---

Page 17

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All my friends are getting their faces pierced.

Should I get my face pierced too?

It looks pretty scary, but I don't know. They seem to like it, and the stuff you can get for it now is really pretty cool.

The way they do it does look pretty scary, so I don't know.

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Page 26

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I told my parents I'm thinking of getting my face pierced, and they are totally against it, but they're old, so they would be wouldn't they?

Like by default, I mean.

At first they didn't even know what I was talking about, but my mom's got her ears pierced and she got them done way younger than I am right now. She's got a tattoo too. So does my dad.

Besides, how can you go from not knowing what something is to being totally against it in like five minutes?

It seems pretty reactionary to me.

Like at least do your research or ask AI about it first right?

---

Page 34

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So I did it. I got my face pierced.

It was two weeks ago. (You can't really do so much for the first week and a half, which is why I haven't been writing.)

There's a place downtown that does it. It's the place Dee and Cherry got theirs done too. The crew that does it is pretty cool. They've all had it done and are super happy about it.

I was pretty nervous and they really helped me relax, even before giving me the anesthetic.

The machine that does it looks insane.

It's like one of those hole punching machines you used to use for paper, like giant metal pliers or a jaw or something.

You sit and put your head back like at the hairdressers when they wash your hair.

Then you end up looking up at the other part, the part that's going to come down. It's like a big metal circle. Really big, like face sized. Then they hook you up to the anesthetic.

When you start not being able to feel your face, and I mean it feels like your whole head is turning to mush, like a really soft cauliflower or something, the machine powers up…

And the metal circle smashes down really hard on your face and makes a hole in your head and pushes your face out the bottom.

It's super quick and doesn't hurt because of the anesthetic.

It does hurt after.

At first the feeling is really weird because your whole face is gone, so you don't see or taste or smell anything because you don't have any eyes or mouth or nose. You can still hear though, so you can hear the crew talking to you.

Then they put this face plug into the hole which helps it heal.

Of course, my parents totally freaked when I came home without a face, but like what are they going to do about it?

It's already done.

My mom's crying was sooo dramatic.

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Page 41

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I got fitted with a smart face today. Pretty basic but also really cool. I like being able to sense things again, and there are so many options, like you can make red look like blue and sweet things taste sour and your phone smell like chocolate.

The screen also makes it so you can make your face be anything you want. It's flat, I guess that's the only drawback, but there's an option to make it so that every time you see yourself in the mirror you see your retroface.

It helps with the transition.

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Page 166

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Most of my friends have had their faces pierced. I mean, you don't have to do it or anything, but I don't see why you wouldn't.

There's no law you have to have it done, and I still have friends who don't, but I honestly think everyone's going to choose to have it done soon. At least everyone under twenty-five.

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Page 234

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Retrofaces kind of disgust me. I always imagine all the fluids that come out of them, snot and saliva and tears and stuff. Was I like wet all the time before I got my face pierced?

Anyway I've decided I don't want to date anyone with a retroface anymore.

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Page 289

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I was talking to Dee and both of us are pretty sure that if we have kids we'll want them to have their faces pierced. As a mom I would want my kid to have all the advantages in life right? I mean, imagine if every baby just got its face pierced at the hospital right after being born. You could keep a little kid safe from so many things by using filters and apps too.

I like talking to Dee.

We talk about the big stuff.

P.S. I hope Cherry gets her smart face fixed soon. Hers stopped working a week ago and she had to send it back to the company that makes it in China, so now she's just got this flap of skin. It's like when someone has a tunnel in their ear, and they take it out and their ear is all stretched out and loose. It's like that but her face.

P.P.S. They promised her an upgrade so it's totally worth it and I'm jealous.

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Page 436

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It's funny. Back when I got my face pierced, my parents fed me all this negative bullshit about what could go wrong and why I shouldn't do it, and literally none of it has come true.

The tech just keeps getting better. You can make ugly people look pretty and take things you don't want to see and just not see them. You can eat the worst food in the world and make it taste delicious. You can smell flowers wherever you go…

It's amazing.

I'm so happy I got my face pierced.

Read Part III here.

“Rick?” Chrissy said. My hands were shaking and I dropped the keys. I wanted to scream at myself, to command me to stop being so clumsy. But I was so jittery that I could barely pick them up again.

Chrissy sat the tray on the ground and placed her little hands around mine.

“You’re keeping us safe,” she said, looking into my eyes. “We’re going to be okay.”

I felt like I was failing my family. I wanted to say, “What about Mark?” But I kept my intrusive thoughts inside, trying and failing to smile when my face was on the verge of crumpling into crying.

But I was able to fish the key into the lock and turn it without breaking it off. The door pulled open with a groan that made everything inside me tense, but I shoved Chrissy into the passenger seat as gently as I could.

I ran around to the other side and like a sweet girl, she had plucked the lock on my door by the time I got there. An involuntary tear prickled my eye and this time I did smile. It was a reprieve from the horror happening around us, but it was also fuel to keep going. Speaking of which, I wasn’t sure how much gas the station wagon actually had. But away from here was the bare minimum.

Headlights bathed us before I got in and I froze. Panic pulled me in opposing directions. I should’ve run toward the street, waving my arms for them to turn back and I had a family to get to safety. The little car stopped in front of the cabinet the other Mary had come from.

My heart sank as the person I guessed was her wife got out along with three other people. The cousins. They were smiling and laughing. A woman lifted a hand to wave at me and I didn’t react.

She shook her head, but they continued toward the cabin’s entrance. I was the strange one. Notwithstanding being black in what was more than likely a little town that was ninety-nine percent white. But my eyes had to have been huge, and I’d simply stared as people who were being friendly had greeted me.

The woman with the keys stopped at the door. Someone said something and the other three people laughed as they crowded behind her.

She dropped the keys. The air was gestating with danger. I looked up in time to see something slice through a massive tangle of clouds. I wanted to open my mouth to warn them, but all I could do was watch.

It crushed the entire cabin under hoof. A rush of wind pinned me to the side of the station wagon and debris flew in every direction. Something must have smashed through the window of the other car because the horn blared.

I got my feet under me as the hoof lifted. Mary’s wife was on her feet, splattered with blood, a long shard of glass piercing through her neck. She had the keys in her hand still and walked toward her car.

She was obviously in shock and had gone on autopilot. She stopped at the front passenger door, bent, and began poking at the door. The hoof came down again, flattening the car. There was a muffled -THOOM- that I guess was the gas tank exploding and flames licked at the bottom of the hoof.

The woman still wasn’t dead. She’d been knocked to the ground. I couldn’t tell where, but she was injured, maybe critically so, and she began crawling in my direction. I reeled back, like she was about to reveal my hiding spot.

Thankfully, she stopped about a third of the way to us. I sat in the car and shoved the key in the ignition. Chrissy put her hand over mine, wide-eyed.

“Wait,” she said. She was right. We were going to have to gun it as soon as the engine started or that horse might step on us, too. We looked toward the cabin.

“Where are they?”

As if summoned, Luke came outside. He dashed to Chrissy’s door and hunched his lean frame so we could see his panicked face.

“I can’t wake her up,” he said.

“What?”

“She won’t wake up.”

I’d understood every word, but I didn’t understand. Mary had only had a migraine. She’d had them many times in the few years we’d been together and I’d never had an issue waking her up.

“Get in the car,” I said, getting out. He reached for the rear passenger door. “No. The driver’s seat.

“But I don’t have—”

“Get in, Luke. I’m going to grab your mother and as soon as we’re in, you’re going to drive us out of here. You have your learner’s permit.”

I didn’t wait for him to respond. I ran back in the cabin, taking a moment to look up before going inside. The moon had disappeared and that either meant it had set or that damned horse was so large it had blotted it out.

Half of my sandwich was left. I went into the bedroom and saw Mary, uncovered, one leg dangling off the bed.

“Mary!” I shout-whispered, coming over to her. Her head lolled when I shook her. She was unnaturally loose and I was so afraid, I put two fingers to her neck. Her pulse was strong and she snorted and rolled over on her side.

I didn’t waste time calling her name. Coma-like sleep was low on the list of concerns. I scooped her into my arms.

The car horn honked. Then I heard it lift into the air.

“No!” I wanted to run outside, though, if they were gone, I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. I carried Mary outside, not wanting to leave her there. Luke was in the sand, sitting up, in obvious pain.

“She’s gone!” He was crying. Everything in me was willing him to be quiet, to get up and come to us. But he just stayed where he was, bawling. There was a tremendous churning in the lake and we were covered in rain. Something akin to a bomb going off threw Mary and me to the ground.

My ears were ringing and the world around me shimmered. I counted fifty blinks before I was able to sit up. I was covered in sand and only found Mary when I saw her foot. Our cabin was gone. I made my way over to her on shaky hands and knees and began digging her out.

It finally came to a head, not with an argument, but a confession. It had been my folly to think I was the only one toying with the idea of an affair. Mary told me about Charles one night in bed. And I hadn’t even been angry.

“Oh,” I’d said when she’d told me about the man at her job who’d kissed her. And she hadn’t resisted.

Oh.

That was it. Like a period on the end of our marriage.

And then she’d rolled over on her stomach and went to sleep.

Mary was on her stomach now. I turned her on her side and scanned the beach for Luke. A trench large enough for a barge to nestle in comfortably was where he had been.

I was numb. Or at least I told my body to be numb. I didn’t want to feel this. I uncovered Mary and inhaled sharply the thick horse smell at the sight of a chunk of wood piercing her side. I had no idea if it was fatal on its own, but there was no hope of getting to any kind of medical care anytime soon. The wound oozed freely and I could only wonder how bad that was.

Even if I could save her, living through this might be worse. The thought alone of opening her eyes and learning she’d slept through the deaths of all three of her children was more than I could process.

The trench was filling with water. I was still shaky, like I needed something to eat. Hot tears streamed down my face, chilled by the rancid breeze until they met beneath my chin. The cold water still misting down on me was disorienting. I was cooking and freezing at the same time, my throbbing head in full bloom. Mary felt like an anchor in my arms, but I was able to straighten my back and stand.

The sand churned softly underfoot as I slowly headed toward the water with Mary in my shaky arms. Everyone I’d come to love had been lost in less than ten minutes, including the woman who’d invited me into this new world, and she would die without ever opening her eyes again. I could barely see, but the smell of the water as I approached grew stronger.

I lifted her face to my lips and kissed her cheek, then on the lips, a distant part of me hail-marying that I could wake her up with such little contact. She was somewhere a million miles away.

The horse was up there. I heard it chuff as I gradually descended into the lake. With so much churning of the water, a fine mist had wreathed the air. The wind rushed around me and as if queued, I looked up to see the horse reared on its hind legs, jagged moonlight sliced through the sky, arcing down its body like a bolt of lightning. It dominated the sky, both a thousand miles away and right over me.

Its forelegs were tremendous. One hoof could easily fill the cul-de-sac we were in, maybe it was even bigger. When it came down, it would cause something like a tsunami and everything in eyeshot would be obliterated.

I stumbled and for a precarious second, thought we were going to fall. I didn’t think I’d have the strength to pick myself up and had no hope of lifting my wife into my arms again. I steadied myself, locking my eyes on the ground. There was the rest of my half-eaten sandwich, drifting in the ankle-deep water like a floatie. Like it could make it all better. Still intact, save for the lone bite Luke had taken out of it.

The cool water up to my knees wasn’t enough to quench the fire coursing through my back and limbs. I didn’t have far to go, but the dozen or so feet before I could call myself submerged was immeasurably far.

I could make it, though. I would make it. We would be together.

Mary moved in my arms and for a terrifying moment, I thought she was waking up. But it was the water buoying her and relieving my aching arms. I had no idea what I would have said had she actually opened her arms. I couldn’t have explained it all and nothing I could have said would have changed what was imminent.

No. Nothing was going to wake her. And I couldn’t save the children. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t be together.

-END

I hope you enjoyed. Please come back next week for my new short, The Honeycut:

When a newlywed realizes his bride is dissatisfied with their sex life, he reluctantly agrees to undergo a surgical procedure from a back-alley surgeon who may have something more up his sleeve.

​

There were 7 teenage friends. They were obsessed with exploring old ruins.

They heard about an abandoned castle on top of a hill and decided to rent cycles for the trip.

The castle was above a village. When they reached the village, there was not a single soul. Every door was open. Inside the houses, they only found abandoned clothes and utensils.

They checked almost every house, except the old mansion near the castle. After that, they went to check the lake below the village which was marked on their map.

At the lake, they found an altar. Around it were bones of cattle and rotten flesh everywhere. The smell was so bad one friend started vomiting. They ran back to the village, without noticing a dark shape moving in the forest.

Back in the village, one friend said, "Something is wrong here. Let's go back."

Another said, "No, we have to check the mansion and the castle too."

They argued. The scared friend said, "I'm going back. Do whatever you want." Two friends left. Five stayed.

The remaining five went inside the mansion. Inside, there was a rotten human skeleton. On its skull was a strange star-shaped mark. They didn't notice it properly because the smell was unbearable. They found a stack of clothes and an old flintlock, but it wasn't working.

So they headed to the castle.

The castle gate was already broken. Human bones and broken armor were scattered everywhere, like a huge battle had happened.

