money. When the holy man went under the ice, a prince who loved him found me more. And here I am."

"Here you are," Quarterburn said.

"Your sergeant had me under his rifle on that beach." Bakanov said it pleasantly. "I remember it very well. The fire behind me, the cruiser's boat in the surf, and your sergeant on one knee with his rifle on my heart. And I watched you put your hand on the barrel and push it down." He tapped the ash off the cigarette. "I have thought about that hand for ten years. It is the only mercy anyone has ever shown me, and I have never understood it."

Quarterburn's right hand shook in the strap. He did not look at it.

"Your thesis," Bakanov said. He set his palm on the typescript. "That they come out at the edges. That the railway and the telegraph and the rifle go into the empty places and wake the tenants. It is a charming idea. It is wrong."

"Is it."

"They are not asleep, Colonel. They were never asleep. They are waiting at the door to be asked in. Every war is an invitation. This war sent out more invitations than any war in history, and they have all been accepted." He smiled. "I am only the doorman."

"And the engine?"

"The engine is a key. It calculates the door. A door calculated open grows by inches. A finger's width a year. I do not have years. The Reds do not have years. Nobody has years." He leaned closer, and Quarterburn could smell the Turkish tobacco on him and something under it, cold, a cellar smell. "But a door that is broken open while the key is turning does not open by inches. It tears. Wide enough for anything. And there is a Red general in the valley with six-inch guns who is coming to break it for me."

"He won't fire until we tell him."

"He will fire when his commissar tells him." Bakanov straightened. "His commissar keeps excellent notes. I have read those too."

Zhuk, Quarterburn thought. The scarf. The man who would not drink.

"And who pays for all this?"

"A prince who believes the Wind will give him back his holy man." Bakanov shrugged. "I let him believe it. A man who believes in resurrection will fund anything."

He went to a cabinet and came back with a vial and a syringe. The stuff in the vial was pale and pinkish and did not slosh when he tipped it, and it clung to the glass. He filled the syringe and held it up to the light.

"This is what the Wind gives," he said. "No more cold. You will not feel it again. No more memory. Not of the beach, not of the Carpathians, not of whatever is in that letter you did not send." He watched Quarterburn's face. "You talk in your sleep by the way. And I can make the hand stop."

He went to the door and opened it. A man stood in the corridor. He wore the coat of a White Russian officer, a captain, with the ribbons of three campaigns on it, and his feet were bare on the stone floor, and his face was smooth and pleasant and empty. He looked at Quarterburn without interest. No breath came out of him.

"He was at Mukden," Bakanov said. "He was at the Pripet Marshes. He does not remember either. Ask him. He will tell you he is very well."

Quarterburn looked at the man in the doorway.

His right hand had stopped shaking.

He felt it stop. He had not told it to. It had stopped at the thought alone, and lay still on the arm of the chair, and he looked down at it and understood how much of him wanted what was in the syringe.

He began to speak. He did not raise his voice.

"Private Jones," he said. "La Tigra. Private Murphy. La Tigra. Corporal Clark. The Rufiji, 1916." He went on. Names, places. Cuba. Haiti. The Marne. Men he had buried and men he had not been able to find to bury. The hand began to shake again on the arm of the chair, and he let it, and went on. It took some time. Bakanov let him.

"Lieutenant John Foltz Barclay," Quarterburn said last. "Surgeon. United States Navy."

Bakanov put the syringe down on the bench. He looked at Quarterburn with the same interest he had looked at the thermometer.

"You martyr your dead to keep your soul warm," he said. "How very Christian."

He called something in Russian toward the door. Two robed men came in and unbolted the chair from the floor and tipped it back on its rear legs, with Quarterburn in it, and wheeled it out into the corridor. Bakanov came behind them, carrying the typescript under one arm. In his other hand he carried Quarterburn's .38, the old New Navy revolver, taken out of the shoulder holster while he slept.

The engine hall was very loud. They wheeled him out onto the floor between the feet of the two copper towers and turned him to face the shimmer, and set the chair down, and the snow falling through the hole in the roof turned over in front of his face and went up.

Bakanov laid the .38 on the console beside his ashtray.

"A souvenir," he said. "You carried this one on the beach as well."

#

On the third day, at four o'clock, Adams was making tea behind a rock on the crest, where the stove could not be seen, and he looked down the valley with the glasses while the kettle came up, and stopped with the kettle in his hand. He thought of Higgins.

Adams then he crawled up and took out his field glasses.

Far down the valley, on the river ice where it came out of the trees, there was a black line moving. Horses. Sledges. On four of the sledges, long shapes under tarpaulins. Men walking beside them in a column a half-mile long. And out in front, small and black and smoking, a Ford, with a man standing on the running board waving his cap.

"Johansson," Adams said.

"Can we signal them?" Dunn had come up silently beside him. 

"Anything they can see, the station can see. But we got to get the wireless." Adams lowered the glasses. It would be dark in an hour.  The guns would be up the gorge and laid by morning. "We go now."

Muldoon was lying on her rifle with her cheek on the stock. She did not look up.

"Bring him back, Gunny."

"That's the plan," Adams said.

They went down the ravine at dusk, nine of them: Adams, Thorpe, Talbot, LaFontain, Dunn, Smith, Sheehan, Hunt, Chavez. Muldoon and Smith stayed on the crest. At the foot of the frozen fall LaFontain went along the ice on his knees with his ear to it until he found the place, a low black seam at the base where water came out from under the ice and steamed in the cold. The mouth of it was sealed with a lid of new ice a foot thick.

LaFontain listened at the lid for a long time. Up the gorge the engine clattered, and every six minutes, when a new chain of cards went in, there came one heavy clank over the rest. He counted under his breath. He packed a charge against the lid and lit the fuse and counted again and stepped back.

The clank came. The charge went off inside it. The lid of ice broke into slabs and the noise went into the noise of the engine and was gone. Steam rose from the hole, warm and stale.

"Saint Barbara," LaFontain said.

They went in under the ice. The water was waist-deep and warm, black, smelling of coal and iron, and steam rose off it into their faces and froze on their eyebrows. They went bent over with their rifles held above their heads, Adams first, for a hundred yards in the dark with the ice roof dripping on them, until the tunnel turned to brick and the brick to a grating, and LaFontain took the grating off its hinges and they climbed up into the boiler room.

It was hot. It was the first place they had been warm since Seattle. Two boilers roared behind their iron doors, and there were coal heaps and shovels, and there was nobody.

"They, the cold-men, they can't stand it," Thorpe said. "The heat."

"Then this is the front door," Adams said.

The corridor beyond the boiler room ran the length of the long house. They were twenty yards along it when a door opened at the far end and the men from the pens came through it, a dozen of them, in their tattered shirts and their wool caps, herded by a robed man with a long brass rod. They were being moved. When they saw the Americans they stopped.

The robed man opened his mouth.

"Eyes!" Talbot shouted. "Shut your eyes!"

He had the flash tray up over his head. He fired it.

The light was white and total. Adams saw it through his own shut eyelids, red, and felt it on his face. When he opened his eyes the corridor was full of smoke, and the men from the pens were down on their knees with their hands over their faces, and the robed man was standing with his arms out, turning, blind.

Chavez hit the robed man with the butt of the automatic rifle and he went down.

They went through the kneeling men. One of them reached out blind and caught Hunt by the sleeve and held on, and Hunt stopped, and looked down at the hand, and did not use the bayonet. Adams pried the fingers off one at a time. Where they had held, the wool of Hunt's sleeve had gone white with frost.

"Go on," Adams said. "Go on."

At the end of the corridor he poured a line of salt across the doorway behind them, and another across the next.

Dunn had stopped. Barclay's box hung on its strap against his chest and smoke was coming out of it, a thin gray thread from the vents along the top. The needle spun around the dial, and around, and would not stop. Dunn pulled the headset off his ears.

"Doc's box is done, Gunny."

"It got us here," Adams said. "Leave it."

Dunn took the strap off over his head and set the box down against the wall, carefully, and they went on.

Halfway along the next corridor LaFontain went down on one knee at the foot of the inside wall. Adams knew the place. It was the inside of the same wall he had listened to from the yard. LaFontain had his haversack open and a charge in his hand.

Thorpe caught his wrist.

"Not yet," she said.

"Mademoiselle, c'est le moment, c'est exactement le moment, je les mets maintenant et..."

"If you break it while it is running," Thorpe said, "the door does not close. It tears. That is,” she realizeed."his plan.” She did not let go of his wrist. "In English, Sergeant. No."

LaFontain looked at her. He looked at the wall. He put the charge back in the haversack and buckled the flap and stood up, and he did not say anything to anybody for the next fifty yards.

#

The stair at the end of the corridor went up to the gallery. They came out onto it among the brass, a forest of turning columns, the noise so loud they could feel it in their teeth, with the card chains running up past them into the racks in the roof. A guard in a White greatcoat stood at the rail with his back to them. Hunt slid quietly behind him and the guard went down with eight inches of steel through his back, Hunt’s hand over his mouth, it was silent.

Adams went to the rail and looked down.

The colonel was there. They had him strapped in a steel chair in the middle of the floor, between the feet of the two copper towers, facing the shimmer. His head was up. From the gallery Adams could not see his face, only the back of his head and his hands on the arms of the chair, and the right hand shaking.

The shimmer was bigger than it had been three nights ago. It had been the height of the towers. Now it stood above them. The snow falling through the hole in the roof fell into it and turned over and went up, faster, and the card chains were running faster too, the cards going into the sprockets in a stream.

Bakanov stood at the console with his cigarette. The colonel's .38 lay beside his ashtray.

Adams laid the trench gun on the rail. Forty yards. The colonel was not in the line. The bead went onto the white coat, onto the middle of the back.

Then from far off, outside, there came a flat bang.

Everybody on the gallery looked up. Down on the floor, even the robed men at the engine looked up. There was a whistle, rising, coming closer and rising, and then Adams felt the shock wave from out on the ridge across the gorge, beyond the crest where the hide was, where Muldoon and Smith lay, and a moment later he felt it come through the gallery floor and up into his boots.

Bakanov did not flinch. He looked up and he smiled.

"Your friends are punctual," he said to the colonel. 

###

I'd come from school. I was standing on the sidewalk opposite our vinyl sided house. A big car was in our driveway. It was a Cadillac, the colour of cream. I didn't know who it belonged to. Who does it belong to, I wondered.

It was a hot, still day.

I felt the warm concrete sidewalk slabs through my sneakers’ worn soles. No birds chirped. The sky was cloudless.

I thought I could hear the sun buzzing like an old appliance.

I walked slowly towards the car.

Its windows were darkened. I put my hands on the driver's window and my face against my hands. I looked inside.

A man was inside.

He was reclined on the leather driver's seat.

The seat was red.

The whole inside of the car was red.

The man’s face was pale. His hair was grey. His hands were thick with veins. His eyes were closed. He looked dead. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed and he looked dead.

He opened his eyes.

He didn't look more alive with open eyes than he had with closed eyes, and I leapt backwards away from the car and screamed.

I hadn't screamed.

I stood.

A cloud had passed between me and the sun.

My throat was dry.

I tasted blood.

I saw dark blood running down the sides of the Cadillac's windows. The car was filled with blood. I was blood. It covered the man. I covered the man. He was rising through us. I was listening to the roar of a distant lawnmower. I stood silent, looking through the car's tinted window at the man, whose eyes were closed. He was sleeping. The grass was green. The lawn was neat. I walked inside the house.

My mother was in the kitchen.

She was drinking tea.

Her hands were shaking. The bottom of her teacup was clattering against the saucer she was holding in her other hand.

“There's a man,” I said, “in a car in the driveway.”

My mother opened her mouth to speak.

My father walked in.

My mother closed her mouth.

“That man is your uncle Larkin,” my father said, and my mother looked away. My father looked down at the floor. Ants were walking single file along the grout between the tiles.

I didn’t know either of my parents had a sibling.

“Will he—” I asked.

“No,” my mother said. “He won't come in,” said my father.

My mother set her empty cup and saucer on the kitchen counter, by the sink. The faucet reflected the sunlight. Blood dripped from it. I imagined blood dripping from the faucet into the kitchen sink. My mother's empty cup was full of blood. “I asked if I could play with my friends after I finish my homework,” I said.

“Asked whom?”

I hadn't meant to say it like that.

I felt warmth and shame. I had peed myself. The ants were still walking along the floor. “It's best you do not go out today,” my father said.

I showered.

I put on dry clothes.

My mother had finished mopping the floor when I came downstairs again. We ate dinner. We drank cranberry juice. I watched my parents scrape the meat off chicken bones with their teeth.

My parents drank red wine.

I drank milk.

I wondered if we would bring anything outside for my uncle Larkin, but nobody did. Even the dogs were inside. Even though it wasn't raining.

The sun went down.

I watched the Cadillac in the driveway from my upstairs bedroom window.

I watched it instead of going to sleep.

I couldn't sleep.

I had a fear of being dreamed.

I had a fear that if I slept something might wring me in its dream as if I was a rag used to clean blood from somewhere after a crime so I sat in my bedroom with the lights off looking at the Cadillac in the driveway from my upstairs bedroom window instead of going to sleep until the driver's side door opened and from my bedroom window I saw the driver's side door open.

The driver's side door opened.

It was one in the morning.

The car door opened, and Uncle Larkin stepped out into the moonlight. He moved like tree branches. The veins on his hands were golden. His hair looked like thick grey wires. He parted his lips and ate the moonlight, then walked away down the dimmed street.

The hour felt raw.

He was gone, but I kept watching.

The car was still as a coffin.

The points of starlight in the sky stretched into shimmering lines of spiderweb…

He returned before dawn, holding a small child by the hand.

I couldn't tell if the child was a boy or girl.

The child was younger than me.

They walked up the driveway to the car. He opened the back door.

I saw the long red leather back seat. He helped the child inside. He got in too. Then he shut the door. The car, the moonlight and everything was as it had been before.

There was stillness.

It was dawn.

The stillness was fake like plastic plants.

I was in my bedroom with the curtains closed and a pain in my stomach that felt like knots of jealousy, screaming and disgust.

In the morning, the car was gone. I brushed my teeth until my gums hurt. My mother was making breakfast. It was eggs and bacon. I watched the bacon sizzle in its own melted fat.

I wasn't hungry.

I ate.

Two police officers came by that afternoon.

They were very friendly.

They were asking my parents if they had seen anything unusual last night. I wanted to leave, but my father caught my hand. “What about you?” one of the officers asked. “You're old enough to answer for yourself. Aren't you, son?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I didn't see anything.”

My mother petted my hair.

“Good boy,” he said, and I felt myself of innocent blood.

Story by SpyGuy1992/SnooCapers2591

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

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

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

My First Field Audit

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monster Jobs & The Weakness of the IRS

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Full Moon Riders Motorcycle Club

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Pharaoh’s Estate Tax

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"BUT... THE CURSE OF THE PHARAOHS—"  

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

God and the Devil

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

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

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

The Celtic Sea God and the Ultimate Exorcism

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

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

Last Assignment Before Vacation

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

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

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

Peel an apple.

If you're all fancy and have one of those apple core-er gadgets you line up and press out perfect slices... Good for you. I usually bore through the core with those.

Anyways... slice your apple into half-grape size. Be sure you remove every inch of the core including those little plasticy parts of outer core beyond the seeds. Divide and place apples into two ziplock baggies with one tablespoon of water and a dash of lemon in each.

Ever reflect on the contrast between modern, rushed mornings and intentional, slow rituals?

As a wee toddling child, I knew mama's hope of a morning was that the youngest siblings would continue slumbering at least long enough to allow her to finish her dawn rituals.

She enjoyed savoring the quiet times, getting daddy's milk delivery man uniform ironed. She kinda' liked the way his muscles moved under starched white cotton broadcloth. Especially on that powerful frame.

I always thought it was sad to wear stiff hard clothes with big sweat stains on the pits and back. "Jack" was written in fancy script above his shirt pocket in shiny deep green threads. I couldn't read but mama said it stayed dirty 'cause he reached in for Camel cigarettes all day. Because daddy had a habit, you know.

Zip, shake and store baggie behind something healthy in the fridge behind the kale. Take your time, mama said. Do it right the first time.

No matter how white the uniform, one might think they smelled. To this day, I prefer not to sweat, ever. Mama had a sprinkle head screwed on an old abused RC Cola bottle to steam those creases. This was a task she certainly could have done last night but nooo. So now shes standing in curlers, red-faced sweatin', ironing for this man under a swinging tobacco stained lightbulb at DARK:30 a.m. You damned right!

He'd come around from the back of the house in his boxers, smellin' all like Vitalis hair tonic and old spice. His Jackson Blu eyes sparkled and he'd kiss her, smack on the mouth, on the way out he'd let the screen door close quiet like. That's a consideration ya'll and that man looks good in a uniform.