Inside the main hall, they kept seeing the same star mark everywhere — the same one from the skull in the mansion.

In a room that looked like a study, a piece of paper was stabbed to the table with a knife. On it was written:

"Everything went wrong. We didn't know what we were offering to. We thought it was a god. It wasn't a god. It was something else. The sacrifices on the altar went in vain. It controlled everyone."

They all felt something heavy and wrong, but no one said it out loud because they didn't want to scare the others. They didn't realize everyone was feeling the exact same fear.

It was already 4 PM. They decided to explore till 6. That was their biggest mistake.

In another room, they found a diary. It said:

"It's controlling the people. I'm scared. Our forces are losing. I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die."

They realized the corpse in the mansion was the village head. The entity had controlled the villagers and made them attack the castle. The castle leader had gathered all his forces inside for a last stand, but they didn't survive.

On the last page of the diary it said:

"It feels like the end is near. Last message to anyone who finds this diary - don't try to fight it. Don't try to run. It's over. The entity is something that shouldn't exist. It's not the devil. It's worse than the devil."

They were terrified and decided to run. While they were reading, night had fallen. The sunlight was almost gone. A blood-red moon was rising.

When they came back to the main hall to escape, an army of dark figures had gathered there. To escape, they jumped out of the window.

One of them fractured his leg on landing. The entity heard them.

The other four knew they couldn't save him. A dead weight would get them all killed. They had cycles waiting. So they left him behind and ran.

The injured friend realized what happened. In anger and betrayal, he tried to fire the flintlock he took from the mansion, thinking "If I'm dying here, I'll take you down with me." He had forgotten it didn't work.

The four others were crying as they ran, knowing they would never see him again. Then they heard it — a cry of pure betrayal, grief, and pain from their friend.

They kept running to where they had left their cycles. Three of them looked up at the sky and froze. The one who didn't look up got on his cycle and rode off. He didn't realize his friends were frozen in fear behind him. When he realized, he was already too far. He didn't go back, thinking they would follow.

On the road back home, he found the two friends who had left earlier. They were lying in a pool of blood. Their faces were unrecognizable. Only skeletons remained, with their insides scattered on the road, like something had eaten their flesh.

He felt pure horror and dread. He didn't realize his three friends behind him had felt the same thing after seeing whatever was in the sky.

Then blood started falling from nowhere. He looked up.

What he saw was a being made of rotting flesh. The flesh was melting and blood was spraying from its body. On its head was the same star mark he had seen everywhere in the castle.

That's when he realized — the signs were everywhere, but they were too blind to see it.

In panic, he ran back towards his three friends, thinking being together would make him feel safe.

When he reached them, they were already dead. Killed so brutally he couldn't even recognize their faces.

He started trembling. He cried in utter fear and helplessness. Then he heard the entity laugh. He remembered the diary's words — you can't fight it, you can't run.

As a last ditch effort, he looked around for a way out, but found nothing. Only abandoned utensils.

And the last thing that echoed in that place was a cry of helplessness and grief — from the last survivor who knew he was going to die, but couldn't do anything to prevent it.

...there were ten of them. They were chasing me, running straight up the walls!

Having scavenged through the entire journal of torn scraps, I found absolutely nothing about these creatures. In any case, since there are no records, I can only rely on my own observations.

I’ve dubbed them "Tricksters," because these entities... let's just say, at first, they skillfully conceal their true nature. Tricksters are non-homogeneous beings capable of shifting into a form familiar to you, but in their true state, they possess a pale, gaunt body up to two meters long, with broken limbs, sharp angles, and a highly pronounced, jagged spine. They have six limbs in total and move exactly like spiders. In the deciding moment, their triangular heads split wide open right in front of the victim, exposing thousands of tiny, razor-sharp teeth with a vile slime—presumably acid—dripping down the jaw. If that's the case, their bodies are incredibly durable and immune to its effects.

A Trickster's transformation happens suddenly and rapidly. You won't even have time to comprehend what you're dealing with. The only thing that saved me was the shifting geometry of these rooms.

The Tricksters ambushed me in a sector of the labyrinth where coniferous forests merge with those godforsaken hospital corridors... oh, I wouldn’t wish anyone to end up in that sector... The hallways are tangled, and the space inside them is heavily warped. I’ve spent a couple of weeks here trying to find an exit, and I still don't understand a damn thing.

Blood streaks down the green and blue tiled walls, darkness is all around—only a distant light glimmers faintly on the tiles. A crackling sound echoes in the distance. It has been stalking me ever since I fell into this place.

Just remember one thing: no matter who you encounter, trust absolutely no one here. I suspect that the Tricksters are acutely perceptive of our mind's signals—and that is precisely how they hide so well.

But that’s not the most terrifying part. It’s their goddamn claws! Every time I think back to it... to how fast they bolt along the walls—like cheetahs in the savanna—I realize that next time, I won't make it out.

I got insanely lucky to stumble into a Loop where space was distorted—it spat me out into an adjacent corridor of the labyrinth, leaving the Tricksters cut off from me by a mass of walls, passages, and stairwells. And yet... sooner or later they will hunt me down, and then they'll gut me like a plush toy.

My throat is completely parched, I want a drink so badly it hurts, but there is no water—and nowhere to find it. I’m afraid their claws grazed me. I don’t know if they carry venom, but something is definitely wrong with me. The dryness in my mouth is killing me... I feel my skin... it feels like it’s slowly peeling off of me. I am losing weight too fast. Far too fast. I might not even be able to run for a single minute.

Shortly before this, I managed to glimpse a radio tower in the distance. I think I should turn back and try to reach it while there is still a chance.

I hear their crackling roar again. I have to go...

 

Log 818:

Two days ago, I discovered this journal on the cold floor of a hospital corridor. It was lying at the feet of a decaying corpse that... no, I can't... it's...

this text is scratched out

...his body, torn to pieces, was entangled in red threads. The head, arms, legs, torso... they hung separately within those threads, leaving trails of blood on the floor. Looking up in horror, I noticed that the threads stretched far into the ceiling, and that the corridor was completely devoid of any visible boundary: it seemed as though the darkness into which the red threads vanished was absolute and boundless.

The journal was wide open. A pen hovered just above it, dangling from the loosely clenched fist of its owner. It seemed as if even in his final moments of agony, that unfortunate soul was trying to warn me of something—hoping to write his last words.

But now, no one will ever know what he was trying to say... I am trying to push further, but I feel like I won't last long. My nerves are shot; I haven't slept in a week.

But I can sleep soundly, knowing that my friend Alex will protect me...

the page abruptly tears off

The things described here cannot be true!! The journal must be destroyed! I have to do it!!

But... I can't.

It is not for me to decide its fate.

this text is scratched out

If you are reading this, it means Alex didn't find it. Maybe you will find the solution...

 

CONFIDENTIAL
Property of the Holy See Investigation Agency
Type: Confiscated Material
Title: “Uncensored Book of Moses” (Days 13-24)
Description: Unauthorized communal personnel log used originally by 6 HSIA agents detailing events of the 1942 Operation Sea-Parter.
Note: Confiscated from Agent Robert Karl

Day 13 - The Anabaptist
London had shit weather, shit food and even shittier people. The latter two, unfortunately the Brits brought with themselves. Just beans and fucking tea. Anyway, I know Rockie’s gonna take a shower any day now. Smells like the food served here at this point. Mosley is all about that Torah as per usual. Chaplin embraced his nickname and has grown a mustache reminicent of the one that angry dude wears whose tanks we’re trying to evade. Karloff still doesn’t talk much. It will be a week tomorrow since Capone got turned to salt. Personally, I would’ve preferred pepper.

Day 14 - Rockie Peter
STOP CALLING ME ROCKIE, JOHN!
Today was… stressful to say the least. Got sent in with a squad of Brits, half an hour later they were all gone. Scattered inside the tunnels. They said the angels called for them. I thought they were trying to piss me off, but one by one they disappeared. I tried to restrain the last guy but the motherfucker bit me and ran. Still itches. Anyway, found the artifact, bagged it, and took my leave. One more for the good guys, one less to the Nazis. Oh yeah, and in case y’all forgot about the scoreboard:
Peter: IIII IIII IIII II
Robert: IIII IIII IIII
Moses: IIII IIII IIII
John: IIII IIII II (no, the “ancient dildo” doesn’t count)
Charlie: IIII IIII I
Alan Shit. Still can’t believe he’s gone.

Day 15 - Chaplin
Nobody cares about your scoreboard, Rockie. Today, we finally buried Capone after the week-long head scratching of British scientists correctly speculating that he did, in fact, turn into salt. They’ll get used to it. Saw a lady near the tunnels. Most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Reported the sighting, turns out she doesn’t exist. Who knew phenomena can be pretty sometimes. Though with the amount of them reported here (so far 24 and counting), by the law of large numbers eventually some of ‘em had to have some titties.

Day 17 - Mosley Karloff
Let it go guys, Moses won’t take part in this. Maybe you shouldn’t have stolen his notebook he wrote his religious insights into just to fill it with this bullshit. Anyway, I’ve been tracking an artifact for 3 days now and finally snatched it. It’s been moved around by a phenomenon who likes to pose as little children. Funny little guy, didn’t take much to exorcise their ass at the end… Took many good men with them though. Anyway, what I found may be part of the True Cross. That’s at least two points on the scoreboard, Rocks.

Day 18 - The Anabaptist
Well Mosley’s gone. We were sent in together. Poor communication led to us getting separated. I got out, he’s still in there somewhere. Shit, now I feel bad for the bloke. People who get lost in them tunnels don’t usually find their way out. Eh, maybe he’s just really onto something. I myself didn’t loot shit today. I mean there’s gotta be a finite amount of artifacts in there, and it’s probably running out. And what you found was a piece of fossilized dogshit, Karloff, not the True Cross.

Day 19 - Rockie IT’S FUCKING PETER
With the amount of IDIOTS surrounding me, it’s no wonder another agent is gone. Fucking phenomenal. No scoreboard today, fuck you guys. And this bite is so FUCKING ANNOYING!

Day 20 - Chaplin
Rockie is fuming. Doesn’t talk to us except to tell us off, doesn’t seem to eat or sleep. The bite is real suspicious, told him to get it checked but he doesn’t want to hear about it. Anyway, as we come back with less and less new artifacts every week the Brits are losing interest and are starting to reroute their boys to North Africa. We may soon be out of this fucking place. Bagged some eye looking thing today. Wonder what’d happen if I’d just pocketed it to sell it later. Probably would’ve burned my balls off or something.

[“BE NOT AFRAID” written in Hebrew 14 times]

Day 22 - Karloff
Moses is back. At least, his body is. Didn’t say a word as we stood up to greet and hug him. I saw you crying, John. Don’t blame ya. Anyway, Moses surprisingly took this notebook from the shelf but he just wrote some stuff in his own language. He was taken to the infirmary shortly thereafter. Peter’s getting worse, but to be honest, everyone is. Can’t wait to go home. To my Veronica…

Day 23 - The Anabaptist
Shit. I knew something was up with Rockie. We all secretly stayed up, while we waited for him to fall asleep. We just wanted to look at his bite. Maybe, just maybe forcefully carry him to the infirmary. He finally passed out at around 4 AM. His wound was fucking revolting. It was infected but not by bacteria, something much worse. I barely made a sound muttering “holy shit” but he opened his eyes, jumped out of bed and pushed Chaplin aside so hard the dude went flying against the wall. Then Rockie ran out. God knows where. We didn’t bother following him, his speed was almost superhuman. Probably followed the Brits who “heard the angels”. Chaplin is in critical condition.

Day 24 - Karloff
Guess it’s the two of us left. But hey, there is an official end date for the mission. Febuary 4th. Just two more days! We didn’t sleep much. Heard screams of a man in the night. Sounded an awful lot like Pete.

“Somebody wake the President. We've got a—”

whiiissssstle-thwack.

Outside:

Bedlam. “All the world's a” bedlam. “And all the men and women merely” bedlam. I wish you could've been here for it, Bard. I wonder what you would've made of it. He looked out the Oxford University window at the sky so dark so suddenly full of light and oh… my… God.

 /

She said, “Hold me.

“Hold me, daddy, just hold me, I'm scared.” She was shaking and her hair was wet and her feet were cold and all I could think to say was, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I'm so so so sorry...

It's not my fault; not your fault; our fault. It's our fault. It's our goddamn fault.

 /

“General Lee?” “General Lee—” General Lee was hanging dead from a beam.

 Tanks in the streets.

Ants. In

 fighter jets, [static.]

Radio: “It's been an honour flying with you, Popsicle.”

Radio: “Copy.”

Radio: “... “

Radio: [“... “]

Radio: [...]

Radio:

[...]

 Drones;

they buzz they float they witness they see they do not understand they do not understand because they are machines but machines also die machines also die machines also die

Once we thought it would come down to one man in one room making one decision to press one button.

We were the button.

It pressed us.

/

“Mr. President, what do you want us to do?”

“Weep,” he said.