Standing at that screen door, shirt and shoeless, mangy teddy in hand I'd wave byebye, byebye... Someday he wouldn't be back. That story is a sad one, comes later.

On a rainy day in June you could smell the sun in the soil. The entire skin slightly moist, it was a discomforted edge. When daddy leaves, he always honks twice as he gets on the paved road yonder past the pond. Beep beep, and mom would always blow a kiss off loving shiny red fingertips in that direction. That always make me blush.

She'd sigh, and perch on the edge of the banana yellow plastic chair. It matched the stainless steel formica topped table squozen into the cramped throughly lived-in and cluttered kitchenette. With her precious Maxwell House instant coffee, in a lipstick stained plastic mug. Lightened with Carnation evaporated milk right from the can, and bleached white sugar she'd pause.

She coveted her alone time in the one bathroom shared by our family of three young'uns, daddy and that good ol' hound dog named Hambone. She'd have to fix her hair, dress for work secretarying for the welfare folks in downtown Lake City, Florida. Applying blobs of make-up to those funny faces many women folk know, and finally blending, blotting and powder. Or was that powder and blot?

Daddy used to tease mama and get her all riled about how hard he worked in the heat and flies at the dairy while she sat down there in that air-conditioned office building telling dirty jokes and goofing off. Then they'd bust out laughing. They both knew better, they held certain knowledge of one another.

To dress mid-50's, required under-wired torturing contortion. Fancy snapping clothing that cinched, boosted and clung tight here and loose there. The effort usually sharpened and softened with lace or ruffles, then nylon stockings with seams in back and some kind of opened toed shoes. Where were they? Have to get the kids up, fed and drive across the tracks to pick up our beloved maid Miss Evelyn. Where were the keys?

Funny what memories oatmeal can bring. I always soak my instant oatmeal overnight in the fridge. Let us say it's better for me. If I'm feeling particularly decadent, I'll soak those oats in pure -T Half&Half ya'll. Most of the time it's lactose free whole milk.

Mama was good at answering certain questions mechanically in the same way. Maybe this was a result of raising what would grow to seven young'uns.

Example:

Question -

Is today Tuesday? Always, "All day long."

Question - Can we go to the beach? Always, "Let's don't and say we did."

My friends get to stay up late. Always, "If your friends stuck the heads in a bucket of, Let's say goo, would you?

Mama, mama, Mama, whine, whine, whine. Always, "You're cruising for a bruising."

Question - Why do boys peepee's stick-out and girls peepee's stick-in? Always, "ask your Daddy".

Tomorrow after coffee and meds kick in, you'll get an un-fed feeling. That vague uncomfortable sensation that usually creeps up just as you would have gone back to bed. An undeniable echoing rumble of vacant space that is more than just empty. Approaching hangry.

This is the time in our hectic schedule. A special way to start the day that is just for us in every way. At seventy years of age, this old man looks and listens in my heart to that oatmeal from long ago, blurping in the big pot of a morning. That usually meant we were out of Cornflakes. Why God? Just why do we have to eat gruel? Trust me, the dog didn't like oatmeal either.

Meanwhile A hundred miles away, in Jacksonville, Grandma sat at the small table in an impeccably clean teal blue tiled kitchen with black trim. She's enjoying the last of two pieces of cheddar cheese toast she'd browned under the broiler. Rising at 5 a.m., she'd been at her easel two hours already.

Grandma loved her house. It was was once a carriage house for the large Victorian residence next door. The three stalled structure had an apartment on the top she moved there and built a home of the space below. She was always so proud of the steel beams she'd used in its construction. Hurricanes worried her. Grandma's house was located in Springfield, the oldest neighborhood in he city. On the sundappled sidewalk of East 17th street,the area survived the great fire of 1901 it was a neighborhood fit to live in.

A young widowed mother of two she'd worked hard and long to live here and to enjoy her contented retirement. Sigh, poor Grandma, I was sure she must be terribly lonely. Dry kisses and all.

Ever wonder how many times your Grandma told you to wipe your feet? Or sit up straight, mind your manners, not to pick your buggars or fart on the bus? Get your feet off the couch and leave your sneakers on the porch? The lady who kisses you with her lips so un-puckered it looks painful. Another oatmeal eater a saint and an angel.

Grandma use to tell a story about 1918 after the war she married my gandpa. Well Mr McGruder was a salesman for the John Deere company. He came home one day to find my grandma applying a cream from a tiny bottle under her arms. Well, he laughed and laughed when she told him how much he wasted on that new-fangled "deodorant!" The next afternoon as grandma returned home from the market, there sat grandpa, rubbing that expensive cream all over his salesman feet and toes. How they'd enjoyed each other.

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” - John Milton (9 December 1608 – 8 November 1674), an English poet and intellectual. From his 1667 epic poem Paradise Lost.

Inebriation Hell defies description in real terms. I describe it like the overflowing content of an empty box. Nothingness infinitely. It is striking. Not flames. Not demons. Just absence. No echo. No texture. No resistance. An eternal blank. Quieter than fire. It’s the kind of Hades you brush up against in early sobriety sometimes — not pain exactly, but vacancy.

Noise stops and what remains is… space. Untreated, that space can feel terrifying. Treated gently, it becomes possibility. An empty box can be: a studio before the paint, a lined page before the ink, a cleared junk drawer, a craving without a fix. My humble thought is: If the mind can make hell of heaven, conversely it can make heaven out of the smallest square of ground. An empty appliance box can become a massive mansion if you've currently no roof to call your own. A heavenly haven if you will.

Far and long ago, six decades, my Daddy would give me the first sip off his frosty beer can. I should have known an immediate head to toe shiver, though pleasant and somehow familiar, probably wasn't good for children. I felt that same sensation on the first jigger of the last night I drank. That was 738 days ago. I should have known alcohol wasn't a friend.

Twenty years later, 1974 high school graduation marked my first big life timeline event. A time anticipated and dreaded, also a continual referral point im my memory for years. I was eighteen a giant pimple bag of naivety, anxiety and luck. It had been a childhood of love, contentment and Disney-like enchantment. I'd grown up in alcohol related violence, desperation, betrayal, lies, and abandonment.

In other words - just like every other kid excluding the violence and booze. It probably doesn't surprise you to hear I was a late bloomer, a loner kept to myself mostly. I was invited to social gatherings, but I was shy. I was actually handsomely attractive for about five minutes one night in the summer 1984.

It was the year before my thirtieth birthday

THIRTIETH year, my second life-event timeline. It was then I began abusing whiskey and smoking cigarettes heavily. A ton of both wouldn't be an exaggeration. There were tears in my Cheerios that birthday morning. But I digress...

I don't know why I keep writing this. Except I am compelled to not forget what I mustn't remember. I want to hold it close to me. And to know these are my thoughts. True life memories and not my protective heart/mind speak! Maybe you are still reading me, I do hope so.

I believe It was that hot Jacksonville summer of my first eighth grade, I did two years in 8th, I was hovering around and near the cinderblock house because I sensed Mama might need me. I heard yelling so I stuck my head under the mid-century modern by-folding living room window and saw my dad wobbling in front of my mother, his double-barrel shotgun inches from her nose. It was then I heard the words that still sear my very psyche today, in my near dotterage. Mama was sitting straight in her rocking chair, It wasn't rocking, it was trembling. She was sweating in her lacey slip and no shoes. Staring into his Jackson Blu eyes and in a low steady voice she said, "Pull the trigger Jack, I'd rather be dead than married to you."

This oatmeal is delightful.

It's a giant step up especially pre-soaked. Cook In a medium microwaveable bowl empty one baggie of apples (we stashed them in the fridge behind the kale last night after the ambien but before bed.)

Within days begins the move to Grandma's. Poor Grandma. Thank God she loved us all is all I can say. We slept on scattered oriental rugs wrapped in soft clean blankets under a roaring air-conditioner and on shiny waxed tile. Honey child; we thought we were living High on the hog. Mama slept with the youngest two. As quiet fell somebody screamed and as one, we all jerked up to daddy's kicking on the front door. We all saw his face and a shotgun barrel bobbing there, backlit by the streetlights, as it appeared through the small stair-step windows. Grandma told him she was gonna call the Police. She was convinced he'd been possessed by Satan and hearing Hells bells. He said it wouldn't be the first time tonight. But he did leave.

As I settled down to sleep that night, all of us in the hallway, i cried a little it's hard to be a strong 13 year boy and be so scared at the same time. You have to wonder what went wrong and how was it your fault somehow.

I think from grandmas perspective she may have actually lived a fuller life the following half decade than those peaceful early retirement days. She had a way of shining the grandma pride beam of joy and the ability to look a thirteen year old boy in the eye, and say, "That's none of your business" too. A new home, a new way of life for us eight in the two bedroom apartment upstairs Grandma gave us. The one she rented out. Grandma liked to rest in her convictions.

You know I couldn't say as why, but I've had a burning drive to write these little stories down. Memories of characters all wanting to be recalled collectively. And placed in the best light. I'm feeling over-worded. Too many thoughts coming so fast they pass by, and me using a stylus. Sun shines brighter there even as there fades behind us. It all slips away forever eventually. Why do I feel like a lovely funeral dirge. Maybe not enough oatmeal. Dad's leaving wasn't the first time. They divorced before. Yeah! Two kids before. I guess we'll never really know the why of that. And I've accepted spilled milk is only good for the lucky kitten.

I own there is no way to excuse or deny physical, or emotional abuse. Nor must incompatibility, attraction or substance abuse be the end of all relationships. But I know one thing as a fact. My dad shouldn't have had children. He'd conveniently have jobs that had shifts so he'd be home sleeping when the house was empty. But you can believe he was there of a Saturday, ordering the boys into the bed of the current pick-up truck for that buzzed hair cut. He'd cut a watermelon on the picnic table and go in the house to eat his alone. And hunted and fished more than most. Mama used to say those were expensive hobbies. He'd say he was the mighty hunter and feeding his family. He'd lean in for a kiss, right on the mouth, and light her cigarette. That always makes me blush.

And finally gentle friends remember, sometimes it's hard to receive a gift, until it isn't given. My new sobriety won’t change who I am with you. Not how I see you, not my tone, not my care, not the ease with which I meet your sentences. What evolves is living and responding to the space we create.

It’s feeling less afraid of the edges, the pause that enlightens and brings closer everything we used to push away. Dont ever allow provocation and response—become your only conversation thats just wrong. The ability to not know, to hold two responses and choose one, to move forward without resolving everything, to say “this, for now” without demanding forever.

Animals react, humans hesitate— in that hesitation, we imagine, forgive, invent, and sometimes love better. To live in reality, here and now, turns into the reward all that booze tried to hide. The why's are still there for dusting and valuation. Maybe that is what my stories can do. Ignite a pattern of images to help clarify. To clear the mud in the puddle that is the growing into a man in the early seventies, a time of chaos societal and personal.

I've never been comfortable in close proximity to horses. They find me suspicious and I'm knee-knocking a-skairt of um'! Truth be known my country cousins lived on a dairy farm. My especial cousin's friend rode this mammoth white mule. I was visiting them, it had rained, we boys were all standing around barefoot in the mud.

Well, I want to tell you that mule gently picked up her foot closest to me and, shifting her weight, and with deliberate malice of forethought, smashed my eight year old bare foot into the gushing mud! I didn't think my foot was ever gonna hit ground bottom. But when it did she stopped. No pressure at all, just touching still but, freeze frame. Course I'd been staring at my foot the whole time unable to move.

So I chose this moment to raise my eyes very slowly . Seemed her foot was about the same size as mine and as I saw her saucer nostrils she snorted wetter than loud and, noiselessly lifted that foot and stuck it right back into that empty muddy mold it had left. Heart racing I patted her and went to be grateful alone, and yes, I cried some too.

Stir in a pat of butter, a healthy sprinkle of Ceylon cinnamon, and a sweetner; couple tbs of sugar, honey, Splenda, the pink pkg type stuff. Don't forget a wee dram of maple syrup. Now microwave on high two and a half minutes. Add the waiting soaked oats, stir, and cook one minute.

Yourself will love you for the effort. We reap what we sow, a stitch in time... like water under the bridge, and that sand in an hourglass

Alright mama, sending hopes to everyone! Enjoy breakfast

In conclusion, anyone who sees themselves in my stories, I'm humbled you think so and for your lost childhood. I used alcohol and my wits for forty years to learn this story. The others who were there or who grew up in the deep south and know we never talk about a thing easier talked around, will admit to similar events. But memories are unique and personal to each. Most are no longer here to tell the other versions.

But it's sobriety now that fills the ink in my pen and the pace of the journey. Opening and closing doors of hope and missed opportunity. The future, long or short. The future and a promise of my continued success in that ignoble endeavor.

With that and a deep bow for your kindness in reading this through to the end. With utmost respect, here's to your continued good health.

May you receive the love you give.

The drive to Ashvale took most of the afternoon. My dad liked to take backroads whenever he could, so instead of highways, we spent hours winding through stretches of farmland and narrow two-lane roads that looked barely used. The radio kept fading in and out, replaced by long patches of static and silence.

My mom didn’t seem to mind. She kept looking out of the window with this quiet smile, like she’d already decided the move was the best thing that had ever happened to us.

The house had belonged to her aunt, a woman none of us really knew. She’d lived there alone for decades and died in her sleep the winter before we moved in. Eighty-three years old.

Natural causes.

The lawyer said it like it was something reassuring, like a quiet ending somehow made the place easier to inherit.

We reached the town just as the sun was starting to dip lower in the sky. Ashvale wasn’t much to look at. One road cut straight through it, with a few side streets branching off towards neighborhoods that looked older than the road itself. There was a gas station on the corner, a diner with a faded sign, and a small grocery store that looked like it hadn’t changed in years. If you blinked while driving through, you’d probably miss most of it.

The house sat a little outside the town limits, far enough away that the road turned to gravel before we reached the driveway. My dad slowed the car as we pulled in, tires crunching over loose stone while dust rolled up behind us. The place looked bigger in person than it had in the photos the lawyer had sent. Two stories, pale paint faded by weather, a long porch stretching across the front. It wasn’t run-down exactly, just old in a way that made everything slightly quieter.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped out of the car was how much land there truly was. The yard stretched out behind the house farther than I expected, a wide strip of grass that suddenly ended at a dense line of trees. They stood close together, tall and thick, the kind of forest that looked darker than it should’ve been in the middle of the day.

My siblings were already running across the yard before my dad finished turning off the engine, their voices echoing through the open space as they argued about who got which room inside. My mom stayed near the car for a moment longer, looking at the house like she was trying to picture what it would look like once we’d made it ours.

I remember standing there beside the driveway, watching the trees at the far end of the yard while the rest of my family carried boxes inside.

At the time, it just felt like another place we’d have to get used to.

The inside of the house smelled like old wood and dust, the kind that settles in places where the windows stay closed too long. Every step across the floorboards creaked softly under our weight, and the rooms felt larger than they had from the outside. My dad set the first box down in the living room and stretched his back like the drive had finally caught up with him.

“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Let’s get some of this inside before it gets dark.”

“I call the room with the window seat!” Iris shouted from somewhere above us.

“You don’t even know where that is!” Silas yelled back.

I leaned against the doorway and watched them disappear down the hall while my mom carried in another box from the car. Faye trailed behind her, small hands gripping the edge of a cardboard box that was clearly too big for her.

“Careful,” my mom said gently, “You’re going to drop that.”

Faye didn’t answer, just shuffled along beside her until the box made it safely to the kitchen table.

The house slowly filled with noise as the evening went on–boxes sliding across floors, doors opening and closing, my parents talking about where the furniture would go. By the time the sun had disappeared behind the trees outside, most of the essentials were unpacked, and everyone was too tired to argue about anything else.

We ended up eating takeout on the living room floor.

Silas kept complaining that the house made too much noise.

“It’s old,” my dad said between bites. “Old houses make noises.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Silas muttered, glancing toward the hallway.

Iris rolled her eyes. “You’re just scared because it’s dark.”

“Am not.”

“You are.”

My mom sighed. “Both of you. Eat.”

Faye sat cross-legged beside them, quiet the whole time, staring out through the back window toward the yard. The glass had started reflecting the room behind us, so all I could see beyond it was darkness and the faint outline of trees.
I figured she was just tired.

That night, everyone went to bed earlier than usual. Moving all day has a way of draining you faster than you expect. My room ended up at the end of the hallway upstairs, across from Silas, while Iris and Faye shared the room closest to the stairs.

The house creaked a lot once things got quiet.

Not loud noises–just small ones. Floorboards settling. Pipes ticking somewhere in the walls. The kind of sounds that make you aware of how empty a place is once everyone stops moving.

That night I lay awake longer than I meant to, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, listening to the wind brush against the trees outside.

Eventually, I must’ve fallen asleep.

Morning came with sunlight spilling through the windows and the sound of Silas already stomping around downstairs.

I found everyone else in the kitchen. My mom had opened the windows, and the house finally smelled like fresh air instead of dust. My dad was outside checking the fence line while Iris and Silas argued about who had slept worse.

Faye had already disappeared into the yard.

I spotted her through the back window, standing out in the grass with her back to the house.

“Faye!” my mom called. “Stay where we can see you!”

She waved one hand without turning around.

After breakfast, the four of us ended up outside exploring the property while our parents worked on unpacking the rest of the kitchen. The yard felt even bigger in daylight than it had the night before. It stretched out behind the house in a wide strip of uneven grass, dotted with old fence posts and patches where the ground dipped slightly.

Silas grabbed a stick and started swinging at weeds like he was clearing a trail.

“This place is huge,” he said.

Iris wandered off toward the side of the yard, already talking about where a garden could go, like she’d lived there for years.

I took my time walking around the back fence.
That’s when I noticed Faye again.

She was standing near the tree line.

Not inside the forest. Just close enough that the shade from the trees stretched across the grass around her feet.

“Faye,” I called.

She didn’t answer.

She wasn’t moving either.

Just standing there quietly, staring into the trees like she’d forgotten the rest of us were behind her.

Once upon a time I, the Collector, a demon who had been given the mandate "Go around the world and collect stories of human experience," once flapped my wings in search of a good story. Finding none, I decided to kill time roaming around a squeaky-clean neighbourhood of shiny walls that shimmered in the sunlight and trees that sang in the twilight.

I was tired. After more than two centuries of collecting stories, I was lethargic. My face now sagged with boredom and my eyes now carried the weight of all I had seen.

Banish, my trusted servant, had even begged me to "take a vacation" in the shallow dirt waters of Armageddon, my favourite vacation spot but I had retorted,

"I have no need for such trivialities, but you can take some time off."

So Banish did swooshing away and leaving me in my unhappiness.

As I hovered upon the city, my eyes caught a glimpse of a trimmed hedge of lewd, provocative statues. One was of a female genitalia, life-sized in form the other was of two naked females engaging in a lewd act; the others well, they are quite hard to repeat but nonetheless, to say ghastly and utterly provocative, I will leave it to your imagination. I grinned and even laughed, my laughter bellowing in and rattling the neighbourhood. If I was heard, it was as a ghostly wind that emerged and submerged abruptly around the neighbourhood.

"Well, well, it appears my spark is back yes."

I descended and thought, "Finally, this will be a preface to some shocking horror in this house or acts not that I do not see any, but my, my, coming from this house—how exciting," I had retorted.

Entering the house, I found that it was occupied by a forty-six-year-old man who had divorced a month prior. His wife had moved out, taking three of their kids with her and leaving him alone to his devices.

I, in search of a story decided to spend my waking moments trailing behind the man observing and whispering, well, not that the man heard any of it. His routine was the same: once he came home from work, he ate his takeout, played video games, or streamed one movie to the next. He never quite watched anything. He always moved from one video to the next. When he grew tired, he would throw the remote on the sofa and quickly go to bed. Each day he behaved like this. My boredom began again, until one day he started acting strangely.

On that day I had been hanging around his bedroom at the corner when I saw him coming in, throw his bag on the bed, and completely strip all of his clothes to his birthday suit.

"Hahaha haha what, what is this now? What has gotten into you now?"

He still remained silent.

So the man walked around the house naked, cooked naked, and did his washing naked, much to my delight. Eventually, I never laughed; I was used to him now.

One day, the man came trudging from work and, sitting with a heavy thud on the kitchen stool, placed his face in his hands and wept. I, who had been dozing off in the bedroom, quickly whooshed through walls and stared at the man as he sobbed hysterically. After a while, he grew silent and slowly went with huge scissors in hand outside, cutting down the obscene shrubs slowly.

That night, the man did not strip himself bare; instead, he remained fully clothed. He even slept in the clothes he had gone to work in. I, feeling betrayed, heaved a heavy sigh, packed my belongings, and quietly left. It was just a lonely house that's all. I was in search of adventure and a story. There was no story here.

He wanders. The hot streets. The narrow corners and back alley ways, the bad neighborhoods and freeway overpasses. The sweltering blacktop lakes of the 7-11 parking lots. He carries cardboard signs, wears rags and cardboard clothes and grime. Layers and layers of filth that may have once been fecal spew or the dust of the earth or blood, they are worn like a coat of oil over the flesh like the ancient warriors by firelight times, he is a deranged and disgusting remnant. Haggard leftover in bipedal form that moves, mutters, sucks down bottles and pipes and congealed food pulled scavenged from the garbage. 

He is so thankful for beer or a dollar. Consciousness is pain. Consciousness is the sorrow and horror of each and every day, each and every moment is a prolonged period experienced in slow motion agony like pure torture. Everything is moved in shopping carts and over shoulder, he has become a beast of labor upon the earth, he must pull the plow of his own life if he ever hopes to get anywhere, anywhere at all but the only destination that seems to be enroute and available is a land of spoiled milk and suffering. He arrives there anyway and does what he can. It's never much. Just collecting cans and detritus that in his derangement he believes will be his fortune and his salvation. It's never much. It's never anything. 

He watches men beat women. He watches women scream and shriek and become the harpies, he watches them conspire and become the weird sisters, he watches needles and the depression of plungers and the streetside milking of human blood in a clouded swirl in the double-wide mouthed gutters. He watches it all and his eyes glaze over as the mind accepts each sight with a sledgehammer blow only the sledgehammer has lost all of its weight, it has lost all of its power. It only thuds and smacks at dead meat within cavernous skull now, it's only meaninglessness and meaningless noise and the constance of the cacophony has deluded and defanged all of its heavy power.

The city is just a dead body now, it doesn't mean anything. This cyclopean and hideous thing that he wanders. Filled with eyes and mouths that drip and water and move and open and stare. They are all of them just as ugly to him as he is to they, they are all of them, repulsive. 

There is no more beauty in this place. 

He tries to find darkness before sunset. Rarely is he ever successful. But this does not surprise him. He is a marked man. 

Like Cain. The man son that first authored murder into the virgin world. 

He unscrews the cap to some rotgut he's so crushingly thankful to have. And he takes a deep and lonely swill. He pulls, deeply. He settles down in the dirt, so lucky and so thankful to have it as well. And he pulls. Over and over the drink that tastes and smells more like disinfectant than anything sold over the counter as a beverage. He doesn't care. He's done it before. Many times. Many times before he's said fuck it and gotten absolutely shitfaced on hand sanitizer, mouthwash, isopropyl. 

He doesn't mind the taste. Not at all. He doesn't mind the taste of anything as long as the flavor is alcohol and it's strong enough to peel away the paint of his thoughts and strip away the fouled and fouling coats of his ailing and addled mind away. Just as long as it's strong enough to put him under and keep the dreams away. 

At least keep the dreams manageable. At least keep them as something he can stomach and bear. Something in the realm of his current devastation and heartbreak and not some new foul border, not some horrific new frontier. 

But neither the Lord nor the little god alcohol hear him. Nor care. 

His mind heavy with drink and thought, totters off. But not into oblivion. Not into peace. 

There are so many things alive in the darkness. 

!Sitra Achra!

He is hurdling towards the merciless face of the earth. His wings are burning. The beauty of his light and gift of flight are aflame, dying in fire. He is screaming a sound and cacophonous war cry rent that will echo forever and contaminate the crumbling ruined corridor of time that he has helped to bleed and slaughter. 

He crashes. Just outside of the Garden. 

And there he gathers and reforms. One of the first times of many. Many many many times will follow down the long line of cruel footfalls forever forward. He gathers and reforms and he is angry and jealous and into the beauty of The Garden, he slithers.

He tempts the woman and the man into disobedience. And he tempts them into forbidden knowledge. 

Forbidden Knowledge. This is his warcraft upon the virgin earth. It will defile. It will burn and torch. It will decimate. It will slaughter. 

It will divide the center. Conquered and fallen apart. 

Several centuries later and he is a pale child outside of Bethlehem. He is disguised and reformed as an adolescent but he is still the adversary. And he is there with the other, his opposite. His more beloved little brother, the son of the virgin and the carpenter. 

Teenage Jesus and teenage Satan are in contest, their hands are bleeding and full of blood and locked together in a twist and struggle. The adversary wishes to murder the savior child, in jealousy and in impudent rage. His hands wish to find his throat or a rock or his eyes, perhaps if he blinds the little brother savior child he will be useless to all of man and their sons and daughters. 

A Philistine sun burns overhead. But the adversary child is not successful. Teenage Satan is a failure once again, and bleeding he must wander and go out, cast out. Exile. Wanderer. 

Petulant. Angst. Eyes so full and wide and full of boiling water. He brings light once again but only in rage, only in his wild anger postfailure. He simmers and tears and burns so brightly out and alone way past the dark. 

Regroup out in the wild. Reform in the oblivion of solitude and pain borne in terrible silence that is only broken by the pathetic sounds of private torment taken slowly. Weeping that he tries to prevent and ignore and pretend has never been actually happening, not ever, not him, he doesn't miss heaven or his Father … none. Nothing. None of them. 

None of them mean a Goddamned thing. 

He always came back. Mighty. Diminished. Unassuming. Something in-between or intangible. He always came back. 

The adversary. 

Even broken and alone and filthy vagrant wandering. Even crystal meth slurping and supercharged because of such for the final abattoir riot of violence and great western societal collapse into shrill shattered glass cacophony and tidal waves of bloodfeast. Into he, his, the vagrant filthy jaws of the adversary. 

The fallen order, the Armageddon one, the end-is-nigh motherfucker …

the apocalypse man. 

Alone and filthy in a corner. 

Dreaming, not dreaming. 

Seeing and knowing only disorder. He hears and knows the call of the 7th Star. 

He dreams and knows of burning heaven. 

THE END

''I’m not afraid of ghosts. I don’t know why I developed this particular trait, which has nothing to do with being brave. There are plenty of things I’m afraid of; I could run for miles from a dog, my fear of heights is limited to ten meters, and at eleven meters my stomach starts to churn and I become convinced that I could fall at any moment.

If a ghost suddenly appeared in front of me, I’d ask it rational questions. If it could talk and communicate, I’d sit down and have a conversation with it. If it looked terrifying, I’d throw a sheet over it so I wouldn’t lose my focus. If its voice sounded terrifying, I’d warn it that it might wake the neighbors and tell it to keep its voice down.''

“Stop,” said Uncle Jason. “You don’t make fun of things like that.”

He looked angry. When I first brought up the subject, he had listened with interest, with a curious expression on his face. But when I started giving examples of what I would do if I ever saw a ghost, he got annoyed.

“If it could eat, I’d offer it a serving of lasagna. I’d ask if it wanted ketchup with it. If it did, I’d think, ‘For fuck’s sake, you’re dead and your taste is still terrible,’ but I’d give it the ketchup anyway. Expired ketchup, though. It’s not like it could get food poisoning.”

My uncle's face had fallen. I didn't know he was this afraid of ghosts. He lit a cigarette and opened the window. He took a drag and blew the smoke outside. It was cold, and the room had turned freezing the moment he opened the window. I immediately started shivering.

“I’d ask it about that famous story, to see if it was actually true. You know the one. A guy gets into a car accident one day, gets thrown through the windshield, and dies of a heart attack while he’s still flying through the air, before he even hits the ground. His body falls to the ground, but his soul keeps flying forward. The guy doesn’t realize he’s dead and thinks he’s still been thrown out of the car and is flying through the air. He keeps flying forward like that for two hours. After two hours, he thinks, ‘Wait a minute, my body has weight. I could only have been flying for a minute at most after being thrown out of the car. I should have fallen by now.’ And that’s when he realizes he’s dead.”

My uncle blew cigarette smoke in my face. He had taken a very deep drag, and the wind coming through the window carried all of the smoke straight into my nostrils. I angrily got up and closed the window.

My uncle took another drag and blew the smoke into the air. As he exhaled, he turned his head from side to side, as if he were trying to spread the smoke throughout the room. He just kept blowing and blowing. I couldn't understand how he could have taken such deep breaths.

“If it had a toothache, I’d give it some Apranax. I’d wait half an hour. Apranax usually gets rid of a toothache pretty quickly. The other pills aren’t nearly as effective. If it wasn’t gone after half an hour, I’d give it another one. If it still didn’t go away, two more. I’d make it swallow the whole box until the pain went away. It’s not like anything would happen to it anyway.”

“Enough, for fuck’s sake. I’m leaving.”

Just as my uncle got up angrily, my phone rang. I answered it. It was my mother. My uncle took another drag from his cigarette. He held the smoke in for a few seconds, then opened the window and blew it outside. I suppose he had a moment of moral deliberation over whether to blow it in my face or out the window.

I talked to my mother for a while. She asked how school was going and whether I had made up with my girlfriend. I gave her reluctant answers. I was cold.

“Mom, my uncle is here. We’ll talk later.”

“Son, I have something to confess to you.”

“You can confess it later. I’m talking to my uncle right now. I’ll call you later.”

“Your uncle died two years ago. We didn’t want to tell you because we didn’t want to upset you.”

There was silence for about fifteen seconds. My uncle and I looked at each other. Seeing that I was cold, my uncle closed the window.

“Hmm. Let’s think about this. Okay, you didn’t tell me, but is it really possible that I never came across it anywhere? That I never heard about it? Are you the only ones who know that my uncle died? I have an aunt, an uncle, my uncle’s friends—there are plenty of people. I never happened to run into anyone, never found out that my uncle was dead. Does that sound logical to you?”

“If you don’t believe me, put your uncle on the phone.”

I handed the phone to my uncle. He stubbed out his cigarette and took the phone.

“Hello... Anna, how are you?.. Yeah, yeah... Why?.. I don’t know... Sure, we can go... When?.. No, I can’t, I have work that day... Monday... Oh, don’t ask, they hit a three-pointer at the last second... Yeah, yeah... Okay... I don’t know, let me think about it... I’m telling you, I don’t know, Anna... Okay, see you... Okay... Bye...”

My uncle handed the phone back to me.

“So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so’? Son, I didn’t talk to anyone. I’ve been saying hello for ages. Nobody answered. Anyway. I’ve done my part. I gave you the information. Now get rid of whatever you’ve built up in your head. If you don’t believe me, ask someone who knew your uncle. That’s all I can do.”

My mother hung up before I could respond. My uncle had sat back down on the couch. He lit another cigarette. Then he rose ten centimeters into the air from where he was sitting.

“This couch is really bothering me. It’s very uncomfortable. I can’t get comfortable.”

It was bizarre. I was stunned. There was a mischievous grin on my uncle’s face. He winked at me.

“I see. I understand. So what happens now?”

“This is what happens: I’m going to throw you out of this window.”

There was another silence. My uncle took another drag from his cigarette.

“What happened? You suddenly look terrified. I thought you weren’t afraid?”

“But this is different. You’re saying you’re going to kill me. Of course I’m afraid of dying.”

“Anyway, this has gone on long enough. Now, get up. You deserved this. ”

***

A few seconds later, Albert found himself floating in midair. It lasted only a few seconds before he crashed into the ground, without even having time to process what was happening. The impact made a violent, wet sound that even Uncle Jason was startled by.

After throwing Albert out, he flicked his cigarette butt out after him. The cigarette butt hit the ground first.

It was a minute past midnight and the moon outside the castle was deliciously bright and round. I stood admiring it at the window, the fire crackling in the hearth behind me, shadows dancing along the flagstones. Though none were cast at my own feet.

Beyond the castle, the black cliffs crumbled away into a deep ravine, where dark trees bundled together like matchsticks, and a gushing river swelled between the rocks like a silverbacked serpent. The wind whistled through the broken casement of the window, chilling the air and threatening to extinguish the fire.

There was a whisper of movement on my left and one of the sisters appeared beside me, bowing her head. Her dress was a deep red, the same colour as her eyes.

“It’s a pleasant night,” I mused, raising the collar of my black coat against the chill as the moonlight dusted the windows. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders as she raised her head.

“Yes Master,” she said in a subdued tone. “However, I fear I shall ruin it with my tidings.”

I turned to her fully, examining the grave expression on her face. Her lips were pinched. “Why is that? What tidings do you bring?”

Her red eyes glowed in the firelight. A long shadow was drawn across her features. “A peasant house is in the midst of construction beside the castle.”

I stared at her for a moment. The fire crackled sharply. “A… peasant house?” I finally repeated, scoffing at her words. Surely she was mistaken. The area around my castle was a perfectly barren wasteland; the peasants in the settlements knew better than to encroach on my land without permission, never mind erect a building on my grounds. “What is this trickery?”