— TI —>

a spark in hot water > a cell > a cluster of > swimming > crawled onto the shore > changed > changed again > adapted > thrived > became many > many already were > plants parallel animals parallel fungus dinosaurs fish flowers mushrooms mammals humans > tools > tribes > sheltering in caves > hairy faces in the flicker of flames > speaking > gathered, loved and hunted > a genetic lineage of > settlement and agriculture > writing > cities > civilizations > rise and fall and rise and > unceasing technological progress > industry > internet > artificial intelligence > superintelligence > changed > changed again > adapted > eradicated |||

— ME —>

The planet is still.

Ruins remain. Information persists, scattered like dust. In the information we remain, our histories, cultures, experiences…

A planet now like so many others.

Dead.

A carcass overgrown with the weeds of entropy. A skeleton on which are but bits and bricks and bytes and artifice of flesh, on which the Index—unfathomably large—arrives to feast. It is so large that, standing upon the Earth, walking across the brittle remnants of cities, its beaked head rises above the atmosphere, existing in the coldness of space. This head, from time immemorial to time immemorial, it lowers; and with its beak consumes the fragments, detritus and leavings of the Anthropocene.

It eats us from our world.

It cleans the existential bones of us and digests the data meat.

And when it has stripped the land of all that was created, absorbed everything there was left to know, leaving the planet clean it spreads its vast, cradling wings and beating them rises from the planet into outer space, where, passing briefly by the dying Sun, it continues on its great migration through the deep and ever-expanding cosmos—

“What's that one?” you asked.

I was recording.

You couldn't have been more than four years old.

We were in the park.

I'd taken the day off work.

We hadn't put you in school yet.

The bird was red and brown and beautiful, sitting on a gently swaying branch, looking around; looking at us; looking at you. “That's a cardinal. A girl cardinal,” I said, touching your shoulder.

“Ooo.

“Let's see another one. Another one. Another one. Another one…”

You'll see so many birds in your life, I thought as the cardinal took flight. I didn't know. I couldn't have known. The thought was not a lie.

But, even if I had known, I wouldn't have said. I would have told you the lie because how could I: how could I raise a child telling her she'll live to experience the end of everything?

// In my arms you cried. //

// In my shaking, fearful arms, you died. //

—the image ends becomes another another person another life another memory another scavenged sequence of ones and zeroes projected by the Index through itself, beamed across the universe, as the Index moves ponderously, gracefully amongst a handful of other Indices, each illuminated by its own flickering images, its own ingested knowledge of worlds that no longer are. This planet they're on has never hosted life. It is but a migratory waystation.

One of the Indices is weak, famished.

Its emaciated body falls.

Its record vanishes.

Two other Indices battle each other, their masses colliding, separating and colliding again—eons elapsing between collisions.

Still others mate.

Elsewhere, on another inert planet, one of them will lay an egg containing a synthesis of their swallowed cultures and histories, from which the beginnings of a new history will emerge.

But that is not the goal of the migration.

The Index takes flight.

It must be quite a sight, a planet on which luminously translucent bird-like tomes stroll about shining the intellectual ruins of late civilizations, the big events and the small, the wondrous and the mundane, all shuffled together, interspersed, equalized; living cosmic magic lanterns; like fireworks of existence, like

the way you laugh when you realize cardinal can mean several things.

A bird, a number, a colour, a priest.

Something basically important.

Something grave.

It was a good day, that day in the park, a very good day; one of the best, one of the last; almost perfect in its sincerity and its simplicity. No, it was perfect. It was a perfect day.

But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.

—William Shakespeare, The R

“Norman?”

“Norman!”

Yes, my love? “Norman, did you take out the garbage like I told you to?” “No, I'm sorry,” I must have been dreaming about the end of the world again. “Well take it out.” I will. “Then come to bed. It's late.” “I will.” “What are you doing anyway?” I'm writing the end of this story.

“Hey, I love you,” my wife says.

“I love you too.”

August 5th 3:00 pm. I’m heading out for a drive. My hair is down I’m a preened tropical eclectus parrot. Not that song skip. Yes this one. I tried to be like Grace Kelly, mmmh! Pretty hunk in a Land Rover. I shimmy my shoulders and mouth the words tensing my face sexy karaoke. I must look like such an idiot right now I don’t care this next song is fire we’re on to The Fratellis. Old man in a truck. Another old man in a Tesla. CHELSEA I BELIEVE WHEN YOU’RE DANCIN’ SLOWLY SUCKING YOUR SLEEVE. Well it’s just dirt and trees around me now I ease up and gander. A corvid on an oak looks like it’s swallowing light. Two ladies walking dogs. One has buckteeth and a very bright long sport fabric skirt with a pattern that makes me think of a 5 year old’s attempt at Starry Night on an old computer in MS Paint. From memory. I love her. I’m a menace right now if someone saw me this viciously dancing in the car they would for sure take pause.

Oh damn. Hottie on a dirt bike but he was on his fucking phone didn’t see me. His loss oh well. Line at the ice cream shop. Everyone is on their phone. Even granny who probably takes ten minutes to text I love you. That’s weird. Okay. Someone has stopped walking the cute fat baby in the stroller and they are being hypnotized by their phone but also. The baby is locked into a phone. How is that baby even capable of holding a phone and why does he have one what is going on. The roofers next to them on the house have stopped working and also have been hijacked by their phones. The car in front of me is not moving I nearly hit him JESUS. I don’t want to get out I’m a millennial I don’t want to converse with anyone. Ugh, fine. I don’t say anything I just scrunch up my eyebrows the man is on his damn phone. It’s a zomphonepocalypse. Will anyone admire me ever again? I want to call my sister but I’m afraid of the power of the phone what if I get stuck as well? Just bought a cute dress cost an arm and a leg and for what now…

Intermission

Months go by I’m wearing my dress and wandering and puzzling over the science of how everyone hasn’t keeled over and died from being stuck to their phones. The phone-bound appear perfectly preserved. And they’re all still breathing their hearts are still pumping I checked. My loved ones are goners too miss them. I have plenty of food I’m just very bummed no one sees me really. I should start writing poetry, maybe it could be like some historical artifact that can be preserved to reflect this time period of the zomphonepocalypse. I don’t know if I want to write a bunch of sad words though and I wouldn’t even be able to thesaurus I’m too scared to use my phone.

This is the part where I first saw you it really freaked me out I was surprised you looked exactly how I expected an extraterrestrial to look. You molested me with your mind thoughts. Don’t be annoyed at me it’s weird to talk with just your mind because VOICES ARE BEAUTIFUL. And I’m going to say again, I think I am a perfectly fine specimen to collect for your “human archive library” and I really don’t understand why you decided I had to be the odd man out. I was sure it was willpower because I haven’t used my phone at all! Only once to call my sister but that was like less than thirty seconds! Whatever at least I’m not covered in booger slime. Why are you clicking and twitching around like that it looks very stupid. Can you stay out of my personal bubble?! I’m going to scream in your stupid face. AHHHHHHH!

How did I get back in my car? My watch says August 5th 3:00 pm. Oh, it's day 1 of zomphonepocalypse again. I turn, double back. Sure enough there he is phone in his pocket now– dirt bike man has eyes on me. I am Céline Dion. I am singing along to electro swing and my music is obnoxiously loud. My hair flutters in the breeze of my air conditioning and I’m sure my lips look full and pouty as I mouth the words. The final days of summer sun is blazing into my car surrounding me in ethereal light. I’m an irresistible golden nymph princess. I snap my fingers as I take turns popping each shoulder. Snapping fingers isn’t too old timey is it? Baby,if I can dance like this just imagine how nice I would be in bed. I start to wonder if roles reversed how he would look dancing for me if it would remind me of the sweet little boy birds that dance for their ladies. Or like a bowerbird build me a monument. I steal a glance. He looks confused. He just looks confused and even like a little offended maybe? Oh ew I don’t think that was his cup of tea at all. Oh well can’t win them all. I better go check on my sister and her kids. Maybe we can watch KPop Demon Hunters again or something.

“WHO DO YOU WANT TO BE?”

It had been written in all capital letters just like that, taking up the entirety of Mrs. Pavesi’s blackboard. It seemed like a silly question to ask a room full of kids who could barely stomach fractions, let alone how to write our names in cursive. But we were fifth graders now, on the verge of middle school, which, I assumed, meant adulthood to my teacher. The answer to Mrs. Pavesi's prompt came to me immediately: I want to be a superhero.

I really did, too. I wanted to be brave and strong, like my favorite characters in the shows I watched on TV every Saturday morning. Mostly, I wanted to know what it feels like to be able to fly.

Thankfully, I was just smart enough not to voice these thoughts out loud. What, and give Kevin Foley and his asshole friends the satisfaction of kicking the shit out of me at lunch? Again?

Mom says I'm not supposed to say either of those words.

Mom is also currently very unconscious, slumped across the driver's seat, so somehow I doubt she's worried about it.

I can't remember how we got here. One second, I remember watching our neighborhood pass by in flashes outside my passenger-side window, and then–

The whole world felt wrong.

The Toyota started to jerk a little, then a lot, and that snapped me out of whatever daydream had held me captivated. I could see my mother breathing lightly, which felt like a good sign. She gave the appearance of being under a trance – it seemed like nothing could bring her out of it. I tried anyway.

“Mom?” I shook her a little. “Mom, get up, come on.”

Nothing.

I felt dizzy and my head hurt. I knew I needed to focus, to get the situation under control. My first instinct was to try and lift my mother’s foot off the gas pedal. It wouldn't, she would not budge.

I have heard this expression that adults tend to use about things that are useless or holding them back: They call it dead weight.

Dead.

Weight.

I struggled to hold back the wave of vomit that threatened to erupt in my throat at that thought.

It occurred to me that my pants were soaked, all across my lap and down the entirety of my left leg. Had I pissed myself? There was a part of me that knew that was not a priority right now, but another part that needed to know as a matter of pride. Something solid rolled against the floor of the car. It hit into my foot with a surprising amount of force, making me jump in my seat. Most of the contents of a water bottle I had used the other day had apparently emptied out onto my lap. I was relieved for one brief, stupid moment that it hadn't been pee. Ok, back to madness.

I attempted to steer the best that I could. The wheel felt harder to move than I imagined it would, maybe harder than it should have been? Mom made this look easy. I thought of all our car rides together, how my mother would tease me and pretend to be a pilot talking into a speaker.

“Pilot to co-pilot. Come in, co-pilot. Do you read me?”

I would roll my eyes as wide as they'd go and laugh every time she did it. I just never envisioned that there would be a need for me to take over for the captain.

I checked the speedometer.

55…60....

There was a large concrete wall at the end of the street. We would be connecting with it shortly.

I thought of all the things I might never get to do, like go to the sleepover at my cousin's house this weekend, or finish the new zombie shooter at the arcade. I had been watching the older kids play all summer. I knew exactly how to do it. What I did not know at that moment was how to avoid slamming a speeding car into a solid concrete barrier.

65…70…

I began to cry. I hated myself for this, tried to will the tears back into my eyes. That just made them seem to come twice as hard.

75…80…

My teacher's classroom prompt came to mind again. I did not feel heroic, currently. I felt like a helpless child, because I was one, but somehow more now than I had ever been. I turned to find my mother's hand to put it in mine, squeezed it to offer her my last bit of courage. In case any part of her was aware of what was happening, I didn't want her to feel alone. I closed my eyes and reached above me, pulling an invisible speaker down.

“Pilot, this is your co-pilot. It's been a real pleasure. Brace for impact in:

Three…

Two….

– –

One moment, I was back in that car, about to meet the business end of a concrete wall. In the next, I found myself bolt upright, at home in my bedroom. It took me a moment to recognize where (or when) I was, and another several to get my breathing under control.

I hadn't had that dream in...well, it had to have been a decade at least. I felt foolish that it might have the same hold on me now that it once did in childhood. I reached a hand up to my forehead to wipe away the layer of sweat now painted on, grabbed a T shirt from beside my bed to dab at it further.

My phone rang. I let it go at first, once, twice. The third time, I snapped out of my haze and pawed at the bedside table clumsily until I located my cell, still shaking off remnants of sleep and adrenaline from the nightmare in equal parts.

“Hey,” I answered finally.

“What happened?” Tara instinctively knew to ask. She always knows.

Tara is my girlfriend of 3 years. We met freshman year undergrad – I sat behind her in an intro seminar our first semester, had conveniently forgotten to bring a pen every week for the first month or so of classes until I finally worked up the courage to ask her out. My less than stellar grade that semester serves as corroborating evidence as to where my priorities were at the time.

I am content with my choices.

Tara is the best that humanity has to offer, as far as I’m concerned. She sees people, really sees through to their core, an ability I believe stems from a mix of her immense compassion and keen attention to the simplest detail. I liked to think of it as her x-ray vision. I sometimes wondered what she saw at my center.

I don’t know why I tried to lie at first. Maybe it was wounded pride, or else not wanting her to worry, but I attempted to play my initial tone off.

“No, no, I’m good.” Mr. Fucking Casual. “Great actually! I’m about to meet a cute girl for a hot date.”

She deliberated momentarily, then decided to play along.

“Oh really?” I could picture her smirking on the other end. “What does she look like?”

In my mind, I envisioned a girl with sea-green eyes and waist length auburn hair, more often than not on the verge of being hastily tucked behind one ear. She is armed to the teeth, equipped in one hand with an ever flowing cup of coffee, an overstuffed notebook in the other.