“No trickery, Master. Come see for yourself.”

The vampire sister turned and strode towards the opposite side of the tower, her long red gown trailing behind her like a pair of folded wings. Curious, I followed her, our footsteps silent on the stone floor. I assumed I had misunderstood her, for nobody would be foolish enough to even approach my castle. Unless they were naive or ignorant of my nature.

But as we paused by the window, and she lifted a hand to point outside, I stood aghast at what I saw. A short distance away from the front gates of my castle, visible through the fog, there was indeed a house being built. Beneath the cold glow of the moon, I saw piles of stone and wood, the loose structure of rafters and foundations already laid. What sort of fool would dare build a house so close to my castle? Who would dare to become my neighbour without first consulting the master of this tower?

I was furious and intrigued at the same time. Only the dumbest, and perhaps bravest, of men would do such a thing. And I found myself feeling very much inclined to meet him.

“The house seems deserted now,” the vampire sister observed, resting her hand against her cheek. “Perhaps they have given up?”

“Or perhaps they only build during the day, knowing the weakness the sunlight inflicts upon us creatures of the night,” I said with a harrumph.

“You are wise, Master,” she said. “Shall I take my sisters over there and tear it down? It is a stain upon your grand castle.”

I pondered her offer. “No. I should like to meet the fool first,” I decided, extending my fangs below my lips. “Perhaps he would see fit to grace my castle with his… delicious presence.”

The sister covered her mouth with a low chuckle. “I understand, Master. You would see it fit to make a meal of him?”

I nodded. “Leave the peasant house for now,” I told her, turning away from the window with a flourish of my coat. “I wish to see how far he dares to go.”

The following night, as I rose from my coffin at the heart of midnight, my first thought was of the house being built by the castle. Had more progress been made, or had the owner seen the measure of his own foolishness and deserted? It would be a shame if he had fled before a meal could be made of him.

It had been a while since I had anything to amuse me on these long nights, just as long as it had been since fresh blood had passed these lips. The peasants in the surrounding settlements had grown wise to my nature and seen fit to ward their houses, stringing garlic and crosses upon the threshold. I was only able to feed when an unwitting traveller passed by, or a fool decided to build a house directly beside my castle.

The tower was quiet as I made my way to the top, winding through the warren of rooms and climbing the narrow, crumbling stairways. The sisters were nowhere to be seen; perhaps frolicking outside in the moonlight as they so often did. I reached the highest point of the castle and strode to the window that overlooked the barren grounds. From this height, I could even glimpse the closest settlement in the far distance; a small cluster of thatched houses and burning torches that lit the foggy hills like burning eyes.

But my concern was much closer. Lowering my gaze to the land right outside the gates, I saw that the house had changed. There were more walls than yesterday, denser foundations, the first signs of carpentry. The fool really had continued building the house. Had he not been warned of the dark Count that occupied the castle? Had he not heard the rumours of the blood-feasting creatures that stalked these lands once the sun went down? Why else would he choose to dwell in my vicinity, if not for ignorance?

I shook my head, almost pitying the poor halfwit for what he had brought upon himself. But I should delight in showing him the truth soon enough; that he had elected himself a willing sacrifice for me and my hungry brides.

It was a shame that he vacated the house during the night, for I would have to wait longer to lay my eyes upon him. Would he not show himself before the house was finished?

“I see the building is progressing,” a voice whispered behind me. I’d been too lost in my thoughts to hear them approach. I turned, seeing two of the sisters behind me. They too were observing the house through the window. Their wild, windswept hair and bright eyes confirmed my suspicions that they had been dancing outside.

“Yes,” I muttered. “It would seem so.”

“What a blight upon the castle,” the other sister said, her fair skin glittering in the moonlight. “I hope the trouble is worth the meal.”

“It will be,” I said, casually flicking my hand towards the half-built dwelling, “if only the fool would hurry up and be done with it.”

The next night, more progress had been made on the building, but the owner had still not shown himself. I grew more agitated that I was allowing this to happen, but reminded myself that I would soon enough be able to quench my thirst.

So night after night, as the moon began to wane, the house’s shadow grew bigger, and my hunger grew stronger. The fool always fled before night fell, leaving the evidence of his daytime activities for me to observe. The dwelling had taken on the same shape of the peasant houses in the surrounding settlements; white stone and timber, with a long thatched roof. He had even tilled the soil into a small garden, erecting a wooden fence around the plot in front of the building. But compared to my grand castle, with its dark crumbling bricks, spiralling towers and winding, labyrinthine rooms, it was a blight. And I wanted it gone.

Finally, more than a week after the house was little more than a pile of stone and timber, one of the sisters woke me with news that the structure was finished.

I rose from my coffin, sluggish and weary from slumber, and fastened my coat about my neck. The sisters had already lit the fire, but the air was chilled.

I followed her to the window and set my gaze upon the house. A single candle sat in the windowsill, guttering in a draught. A lit candle. Did that mean the house was occupied? The fool had not fled this night.

“It’s time,” I announced, “to show this fool once and for all what happens when you anger the Count.” The other sisters joined us, and I turned towards them with a slow smile. “I hope you are hungry.”

The three sisters screeched in delight, grasping each other’s hands and dancing in circles, their gowns fluttering around their legs. The fire roared in the hearth.

But as I began to cross the room, one of the sisters stopped me with a gasp.

“Master, wait. There’s someone at the gate.” She was pointing out of the window. I peered down at the large wrought-iron gate that fronted the castle, my eyes narrowing. A figure stood by the fence, carrying a lantern. His face glowed in the flickering light, revealing a sharp, sloping nose and dark eyes.

“Who would be foolish enough to call upon me at this hour?” I snarled, my black coat twisting around me as I turned from the window.

“Perhaps your new neighbour,” one of the sisters answered, “has come to hasten our feast.”

“Perhaps,” I said, already striding towards the doorway.

The sisters swept after me, whispering amongst themselves. Flames guttered as we passed lit candles, stirring the dust at our feet and disturbing billowing cobwebs. There was a haste to our movements as we descended the tower. It had certainly been a while since we’d had prey wander into our arms like this.

Crossing the foyer, the long red carpet spilling out like blood, I threw open the doors and stepped out into the chilled night, the three sisters stepping in my wake. The moon was a pale sickle, its silvery glow dancing around my shadowless feet as the stranger at the gates called out to me.

“Hello there!”

Struck by his brazenness, I almost flew at him in anger, but restrained myself. Ignorant minds really were unfathomable. With a flick of my wrist, the gates began to creak open. The man remained at the threshold, holding his lantern aloft as he stared back at me. He was of medium build, with stocky shoulders and a mop of thick tousled hair. His clothes were poorly made, covered in dirt and patches. He had the audacity to smile at me as I glared in return.

“What business have you here at my castle?” I demanded, wanting to sate my curiosity before I sated my hunger.

The man cleared his throat, raising his lantern to the crude house sitting barely thirty metres behind him. So this was indeed the proprietor of the building; what a brave, albeit dimwitted, man he was to present himself before me like this. “I’ve just this morning finished constructing my house,” he said, not seeming to notice the displeasure on my face, “and a slight issue has come to my attention.”

“An… issue?” I repeated, my brows arching sharply.

“Yes. During the day, the leftmost tower of your castle casts a shadow over my garden,” the man said regretfully. “I hoped that you might be amicable enough to remove it. Or at the very least relocate the tower, so that it does no harm the roses I am trying to grow. All life needs sunlight, after all.”

I stared at him, completely aghast. Behind me, even the sisters had been stunned into silence. The audacity of this imbecile, to ask me to change my own castle for his benefit. The man was not right in the head, surely.

“How dare you–” I began to seethe, but the man interrupted me, lifting a finger as if hushing a child.

“I do understand it is a large undertaking I’m asking of you, but my gratitude would be immense,” he added.

“You think I care about your gratitude?” I sneered at him, clenching my fists beneath my coat. The gall of this man. Who did he think he was? “Do you know who I am?”

The man stared at me, the lanternlight dancing over his blank expression. “You are the owner of this castle, I had presumed?”

“Precisely. And what makes you think that I, as the Count of this castle, would do the bidding of a mere peasant?”

The man scowled at me, a shadow encroaching upon his face. “I shall ask you again, and I do hope you will be quite civil this time. Will you remove the tower from your castle so that my roses might see the light?”

“I don’t give a damn about your roses,” I snapped.

“Now, there’s no need to be rude,” the man said, his voice turning bristly. The shadows deepened around his eyes as he narrowed them. “I’m asking for a simple favour–”

I scoffed in his face, my rage burning beneath my skin. It took a lot to make a vampire’s blood burn hot. I almost couldn’t believe what he was saying. This fool considered the reconstruction of my ancient castle a mere favour? Asking me to tear down part of my fortress so that he might grow some roses.

I took a measured step towards him, lifting my shoulders to appear taller. My fangs were itching to taste his blood. For all the disrespect he had shown me, there was no escape. I would suck this man dry by the night’s end, leaving nothing but a fleshless husk.

“Once again, I implore you to consider my–”

I was no longer in the mood to listen to his insane ramblings. He had agitated me far too much to go back from this. I would show him, and anyone else who might learn of tonight, what happens to those who cross me.

Baring my fangs, I lunged forward, ready to sink my teeth into his neck.

In one swift motion, the man pulled his hand back into a fist and threw it towards me. Blinded partially by the lanternlight, I did not see the attack until his knuckles met my face.

Pain exploded through my jaw, and there was a terrible snap as my left fang bore the brunt of his punch, splitting completely in half. The hit landed with enough force to send me staggering backwards and, incredulous and in shock, I fell to the ground.

Dirt bit into my eyes as I landed face-down, my broken fang scraping against my lower lip. Sputtering, I raised my head, just as the man lifted his light and calmly made his way back to his house.

Behind me, the sisters watched him leave in a choked silence, before hastening to help me back to my feet.

To say I had been dealt a great humiliation was an understatement. How did a mortal man possess such strength? Enough to break one of my precious fangs and completely overpower me.

With a bruised face, and an even more bruised ego, I hobbled back into my castle, the three sisters trailing silently after me.

By the following night, the leftmost tower had been partially disassembled, leaving a gaping wound in the side of the castle. Wind gusted through like howling wraiths, immediately extinguishing any fire I tried to light, leaving a heavy chill in the air. The sisters, at least, seemed to delight in the pool of moonlight that was cast upon the open ground.

Workers had been swarming the castle all day, interrupting my sleep with their banging hammers and chiselling tools as they took the tower apart brick by brick, but I had little choice. The man had made his demands, proven his strength, and forced my hand. Now I had to destroy my own magnificent tower so that the fool might grow his roses. And I hadn’t been able to harvest even a drop of blood either.

This was a defeat, and a humiliation, that would take centuries to heal.

This tale reached me as a series of letters, and I’m passing it on as I received it.

Dear friend,

I must relay to you a tale, though even now I fear you’ll think me out of my mind.

It began on an eastbound train in the late afternoon this autumn. Approaching the station, the cars groaned as they slowed, metal shivering until the whole weight of it rattled to a stop. Steam drifted over the platform and bled into the fog that pressed down on the town like a lid. Inside, the air was hushed - no chatter, no scrape of trunks - only the dull thud of boots as the other passengers pulled on their coats.

Across from me sat a man who had been there the entire journey. Exhausted, hollow-eyed, his coat hung loose as if it carried more than fabric should. His hands trembled faintly in his lap. He looked like a man worn down to the bone, someone you wouldn’t look at twice - not because he was ordinary, but because you wouldn’t want to. He stared out the window, though there was nothing to see but his own faint reflection and the smear of countryside dulled to gray. He never spoke.

When the station bell clanged, he turned at last. His eyes were lighter than I expected, the pale of skimmed milk. He reached into his coat. No flourish, no smile. He pressed a small rectangle of paper into my hand: a ticket stub. Yellowed, its edges singed as if it had survived a fire.

I opened my mouth. Thank you for what. Or what is this. Or have we met. He was already on his feet. The car jolted. He was gone.

By the time I reached the platform, the stranger had vanished into the fog. I thought I had imagined him until I looked down and saw the ticket in my palm. I beheld only a name in curling script and a faint watermark that looked like a wheel with spokes. It felt warm, as if it had been kept close to the body.

I stepped into the town and smelled rain that had not yet fallen. The gas lamps along the street held small trembling halos. Behind them the buildings hunched like old men in bad weather. The train shrieked once as it rolled out and then the world fell into a hush so complete I could hear the river rushing under the bridge.

Somewhere beyond the mill and the church and the line of narrow houses, music rose. Thin at first, a thread you could break with two fingers. A calliope. The notes stretched long, the way you stretch taffy until you are sure it will snap. I could not have said whether the music called me, or whether the heat in my pocket tugged my feet toward it, but I went all the same.

I did not hurry. I did not tell myself I was curious. I walked as if I had always been going there.

The town moved around me like a fever dream. A woman hurried past with her collar up and her hat pulled low. She guided a little boy by the shoulder. He tried to turn his head toward the far end of the street where the fog looked brighter than it should. She pulled him close and pressed his face against her skirt. Her lips moved. No sound came out. The boy’s eyes flicked down toward my feet before she turned him away.

A man stood under one of the lamps with his hands in his coat. He had the look of someone who had stood there a long time and could not remember why. When he saw me, his mouth worked as though he meant to speak, but no sound emerged. His lips trembled. His eyes darted - not at me, but lower, as though something on the ground unsettled him. I said nothing to him. He said nothing to me. He raised one hand as if to bless or ward or plead and then let it fall.

The fog carried scents that did not belong together. Coal smoke. Damp rope. Sugar. And under it something iron and wet, as if somewhere close by the ground had opened and an old smell had climbed out. The music wove in and out of it. I tried to hum the tune and could not. Each time I thought I had it, it stretched away like a fish pulling line.

The ticket grew warm where I had tucked it into my inner pocket. Not hot enough to burn, only enough to make itself known. Heat that pulsed and then steadied. I could have stopped. I could have turned back to the station and asked the operator to send me on with the next train. I did not.

The road bent where the houses ended and the fields began. The fog thickened and took on a brightness that did not come from the sky. Lanternlight lay ahead in strips and splashes, colors too strong to be real. The calliope grew louder. The sugar smell swelled until it crowded everything else out and made me think of a fairground I had not visited since I was a child. Behind it, faint as a thought you do not wish to have, I tasted metal.

The river ran along the edge of the fields. I could hear it without seeing it, the slick, steady motion of water over stone. The ground under my boots changed from brick to cinder to packed earth. I did not look back.

The carnival rose from the fog as if it had always lived there. Tents striped in crimson and antique gold, poles that sent the lanterns high, guy ropes that laced the earth like a web. A Ferris wheel stood at the far edge like a coin held up to the light. The spokes did not move.

People moved between the tents in slow currents. Their faces were too bright in the lanternlight and too pale in the shadows. Children went wide-eyed and quiet and were tugged along by the hand before their feet could begin to wander. Laughter rose here and there like flares and faded as if the air swallowed it.

I found the ticket booth near a pair of painted clowns that did not look like clowns so much as masks made for a purpose no one would admit. The man behind the window wore a white shirt and a tie and a face polished smooth like wax. He turned his head as if his neck did not have the right bones in it. I slid the ticket toward him in the little brass tray.

He looked down. His hand stopped. The air between us changed. The lantern behind him threw a coin of light that made his eyes seem glassy. He did not pick up the ticket. His mouth made a smile and his eyes did something else entirely.

He slid something across the counter without touching the ticket at all. A map, folded three times, printed in ink so thick it seemed to shine. Curlicues and flourishes crawled the border. Each tent had a name in a script that would have been lovely if it did not make me feel watched. Near the top, where the paper creased, the ink bled into the fibers as if someone had drawn and then tried to wash something away. There was a piece of the grounds with nothing written on it.

He didn’t take the ticket. His hand hovered over it, then pushed it back toward me across the brass tray. With one finger he flipped it over. On the back, in script that curled like smoke, a phrase waited as if it had been written long ago, waiting only for me to see it:

A hand writes, but a shadow reads.

I looked up. The man watched me. He had not spoken a word. His teeth caught the light. He tapped the edge of the map once with a fingernail and then set his hands in his lap as if to say that was all and more than enough.

I put the map and the ticket away. I let the crowd carry me. The ground was soft and smelled of spilled beer and old straw. Shadows pooled under the ropes and moved when the lantern flames did not.

At first it was all sound and color. A barker somewhere to my right, voice high and peppery, promising wonders for a coin. A woman’s laugh that cracked at the end as if laughter hurt. The jingle of a branch of tin bells on a game stall. The calliope. The same tune, always, only the notes rearranged, as if the music did not begin or end but only turned upon itself.

I tried not to look at the performers but my eyes were drawn to them. The juggler worked under a lantern, knives turning in clean arcs that caught no light. They should have thrown lean blades of shadow across the ground, but did not. The thought slid into me sharp and wrong, and for a second I wondered if the lantern were trick glass. He smiled without blinking. His smile sat on his face like something borrowed.

A woman wore a mask made of mirror pieces the size of coins. When I passed, I did not see myself. I saw a boy I remembered, a friend from school who had stolen a pocket watch and given it back two days later with a note that said I am sorry I did not keep it. He drowned the year after. I saw him in the little circles, mouth open as if to speak, and then he was gone. But what rooted me was her shadow: it did not follow the tilt of her head. It moved half a beat later, jerking like a puppet tugged by unseen strings.

I pinched the bridge of my nose with inked fingers. The calliope skated in and under my skin. The music had no place to go and so it went everywhere. I took the ticket out and looked at the words again. A hand writes, but a shadow reads. Letters so careful a child could never have written them, so casual a machine would not have bothered.

I put the ticket away once more and walked. I did not know I was following the heat in my pocket until I stepped from a puddle of lanternlight into a seam of darkness and, just for an instant, I swore my shadow kept moving after I halted. The ticket flared through the cloth like a coal.

The farther I went, the less I heard of people. The laughter thinned and the stall bells stopped and the barkers’ voices dropped into a murmur like a prayer that had been said too many times. I walked past the backs of tents and the places where the canvas had gone green with damp. The air grew colder the way a cellar is cold even in July.

Behind the Wonders tent stood a wall of crates stacked three and four high. The stenciled words were in a language I did not know. Grass had grown up around them, tall as my hip, fat with water. Beyond them a wagon with one wheel missing stood on blocks. A rope ladder hung down its side like a dead snake.

If you were not looking, you would not have found a way past. If you were looking, you would have wondered why anyone had made a way at all.

I moved the boxes where they leaned and made a space just wide enough to slip through. The tall grass brushed my coat and left my hands wet. My legs itched where the grass touched skin. The lanterns here were few and they threw their light in narrow ribs that should have cast shadows straight and clean. Instead, every shadow slanted unnaturally, as though drawn by something waiting ahead.

The ticket pulsed against my ribs. The small bones around my heart felt it and tapped back like a child knocking from behind a door. I set my hand over it as if I could hold it still. I could not.

A tent stood before me. It was not crimson and gold. It was a kind of gray that does not belong to fabric but to ash, the gray of something that has been hurt and will not say what did it. The stripes were out of true. The canvas sagged. The ropes did not go to stakes. They went into the ground and vanished. Even there, at the edges, the shadows from the ropes dragged backward, straining away from the lanterns toward the inside of the tent.

I reached for the flap and the canvas kissed my knuckles with damp cold. When I pulled, the fabric stuck a moment as if glued with old sugar. Then it let go and the way opened.

The mirrors came first. Small and cheap, laid edge to edge across the ground, catching slivers of me in angles that did not fit together. My boots, my coat, a hand reaching into nothing. None of it quite the right size. Then I saw the people. Men and women hanging inches above the ground as if someone had lifted them by the shoulders and forgotten to set them down again. Their arms bent where bending would do harm. Their faces were not masks. They were faces. That made it worse. Their bodies were limp, but their shadows jerked and twitched below them, all tugging in the same direction - toward the darkness at the back of the tent.

From the far side of the tent something came together. Not a person. Not anything that would have a name the butcher might know or the priest would say from the pulpit. A place where the air refused its job. A slip, a seam, a fold that had opened and not closed. The shadows around it bled thin, stretched too far, every line of darkness dragged toward it as though gravity itself bent wrong. When I tried to fix my eyes on it my vision slid and my stomach gave the lurch that says you have stepped wrong on a stair in the dark.

The ticket in my pocket seethed like a thing boiling. I pulled it out and the letters glowed the way coals do when you draw breath on them. A hand writes, but a shadow reads.

The mirrors quivered. The hanged bodies breathed in a little whisper you hear in churches when the sermon is long and the windows are shut. My thumb found the ticket and pressed it hard as if pain would help. It did not.

I could feel the Shadow watching me though it had no eyes.

The lantern behind me went soft. I did not see it go out. I only knew the light changed from weak to nothing. At first I told myself it was my breath fogging the air. Then there was no air. There was only the weight of night.

I put my hands out. My fingertips found nothing at all. No canvas. No rope. No mirrors. The sound of the carnival beyond the crates and the grass was gone as if the tent had swallowed it.

Whispers rose. Not words at first. Sucking breath shaped into coils. Then syllables came out of the coils. Not language I would have read in a book, yet my mind made poor sense of it. Feed. Bind. Remain. Not a command. Not advice. A promise.

Footsteps moved around me in a circle. Soft, deliberate, too careful to belong to anything with feet and weight. The first turn around me was slow. The second came faster. The third ran. Something grazed the back of my hand. I jerked and the ticket slipped and I fumbled it and caught it by the corner. My hand went hot where the paper touched my skin. Still, I held it firmly.

I do not know how long I stood there with the dark pressed into my eyes. I counted three breaths, then ten. I could not hold the numbers. The seam in the air pulsed, not with light but with the idea of light. I felt it on my teeth. The chant rose. Voices outside voices. Some might have been the hanged if they had breathed again. Some might have been my own if I had been elsewhere and let my mouth run without my knowing it. Feed. Bind. Remain.

The floor under my boots shifted like a thing alive. The mirrors clicked. I said a word I had not said since I was a boy. I tried to take a step and could not tell if I had. The dark was that complete.

The last thing I remember before the dark closed all the way was the sound of the ticket at my fingertips. Paper should not have a sound. This did. It made a soft tearing sigh like cloth ripped along a seam you cannot see. Then nothing.

Only breath that might not have been mine. Footsteps I could not count. The ticket pulsing in rhythm with my heart, hot as a coal left too long in the ash. The chant circling and circling.

Feed. Bind. Remain.

That is all I can bear to set down for now. The hour is late, and I am wearied by what I have written. I will sit at my typewriter again soon, and then you shall have the rest of it.

LEATHERNECKS VS. MONSTERS: LOOSE ENDS
EPISODE THREE
‘Whiteout’
The Upper Suchan and the Vektor Institute, January 1919

Adams turned.

The colonel stood on the far side of the fire with his face to the trucks. Behind him stood the thing Muldoon had drawn.

It was pale and it was tall, and the lantern light did not reach its head. Rime hung off it in ropes. It had come in through the gap in the salt and it stood over the bedroll, bent a little at the middle, looking down at the man. It did not move. If it breathed, the breath did not show.

"Your grandmother's rule, Gunny."

"Sir?"

"About answering. Does it hold for the dead?"

Adams stopped. He looked at the colonel in the dark before him.

"Specially for the dead, sir," he said.

Quarterburn said nothing. He starred into the storm.

The wind stopped. It did not die down. It stopped, all at once, between one step and the next, and the snow blowing off the lip of the ravine hung in the air and came straight down.

Muldoon went flat on her face in the snow. She pulled Adams down with her befoore he even understood why. Then Adams smelled it. Ammonia. Wet fur. Close.
"Get down!"

The whiteout blew in from around the creature and it fell on them out of the dark sky over the ravine, a column of snow turning in on itself, and it made no sound, and Adams was inside it.

White in his eyes. White in his mouth. Cold that took his breath and kept it.
In the same minute, close, in the whiteout, a voice.

"Alaric."

Adams knew the voice. He had heard it in Cuba and in China and in Manchuria, over a fire, over a wound, over a bottle. Barclay's voice, a little hoarse, the way it always went hoarse in the cold.

"Alaric. Over here. I've got a light."

There was a light. Off in the white, low, yellow, a lantern swinging.
Adams could not see the colonel. He could hear him, close, breathing.

"Don't answer it, sir!" Adams shouted. "Don't you answer it!"

The breathing stopped.

"John," Quarterburn said.

“That ain’t the Doc, Sir! Doc’s been dead two years.” Adams heard him go. Boots in the snow, three steps, four, walking, not running, toward the light.

Adams got the trench gun up. The lantern swung in the white, low, yellow, forty yards off or four hundred, he could not tell. There was a Manchurian Special in the chamber and the bead was on the light.

The colonel was walking toward it. Somewhere between the bead and the light, in the white, the colonel was walking.

Adams took his finger off the trigger.

Then the white lifted. The wind came back all at once. The stars came back over the ravine, wrong over the mast and right everywhere else.

Muldoon was getting up out of the snow. From where the colonel had been, boot prints went away down the ravine, ten long walking strides toward the floodlights of the station, and then stopped. Beyond them the snow lay smooth with nothing on it.

"Gunny," Muldoon said.
Adams did not answer her. He looked after the footprints.

#
Quarterburn woke because his eyelashes had frozen together.

He worked them apart. The light was electric and very white, from a bulb in a wire cage on the ceiling. The ceiling was tiled. The walls were tiled white to the height of a man and painted green above that. Brass instruments stood along a bench under dust covers, and in a glass case on the wall a row of needles hung on silk threads, and he knew from somewhere that it was a room for measuring the magnetism of the earth and that no iron was permitted in it.

Someone had bolted a steel chair to the floor of it anyway. He was strapped into the chair. Leather straps across his chest and his wrists and his ankles, buckled tight. He was cold through. He could not feel his feet. His right hand lay strapped on the arm of the chair and shook against the leather, a fine fast tremor, and with the hand strapped down there was no pocket to put it in.

He found that he was counting. Tiles across the ceiling: fourteen. Bolts in the floor: six. He made himself stop.

He remembered a light in the snow and walking toward it. He remembered a voice. John Barclay was dead. He had known it in the snow, with the voice in his ear. He had answered anyway.

He set that down, the way he would set it down in a report, and could not make it mean anything. He tried the straps. Chest, wrists, ankles. Whoever had buckled them had done it before. He thought of Adams out in the snow, what happened? What happeennd to the team. He could not make himself remember what had happened only the shout.

His field book was in his pack in the hide. There was a letter folded in the back of it that he had written to Miss Thorpe and not sent. He found he was glad it was there and not here. Then he found he was not glad at all.

A page turned.

A small man sat on a stool by a bench with a typescript open on his knees. He wore a white uniform coat buttoned to the throat, very clean, felt boots, and steel monocle. He turned the pages slowly, reading, with a Turkish cigarette in his other hand, which he set in an ashtray occasionally, exchanging it for a pencil to make a mark now and then in the margin. He did not look up.

Quarterburn knew the typescript. He knew the blue board covers of the War College and the brass fasteners, and the title on the first page, which he had typed himself at Newport in October 1915 on a machine with a dropped e.

Quarterburn knew him then. Not the face. The way he read, without hurry, certain the world would wait for him to finish. He had seen it once before, by firelight, on a beach in 1909, with palm trees burning behind and the engine house going up in sheets, and Gruber, the Captain of German Naval Intelligence marching this man off in chains to his waiting Cruiser. An event that was burned into Quarterburn’s very soul. Had he only let Adam’s risk the shot and had killed this man back then, how many untold thousands would still be alive.

The small man reached the last page. He read it to the end. He made one more mark. Then he closed the typescript and looked up over his spectacles, and his eyes were pale and interested and entirely without hurry.

"Colonel," he said. His English was very good. "You have been busy since you burned my island. An author now, I have read your compiled lectures, very insightful, even if your thesis is wrong."

He tapped the cover with the pencil.

"And, you have spelled my name wrong in two places."

#

“The Colonel is gone.” Said Adams to the team,“He was taken. They know we are here, they just don’t know how many and where we are else they’d be coming out. But, I think they always knew, they jus’ don’t care.” 

“What do we do now Gunny?” Asked Johansson.

”We carry out the plan. Just like the Meuse-Argonne.”

”Right, a trench raid.” Hunt drew out his bayonet and tested the edge.   

"We can't message Dragonov, Gunny," Dunn said. " The wireless went down with Smith’s truck.  There's not another a set within a hundred miles that'll reach Tsemukhe. Except that one." He pointed with his chin over the crest, at the mast that overhung the Vektor station.

"Then somebody goes back and gets him," Adams said. "Johansson, you, and take Wang, the General knows him."

Wang Che shuffled. "I will be very fast," he said. "Fast is my best quality."

"Since when?"

"Since there has been something behind me."

Adams took Johansson and Wang Che aside to the mouth of the hide.

"Tell the General what we saw. Tell him where. Then tell him this, word for word: not one shell until he hears from us. Not one."

"How will he hear from us, sir? You said there's no set."

Adams looked up over the crest at the mast, black against the wrong stars.

"There is one," he said. "It just isn't ours yet."

At the mouth of the hide Adams took Wang Che by the sleeve.

"Don't you stop on the way down to sell anybody anything."

Uncharacteristically serious "Adams, I shall bring the cavalry, you get the Colonel, and," Wang Che said. “This time kill Bakanov.”

"Mind the General," Adams said. "He is seven minutes ahead of everybody. I don’t trust him."

Johansson laughed and pulled his mittens on.“Don’t worry Gunny, I learned that from the best.”

The two men climbed aboard the Ford, Hunt and Smith had already cranked the engine, Adams watched the Ford drive away for some time after.

#

They left the other Fords where the side valley pinched shut, in a stand of larch with the canvas pulled over them and snow shoveled against the wheels, and went up on foot.

Corporal Dunn led, with Barclay's box hung from his neck on a strap. The needle had not moved off northeast since the wreck, and the ticking in the headset came faster with every hundred yards they climbed. The rest came behind in a file, Chavez with the automatic rifle across his shoulders, Higgins last.

Above the valley the trees thinned. At noon they came out onto a bench of open snow under the ridge, flat and white and still, and stopped.

An hour before dark they came up under the crest of the ridge and crawled the last fifty yards on their bellies, and looked down at the Vektor Institute. The hide was a hollow under an overhang of rock just below the crest, out of the wind and out of sight of the station, big enough for all of them if nobody minded anybody else's feet. 

The Vektor Institute sat on a saddle across a narrow gorge, a quarter mile off and a little below them. It had been a weather station once, for the Imperial Navy: a long stone house with a tin roof, a boiler house beside it with a tall chimney, sheds, a wire fence, and on the peak above it a steel mast two hundred feet high with wires running down from it to the roof of the long house. Beside the station a waterfall had come off the saddle into the gorge and frozen in the act, eighty feet of ice, fluted and blue in its folds.

The chimney smoked. Floodlights on poles lit the yard white. Behind the windows of the long house there was a blue light that was not lamplight and not electric, and it came and went.

Talbot passed the field glasses along the line.

Adams looked for a long time. Sentries on the fence, ordinary men in White greatcoats with ordinary rifles, and their breath going up in the floodlight in clouds. Then a door opened in the long house and a file of people came out across the yard in white robes, twenty of them, walking in step, bareheaded in the cold. Adams watched their mouths. Nothing came out of any of them.

"I don’t see the Colonel but it’s definitely Bakanov’s work," he said, and handed the glasses on.

Dunn had the headset on. He took it off. The needle in Barclay's box stood hard over against its pin and stayed there.

"That's it, that’s the target," Dunn said. "That's what the box has been listening to since Seattle."

Adams kept studying the site with the glasses. He went over the station a piece at a time, the fence and the gate and the doors, and then he went down the gorge below it. A sledge road came up the far side from the south, packed hard and wide enough for two teams abreast, with the fresh dung of horses on it steaming in the floodlight.

"They're supplied from the south," he said. "From the railway."

"From Vladivostok," Thorpe said. "From the stores of a Prince who has no trucks."

The sun went down behind the peaks. The floodlights got whiter. The stars came out over the gorge, hard and close in the cold, and Thorpe lay on her back in the snow and looked up at them without saying anything.

Then she rolled onto her elbows and looked again, at one part of the sky above the mast, and pulled off her glove and held up her thumb against it and counted something under her breath.

""The Plough is wrong."

Adams looked up. He knew the Big Dipper from a hundred nights in the woods at home. It hung over the mast, and it was wrong. The bowl was bent. One star of the handle stood where it had never stood, and beside it was another that had no business in the sky at all, red, and too bright.

"I have checked it twice," Thorpe said. "It is wrong over the mast and right everywhere else." She put her glove back on. "

At three in the morning they went down the ravine beside the frozen waterfall. Muldoon and Talbot lay up on the crest with the rifle and the glasses to cover them.

The ravine was steep and narrow and full of drifted snow, and they went down it on their backsides as much as their feet. The ice of the fall stood beside them the whole way, blue and fluted and taller than a church, and from somewhere behind it, deep in the ice, came the sound of water still running. LaFontain stopped and put his ear to the ice and listened. 

The barbed wire at the bottom was old and slack. Hunt held it up with his rifle and they went under one at a time.