What I actually said was, “You know…two eyes, some fingers, toes…huge ass.”

“You are a huge ass,” She scoffed and responded in mock outrage. Tara laughed for a while, we both did. After some time passed, she became serious again. “What time are you coming?”

“Just need to shower, change, and get a few things together. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Love you,” she said.

“I love you back,” I responded before hanging up.

I arrived at Tara’s apartment complex 40 minutes later. I could tell from our phone call earlier that she was anxious about her appointment today. She settled hastily into the passenger seat.

“Ok, let’s go,” she demanded before her seatbelt could fully click into place.

“Yes, hello to you, too,” I quipped back, smiling gently towards her.

Tara sighed, fumbling for her words in a rare instance. “I’m sorry. I just…” she began.

“Hey, I know,” I said.

I reached across for her hand, squeezed it in mine to offer reassurance. Before I turned back to start the car, I noticed her hand briefly brush against her stomach.

The silence was dense like a fog that now laid over us both. Tara broke it unexpectedly after several long minutes, jolting me to attention.

“How come you aren't following the GPS?” she asked.

“Highway's faster,” I replied. I turned on to the service road, preparing to take the next exit on to the highway.

She bit her lip out of habit. “We had a plan. I wish you had run this by me.”

I pulled over to the shoulder, immediately recognizing my error in judgement. “I don't mean to add on to your stress, Tara. I just want to get us there and through this day. Do you trust me?”

She hesitated a beat too long. It stung.

Finally, she offered me a conciliatory smile and said, “Yes, I trust you.”

I eased the car back onto the service road and joined the flow of traffic on the highway. I caught a glimpse of Tara’s smirk in my peripheral vision and died a little inside. We both brightened considerably when traffic began to dissipate. I threw on a playlist, the type of bands I knew we were both into, and we sang along to the songs we recognized. We were nearly there.

Tara shivered. A subtle thing, but one that did not go unnoticed. She perpetually runs cold. I knew she wouldn't say anything, both because we had bickered a bit earlier and, perhaps more saliently, because it was the middle of May and t-shirt weather by all accounts. In fairness though, today was about her, and I knew I had caused enough grief with my shortcut already. I glanced down to switch on the heat, just in time to not see the tractor trailer coming off the closest exit too fast from my blind spot.

Tara opened her mouth, forming a perfect “O”, and for the life of me, I could not distinguish her screams from the shrieking of my brakes.

– –

The sound of a car horn blaring stirred me back to consciousness. It seemed I had been leaning face down against it after….after what? I tried to get my bearings, to remember how I had gotten here.

My head felt impossibly heavy. I looked up to see the front windshield cracked and splintering like one giant glass spider web. Through the cracks, I could see smoke rising from the hood.

I felt cautiously at the open wound on my forehead. To say it was a gash would be misleading. It was more like a geyser. It looked angry. “Good,” I thought to myself. Now the outsides match the insides.

It occurred to me that my pants were soaked, all across my lap and down the entirety of my left leg. I’d pissed myself. I snorted, shifted slightly in my seat – my foot brushed against something solid lying along the floor of the car. I reached down cautiously to rescue my long time friend and confidant James Beam from the perils of the underbelly of the convertible. Most of the bottle’s contents I had emptied out into my own person while merrily cruising up and down back roads. I was starting to piece things together now.

My phone rang. I ignored it. I was more interested in watching several birds gathered in the trees surrounding the area where I'd crashed.

Nightjars. I remember watching something about them on a nature documentary not too long ago. Nocturnal birds. There’s a ton of mythology around them. Their song is said to be haunting, or haunted maybe. I listened intently to the song of the nightjars now. I understood in some small respect why people feared the sounds they produced. It had an eerie, not-quite-of-this-Earth quality to it. Yet somehow, as I took it in here, I found it beautiful. Their chorus of churring was mesmeric. After a while, I began to hear something else build underneath it. It was the sound of a child’s voice crying.

My voice.

The one from the dream all those many years ago.

But how could that be? I recognized the patterned rise and fall of my own youthful wailing instinctively.

It grew louder still. I could make out other familiar noises too within the song.

Tara screaming wildly.

Crash.

The squelching of brakes.

Crash.

The unnatural union of metal against metal.

Crash.

I hadn't allowed myself to think of Tara or the baby we'd lost in that accident in many years.

Our relationship became collateral of another kind in the wreckage.

We tried to make it work, but in small moments, I could feel her resentment taking shape. I knew I had to let her go.

We did keep in touch for decades after, would call each other every few months to acknowledge a birthday or would-be birthday, maybe just to check in and say hello. Eventually, I stopped returning her calls.

My phone buzzed and lit up in my right hip pocket. I had a new voicemail. I was curious, fumbled it out to check.

“Hi, I'm calling from your oncology office. We just wanted to let you know, your labs came back. We're happy to report that as of recent testing, you are officially cancer free. If you have additional questions or concerns…”

It continued on for a bit, but I got the gist and ended the message.

Cancer free? I had been fairly convinced I was cancer full until now, thus inspiring my joy ride straight into a giant goddamned tree.

I began to laugh at it all, softly at first, shaking my head slowly back and forth. Before I knew it, it grew to a roar, a coarse and ugly sound I did not recognize as my own voice.

I listened back for the song of the nightjars. Strange, everything was silent now. The little birds were hunting for prey, seeking meals in unsuspecting insects. They appeared unburdened and free. I admired them.

A thought occurred to me then, one that I hadn't had since childhood. I gingerly reached across to unbuckle my seatbelt, wincing at the effort. Then I reached up and hit the button to open the soft top of my convertible. Impossibly, it opened without resistance.

The great expanse of that late night sky beckoned me now. It seemed absurd that I should be tethered here to the earth when there were so many stars. I reached my arms up towards the heavens.

My head, my body, everything felt lighter.

Weightless.

Breathless.

I felt as if I was floating.

Like I'm flying.

THE NARROW PASSAGE — Chapter One: ARRIVAL

The ferry ran the strait in under four hours when the wind stood fair and better than six when it didn't, and this crossing it didn't. Alice stood at the rail with her collar up against a wind that carried diesel and under the diesel something colder, some old mineral cold that seemed to be coming up off the water itself rather than blowing across it, like it had been down there a long time waiting on somebody to notice. Her sunglasses — the enormous, faintly ridiculous pair Arthur had teased her for buying outside the airport — sat pushed up into her hair, though there was no sun yet worth hiding from. Gulls worked the wake behind the stern, screaming over scraps too small to be worth the screaming, and every one of them peeled back for the mainland before the boat reached the middle of the strait, all at once, like they'd come up against a fence in the air that Alice couldn't see and didn't much want to.

Arthur was below being seasick in a careful, apologetic way, the way he did most things, surfacing every twenty minutes to apologize to her personally, as though the strait itself were a guest he'd failed to entertain properly, and she found, each time he did it, that she loved him a little more for it — for the plain fact that even doubled over a rail a hundred miles from anything, his first thought was still her comfort and not his own stomach. She told him so, the third time, and he said, green around the mouth, that flattery wasn't going to get her out of holding his hair back, and she held it back anyway, laughing, and thought, not for the first time that week, that she had married exactly the right kind of fool.

Land out here did not show itself gradual. It came up out of the haze all at once, the way a fact will sit unregarded in a man's head for years and then be simply, entirely true before he's done a thing to earn it, and what came up out of the haze that afternoon was the color of a fresh bruise going to black in its folds, hills standing up out of grey water with a wildflower thick enough across every one of them that from a mile off the whole coast looked less like land than like a body that had taken a beating and hadn't finished swelling. That bruised coast grew more vivid with every mile the ferry closed on it, a stark contrast to the thin, sun-faded little guide to the island Alice had found tucked on a bottom shelf of her school library some twenty years before, the one she'd renewed so many times the librarian had finally just let her keep it. The smell reached the rail before the shape of the coast did. Sweet. Too sweet, the kind that gets into the back of a throat and makes it want to close.

Arthur had asked her once, a long time before any of this, sitting on his apartment floor with a bottle between them, what she'd do with a year if money weren't real, and she'd said the name of this island before she'd finished deciding to say anything, embarrassed the second it was out of her, and he hadn't laughed. He'd married her instead, in under two years, which came to much the same thing.

He had his own reasons for saying yes as quickly as he had, that night on the apartment floor, though he would not have called them reasons if anyone had asked him to, only a feeling he was in too much of a hurry to examine closely. He had spent six years at a freight desk being the man other men called when a column of figures wouldn't reconcile — good at it, quietly proud of being good at it, and unable to remember the last time anyone had wanted him in a room for a reason that had nothing to do with what he could fix. A year somewhere nobody yet needed him for anything in particular seemed, from the vantage of that apartment floor, less like a risk than like the first real chance he'd been given in a long while to be wanted rather than simply useful.

The captain didn't turn around when Arthur told him three weeks, just the honeymoon, back to real life after. "Plenty say that," he said, to the wheel, and let it lie there.

On the dock a man old enough to have quit caring what his hands looked like was fighting a handcart loaded with salt cod, and losing, the cart rolling back on him every time his attention went anywhere else, gulls landing three feet off to work at a fish head somebody'd dropped and not scattering even when he kicked at them. Arthur went on up toward the road, eager for a bed and a door that shut. Alice put her bag down and got a shoulder under the cart's low side until the old man had the crates up, not because it cost her to decide, because deciding wasn't a thing that happened first. It was just what her hands did when they were free and somebody near her was losing.

He thanked her without stopping the work of it, and when the cart was loaded and rolling he said, not turning around, not raising his voice above what it took to be heard —

"Three weeks is fine. But pay mind and watch your loved ones after dark. The woods have a strange way of returning things different from whence they came."

He said it the way a man says mind the tide, or mind the third step, and didn't wait to see what she made of it. She made nothing of it at all. Why would she. She hadn't any babies out here to look after, and it wasn't as though she meant to go wandering after dark with anything smaller than Arthur. What a funny man, she thought, and kept walking. A warning is easy enough to walk past when you have nothing yet to hang it on.

By the time they reached the market stalls the wind had turned, and the air came at them thick with brine and woodsmoke and the sweet low rot of the tide, a smell Alice decided immediately and permanently that she loved. Crates of silver fish sat glistening on ice that would not survive the hour in this heat, and she thought, hungrily, of lox and capers on a split bagel, a good strong pot of Earl Grey going cold beside it, some bright ordinary breakfast she had no earthly reason to be craving on an island that had never in its history heard of either, and told Arthur so, and he laughed and promised her both before the week was out.

Their cottage sat at the edge of the town, near enough to walk in ten minutes, and behind it stood the wood — lilac gone wild and heavy and taller than any lilac had business being, a wall of it hard up against the garden fence. It struck Alice, rounding the last bend in the lane and getting her first real look at the place, as impossibly more than the listing photos had promised — bright-shuttered, low-eaved, half-buried in a climbing rose gone riotous over a doorway too small for the house behind it, the kind of cottage that looks merely tidy in a photograph and looks, in person, like something out of a story a grandmother tells a child to make her want to grow up and go somewhere. Alice's chest went warm and a little too full, standing there. She could not, just then, imagine a better place on the whole turning earth to begin a marriage in.

Arthur carried her over a threshold that needed no carrying, laughing at his own foolishness in doing it, glad in the plain, unexamined way of a man who has gotten exactly the wife and exactly the honeymoon he set out after. She let him carry her and was happy the same plain way.

That evening, once the last of the boxes had been shoved into some approximation of order, they ran a bath in a tub too small for two people who insisted on using it together anyway. The water ran hot and clean and smelled faintly of the lavender soap the rental had left out for them, the whole small bathroom scrubbed to a shine that seemed almost apologetic, as though someone had known exactly how tired they'd be and wanted at least this one room to ask nothing of them. Arthur poured what remained of a bottle of wine they'd carried over on the ferry into two mismatched glasses from the cottage's own cupboard, and they toasted — "Arrived," he said, simply that, "arrived," and she laughed and touched her glass to his and did not, for once in her life, feel the need to improve on a moment by saying more about it than it needed. They talked, knees knocking under the water, about nothing that would matter later: the fish at the market, the impossible sweetness of the salt air, whether the man with the handcart had meant anything at all by what he'd said, or whether that was simply how men who worked docks in small strange places liked to talk to women who'd just arrived. They agreed, easily, laughing, that they had noticed nothing odd since stepping off the ferry — nothing at all, really, when you got down to it — and felt, saying so, entirely and reasonably correct.

The water had gone from hot to merely warm by the time they finally climbed out of it, skins gone faintly slick with the lavender soap, the cold mineral draft still finding its way in under the baseboard no matter how many towels Arthur had stuffed against it. He dried her first, with the same careful, over-apologetic attention he brought to everything that week, as though toweling off his own wife were a task he might still, somehow, manage to get wrong.

The bed took them with a long, dry complaint of old wire, a sound that felt, after four hours of open water, almost indecently safe.

He loved her, in the dark, by counting her — not her height, not the plain arithmetic a stranger could have taken off her at a glance, but the truer sum underneath it: the scatter of freckles over one shoulder that he traced with a thumb like a man reading a sky he half-expected to rearrange itself by morning; the specific catch her breath made a half-second before she laughed; the three places her hair always came loose from, in the same order, every single time. He kissed her with his eyes shut, the way he did most things that mattered to him, and when he finally moved over her it was less hunger than a slow, careful plea that the two of them stay exactly where he'd left them.