They lay in the snow behind the first shed while a sentry came along the inside of the fence. A robed one. He walked bareheaded and in step with nobody, his bare feet blue-black on the packed snow, and he passed within ten feet of them. Adams lay with his face in the snow and his own breath going out of him in a cloud he could do nothing about.

The robed man stopped.

He turned his head toward the shed. He stood that way, listening, or smelling, Adams could not tell which. Hunt's hand was on his bayonet. Adams put his own hand on Hunt's and held it there.

The robed man walked on.

There were pens behind the sheds, a row of them roofed with tin and fronted with heavy wire, and in the pens there were men.

They sat on straw in tattered Russian issue shirts and trousers, no coats, no boots, and none of them shivered. They wore wool caps pulled down to the eyebrows, and under the caps something pushed the wool up in two places above the temples. One of them had his shirt open. Below his ribs on either side something had begun under the skin, two humps the length of a hand, jointed, folded flat against him. He scratched at one of them with his nails without looking at it.

Adams nodded and LaFontain slid forward, Hunt shadowing. 

The prisoner saw them through the wire. He got up and came to the front of the pen. ”Dragonov’s missing men, and more.”

"Pardon, messieurs," he said, very politely, in good French. "Avez-vous vu ma mère?"

Adams understood it. Have you seen my mother.

Nobody answered him. 

Hunt said "Jesus" under his breath. LaFontain was crossing himself. Adams found that his own hand had done it too, and he had not been raised to.

They went on past the pens to the long house, keeping in the shadows the floodlights made, and at the end of it found a window with its shutter cracked and blue light coming through the crack.

The hall inside was as long as a drill shed, three stories high and full of machine.

Brass, mostly. Brass and steel. Columns of brass wheels stacked on spindles in rows from the floor to a gallery that ran around the walls, thousands of wheels, all of them turning, each by a tooth and then a tooth. Chains of cards ran up into the machine on sprockets, stiff yellow cards laced edge to edge, hundreds of feet of them looping down from racks in the roof and feeding in. The Bakanov-Babbage Machine.

At the far end two towers stood up out of the floor, sheathed in copper, forty feet tall, with thirty feet of air between them. The air between them was wrong.

It shimmered. It stood between the towers in a sheet, a summer heat-haze in a building as cold as the gorge, and there was snow coming down through a hole in the roof above it, and where the snow fell into the shimmer it turned over and went up.

Adams had his watch out. He and Thorpe were counting card changes. 

Higgins counted guards: four on the gallery, two at the door, robed men at the engine with oilcans and long brass tools. Every six minutes a new chain of cards came down from the racks and a robed man fed its end into the sprockets.

A small man in a white coat came out onto the gallery with a board of papers in his hand. He stood at the rail and looked down at the shimmer for a long time, and wrote something on his board, and looked again.

LaFontain had gone down on his knees at the foot of the wall. He had pulled off his cap and pressed his ear to the foundation stone below the window, and his eyes were shut. He stayed that way a long time. Then he moved two yards along and listened again, and two yards more.

When he got up he touched the stone in three places with his glove, one, two, three, and looked at Adams and nodded.

He nodded, he knew where the explosives would go.
###
For original art that accompanies this episode check out r/WorldsEdgeDispatches

Chloe squeezed her eyes shut as she aimed her highlighter brush at her cheekbone, but her hand shook slightly. Setting the jar down on her vanity table, she forced a smile into the lens of the ring light. She needed to film three more reviews of Korean cosmetics for her blog, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the events of a week ago.

It all started at a stupid party at her friend Amber’s place in Brooklyn. Alcohol, loud laughter, and an old Ouija board that Amber had dug up at some flea market. Back then, placing their fingers on the wooden planchette, they had jokingly asked, "Is anyone here with us?" The planchette jerked sharply toward the letters, spelling out an incomprehensible word, but the group only laughed, assuming one of the guys was just pushing the board. Chloe had found it funny back then too. Now—she didn’t.

"Chlo, I'm home!" Liam's heavy footsteps echoed from downstairs.

Liam worked at a construction site for a major residential complex in Manhattan. He would return tired, smelling of dust, plaster, and fresh wood. Their small apartment on the very outskirts of New York, in an old brick building, usually welcomed him with coziness and the aroma of dinner. But over the last few days, the place had felt unusually damp and quiet.

Dinner passed in silence. Liam noticed that Chloe had barely touched her pasta.
"Is everything okay?" he asked, squeezing her hand. "You look pale."
"Yeah, I'm just tired," she replied softly.

During the night, Liam woke up from a strange sensation. The room was unnaturally cold. He turned toward Chloe and froze.

Her body under the blanket was trembling with a fine, unnatural shiver, as if she were suffering from severe chills. Chloe lay on her back, staring at the ceiling with wide-open, uncomprehending eyes. Her lips moved rapidly, uttering a low, disjointed whisper. Liam listened closely but couldn't make out a single word—it sounded like a jumble of hissing sounds.

"Chloe? Hey, baby, wake up!" Liam shouted in fear.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. In that exact instant, the whispering stopped. Chloe gasped sharply, as if surfacing from deep water, and her eyes finally focused on his face. The trembling ceased.

"What?.. Liam, what happened?" she mumbled, looking around in confusion.
"You were delirious. You were shaking," Liam said, breathing heavily as he wiped cold sweat from his forehead.
"It’s probably just exhaustion," Chloe said, genuinely surprised, pressing herself against his chest.

Liam wrapped his arms around her, trying to calm down. Things like this happen, right? Sleepwalking, stress, nightmares. They decided it would pass on its own.

But the next day, after Liam left for work, Chloe turned on her camera for a new video. In the middle of recording, a closet door behind her back opened all on its own. She didn't even notice it at the time, but when she was editing the footage, she got incredibly scared and hoped it was just a draft. She decided not to tell her boyfriend about it, so she wouldn't look crazy or worry him unnecessarily.

That night, he woke up to a sharp noise. A dull, echoing thud, as if something heavy had been thrown against the wall, made Liam open his eyes instantly.

He sat up in bed and immediately looked for Chloe, but she wasn't next to him. The sheets on her side were already cold. Liam frowned and peered into the darkness: the bedroom door was tightly shut, even though they never closed it.

He stood up and called out softly:
"Chloe?.. Baby, where are you?"

In response—dead silence and a thick, oppressive stillness. Liam paused, listening. A couple of seconds later, footsteps echoed from the depths of the apartment. But these weren't the normal steps of a human—the sounds were too fast, ragged, and slapping, as if someone were moving in a half-squat.

Without turning on the lights, Liam pushed the bedroom door open. He stepped into the dark hallway and cautiously walked toward the living room, guiding himself by the faint light of a streetlamp coming through the window.

"Chloe, this isn't funny, stop—" Before he could finish his sentence, a figure lunged straight at him from the thick shadow of the living room corner.

Liam recoiled, nearly screaming from the horror rising in his throat. It was Chloe. But her body was unnaturally contorted: she was on all fours, face down, letting out a low, guttural growl. Before he could take a single step back or switch on the light, she scurried past him with animalistic speed, her hands and feet moving incredibly fast, and fled into the dark doorway of the kitchen.

Deep inside the kitchen, fast footsteps scurried across the tiled floor, accompanied by heavy, labored breathing. Liam stood frozen in the dark hallway, his heart pounding violently somewhere in his throat. He lunged for the light switch in the living room and flipped it. A harsh, yellowish glare flooded the apartment. He called out to the girl again, his voice breaking into a shout:
"Chloe! Chloe, snap out of it!"

But his only answer was silence and a low, sinister snarling from the depths of the kitchen.

Struggling to overcome his paralysis, Liam slowly walked toward the kitchen. With every step, a cold sweat broke out across his back. Halfway there, he heard her talking rapidly under her breath—just like that time in the bedroom, breathless, taking no pauses to inhale. This foreign, rustling whisper filled the entire space.

Liam reached out with a trembling hand, found the switch on the kitchen wall, and flipped it. The light snapped on.

What he saw made his blood run cold. Chloe was sitting right in the middle of the kitchen table, her legs tucked under her in a strange, contorted posture. Her head was tilted unnaturally to one side, and her eyes had completely rolled back—only the whites were visible, webbed with thin, red capillaries. Her entire body was shaking with a fine tremor, and she continued to mutter ceaselessly.

"Chloe... please, Chloe, look at me!" Liam called her again, taking a step forward and reaching his hands out to her.

And suddenly, she stopped dead. The whispering cut off instantly.

Chloe gasped sharply, her head snapped, and her eyes instantly returned to normal—her pupils constricting from the bright light. She stared at Liam and then began to look around in terror, as if she had just woken up in an unfamiliar place. Tears began to stream down her pale cheeks. She looked at her hands, then at the table she was sitting on, and asked with horror and tears in her voice:
"What... what is happening to me? Liam, help me, I'm so scared!"

She slid off the table and would have collapsed helplessly onto the floor if Liam hadn't rushed forward just in time to catch her in his strong embrace. She was shaking as if she had a fever. Liam held Chloe tightly against him, trying to protect her from the invisible nightmare she was experiencing. Because of this, he didn't see Chloe’s eyes roll back once more, hiding her pupils, while her pale but beautiful face twisted into the grotesque, unnaturally wide grin of a maniac preparing to strike.

With a sudden, animalistic lunge, Chloe sank her teeth into his ear and began to tear at it with savage fury. Liam screamed bloodcurdlingly from the piercing, blinding pain. He tried to pull away, to push her by the shoulders, but the fragile girl clung to him dead-locked, displaying a bizarre, superhuman strength. Her fingers dug so deeply into his shoulders they left bruises.

His agonizing screams shattered the sleepy silence of the residential neighborhood. Lights began to flicker on hesitantly in the windows of the neighboring house.

Tearing a piece of his ear away with a sickening crunch, Chloe burst into a hysterical, deafening laugh, throwing her head back. Liam's blood spurted out in a stream, drenching her face, neck, and her pajama shirt. Intoxicated by the sight of blood, the entity inside her loosened its grip for a split second.

That split second was all Liam needed. Blinded by pain and a knee-buckling terror, he shoved Chloe away with all his might. The girl flew backward, her back slamming hard against the kitchen counter, but she didn’t even flinch. She scrambled up onto all fours, smearing the blood across her face, and continued to laugh wildly, choking on her own mirth.

Liam clamped his hand over the wound, but hot blood surged through his fingers, instantly soaking his clothes. His head spun, and everything blurred before his eyes.

"Run!" throbbed in Liam's head in sync with the frantic pounding of his heart. He needed to run outside, to save himself, to call for help: the police, doctors... a priest! His thoughts were a mess from shock and blood loss; the wound pained him terribly, burning the entire left side of his head.

Holding his bloody ear with one hand, he bolted into the entryway toward the front door. But just as his fingers brushed the doorknob, he heard those same fast, slapping footsteps behind his back. The creature was running after him.

"Where are you going, honey?!" Chloe shrieked from the darkness of the hallway in a voice that wasn't her own—guttural and broken. "We aren't finished yet!"

And she dissolved again into a horrifying, choking laughter that made the hair on the back of Liam's neck stand up. Liam had almost managed to turn the lock and fling the door open when the air behind him whistled sharply. Chloe lunged onto his back. From the sudden weight and the force of the impact, the construction worker stumbled, nearly crashing face-first into the wall. The girl locked her legs death-tight around his waist and dug her hands into his hair, yanking his head backward.

In that exact second, she bit into his shoulder with savage fury, tearing through the thick fabric of his T-shirt and sinking her teeth deep into his flesh.

Liam wailed from a fresh flash of agony. They both crashed onto the floor right in the entryway, blocking the exit from the apartment with their own bodies. The blood-smeared lock remained just centimeters away from his hand, but the entity inside his girlfriend's body had no intention of letting its prey out alive.

He screamed wildly, writhing on the floor, trying with all his might to throw the creature off him. But Chloe seemed completely numb to his blows—she kept gnawing at his shoulder with insane frenzy, literally tearing living flesh apart with her teeth. Blood flooded the entryway; Liam was already growing weak and nearly passing out from the sheer pain and shock.

Suddenly, red and blue reflections danced frantically across the hallway walls. The flashing lights of police cruisers blinked through the apartment windows, likely called by neighbors terrified by the screams.

Hearing the sirens wailing outside, the creature growled. With sharp, superhuman strength, she shoved Liam away, sending him flying backward to slam hard against the front door. Outside that very door, fists were already pounding furiously.

Liam could only wheeze, choking on his own blood, feebly crying out for help. A thick fog blurred his vision, so he couldn't see where Chloe ran. But a loud, deafening crash of shattering glass from the depths of the apartment made it clear that she had escaped by leaping out the window. And this was despite the fact that their apartment was located on the 4th floor of a high-rise building.

A second later, the door was kicked open with a thunderous crash, and cops burst into the apartment, guns drawn and ready.

"Police!" echoed through the entryway.

One of the officers dropped to his knees before the bleeding Liam, applying pressure to his wounds and calling for an ambulance over the radio, while the other two rushed to search the dark rooms. But they were completely empty—cold night air filled the kitchen, and on the floor among the shards of the broken window, there were only a few drops of fresh blood leading out into the darkness of the street.

The lock on the terrace door snapped under the pressure of the short crowbar with a barely audible metallic click. The burglar slipped into the living room. The suburb slept in absolute silence. He breathed shallowly, through his nose. The job required steady fingers and a cold head, and he had been in this trade long enough not to make mistakes.

He moved forward, skillfully avoiding the furniture. He directed the narrow beam of his pocket flashlight, searching for a path toward the study. The light swept across the floor and suddenly stopped next to the couch. He recoiled. His hand reflexively gripped the casing of the flashlight. The motionless body of a woman lay on the floor. Her eyes were wide open, staring straight at the ceiling. A thin line of dried blood ran down from the corner of her mouth.

From the bathroom, the sound of water rushing through the faucet echoed. He started to retreat toward the terrace, but the bathroom door was already opening. Realizing there was no time to escape, he threw himself in a panic behind a curtain that concealed a deep recess in the wall. Every muscle in his body froze with tension.

A man entered the living room and turned on a lamp. Light illuminated the floor. In his hand, he held a roll of construction plastic wrap and wide duct tape. Through a narrow slit in the fabric, the burglar watched his every move. The man worked without hesitation, skillfully and meticulously. He knelt next to the body, wrapped it in layers of black plastic, and tightened the tape around the ankles, waist, and head.

The sound of tearing duct tape ripped through the silence. Then he grabbed the wrapped body, dragged it toward the garage, and closed the door behind him with a dull echo. The burglar immediately bolted from his hiding place. He flew through the terrace door, leaped over the low yard fence, and vanished into the blackness of the empty street, barely catching his breath.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

A few days passed, and David was still spinning the scenes from that night in his mind. As a petty thief with years of experience and two served prison sentences, he was used to danger. But this was something entirely different.

He lived alone and reclusively. He survived exclusively by breaking into homes and quickly fencing stolen goods. Every day came down to planning the next break-in. He sat on the couch, reached for the remote control on the table, and turned on the television. A face filled the screen.

It was a news report about a missing woman. The man on the screen was giving a statement to reporters. Beneath his face, a name appeared: Alan Barna, Attorney. His face was pale, and his voice trembled before the cameras.

"My wife Rita disappeared three days ago," he spoke into the microphones. "She didn't return home that evening, and all trace of her has been lost since. Her car was found parked outside the city, abandoned. We are desperate. I beg anyone who has any information to contact the authorities immediately."

David recognized that face. The man who was currently weeping before the reporters was the exact same man from the house. The man he had watched coldly wrap the corpse of his own wife. He had heard of attorney Alan Barna. He was famous for defending the biggest names in the city, mostly shady people.

Calling the police, although the most logical step, was also the most dangerous one for David. Going to the station meant confessing to a burglary. He stood up and began pacing around the living room. In his head, a cold calculation quickly clicked into place. The attorney was backed into a corner, and David held the only ace in his hands that could send that man to prison. He would use what he saw that night. He would cash in on the silence and secure his future financially.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

David spent hours waiting across the street from the building where attorney Alan Barna’s office was located. Leaning back against the seat of his car, he watched the glass doors through which people in suits constantly entered and exited. Years of experience had taught him caution, and tailing required maximum patience. He didn't take his eyes off the main entrance as darkness slowly descended upon the city streets.

Only later in the evening did the attorney finally exit the building. He walked down the steps, got into his car, and drove off. David waited a few moments and slowly drove after him, maintaining a safe distance so as not to attract attention. The city traffic at those hours worked in his favor, allowing him to remain unnoticed in the convoy under the streetlights.

The attorney soon turned toward a residential part of the city, driving through alleys where there was significantly less traffic. David slowed down, allowing a larger gap to form between them. The attorney pulled up and stopped in front of a smaller house.

David parked about fifty meters behind him, along the curb, and turned off the engine. Through the windshield, he watched the attorney step out of the vehicle and approach the house. A younger woman opened the door for him. The attorney went inside, and the door closed.

David got out of the car and crept up to the fence. Thanks to his long-standing practice of breaking into houses, he moved completely soundlessly, using the shadows of the yard to get closer to the windows. The curtains inside were only half-drawn, leaving a clear view of the living room. He crept right up to the glass and spotted them. The intimacy between them was obvious. The attorney pulled the woman close to him, and their lips met in a kiss.

David took out his phone and raised it, making sure not to touch the window frame. His hands were completely steady as he lined up the shot. The lens caught the clear lines of their faces, the attorney’s hand on her waist, and the moment they sat on the couch holding hands. He took several consecutive photographs. They were clean, sharp, and unambiguous. While the entire country sympathized with the prominent attorney over his wife’s disappearance, he was secretly meeting with his mistress in her house.

David retreated soundlessly back toward the fence, watching every step in the dark. He returned to his car and drove down the street. The first part of the plan was executed.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next day, David sat in his room with his phone in his hands. He had copied the number of the attorney’s office from the internet and spent a few moments just staring at the keypad on the screen. He knew he was making a move from which there was no turning back. He pressed the call button.

It rang several times before a woman’s voice answered from the other side.

"Law office of Alan Barna, how may I help you?"

"Patch me through to the attorney," David said, speaking in a deep, cold voice. "Tell him it’s a private and urgent matter."

"Your name, please?"

David simply repeated the sentence, this time slower and more firmly:

"Patch me through to the attorney and tell him it’s a private matter."

After a few moments of silence, the call was transferred. The line went quiet, and then the attorney’s voice echoed.

"Attorney Barna here. I'm listening."

"Listen to me carefully and don't interrupt me," David began. "I have photographs of you with your mistress at her house last night. And I also know that you killed your wife, whose body you then wrapped in plastic wrap on the floor of your living room."

Total silence fell over the other side of the line. David heard only the steady breathing of the attorney, who was clearly trying to process the information and maintain his composure.

"Who is this? What do you want?" the attorney’s voice grew sharper, but a hidden panic could be felt in it. "If this is some sick joke, I’m hanging up and informing the police."

"Go ahead," David shot back calmly, not in the least impressed by the threat. "But think carefully about what would happen to you after these photographs and the whole story ended up in all the media. Imagine the headlines. The public would tear you apart, and the police would immediately knock on your door with entirely different questions. That wouldn't be good for you at all, Alan. Everything you’ve built your entire life would be destroyed within an hour."

The attorney was left speechless. He knew that the unknown voice held him in a grip and could expose everything he had tried so hard to hide in a second.

"How much are you asking for?" he inquired. His voice was quiet, reduced to the businesslike tone of a man who realized there was no way out.

"One hundred thousand euros," David fired straight out, without hesitation. "That is the price for my silence. For that amount, no one will ever find out that you killed your wife. These photographs will never reach the media or the police, and you can keep playing the grieving husband."

"That is a huge amount of money, I can't gather that overnight," the attorney said, his voice trembling. "I need time to withdraw such a sum."

"You’ll gather it because you have no choice," David snapped. "Don't try anything stupid, remember that I am the one dictating the terms. You’ll give me a number where I will text you instructions on where and when you will bring the money. If you try to pull anything, everything goes public."

The attorney dictated the number to him. Before he could say anything else, David cut the call. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he set the phone down on the table. The move was made, and there was no backing out.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Barna slowly lowered the phone onto the table, while the voice of the unknown man still echoed in his head. That man knew absolutely everything. His hands were shaking. He clenched his fists to regain control. For years, he had built a reputation as an infallible, top-tier, and respected attorney, and he had no intention of letting some punk and small-time blackmailer ruin his life. He stared ahead, plotting his next steps, and then abruptly stood up and walked out of the office. He got into his car and drove off. Along the way as he drove, he could only think about how much cash he had at home.

As soon as he arrived, he went straight from the door to the safe and opened it. He pulled out a couple of thick stacks of banknotes, placed them on the study desk, and began to count. This was cash he received under the table, bailing certain people out of trouble by bypassing legal procedures. He counted exactly fifty thousand euros.

He reached into the safe once more and grabbed his wife’s ring and diamond bracelet. These were the ring and bracelet she had taken off her hand on that fatal night, right before the argument in which he killed her. He took a black sports bag and stuffed everything inside. Now, all that was left for him to do was wait.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next day, he received a message with the location and the time. The meeting place was a parking lot on the edge of the city in an industrial zone. The attorney arrived at the scheduled time in the late evening hours.

David was already waiting. As soon as he saw the attorney pull up, he got out of his car and approached him with his hood pulled low over his face.

"Good evening, attorney. What do you have for me?" he said, rubbing his palms together with satisfaction.

The attorney handed him the bag. David opened it and looked inside.

"What is this?" he asked angrily.

"I couldn’t gather everything at once," the attorney replied. "There’s fifty thousand in there, I don’t have any more right now. Take the jewelry too, you can get a lot for it."

David took the ring and the bracelet out of the bag, observed them briefly, and then roughly shoved them back into the attorney's hands.

"I’m not crazy enough to take the jewelry of a woman the whole country is searching for right now," he said sharply. "I don’t want anything connecting me to her. I want clean cash, clean banknotes, and nothing else. Because you broke our agreement, your price is now two hundred thousand."

"But I don’t have that kind of money right now," the attorney tried to control his voice. "I will need a few days to gather such an amount."

"Alright, you'll get a couple of days, but you better have it all next time. Is that clear?"

The attorney felt his throat tighten under a surge of rage, but he quickly swallowed the lump and just gave a short, tense nod.

"I’ll be in touch," David added, slipping the bag of cash under his arm. He turned around, went back to his car, and drove off.

The attorney remained standing, following the red taillights with his gaze until they vanished into the darkness. Furious, he got into his vehicle and drove away.

As he drove toward his house, the streets were quiet and the intersections were empty. He parked in the yard, entered the house, and went into his study. He sat at the desk and lifted the laptop lid. He opened the browser, logged into the database of the insurance company he had cooperated with for years, typed in the license plate number he had memorized earlier at the parking lot, and pressed Enter. A moment later, the vehicle and owner information appeared on the screen. At the very top stood the name: David Sever

.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Several days passed before David made contact again. The attorney was sitting in his office when his phone rang. He answered, and the familiar, deep voice came through from the other side.

"Did you get the money?"

"Everything is ready," the attorney replied. "Where and when are we meeting? I want to get this over with as soon as possible."

"We’ll meet at the same place. I’ll let you know when," David said briefly and hung up.

Not long after, a message with the meeting time appeared on the phone screen. The attorney stood up and set his plan into motion. He already had every step mapped out in his head. He went to the bank and withdrew an amount slightly under ten thousand euros from his account. By withdrawing that specific sum, he avoided the lengthy procedures and questioning at the counter, leaving the branch without triggering any red flags in the system.

An hour before the agreed meeting, he drove to David’s house, having learned the address through the insurance company’s database. He parked a bit further away in the dark and waited. After about twenty minutes, the front door opened and David stepped out. He got into his car and drove off. The attorney waited for the vehicle to disappear from the road, then crossed the street. He walked quickly through the yard, approached the door, pulled out a thin metal tool, and skillfully picked the lock in just a few moves.

He entered the house and took his wife’s ring and diamond bracelet out of his pocket. They carried David’s clear fingerprints, left behind when he had taken them in his hands at the parking lot. Barna opened a dresser drawer, dropped the jewelry inside, closed it, and immediately left the house. He returned to his vehicle and headed toward the industrial zone. He arrived exactly at the agreed time.

David’s car was already parked there. The attorney pulled up and turned off his lights. He stepped out, holding the bag in his hand. David approached him, eyeing him from beneath his hood.

"It better be all here this time," he said.

"Don’t worry, here, you’re finally getting everything you asked for," the attorney answered calmly, a slight smile on his face.

David looked at him suspiciously, then accepted the bag and reached for the zipper. At that exact moment, the attorney pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and coldly fired two shots straight into David’s chest. David staggered, dropped the bag, and collapsed to the ground, remaining completely motionless. The attorney calmly took out his phone and called the police.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Attorney Barna was brought to the police station. He sat in the interrogation room, reinforcing the story he had prepared in his head. He knew he could not afford a mistake in a single detail. The door opened, and the inspector in charge of the case entered the room and sat at the table opposite him.

"Mr. Barna, let’s start from the beginning," he said, leaning his palms on the table. "What were you doing at that parking lot, and why did you shoot that man?"

"That man was blackmailing me," the attorney replied calmly. "Tonight I met with him to hand over the money he demanded from me."

The inspector slowly leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on him.

"What exactly was he blackmailing you with?"

"Photographs," the attorney sighed and rubbed his forehead. "You see, inspector, my wife and I haven't been functioning for a long time. We lived together, but our marriage was over long ago. I have someone else, and my wife knew it."

The inspector just gave a short nod, waiting for him to continue.

"A few days ago, this person contacted me," the attorney went on. "He was in possession of photographs of me with the other woman. He said that if I didn't pay him, he would send the photographs to the media. I paid him, thinking he would leave me alone after that, but today he contacted me again, demanding more."

"Tell me, why didn't you report all this to the police?" the inspector asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I didn't report it because I was afraid the photographs would reach the media. You have to understand me, inspector—imagine how that would echo in public. That I am seeing another woman while my wife is missing. They would tear me apart, accuse me of having something to do with her disappearance, and my career would be over."

"Alright," the inspector said. "But you said you went there only to hand over the money. Why then did you carry a weapon with you, and how did it even come to you shooting him?"

"I brought a weapon because he demanded a sum that I didn't fully have at my disposal," he said, spreading his hands to show complete helplessness. "I brought as much as I managed to gather. I knew I was dealing with a dangerous criminal, and I was afraid of what he might do when he saw that I didn't bring the full amount. When he took the bag and realized there wasn't as much inside as he had asked for, he lost it. He started yelling, reached his hand toward the inner pocket of his jacket, and stepped forward. I was sure he was pulling a weapon and was going to kill me on the spot. I drew my pistol and shot. I had to defend myself; it was pure self-defense in a fight for my own life."

The interrogation continued into the early morning hours, after which the attorney was released home while all the field checks were being conducted.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next afternoon, the doorbell at the attorney’s house rang. It was the inspector.

"Good afternoon, attorney."

"Good afternoon, inspector. Come in, please," the attorney said.

The inspector wiped his feet on the mat and entered the house.

"Please, have a seat," the attorney said, gesturing toward the couch in the living room.

The inspector sat down, holding a sealed plastic bag in his hands.

"We searched the house of David Sever, the man who was blackmailing you," the inspector said, placing the bag on the table. "In one of the drawers in his room, we found a ring and a diamond bracelet. Look at this, Mr. Barna. Does this jewelry belong to your wife?"

The attorney looked through the plastic, his face taking on an expression of fake grief and shock. He slowly nodded his head.

"Yes, that is her wedding ring. And her bracelet that she inherited from her mother. She never took it off her hand."

"Given that Sever had several heavy robberies and burglaries on his record, things are pretty clear now," the inspector concluded. "I believe that he robbed your wife that night, that she probably confronted him, and that he killed her. I also believe that he started tailing you after he realized she was the wife of a prominent and wealthy attorney. He took the photographs, based on which he tried to extract as much money as possible from you."

The attorney pressed his palms to his head, looking at the inspector in complete shock.

"Jesus Christ... I can't believe it," he uttered in disbelief.

The inspector leaned back, a cynical smile appearing on his face.

"Attorney, do you really think I'm that stupid?"

The attorney looked at him in surprise.

"Excuse me, what do you mean?" he asked.

"Do you really think I buy your story?" the inspector shot back.

The attorney's face suddenly lost its color.

"I really don't know what you mean, inspector."

"Come on, attorney, there's no need for acting. We both know very well that you are the one who killed your wife and that you set up that fool Sever."

"You have completely lost your mind, inspector!" The attorney stood up. "Do you hear yourself, what you are saying? Do you know that I can..."

"Listen to me carefully now, Alan," the inspector cut him off roughly, abruptly changing his tone. "Don't play me for a fool. Do you really want to end up in prison and lose everything?" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black USB stick. "I found this in Sever's house. Everything needed to send you to prison for the rest of your life is on this."

The attorney sat back down in disbelief, his face pale and frozen, as he tried to process in his head what was happening.

"Let me tell you, Alan, how things are going to work from now on. You will pay me every month. Don't worry, I don't need much; I am a humble man. Along with that, you will take care of some other things for me when I need you to. As long as you play along, you are safe. Do we have a deal?"

The attorney just shot him a silent glare for a few seconds. His jaw tensed, and then through clenched teeth, he barely managed to squeeze out:

"We do."

The inspector took the plastic bag from the table, stood up, and headed toward the door.

"Just let me tell you one more thing—don't even think about trying to play your games with me. I am not Sever. Have a nice rest of the day."

The inspector stepped out of the house. It was already getting dark outside. He walked to his car, unlocked the door, sat down, and turned on the ignition. He took the USB stick out of his pocket, pushed it into the radio, and turned up the volume. Music blasted loudly from the speakers. A light smile appeared on his face as he started the engine and drove down the street.

I don’t really expect anyone to find this shift log, mostly because the gravel road outside the main gate doesn’t lead back to the highway from where it came anymore. If you’re the relief guard taking the 6:00 AM turnover at Blackwood River Lumber, or if you ever find a blue plastic company binder left on a kitchen table anywhere in Nova Scotia, don’t read the entries. Don’t check the dates. Just burn the fucker, and walk away.

I took the twenty-four-hour watch to escape the mundane emptiness that has become my life. Out here, where the northern spine of the Appalachians drowns its sorrow-filled tail in the Atlantic, the woods don’t make a sound. The spruce trees stand thick and dark against the gray winters, less like living timber and more like a painted backdrop. They don’t sway when the fog rolls off the bay. They just wait—beautiful, stoic, and hungry.

The guard shack is a six-by-six concrete box between the tree line and the automated saw sheds. It smells of stale coffee, zinc-plated sheet metal, and cold diesel. I’ve spent three months learning the sterile math of this box: the quiet digital hum of the truck scale under the floor, and the way the faux-leather chair squeaks two distinct notes—a sharp C and a flat D—every time I lean back to check the perimeter monitors.

Routine is a fresh bandage on an old wound. Which is why the blue binder on the desk feels like an anomaly.

Company policy requires the solo watchman to log the yard status every two hours, from 6:00 PM to 6:00 PM. At midnight, I pulled the binder toward me to sign off on the perimeter fence. The pages are standard college-ruled, smudged with the grease-stained thumbs of men who quit years before I arrived.

Three pages back, the handwriting shifted.

The ink was blue gel—the exact shitty pens I buy in bulk from the pharmacy in town. The slant was mine. The tiny, impatient hook on the capital T’s was as well.

I leaned closer. The entry was dated October 24th, 2026. Written in my hand, matching my shorthand right down to the sloppy margin lines. But October 24th isn’t for another two weeks. I haven’t lived those hours yet. Yet there it was, dry and permanent, documenting a night I hadn’t witnessed. The book wasn’t predicting the future. It was holding it captive.

“12:04 AM,” the ink read. “Heard a single, heavy click against the north-facing glass. If you turn around, the distance between the desk and the door changes.”

My watch clicked. 12:03 became 12:04.

Behind my skull, exactly three inches away through the bulletproof glass, a single sharp fingernail tapped the pane.

The chair squeaked. High C. Flat D.

I didn’t turn around. I kept my eyes on the green static of Monitor 4 until my old Casio read 12:05. When I finally looked, there was only my pale reflection and the jagged outlines of frozen spruce in the dark. I reached for the door handle. The steel knob was too cold. The door, which usually opens with a heavy shove, didn’t budge.

I sat back down and turned the page.

The next entry was dated 02:18 AM.

“The digital scale just registered a weight,” my handwriting said. “Forty pounds. Then eighty. Then one-twenty. It is a single point of pressure, moving across the concrete pad toward the shack window. Do not look at the monitor. If you look, it stops moving, but it inches closer.”

I looked at the scale. 02:17 AM.

At 02:18, the red LEDs flickered. 40 lbs.

The yard was empty. Spotlights threw white cones over gravel and stacked timber. Nothing there.

80 lbs.

The number jumped. I heard a deep vibration through the pads—not footsteps, just a heavy settling of mass, one haphazard step at a time.

120 lbs.

The weight was consolidated right outside the glass. The air thickened with the smell of undisturbed topsoil and wet frost. I kept my eyes on the desk, hands shaking. I didn’t look at the window. I didn’t look at the monitor. I waited for the clock to turn.

When the scale went back to zero, I packed my thermos and unlocked the deadbolt.

My boot didn’t hit gravel.