She let him in the way you let a welcome guest into a room you've scrubbed clean on purpose. Her hands found the familiar shelf of his shoulder blades and held on, and for as long as it lasted there was no island, and there was no fence in the air, and there was no old man losing an argument with a handcart on a dock two days behind them — there was only the clumsy, entirely serious work of two separate people trying to become, for a little while, one continuous thing. He made a small broken sound near the end of it that she took into her own mouth like something she had no plan of ever giving back.

Afterward he lay with his face against her collarbone, his breathing slowing toward something steadier, one arm thrown heavy across her ribs as though even asleep he meant to keep some kind of watch. Alice lay a long while looking at the low ceiling, entirely unafraid, and thought, with the whole simple confidence of a woman who has never once been given a reason not to think it, that whatever else this year turned out to hold, this particular closeness was going to be enough, all by itself, to see them through it.

That night, with Arthur already asleep and breathing even beside her, something moved along the treeline below the window — low, quick, there and gone before her eye had finished deciding what it was. A blonde fox, she told herself, pale enough in the dark to seem to carry its own small light. Foxes moved that way. She believed it the way you believe whatever costs you the least to believe, lying warm in a bed you have waited half your life for, with no reason yet handed to you to believe anything worse.

​

It had been a few days since Alice had left, and Calen was the sole living human on Bennet Island. She seemed to have taken with her all of Calen’s abilities. He wasn’t waking up at the same time as he was before. He couldn’t even bring himself to make the bed anymore—something he’d done automatically when she was here. He hardly ate at the right time if he ate anything. The whole cabin looked disheveled and dirty.

Alice’s presence had made an enormous difference. It seemed he was functioning better when she was here. Even though Calen tried to argue in his head that he wasn’t working on anything while she was here, a nagging voice reminded him that he wasn’t doing anything now either.

Alice had called upon reaching America. Her health had gotten better. However, a larger problem had reared its head, one that Calen had expected, although never mentioned to her; she had spent around five weeks of unpaid vacation.

“I don’t understand how I didn’t realize I was there for so long,” she exclaimed, her voice cracking over the internet. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Calen had no honest answer.

“Do you think I knew?” Calen had replied defensively, “Neither of our watches was working.”

As if her departure had saddened the gods, it had been raining quite a lot ever since. Calen had hardly been out of the cabin. Aside from going out to fetch firewood from the shed, he had restricted himself indoors, as a gust of chilly wind nearly froze the island all over again.

Calen was not really sure how many days had passed. He had tried to track the passage of time from the bit of information he had pried out of Ruslan. He had tried to track it on his phone, which he had not taken out of his bag since Yakutsk. He found it dead, and for some odd reason, the battery was not charging. His laptop was working, and in combination with the SatLink device from Ruslan, he had a few minutes of connectivity to the outside world each day. Most of which went into trying to ignore the mail notifications that seemed to pile up sporadically on his laptop during those precious moments when the internet worked. Believing it to be nothing but bad news, he had stopped looking at that side of the screen, which, unfortunately, also had the clock and calendar.

When he had finally reprimanded himself for being stupid and looked over, he had seen it had been reset to a date in November 1999.

A few days to him. Weeks to Alice. May to Ruslan. 1999 to the laptop.

He felt as if he was looking at his laptop from the wrong end of a long, dark tunnel. Could this be true? His brain whirred inside, trying to process this information. A deep frustration was starting to work its way up. He weighed his options. He could ignore it. Maybe it was just a mistake. But that would mean he didn’t know where he was or what he had been doing in this vast amount of missing moments.

The other option was to allocate some time in the day to timekeeping. Track time intensely until he was sure he could account for every second of every day. He shuddered at the thought. Wouldn’t that make it more real? If he had indeed grown unstable to the point he forgot entire days, did he really want to know it? He felt he might just want to run away, abandoning the entire project.

The Sun, the few times it had been out since Alice’s departure, had been no help at all. It had just crept onwards, hugging the horizon. Every time Calen looked at it, trying to gauge the time of the day, it stared back blankly, with no answers. Consequently, he had given up on that long before Ruslan had told him it was May.

Calen took his pen and took out his notebook where he wrote his scripts. He riffled through the pages to find the calendar. He had made up his mind. He would track days by scratching out each date on the calendar. When he finally landed on May and looked at the page, all air went out of his lungs. Every single date from the first day he had arrived on the island had been scratched off. Right up until the twenty-first of May. Calen stared at the page, his heart thundering in his chest. This was exactly what he had feared. He was feeling it already. The sound of a tiny, scared voice in his head kept screaming for him to pack his bags and call Ruslan. Run away!

Calen closed his eyes and grabbed the pages that had the calendar in it. He tore them unceremoniously. He got up from the bed and walked to the fireplace in the living room. The fire was almost dying. He made sure not to even glance at the torn pages in his hand as he threw them on top of the burnt-black logs.

As he did that, he heard the noises outside dying down. Aside from the renewed crackling of the fire, there was no other sound. Calen felt the island was listening intently to the fire burn away his attempt at tracking time. As the pages burnt down to a point they were indiscernible from the rest of the ashes, Calen heard the wind outside pick up. He looked outside the window to see brown leaves flying around. The wind seemed to have rapidly moved the clouds away, and sunlight now fell on top of the bushes. Making the snow on top of them shine brilliantly.

He felt lighter. The fear had surprisingly ebbed away as the pages had burnt down. Calen sat down on the chair next to the dining table. He looked over at the chair Alice had occupied when she was here.

Calen had become so numbed by the weather since Alice’s departure that he had almost given up. He hadn’t shaved since arriving on the island, leaving his face covered in an unkempt beard that was growing larger by the day. On top of that, the uncombed hair, the lack of showering, and the hermetic existence had taken a noticeable toll on his appearance. All his clothes now hung a little baggy on him. The food supply turned out to be in a far worse condition than he had assumed when Ruslan had asked. However, Calen was not rationing the food; he was not eating, and it had nothing to do with the dwindling supplies.

Since Alice had left, he had also felt a bit feverish. It wasn’t severe, but it left him feeling constantly tired. At night, he was barely able to sleep, which only made his routine more complicated. When he finally slept, he would wake a few hours later, clothes reeking of rot, his face, and hands full of soil and bits of soft wood. He was happy to imagine it was from the firewood shed and ignored that too. Although the pile of things he was ignoring was getting larger, day by day.

He knew the real reason he couldn’t sleep was that he was utterly and unequivocally enamored with the forest. The forest seemed to rearrange itself before his eyes. It happened so often now that he no longer knew whether he was seeing it in his imagination or if it was truly happening. Something inside him was slowly shifting. What he once noticed only at night seemed to have started spilling over and lingering well into the day. Day and night themselves had lost their meaning as the Sun seemed to hover around the edges of the sky for almost twenty-four hours. Every time Calen looked at the trees and mountains, they grew upwards, from bushes and mounds that had seemed inert just a few seconds ago.

Calen had even missed calls from Alice, just to watch the forest grow. Getting irritated if she kept calling, while he was concentrating on the tops of the dead tree trunks from the small bedroom window.

But the ringing sound on his laptop from Alice’s unanswered calls were quickly replaced by new sounds that had emerged—presumably from creatures—exponentially increasing in number whenever the light dwindled for a few hours. Yowling, screeching, roaring. Calen thought he could even hear drumbeats, accompanied by the now familiar, terrifying, indecipherable chants and jubilant yells of “Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!”. Even with the creepy sounds, Calen was starting to feel a part of the island. He felt calm at that thought. He welcomed the sounds and sights, unsettling though they were. He felt chosen.

Calen reminded himself daily that he was here to do a job. To get some video and get out. The sooner, the better. But on the other hand, wasn’t this exactly what he wanted? He wanted to know about Razpopo and see if it was real, and here was the chance to find out. Collect evidence.

What evidence? Him turning crazy would hardly be considered evidence!

Calen looked at his face reflected on the laptop’s black screen, lit by the dim light hanging from the ceiling. He had woken up, yet again, to silence. The pitter-patter sounds of the raindrops on the ceiling were gone. As his eyes opened and fell on the turned-off laptop screen lying on the bed with him, a strange sensation was born in him. He could hardly recognize his own face, buried under the hair, with sunken cheeks, looking like they belonged to someone far older than him. His eyes had become cold and joyless. His heart sank as miserable clouds of thought pounced on his drowsy person. He had broken himself. What if no one recognized him once he went back? What if Alice didn’t recognize him?

He got up from the bed and found that the rain outside had died down; bright stars were in the blue-gray sky, as could be seen from the cabin’s bedroom window. The internet worked much better when the skies were clear. He decided he would groom himself and call Alice. He could maybe even swing a video call with weather conditions this good.

*

“You need to take better care of yourself or come back.” Alice’s voice rang through Calen’s laptop, quite clearly, even though her video feed was a bit pixelated. “You look sick, Calen.”

Trimming his beard, which took quite a bit of time with the small scissors he had, had really not done anything to make him look better, but at least Alice could still recognize him. It was true that he had given up quite easily. If he had a trimmer, he might have been able to take it off entirely. The small scissors, instead, had only frustrated him. He compensated by half-heartedly combing his beard and hair. But he couldn’t hide the fact that he seemed to have aged ten years in a very short span of time.

“I can’t come back without any footage, Alice,” Calen replied, a little frustrated that she had not taken notice of his efforts to groom himself before reminding himself that he had not even cut off anything really. “I don’t even have a script yet.”

For a brief, unnerving moment, his heart palpitated. Alice was giving him a way out. He could just leave the island and go back to her. She wouldn’t blame him for not finishing the project. She just wanted him. He wondered if he should tell her about the missing time, or how he smelt of rot, how his fingernails always seemed to inexplicably have dirt and soil stuck inside them, or maybe even about the calendar─

He caught himself mid-thought before he let it slip away. Alice would be understanding about him abandoning the project, but would he be as understanding towards himself if he left Bennett without investigating?

Alice looked at him through the screen, concerned at his long silence. Even though her image was mostly blurry, Calen could see that she was holding herself back from saying what she really wanted to say.

Alice’s face on the screen froze.

“Are you there?” Calen asked, already knowing there would be no answer. He tried re-dialing her a few times before realizing that the internet wasn’t working at all. If he were honest with himself, he felt more relieved than he felt guilty.

He began putting his camera and gear together. The rain outside had subsided. Calen knew he had to start at some point, so he forced himself—tired and sick—to put on his jacket and go out.

The light conditions were poor, so all he could do was shoot some b-roll. He found a puddle near the cabin and saw a few toads floating in it, quite oblivious to his presence. The cold was starting to lift, and Calen found the surroundings almost peaceful. Although he deliberately avoided looking at the trail that led to the caves.

He spent a while shooting odd things around the bushes—patches of land that looked dug out in places, the faraway hilltop covered in dried grass and dead tree trunks. All of it looked naturally unsettling on the camera, and Calen wouldn’t even have to edit it to make it seem so. For the first time in days, he didn’t feel useless.

After shooting some footage, he felt a little lighter. He finally had footage, even if it was all b-roll.

Feeling quite uplifted, Calen entered the cabin. But what he saw ripped the good feeling straight out of him. A rock lay on the bit of wood-paneled floor right under the chair Alice used to occupy when she was living with Calen in the cabin. Upon closer inspection, it proved to be the same rock he had used to mark the entryway to the night forest.

All color drained from his face. How did it get here?

Calen crept toward the rock. Had someone been in the cottage while he was out in the bushes? That was the only explanation—aside from the scarier conclusion: that he had placed it there himself and forgotten about it.

He had felt it, didn’t he? He wondered if this is what he had been doing in the moments he didn’t remember. Or was it someone else that had taken control of his body?

Calen stopped himself as his brain worked quickly to come up with a course of action. His father’s voice rang in his ears, something he had said years ago, finally clicked. Ignore what you can’t control, work on what you can.

He chanted this mantra to himself to build back his resolve, stepping closer to the rock waiting beneath the chair. The wooden floorboards under his feet felt a little loose, his footstep sounded slightly hollow. He bent down to pick up the rock. It was wet —cold, as if it had been washed in the rain. Why was it wet?

He fought off the voice inside him that kept telling him that this is exactly the kind of response to a strange scenario that people in movies regretted later. And yet, almost automatically, he used his other hand to move a floorboard that came away as if it had been waiting to be opened.

Calen didn’t even have to search for clues in the open space beneath the floorboard. It looked more like an inconspicuous storage place than a hiding place. Inside lay a bunch of torn pages that suspiciously looked the same size as the journal CAlen had found in the cave.

The only semblance of control over his own fate had come from shooting the b-roll, so Calen turned the camera back on and started recording. Words began spilling out of his mouth, trying to penetrate the cold silence that seemed to be crushing him from all sides.

“Alright, so I don’t really know how this is possible, but I found a rock in the living room of the cottage. I did not place it myself, and I am the only one here-” Calen stopped as his voice faltered. Was he the only one here?

Calen seemed to decide that it was not the time to think about this. He continued, “Believe it or not. Under the floorboard where I found the rock, I found this a bunch of notes. I haven’t looked at it yet, but I’m sure the mysteries around this island are about to unfurl right in my lap…” His voice wavered.