It hit the thin gray linoleum of the guard shack floor. I had walked straight out the front door and seamlessly entered from the opposite wall. The door clicked shut behind me.

I threw my weight against it. It opened easily. I stepped out again, faster this time.

My chest slammed into the edge of the steel desk. Back inside.

I tried the window. The glass didn’t roll down. When I pressed my palms against it, the reflection didn’t match my movements. My reflection was still sitting in the chair, staring at the blue binder, pen in hand—writing.

The trucks, the lumber, and the spruce had become a flat projection trapped behind the glass. The only thing left was this six-by-six box, the green static, and the book.

It’s 5:30 now. My shift is almost over. The gray light outside hasn’t changed by a single degree since midnight. The clock on my wrist keeps ticking, but the world is stuck in a frozen dark fog.

I turned to the last page. The final entry is timed for 06:00 PM—the exact minute my relief is supposed to walk through that door.

The handwriting is still mine, but the ink is jagged, the letters stretched like someone was pulling them apart.

“06:00 PM,” it says. “The door will open. It will look like him. It will have his jacket, his boots, and his name tag. But when he sits in the chair, the notes will change. High C. Flat E. Do not let him see that you know the math is wrong. If he realizes you know, all that’s left of you will be the reflection.”

I can hear tires crunching on the gravel. Headlights flash through the fog. Someone is walking up to the door.

My hand is hovering over the pen. I have to write the next line before the handle turns god hel—

The pen touches the page.

The ink flows before the thought fully forms. My hand is steady now. The shaking stopped the moment the headlights cut through the bellowing fog. But it isn’t my mind guiding the hand anymore. I can only watch from somewhere deep inside my own skull as my fingers grip the plastic casing, forced into motion by a cold, heavy weight that has settled over my shoulders—as a cold, ink-black darkness bubbles down from behind my eyes.

I try to pry my fingers away. They won’t unlock. I am an unwitting passenger in my own skin.

06:01 PM

The door opens on the hinge that always sticks halfway. He steps in with the same heavy, slightly uneven gait. Same faded Carhartt jacket with the right pocket torn. Same scuffed boots tracking old diesel and sawdust. Name tag reads J. Hennessey. Right on time.

He doesn’t speak. Silence fills the six-by-six tomb. He just nods the way men who work alone nod—acknowledgment without invitation. He sets his thermos on the desk where mine was three minutes prior.

He drops into the faux-leather chair.

High C.
Flat E.

My body keeps its eyes glued to the binder. The last line is still wet.

He flips back a few pages out of habit. Past the 12:04. Past the 02:18. Past the weight readings. Past the looping door. He doesn’t flinch. Just turns the page with a thumb that leaves the same grease smudge the older men left years ago.

Then he looks up.

Not at my face. At the space three inches behind my skull. His pupils are a little too still, like the spruce outside.

“You’re early,” he says. His voice is almost right.

I try to scream, to tell him to run, but my mouth opens and only tastes wet topsoil and frost. The monitors are all green static. A rhythmic droning fuzz overwhelms every sense. The scale reads zero. The fog has stopped moving. Even the headlights outside are frozen mid-beam—as if to stop and taunt.

He leans forward. The chair complains again—High C, Flat E—louder this time. He slides the binder toward himself, then stops. His finger rests on the final entry, the one my hand is still actively forcing onto the paper.

“You wrote it,” he says. Not a question.

My head is forced to nod once.

He smiles the way a reflection smiles when it finally decides to stop copying. The corners of his mouth move a half-second too late.

“Good,” he says. “Then you already know how this ends.”

He turns the binder so the blank page faces the desk. The pen is still in my hand. The ink is still wet.

Outside the glass, the spruce lean a fraction closer—like gripping hands trying to pull me down into the dark.

And that’s when the perspective snaps. Suddenly, I am no longer looking out at Hennessey. I am looking through the heavy, bulletproof glass of the window, staring in at the guard shack.

Down in the chair, my physical body is sitting perfectly still, vacantly staring at the paper. Standing directly behind my body is Hennessey, looking over my shoulder, his hand resting on my paralyzed neck.

From out here in the dark, frozen woods, I can see the pen in my reflection’s hand moving across a page I can no longer read.

Write the next line.

The handle has already turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

swollen welts caused by the warmer months bug biting.

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

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

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

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

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

for the one that bore that sweet orange fruit.

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

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

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

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

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

would surely have spoiled in no time at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

heed what my beam of light revealed before me.

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

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

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

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

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

Run.

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

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

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

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

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

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

embankment on the side opposite our neighborhood.

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

do, don’t stop. Don’t look back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

back in my other, lighter jacket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

shadows it cast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fingers white with fingernails blue.

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

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

A panic attack would only make the asthma symptoms worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

veins and soothing my throat to opening wider again.

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

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

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

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

truly in focus was the closest to the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

humidifier and having shut the windows as well.

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

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

mother exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The innkeeper snorted. “He left.”

“What do you mean, ‘he left’?”

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

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

“I guess not,” the man shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I beg your pardon?” I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how long have they been sick for?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was entirely mistaken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t know.”

“Days?” I asked. 

“Maybe.” 

“Have you been vomiting?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

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

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

“A lot. Though it’s mostly blood.”

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

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

“To one extent or another, yes.” 

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

“You said there were seven men?” 

"Yes," Ms. Lafayette replied. 

“But I only see six men here.”

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

“Where at?” I inquired. 

“Just down the hall.” 

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

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

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

He stirred as I took a step into the room.

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

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

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

“Am I safe in assuming he cannot speak?”

“Correct,” the nurse replied.

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you see the boots too?” 

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

Something caught my eye as I looked away. 

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

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

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

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

I nodded my head in silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?” She asked.

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

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

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

“You may.” 

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

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

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

“Have at them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know.” 

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

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

“And why is that?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May I ask why?” 

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

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

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

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

Story by SpyGuy1992/SnooCapers2591

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

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

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

My First Field Audit

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monster Jobs & The Weakness of the IRS

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Full Moon Riders Motorcycle Club

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Pharaoh’s Estate Tax

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"BUT... THE CURSE OF THE PHARAOHS—"  

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

God and the Devil

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

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

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

The Celtic Sea God and the Ultimate Exorcism

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

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

Last Assignment Before Vacation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A man walked into the headlamps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am."

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We are hunters."

"Hunting what?"

"Not what ,who, Doctor General Bakanov."

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

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

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

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

“The one and only.”

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

When he let go Wang Che gasped for breath. 

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

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

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

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

"Where are we?"

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

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

"Loos."

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

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

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

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

Dragonov shut his watch and put it away.

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

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

"Mon général. Can you help us?"

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

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

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

 Thorpe laid the punched card on the map. 

Dragonov looked at the card a long time.

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

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

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

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

"Where?"

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

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

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

He stood with his hand on the glass.

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

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

"What's that one?" Talbot said.

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

"Who's Zarathustra?" Adams said.

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

”British, my good man.” 

The barrier pole went up.

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

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

"Is it genuine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Ask him what's up the valley."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not?"

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

#

They heard it at nine.

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

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

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

"Whose is it now?"

"Whoever is paying for the petrol."

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

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

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

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

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

Most of the food had been in that truck.

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

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

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

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

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

"You have something," the colonel said.

"Maybe."

"Gunny. Go."

"LaFontain!"

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

"How many grenades you got?"

"Five."

"Can you make 'em burn white?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

It went north. It banked. It came around.

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

He came lower.

Adams walked out into the middle of the river.

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

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

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

"Now!"

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

"Volley!"

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

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

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

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

"How many, Gunny?" Johansson said.

"Enough," Adams said.

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

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

The pilot was alive.

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

Adams knelt and opened the flying coat.

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

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

"Steward of what?"

Wang Che shook his head.

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

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

"Ask him who sent him," Quarterburn said.

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

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

Higgins was scratching at his empty sleeve.

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

Then the wind stopped.

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

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

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

The white out came down the slope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

The white came back after midnight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Muldoon's charcoal stopped.

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

Adams did not turn around. He watched her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Father Avankh.”

“Were you sitting there the whole time?”

“I was sleeping, until you woke me.”

“Here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

*

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let go of me,” said Ilya.

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

“Yaro, leave him alone!”

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

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

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

“I will,” said Ilya, and tipped them.

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

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

“Ilya – don’t!” screamed Varya.

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

 

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

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

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

“I can’t help him. Not on my own.”

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

“It can save him.”

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

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

“What?” she said thickly.

“The flower. You were right.”

“Why did you kill Yaro, Ilya?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

*

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ghost Inverted
Silas Whitney

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

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

The three became two became one. 

---

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

---

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

---

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

---

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

Again. 

Again. 

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

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

---

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

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

---

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

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

---

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

---

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

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

---

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

---

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

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

---

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

---

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

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

---

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

---

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

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

---

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

---

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

---

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

---

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They gasped.

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

"Can't really say."

"How big was it from where you were?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What insect would you change into?"

"A fly." He smiled.

"That sounds horrible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you see the brand?" she said.

I said yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My love," the woman started to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't mind?"

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

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

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

It was working it's way into her alright.

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

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

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

"A beautiful mess," the woman softly laughed.

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

Cassie feigned horror as she gasped in a faux manner.

"Whatever can that be, my love?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's Savanna. Sorry for-,"

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

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

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

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

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

Cassandra huffed too.

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

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

"Oh excuse me ma'am!"

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

"Golly gee wilikers there Sandy. Nice apartment,"

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

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

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

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

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

Face down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the question that made her die of embarrassment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there was another reason.

The fear of what had happened to the others.

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

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

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

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

“This one came from my grandfather.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soren leaned forward, casting shadows across his face.

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

 

 

 

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

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

One corner of his mouth began to rise.

The other followed a moment later.

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

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

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

That was the last time I saw my uncle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It wasn't just Sharon."

Her lips had barely moved.

“NOT NOW!” Dad boomed across the kitchen.

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

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

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

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

When I woke, the house was empty.

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

Soren followed Venn's gaze into the fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something shifted on the couch.

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

Someone was smiling at me.

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

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

I looked back toward the couch.

The yellowish teeth were higher now. Much higher.

Whoever was smiling had stood up.

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

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

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

Then he continued.

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

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

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

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

It was the building I was looking for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stopped chewing.

Was that the receptionist?

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

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

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

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

A pause.

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

Another pause.

"I doubt the boy would know that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"NO! PLEASE! STOP!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips moved.

"Help..."

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

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

Nobody answered.

"That's impossible," Ashen insisted.

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

The wind howled through the trees.

Soren continued.

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

I jumped backward.

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

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

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

It wasn't anymore.

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

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

Nobody spoke.

Nobody moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did he see?” I asked.

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

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

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

She looked down at me, then quickly away.

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

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

The car I had been waiting for finally arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom?” My voice started shaking.

Slowly she turned to face me.

Her eyes were empty.

And she was smiling.

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

Dad looked at Mom, then back at me.

"I don't know, buddy."

"Is she going to be okay?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

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

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

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

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

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

“Did it see you?” He sounded defeated.

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

Dad opened his mouth to answer.

“DAD!” I screamed.

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

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

Before long, there must have been fifteen of them surrounding us. I pressed myself against the seat as they approached the windows. Then, all at once, they stopped.

Not one of them came any closer.

It was almost as though something was keeping them away.

Dad had squeezed his eyes shut, but nothing happened. He opened them again and stared at the tall figures surrounding us.

Slowly, he took his foot off the brake. The car began creeping forward.

The figure directly in front of us stepped aside. Then another moved.

One by one, they separated, leaving just enough room for our car to pass.

Dad didn't say a word.

Neither did I.

As we passed between them, I looked out my window. One of the figures was standing so close that I could see its long fingers rubbing against the door, causing a faint scraping sound. Its head slowly turned, following me as we drove past. I ducked below the window until I couldn't see it anymore.

I stayed below the window until the scraping stopped.

When I finally looked up, the figures were standing in the road behind us, watching our car disappear into the darkness.

I looked toward the front seat.

Dad was crying quietly.

Mom was still smiling.

Soren stopped speaking.

 

 

 

The wind had quieted, and the trees stood still around the encampment.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

It was almost as though the world had been listening too.

"That's it?" Ashen asked.

Soren looked over at him.

"What do you mean?"

"What happened to the boy? The father? The mother?"

"I thought you didn't believe in these silly stories," Faeya cut in.

"I don't," Ashen replied. "But you can't just end a story like that!"

Faeya smiled.

"Sounds like you're getting a little scared, Ashen."

"I'm not scared," Ashen retorted.

"Oh yeah? Then why do you keep looking over your shoulder?" she teased.

Ashen quickly looked back toward the fire, and Soren quietly chuckled to himself.

"I told you guys what I know," Soren said. "I know the boy survived. What happened to his parents after that, I couldn't tell you."

"What about that coin?" Venn asked.

The other three looked toward Venn, who had been silent for quite some time.

"What about it?" Soren asked.

"You said someone put it in the boy's pocket," Venn answered.

Soren nodded.

"That's right."

"Did he ever find out why?"

Soren shook his head.

"Not that I know of."

Venn looked down at the small bundle resting in his lap.

Venn unwrapped the bundle and held the coin out to Soren.

“Do you remember what the coin looked like?”

“Not really,” Soren admitted. “But my grandfather always said there was something strange about it.”

“What do you mean?” Venn asked.

“Well, those things had the boy surrounded, didn't they? But they let him go. Maybe the coin had something to do with it.”

Venn turned the coin over between his fingers.

“You think it had something to do with this?”

Venn flipped the coin into the air. Its worn edges caught the firelight before it fell back into his palm.

“It’s just an old coin, Venn,” Ashen said, trying to convince himself it couldn’t possibly be related.

“Where did you get that coin?” Faeya asked.

The group turned to Venn, curious about the answer.

“I got it scavenging through one of the settlements years back. To be honest, it’s been my lucky coin ever since.”

Venn grinned. He wasn't used to everyone taking such an interest in the things he collected.

"I've got some more interesting things in here besides my lucky coin," Venn said, pulling out several other linen-wrapped relics.

"Oh, we're so glad you're showing us all your junk, Venn," Ashen said, finally lightening up.

Venn tucked the coin into his pocket as he began unwrapping the rest of his treasures to find the next best thing to show the group.

“This!” Soren chimed in. “This is a real treasure.” He held up one of Venn’s dirty linens that did not contain any artefacts.

Faeya giggled.

“No, no, no. You must not have seen this,” Venn said, holding up one of his more precious items.

"Now this one," he said, holding up a small object with a cracked glass face.

"What is it?" Faeya asked.

"No idea. But look at these little numbers."

Venn passed it to Soren.

"There's two little metal sticks inside. I think they used to move."

Ashen leaned forward.

"So you found a broken thing that doesn't do anything?"

"Well, I think it used to do something," Venn replied.

"Wonderful. Another treasure."

Ashen’s smile faded into a frown.

He rubbed his eyes, thinking that he must be getting tired, but as they cleared again, he was sure that there was something there, standing at the edge of the campground.

At first, he thought it could have been a shadow projected by the firelight, but as the flame flickered, the figure did not move.

Whatever it was, it was enormous. Taller than any animal they'd encountered. Much taller than a man.

"That smile didn't last long, did it, Ashen?" Soren teased, giving his leg a playful pat.

Ashen did not reply.

“Is something wrong?” Faeya asked.

All Ashen could do was slowly raise his hand and point towards the edge of the camp.

"Oh, come on, Ashen. I knew you were sca—"

Faeya stopped.

She had followed his finger toward the trees.

The figure stood motionless as the others turned toward it. Its long arms hung at its sides.

Nobody spoke.

Venn opened his mouth, but no words came out. His hand moved toward his pocket. He glanced at Soren, then back at the figure. Slowly, he pulled out the coin and held it in front of himself.

The figure began walking toward the fire.

Venn held the coin higher.

It kept coming.

"It’s coming for me," Venn whispered.

The figure passed between two of the tents.

Venn took a step backward.

"Why isn't it stopping?"

The figure reached Venn.

One of its long hands extended toward him. Its fingers slowly wrapped around his wrist.

Venn tried to pull away.

The fingers tightened.

The others scrambled to their feet, but the creature paid them no attention.

With its free hand, it pried the coin from Venn's fingers and dropped it into a small bag.

Then, without warning, the creature pulled. Venn was dragged across the campground with impossible speed. His pack tore open, scattering his treasures across the dirt. Before anyone could reach him, Venn and the figure disappeared between the trees.

Venn's screams echoed through the darkness, growing fainter until only the crackling fire and gentle wind remained.

Venn’s trinkets and his notebook lay strewn about the dirt of the camp.

Nobody spoke.

Soren stared into the trees.

The boy had escaped all those years ago. Venn hadn't.

And somewhere in the darkness, the Collector had finally come to collect.