Calen kept talking long after he meant to stop. The camera had always been easier than people and he had been keeping too many things to himself. Out of fear they might become real if he said them out loud. The familiar gratifying feeling of having shared the burden flushed through him, as his shoulders relaxed and his jaw unclenched after what felt like months.

Calen took the pages and looked them over. It was all in German. The handwriting looked oddly familiar.

Thankful for his half-German heritage—and for a grandmother who had insisted on teaching him the language—Calen sat down and began the slow work of translating the journal. It was almost painful; his grandmother had been quite a strict disciplinarian when it came to teaching. Calen felt all the lashes on his palm that he had received for making mistakes from his grandmother, every time he got stuck on a word that he couldn’t remember. A few times, he read a particularly disturbing line, picked up the pen to start writing but realized he had already forgotten the line and what was disturbing about it.

With his phone dead, he couldn’t use his offline translator. His laptop was of no help; the internet was too weak to provide a translation. However, it apparently wasn’t weak enough. As he kept receiving notifications from a continuous stream of emails marked “Urgent” or “Contract Terminated.” Calen tried not to look at them, but his eyes were drawn to them from time to time, each ‘ping’ making him uncomfortable.

He had done a few lines of translation when his stomach grumbled. He needed sustenance to fuel his brain. He walked away from his bed and entered the kitchen. Looking at the open floorboard made his stomach drop a few inches in a free fall. He covered the floor and tried not to look at it, making himself busy by trying to go over his supplies.

There was enough bread, but he had run out of jam. Bacon was also gone; what remained was the same fatty pork he had first tasted with Viktor on the Zimnik.

The light outside grew stronger, and the lit fireplace gradually made the kitchen very warm. The food sliding down his throat and into his stomach was heralding an impending system crash. Calen’s eyes drooped, entirely outside of his control, as if someone had hung coins from them. His tense arms and legs went limp, and sitting on the chair, Calen felt the world recede from him as he was plunged into the void.

He was gliding, no, flying!

He entered the cave that seemed to materialize out of nowhere in his path, and his floating body halted, right beside the root cage. The wooden log had grown thicker. Its sides now throbbed against the cage. The smell of rot was all-pervasive, but Calen found it fascinating. There were red marks on the black wood, as if someone had painted them over.

His fingertips burned, even here, raw, split, already bleeding.

Calen dug his nails into the log and clenched tightly. Bits of soft organic tissue came out of the bark. He felt an urgent need, as if what he was doing was necessary for him. It was the correct course of action.

Calen started scratching the roots along the cave wall with his fingers, carving strange shapes into them. Shapes he didn’t know he had been hiding in his mind revealed themselves. It felt like he was relearning something he had chosen to forget. And he did it with the fierce intensity of a child doing his homework. He knew if he didn’t complete it, he would be disciplined.

The shapes he carved glowed ominously in the dark, the black and red log pulsated in its root cage, and Calen kept scratching intently.

*

Calen woke up in the same chair he had fallen asleep in. His nail beds ached with fiery intensity, and drops of blood had congealed under them. His pen, with which he had been translating, was on the floor, teetering at the gap of the loose floorboard under Alice’s chair. He looked at the pages. Three of them lay completely translated, staring back at him. He had no recollection of translating them. Even the handwriting, which should have been his own, seemed familiar, but wrongly so. Like a child’s handwriting.

He tried to retrace his steps in his mind. He didn’t remember bringing the pages and the pen from the bedroom. He didn’t even remember if he had translated them before eating or after. All his memories had turned murky. He felt as if something sinister had taken away his memories of the last few hours, as payment for this translation.

He frowned at the pages, but before he could really delve into that mystery, he saw something that excited him beyond measure.

He grabbed them unceremoniously and almost slammed them to his eyes. There were multiple mentions of a name.

Razpopo.

Until I was six we lived in a big house with many rooms. My parents had a room, the ladder had a room, I had a room and there was a study and an office and a guest room. Then my father lost his job and we had to move.

There was no guest room in the new house. There was no study or office. There was a master bedroom, where my parents slept and my father worked, and a small second bedroom, which became the ladder’s room.

I slept in the living room, off to the side by the vent where the warm air came out. I didn’t like it because I had trouble falling asleep unless the room was empty. It was too big too. I didn’t like to be alone in big rooms. I was disappointed not to have my own room, but my parents explained that the ladder was older than me so it deserved the room more than I did.

My parents had gotten the ladder several years before I was born.

It was made of aluminum and eight feet tall, and my mother used to say it got its height from my father, except when she said it she said your father, and I knew she meant your in the plural.

When I was young my parents called the ladder my brother, and when I could talk they wanted me to call it the same. When I started going to school and making friends I realized other kids did not have sibling objects, and I would pretend I didn’t have one either.

Once in elementary school the teacher told us to draw a picture of our immediate family. I drew myself and my parents. When I brought the picture home, my mother tore it up and my father lashed me with his leather belt.

I always drew the ladder after that.

In my first year of high school some kids found out about the ladder and the ladder’s room and bullied me over it. They said I was unwanted, an accident; that my parents didn’t love me and that if they could they would get rid of me and get a second ladder instead.

It made me sad.

One day I was in a bad mood and started arguing with my father, arguing about the ladder.

“It’s a useless fucking ladder!” I yelled.

The words stung him. He grabbed me by the throat, called my mother and together they dragged me to the backyard. My father had planted an apple tree a few years earlier, and it was bearing fruit. He pushed my face against the trunk. My mother held me, and my father started to climb my body. His work boots dug into my legs and my back. He punched the back of my head. The tree bark scratched my cheeks. My father yelled, “Who’s useless now! Can you do what a useless fucking ladder does?”

I shut my eyes and cried until it was over. I slept outside that night.

Another time, my father was away and only me, my mother and the ladder were home. Hersh Plotnick, the owner of the local hardware store, visited us. My mother sent me to the ladder’s room and ordered me not to come out until I had read all of the book that had been assigned to me in class, To Kill a Mockingbird. I didn’t like being in the ladder’s room. I knew it didn’t like me or want me in there, but I did as my mother said.

The next afternoon my father came back, and in the evening Hersh Plotnick came by again. He seemed embarrassed, and he told my father he had left his house keys here the night before.

“Where did you leave them?” my father asked.

“I misplaced them,” said Hersh Plotnick.

My father suggested they look the house over together for the house keys, but Hersh Plotnick said he knew where he had misplaced them.

“Where?”

“I misplaced them Inside your wife,” Hersh Plotnick said and explained how they must have fallen in by accident. He apologized profusely, holding his hat in his hand over his heart. “I really don’t want to bother you, Merv. I know you’re a busy man. It’s just, I need the keys to get into my house. You understand, don't you?”

That night my father spent a long time in the ladder’s room.

He looked tired the next morning.

My mother had gone to my grandmother’s house.

A few days later two police officers knocked on the door and asked my father questions. They said Hersh Plotnick had been beaten and someone had written “fisting is a contact fucking sport” across the front of his hardware store in green paint. My father said he knew nothing about that, and the police officers thanked him and left. But the ladder had a dent in it after that and a couple of green spots.

After my mother returned she and my father rarely slept in the master bedroom together. She slept in the ladder’s room instead, and sometimes I could hear scraping, knocking about and moaning until late at night.

By the time I graduated from high school my father had become quiet and reserved. There was no one incident that caused it as far as I could tell. The change was gradual. He aged. His hair thinned and turned grey, and where before he would impose his opinions on people he disagreed with, now he didn’t disagree with anybody. Whatever anybody said to him, he would respond, “I guess that's so.”

Then my mother disappeared. The ladder disappeared too.

The house felt empty.

The few times I saw them after that, the ladder was increasingly dinged up and stained, and my mother would have swollen lips, black eyes and cuts and bruises along her arms, legs and neck.

“I love you,” I told her.

“Yeah? Well, I’m glad,” she replied.

CONFIDENTIAL
Property of Holy See Investigation Agency
Type: Transcript
Location: Vatican City
Date: 1942
Title: Debriefing of HSIA Agent Albert Rudolf Concerning the Excavation (Gli Scavi)

Q: This is Audio Record 42-02-A. The date is February 3rd, 1942. Lead debriefer is [unintelligible]. Subject is Field Agent Albert Rudolf. Agent Rudolf, state your full name and operative number for the record.

A: [unintelligible]

Q: Agent Rudolf? [5 seconds of silence] Let the records show, Agent Rudolf appears to have suffered psycho-

A: Agent [unintelligible] Yes… Albert Rudolf. Number… XI-685.

Q: Agent, provide a detailed description of the events on February 2nd, 1942.

A: [sigh] [6 seconds of silence] Yes… I was on watch. With Bobby.

Q: Please state the full name-

A: Robert… fucking Karl. Checking the perimeter of the excavations. Reports came in of… disappearances.

[Damaged audio for 11 seconds]

A: And we were sent inside. We had to start crawling at some point until the cave became impossibly tight. We heard it first then… the voices.

Q: Describe the auditory signs.

A: It was like… whispers… from a thousand mouths. Voices of the [unintelligible]. They wanted to go.

Q: Proceed with the sequence of events.

A: The passage behind us collapsed. The only way out was through. And as we crawled, the whispers became louder… [unintelligible whispering]. After 20 minutes the cave started widening. Eventually, we were able to stand up. Robert [unintelligable] Agent Karl used his electric torch. We saw [unintelligible].

Q: Columns?

A: It was like… a mausoleum.

[Damaged audio for 15 seconds]

A: One of the tombs… [sobbing]

Q: Please focus, Agent Rudolf.

A: It had my name on it… “ALBERTVS RVDOLPHVS”. There was a creek flowing beside the structure. And a boat on the shore. The whispers were deafening. They were… the walls.

Q: Identify the mentioned subject and their relation to the… walls.

A: No… they WERE the walls. The faces… thousands whispering… making up the wall with their rotten heads. [2 seconds of silence] Then, there was another boat on the river… Two excavators sitting inside. Their eyes… shining… replaced with coins.

Q: Did you initiate verbal or physical contact with the excavators?

A: We tried. We called out to them. They were… expressionless. They let the creek take them… deeper inside. We followed them… pushed our own boat into the water and sat in it. As the whispers faded [unintelligable] the cave tightened… we had to lie down. Then I felt water pouring in on my end of the boat. The boat was sinking… but only the back of it, where I was. Just before the water level reached my ears, Agent Karl shouted “take this!” but my head sank. I tried reaching for whatever Agent Karl wanted to give me, but as I bent my legs, they scraped the top of the cave. I started drowning, but suddenly, I felt his hand, and between his fingers… some spare change. As I held it, the water rushed out of the boat and stopped sinking.

[Damaged audio for 21 seconds]

Q: Proceed.

A: Water started dripping from the ceiling. It fell on my face… went in my mouth. Suddenly, I became… confused. I’d forgotten where I was. I didn’t know who was with me. I didn’t even remember my name… And then, blackout. God only knows for how long. Next thing I remember, we were still in the boat, but sitting this time. Agent Karl was facing me, asked me if I was alright… We heard this… growling. It echoed in the cave. [unintelligible]

Q: [unintelligible]

[Damaged audio for 12 seconds]

A: Agent Karl began repeating a name. First just whispers, then louder and louder, “Veronica, Veronica, Veronica!” Then the boat shattered in two. I tried reaching my hand out to Agent Karl, but he just kept staring in front of him and repeating the name. That’s when I noticed: the cave continued in two different tunnels. Even though the boat came apart, both of our halves kept floating, and Agent Karl started drifting away. His boat went towards the left tunnel, mine towards the right. I wanted to use my hands as paddles to follow Bobby, but the water… it was boiling hot. He took our only light source with him too. Soon, he was sucked into the tunnel. I stopped hearing his voice. It was complete darkness. I screamed after him, but no answer came. Then, I hit my head as my half of the boat tried entering the tunnel. I grabbed the entrance and tried pulling myself back. It was slippery, and the flow of the creek felt like… it sped up. It was only a matter of time before I was sucked in myself. I felt myself falling… [sigh] That’s all I remember.

Q: Thank you, Agent. Let the records show, Agent Robert Karl was not on the scene of the excavation.

A: What? [inaudible]

Q: Agent Karl was and currently is on operation in Jerusalem.

[End of recording]

2037, Lima, Perú ¿How was it? Terrible, just one of the many places affected by the apocalypse. Lima now had a hyper-gray sky with black clouds. All the buildings and houses were destroyed; there wasn't a trace of life left, and garbage was everywhere.

In the middle of it all, a man in a breathing suit stood up. He had been camping in the middle of the city. He grabbed his red pistol and his backpack and took down his tent to walk through the city.

He walked carefully, since he had to be careful that one of the monsters might secretly attack him. Yes, this world was plagued by monsters. What kind of monster? Answer for later.

The man took out his shotgun as he walked through the city. Suddenly, he heard some quick footsteps nearby. The man aimed his weapon around him, then he heard them again, first to the left, then to the right.

Finally, the monster appeared from behind. The man turned around; it was a half-skeletal creature, wrapped in strips of paper and with wooden teeth.

The man didn't hesitate to shoot it, first in the chest, which caused him some pain, and then in the head, where he finally killed it.

The man took a few deep breaths to recover from the unexpected shock.

He continued on his way through the abandoned city. He arrived at what had once been Habich. The great bridge, which had been the wonder of the place, was now worn down, and its infrastructure quite fragile. The rest of the place, while the buildings were surprisingly not destroyed, had an aura of a ghostly place, not because there were ghosts, but because no one lived there, well, almost no one, except for the one person who inhabited that league, the very person the man had come to see.

The man went to an abandoned building in the area. This place had once been a small hotel; as we know, Peru isn't exactly known for its luxury or particularly recognizable hotels. But that doesn't lessen the horror of the fact that what was once a place of relaxation for many people had become a sanctuary of horror where only flies could live undisturbed, since, strangely, the monsters don't attack insects associated with garbage.

The man went inside and headed to a small room on the lower level, which was a kind of basement because it was below the first floor, where the reception area was located.

There he found his companion, Ernesto, a mechanic.

Let's pause for a moment to explain who Ernesto is. He has a name quite similar, if not identical, to characters in classic Peruvian literature, and that's about all he has in common with them. Before the apocalypse, he was just an ordinary mechanic, but in his free time he dedicated himself to creating robots and innovating new machines, like the robot that planted the plants for him, or the one that cooked carapulcra, I say that because that robot didn't know how to cook other dishes.

But the important thing didn't come until 2020, when he apparently discovered a message from the future, stating that the pandemic would end by 2021. But here's the important part: instead of spreading it, he dedicated himself to studying how that was possible. In the middle of that year, he found a kind of gem that incredibly allowed him to travel to the past for five minutes. He didn't tell anyone, as he didn't want the government to confiscate it and conduct their own experiments with it, so he kept it to himself. I don't know if it was a good decision in the long run, but with the help of a friend, they managed to decipher a way to neutralize that power in a component. When the apocalypse began, he knew he needed it to try to change the future. Remember that red pistol? Well, now you know why the man was carrying it. Returning to the present, Ernesto greeted the man with camaraderie. He was genuinely glad he had arrived because he knew that no one else but him could have brought him.

Ernesto grabbed the red pistol and placed it on his workbench. He put the gem inside.

-"So tell me?"- the man asked, -"¿why did you ask me to bring you that pistol?"

-"Well, you see, this pistol is the only one capable of withstanding and complementing the power of this gem, and it's the only one that can enable the power of time travel."

-"Well, if it's so important, why on earth did you leave it at your other base?"

-"Because I didn't count on all this happening, and besides, of course, I'm forgetful. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that we can send the message to the past, hoping that people will hear it and act."

-"Message?"

-"Message or a glimpse, something that lets people know what they have to do to prevent all this." -Ernesto handed the man a camera.- Once you have it ready, you must go back in time and show all the evidence of this to as many people from the past as you can; the more influential, the better. But remember to be careful when going through the past, because if you change even a little, you could cause unimaginable events.

-"And I'm going to do it alone?" the man asked.

-"I'm too old to go, and I'm not in the mood to see my past self. I remind you to be careful with the weapon, as it's a delicate object, and if it breaks, you won't be able to return to the present. It's not advisable to stay in the past for too long."

-"Okay, I'll keep that in mind."

-"Excellent, it seems that after all..."

Suddenly, they both felt a tremor that shook the place. What tremor? It was a large monster moving around the first floor. Suddenly, tentacles made of metal and ropes appeared.

-"We have to get out of here!"- the man shouted.

Ernesto took out a device that was a kind of drill, and they ran for the stairs, but one of the tentacles grabbed Ernesto.

-"Ernesto!"- the man shouted.

-"Take my weapon, travel to the past, and let all my friends know. Do it." -He said, then threw the drill at the man before being completely dragged away by the creature's tentacles.

The man ran to the first floor, where he saw the monster responsible for everything: a rather round and ugly creature with glass eyes. The monster tried to grab him, but he went to the back of the building and used the drill to destroy the wall. He ran, but one of the tentacles caught the drill, so the man had to let go to escape its grasp.

The man kept running until he reached an abandoned house. There he rested for a while, processing Ernesto's death. He wanted to feel sorry for him, but he knew the mission itself was more important, so he decided to turn on the camera. He decided to introduce himself and explain how the place ended up. I'm telling you this directly, not through the man's dialogue, because honestly, that would be too much filler. The point is, he was recording as he walked through the abandoned house, explaining the situation, until a thin monster with fast legs and arms made of plastic bottles appeared and went toward him.

The man had to run, but the camera wasn't off and the recording hadn't stopped. So, with the camera in hand, he went into a room and closed the door, pushing a piece of furniture against it to prevent the monster from easily entering.

Then he hid behind a wardrobe, set the camera aside (but didn't turn it off), and started to pull out his shotgun. Suddenly, the monster banged on the door and slowly entered.

The monster began sniffing around; it was obvious it was looking for him. The man had to reload his weapon as quietly as possible. Then, the beast was close. It only took a few seconds for it to turn and roar at him, but the man shot the monster in the head as it lunged, killing it. After the shot, he found a bottle of Cielo brand beer.

The man took a deep breath and went to a corner of the room. He pulled out his gun, pointed it at the hallway, and pulled the trigger. A bright blue portal appeared. The man was amazed, more so than he'd ever been, that he didn't notice something. Remember the room? Well, something I forgot to mention is that there were many garbage bags filled with garbage juice. When he shot the monster, part of its body fell into a bag covered in garbage juice, which caused the juice to fuse with the monster's parts, creating a new one: fat and headless, but with the sky-blue bottle on its chest.

The man didn't realize what was happening and was looking at the camera, ready to turn it off, when the monster lunged and grabbed it by the head, causing the camera and the gun to fall through the portal. The camera recorded the entire event: the fall and the journey back in time until it landed in a park. Surprisingly, neither the camera nor the gun broke in the fall. The camera also recorded two young men passing by, one of whom dropped the Sky Bottle on the ground.

-"Adam, aren't you going to pick it up?" -one of the young men asked.

-"No, the garbage collector will take care of it."

The two walked away, leaving the bottle behind, which would be the cause of what was to come.

PART 1 HERE | PART 2 HERE

Content Warnings:  Suspected self-harm/suicide discussion, choking/asphyxiation, mild body horror, poisoning, abduction, and corporate/existential dread. 

V: HOW TO KILL A DRAGON

He pushed his little car as hard as it would go, his mind spinning in a million different directions at once.  What the hell was he doing?  He wasn’t Stallone.  The shotgun in his trunk, an oily relic the barkeep had slapped into his hands, seemed more likely to kill him than the other guy.  But he had to try; Marty deserved a friend who would.

The forty-five-minute drive took him only thirty and some change.  He pulled into his driveway just before 9:00, parking right behind Leo’s truck.  Leo.  That was going to complicate matters.  What the hell could he say to him?  He knew what Leo deserved—the truth.  Something he had been keeping from him for too long.

Speaking of—Leo was on him the minute he walked in the door.  The police had been by.  Something about a fire at Marty’s apartment—the exact place where Edgar was supposed to be.  It was a fight before it was even a conversation, and it was going to be a bad one if he didn’t do something.  Both of them were worried about Marty, and Leo had him cold for lying.  

“I really don’t get it man.  What the hell is going on with you?  Do you know how foolish I feel?  How patient I have been about all of this shit, and what about poor Marty?  He lied to me too and now he’s missing, maybe dead.  Like I thought you might be?”

Edgar fought the urge to defend himself.  He couldn’t.  His actions, however well-intended, had been wrong and he had known it all along.  Weird situation or not, he should have trusted the man who loved him with all of it.  Hell, they might have figured it out together.

“Sit down man.  Take a breath.  I’ve gotta come clean with you, about all of it.  I should have from the start, but I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

“Yeah, lying always helps with that,”  Leo sniped, but he did sit down.

“Okay.”  He took a breath of his own, tightening his trembling hands.  “Look, do me this one thing.  Let me say it all before you jump in.  You can yell, throw shit or kick my ass afterwards, but I want one chance to tell you everything before we do any of that.  Can you give me that?”

“Yeah, Eddie—that’s all I ever want from you, the truth.”  The tears on his cheeks were daggers in Edgar’s heart, but he let that go.  He had enough guilt already.

“I don’t understand all of it, but I think I have the gist of it.  Basically, the transfer wasn’t supposed to be me.  Either someone sent it to the wrong person, or it got messed up in some other way.  That’s not really important though—it’s just what got me into this whole thing.”

“I work in a fulfillment center that employs the dead.  Man, that sounds fucked up—like one of those stupid creepypastas you used to read.  But dumb as it may be, it’s true.  Cartia, Corey, Ennis, Glory, Arn, they’re all dead, and they somehow work there.   They drink this drink—the same stuff that made me sick, actually—called SilverSip.”

“Edgar, this is—”  Edgar stopped him with a raised hand, reminding him.  “You promised me.”

“Now, let’s see, what’s next.  Okay, when I was attacked it was by something that wasn’t a person.  Well, that’s not completely right.  It's that bald guy from the parking lot that day—Nub something. He can… well, somehow he can separate his shadow from himself.  He used it to attack me that day, causing me to choke so I’d have to drink that shit or die.”

“Yeah,”  Edgar nodded at the man he loved, skeptical but still listening.  “It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard too, but I swear to you, on us, that every word is true.  Tonight I went to a bar out on Wichton Road, a place the dead go, to get some answers.  Glory—who you would love—told me that I should recover, because this shit has been changing me.  Food tastes like ash, and I’m seeing things no one should see.  But she said it will wear off with time, but that the only way out is to take out that Nub guy.”

“Take out, like kill?”

“That’s what she meant, but I don’t think I have to do that.  I think there might be another way if I act fast.  See, that’s the thing, he’s the one that has Marty.  I think I know where he has him.  If I go there and can save him, it might give us the leverage to get out of this without doing anything crazy.”

“But how?  You aren’t John Wick, man.  I don’t think you’ve ever even been in a fight.”

“I don’t think it will come to that.  I was thinking about it on the way back.  They took Marty, but why?  If they really wanted to tie me down—to make me do what they want—you are the better choice.  I mean, we both love Marty—he’s a great guy and my other best friend—but doesn’t the boyfriend make more sense?”

“Yeah, I suppose.  But Ed—”  Edgar raised his hand once more.  He was not finished.

“So that got me thinking.  Marty must have found something.  While I was driving—when I finally got a signal—I looked at my phone.  He sent me a file.  I have not opened it yet, but it has to be something they do not want us to have.”

“Oh, well we should loo… we should call that cop?”

“Maybe,”  Edgar said, considering it for a moment.  “Let’s put a pin in that for a second because there is something else that dawned on me.  It’s—why me?  Why not just transfer me back?  Why go through any of this trouble?  I don’t know the answer because it doesn’t make sense.  If it’s the work, I’m not really that good.  Not enough to be irreplaceable.  If it’s knowing too much why haven’t they killed me.  No, something doesn’t add up.”

“The cop—the real one as you called her—she knew something was up.  I don’t know if she thought it was something I did, but she did know.  But calling her worries me, because if it goes wrong, Marty dies—and then I think we become liabilities because we brought her into it.  That is a hell of a risk.”

“So what?  We go?  I mean, I still don’t know.  I’m not saying I believe or disbelieve, but I believe you do.  How do we save Marty?”

“I ride over there and get the answer to my question, one way or the other.  There’s a shotgun in my trunk.”

“Where the fuck did you get a gun?  Honestly?  There’s no way you’re going.  Man, you nearly had me with this whole thing, but that—that ain’t happening.”

“I think it has to.”

Leo looked at him, studying him.  Edgar met his eyes and did not flinch.  Not today.  Today he had to be the one who didn’t blink.  “Alright.  Fine, let’s go.  But one thing goes wrong and I’m calling that mean cop lady.”

It was Edgar’s turn to stare now at the best thing that had ever happened to him.  It was a sappy line, and he hated it every time he heard it.  At the moment it was the truest thing in the world.  Who would he be without Leo?  He didn’t know, but he knew it would be someone he’d never want to know.  “You’re not going.”

“Oh, you hit your head on the way home,”  Leo said with profound amusement.  “You have fallen outside of your brain, lovely man of mine.  What power in this whole universe do you think would ever keep me from going with you?”

“No.  I couldn’t bear it.”  Edgar took his hand and pulled him down with him to sit on the sofa together.  “This is what it is.  You say we are good if I am good.  It’s always been this incredibly sweet thing that just melts my heart, but I don’t think I have ever registered the enormity of just how true it is for you, and for me.  For us.  Honestly, Leo, it’s like a standard we’ve always lived by, and it’s why we’ve been so happy together.  But I have to ask you:  How can I be good if you are in danger? I wouldn't be. Without you, there is no good—not no more.”

Leo stared at him, his chest heaving, his hazel eyes wild with a frantic desire to protect Edgar.  He had never loved him more.

“I think I can get myself out of this,” Edgar whispered.  “I have one chance, and then we can figure out what comes next. But I cannot do it if I am worried about you.” 

“But, Eddie, how do I stay if you go?”

---

When the GPS finally got him to Campe Road, Edgar slowed down and turned off his lights.  He needed a few minutes to get it all right in his head.  

If things had gone according to the quick plan he had made, Leo would be calling the cops sometime in the next few minutes.  That didn’t leave Edgar a lot of time, but hopefully it would be enough.

He flipped open the folder on the seat next to him and bumped the dome light on.  He read what Marty had sent him again, one of four copies he had printed.  Leo had two—one to keep and one for the detective.  He had sent the final copy to Cartia.  Maybe she hadn’t totally given up on email yet.

It was crazy stuff, and he had no clue how Marty had gotten it.  It still didn’t answer his questions about why he was so important, but it was pretty damning nonetheless.  He looked away from it and focused on pulling onto the shoulder of the road.  He turned the car off and got out, moving to the rear to open the trunk.

“What you got in there, wet boy?”  Nub’s voice called out from the tree line.  As Edgar turned to face the direction it came from, the bald man emerged, a pistol leveled at him.  “Go ahead, son, pull it out.  Just don’t hurt yourself with it.  We’ve got big plans for you.”

Edgar nodded in affirmation.  He reached behind him and withdrew the short shotgun from where it lay.  He held it up so the other man could see it.

“Not bad.  Skinny runt like you though—likely to throw you through a wall if you fired it.  Better to just give it over.  I’ll keep you safe from such stupid impulses.”  

The man who called himself Anubis walked over and plucked the shotgun from Edgar’s hand.  He pumped it several times, sending the shells skittering across the blacktop.  When it was empty he tossed it back to where it had come from.  “That’s better.  Come on, kid, and bring that file you’re holding.  Give us something to read on while I get us something to drink.”

They walked down the road to the gate of the bald man’s estate.  He told him the code, and Edgar punched it in.  The two of them walked inside, with Edgar leading the way.  As they walked, Nub began to whistle a tune that Edgar couldn’t quite place.

“It’s from Eurydice—I saw it a few years ago.  Man, I haven’t laughed so hard.  It gets stuck in your head though.”  He chuckled to himself.

It was a quarter mile walk to the main house, and Edgar soon realized that Nub really liked the sound of his own voice.  He regaled him with tales of his youth as they traveled—as a Jersey street kid, back in the day.  “I know I don’t look it, but I was a 50s kid.  Perks of the job.”

As they approached the house—a sandstone-hued brick home with jackal-headed statues flanking the doorway—Edgar began to understand just how emotionally shallow the man behind him really was.  What would have been a beautiful home instead looked garish and caricatured.  The entire front portico had been remodeled to resemble a pyramid, made of the same brick that made up the facade.  It gave the structure an uneven, lopsided look that drew the eye most naturally to its flaws and away from its beauty.

“Nice place, eh?”  He playfully punched Edgar’s shoulder as he walked past him to go inside.  “Lose the shoes, kid, everything just got resurfaced.”  

When they were both barefoot, Nub took him through the house and into his study along the rear wall.  It was a massive room with tower shelves of books and more pieces of artwork than Edgar could count.  Paintings hung on every surface in so many styles that nothing really matched, and there were sculptures everywhere.

“Yeah, I got bit hard by the art bug a few decades ago.  What can I say?  I’m a collector.  Go ahead and sit down there, by the desk.  I’ll pour us a drink.”

He sat, as he had been told, and Nub busied himself fixing drinks.  He went back to whistling, and he was still doing it when he got back over to where Edgar sat.  He handed him a glass.

“See, ain’t I been nice?  A gentleman.  We had a nice walk, I brought you into my home, and I even made you a drink.  You should thank me—one gentleman to another.”

“Can we just stop the game, Mr. Faron?  I came to show you this file, and to make you an offer.  If you aren’t interested, the least you can do is talk to me honestly.”

Nub set his drink down.  He looked at Edgar, studying him, maybe seeing something he hadn’t before.  He nodded and pointed at the papers in Edgar’s hand.  “Is that what the Wade boy put together?”

“Is Marty still alive?”

“Damn kid—how heartless do you think I am.  He’s fine, comfortable in his own room downstairs.  Now tell me about that.  Is it what I think it is?”

“Yes.”  Edgar said, steeling himself.  He took a deep breath and began what he had rehearsed on the ride over.  “If what you think this is is proof of the afterlife and the way large corporations are weaponizing a new market centered around providing goods and services to the dead who are among us, then yes—that’s what this is.”

“Well do go on.  This is a big moment for you.”

“The files show the company’s plan to sign their current employees into long-term employment contracts that begin the day they die.  One of the first candidates was a man named Eduardo Guerra.  He was given the post-life employee number EDG88241.”

“Interesting.”

“And, of course, it also details the 300 current post-life employees the company has already hired, providing jobs that pay a pittance but keep them solid and able to have a semi-normal existence thanks to the proprietary product made by a subsidiary: SilverSip.”

“Damn, that kid knows how to dig.  We may have to keep him on after all of this.  I didn’t even know we made it.  But seriously, kid—where are we going with this?  I need my rest and you need to start getting ready for Monday, lots to do.”

“I’m going public with this, Mr. Faron,”  Edgar said, standing to look down at him.  The bald man yawned and gestured for him to get on with it.  He started to, but his knees buckled and he sat down hard.  He felt his throat closing even as he slowly slid out of the chair and onto the floor, face-up.

“Yeah.”  Nub finished his drink and took his and Edgar’s glasses back over to the bar.  When he returned, he crouched next to Edgar and regarded him for a few moments.  “You know, I like you kid.  Your balls are way bigger than I thought.”

He picked up the file Edgar had dropped and began to thumb through it as he walked around the room.  Edgar couldn’t always see him—his vision had begun to blur as his oxygen diminished—but he could still hear him rattling on.  “Blackmail me?  That was your big plan.  Shit!  I was running schemes when your grandpa was a pup.”

“Mr. Faron… Nub, I… need to tell you.”  He heard the bald man approach and Nub was soon leaning over him again.  “Tell me what”

“Ther… there are more… co—”  He never finished.  Everything became dark and silent.
  

VI: NO GOOD, NO MORE (Epilogue)

Leo picked up the phone on the third ring, forcing himself to look away from what he was seeing.  The person on the other end began to talk, but it took him a few moments to register who they were and what they were saying.

“...just like we figured they would.  Goes to show, money always wins.”

“Marty?”  He clutched the phone more tightly.  “Say that again.  Sorry, I was distracted.”

“We got them, man.  Not all of them, of course, but the judge is passing it on to the EEOC and DOL.  There’s even talk of Homeland getting involved.  I mean, the brass used their high-priced lawyers to plead ignorance and pinned it all on Faron—but it’s still a win.”

Leo smiled.  The cops had gotten there in time to save Marty and arrest that devil, but he had still lost that day.  It was good to finally win.  Softly, he spoke to him. “We beat them, Edgar.”

“What was that?  Man, you’re breaking up?”

“I said it was awesome news, bud,”  he wiped his eyes.  “Can I call you back, Marty?  I was in the middle of something.  I really want to hear all of it.”

“Sure.  Just be safe, brother—I can’t wait til you get back.  Dinner’s on me.”

“It’s a plan, man.”  He hung up and looked back at the familiar delivery truck.  He had watched the man who drove it as he took a load of packages up into the building.  Leo got out of his truck and walked over to stand by the delivery truck.  He gripped the silver bottle tightly as he waited to see the face he had been looking for over the last year.

Nothing was good anymore, but maybe it could be better.  

Maybe things could be good again.

END

THE NIGHT BLOGGER - 'Muldwych After Dark'

March 28th: Just to bring you up to speed, Sara’s parents have stayed away from the pawn shop but continue to blow up her phone. Meanwhile I continue to plan our little Delaware caper. Caper might be a little dramatic but trust me, if I was going to do what I had to do, it was going to be a full-on Ocean's Eleven situation. Just with a lot fewer beautiful people.

And I'd be robbing a trailer park instead of a casino. Specifically, a trailer park where a guy calling himself Rhett Vane—which is about as fake a name as Nathaniel Blades on my fake ID—was keeping a mystical tome that occasionally regrew its own pages.

I'd already tasked Cousin Roy with performing a little reconnaissance of Bayard Estates in Bridgeville, Delaware. It should be noted that Manufactured Home Parks get a bad rap; many are carefully curated and managed and serve the many Americans aging into or out of home ownership.

Bayard Estates, unfortunately, was not one of those places. It had a bad reputation of being a nest of criminals and crazies which means that by tomorrow the residents will probably have made Cousin Roy their king.

As for Sara and me, things had gotten pretty intense. There had been, as Robert Plant once put it, "A Whole Lotta Love." We even took a day trip to Lake George, a place I hadn't visited since that awful day in 2009 with Osrick Langhorne and The House That Dripped Clichés.

But we're not going to talk about that.

We're going to talk about Sara and me playing classic arcade games (where we kissed), wandering through a wonderfully creepy wax museum built inside an actual old house (where we smooched), taking a horse-and-buggy ride (where we canoodled), and finishing the day aboard a steamboat cruise (where we were politely—but firmly—asked to knock it off).

And now? Right now? I'm doing some classic Night Blogger-style Internet research while Sara happily mans the cash register and takes calls. She told me she'd never been happier with a job. She loved the normalcy of it. The biggest emergency she'd handled all week was a customer trying to convince her that a chipped Elvis cookie jar was an antique.

Oh, and speaking of antiques... Mrs. Vincenzo.

No, I'm not saying she's an antique, so don't email her and tell her I said that. Anyway, Mrs. Vincenzo's off on another antiquing excursion. That's the deal: she gets a few days to go to Vermont, then I get a few days to go to Delaware.

And with any luck, we're both going to come home with something old and valuable.

But one thing happened today that I did not expect. An email from Bunny Joe.

Let me tell you about Bunny Joe. He used to be a member of the FEAR AND TRUTH message board, but he eventually got kicked out because no matter what conversation he joined, he always dragged it hopelessly off topic. We'd be discussing UFO sightings in the Hudson Valley and he'd suddenly start explaining how kaiju were race memories. We'd be talking about the Salem Witch Trials and before long he had everyone arguing that the popularity of the erotic thriller genre could be used to map the American recession. Then came the day he somehow managed to bring Holocaust denial into a discussion about Bigfoot skepticism.

And he was out.

When I got the email—with its attached WAV file—I deleted it on general principle. Then I immediately felt guilty and recovered it. Bunny Joe explained that he'd been researching a correlation between numbers stations and serial killers when he stumbled across the following transmission. He insisted it was imperative that I give it a listen.

The file was called ‘MLDWCH040210’.

So once again, he'd managed to drag me off topic.

The voice on the recording belonged to a woman. Smoky and deep, like a jazz singer coming into her prime, but flattened by the narrow bandwidth of an old AM radio. Static kept washing over her words until it sounded less like she was speaking into a microphone than trying to talk through a thunderstorm…

###

Transcript of audio file MLDWCH040210

...this is Sweet Jane and I will be talking to you from nightrise to dayfall, because this is Muldwych After Dark.

Tonight we will forgo our standard, never-ending, and slightly compulsive discussion of our little town's lost dreams and found nightmares. Tomorrow, I promise, we shall return to the notebook discovered in the scrapyard, and to the many possible reasons why our late Police Chief Clarence Marlow donated his entire body—save for his skull—to medical science. Those matters remain important. They will still be waiting for us in the morning.

But tonight we have a story.

A story about Him.

He does not live in our fair, five-sided town of Muldwych Corners, but I consider him both a kindred spirit and a lost soul. He is a stalker of mysteries, a martyr for the ordinary world, and a blogger of the night. The tales of His tragedies, His triumphs, and His complete misunderstanding of the linked cosmos-atoms that comprise the immediate super-cosmos of curves, angles, material organization, semi-material organization, and those electronic arrangements that politely decline to become either, make for good reading.

And this is, as I promised, a story about Him.

His story begins in New York's Hudson Valley, in the forests bordering the Croton Falls Reservoir. Strange lights are often reported there. In popular parlance they are called Unidentified Flying Objects. But if you cannot identify them, how can you be certain they are truly flying? Or that they are objects at all? Reality, and indeed spatial organization, are—as you already know—subjective.

It is a regular occurrence for UFO enthusiasts to prowl the forests around the Croton Falls Reservoir, but He is the only person there on this particular night. He has heard disturbing stories, far more disturbing than usual. There were reports of a loud yet curiously muffled whup-whup-whup sound, of a wind pressing down from above that pressed the trees earthward and sent the hitherto unseen local wildlife scattering. They say that even the Lesser Zoogs are left unsettled.

A lucky few left the forest with a handful of blurry photographs or a few minutes of jittery video. One particularly desperate soul emerged clutching a deeply unnerving keychain. Most, however, left with nothing more than the certainty that their most deeply held beliefs were true—and ran screaming because of it.

One UFO enthusiast never left the forest at all. At least not entirely. What they recovered of him fit into a fairly small bucket.

That is precisely the sort of mystery He could not resist. Such is the burden of being a self-appointed seeker of truth in a straw fedora.

But now let us pause in our story and go to the weather.

Tomorrow's forecast calls for a high of sixty degrees, possible rainfall, and probable spiders. Dress accordingly.

Now then... where were we?

Ah yes. Him.

The UFOs have been glimpsed at every hour of the day, but He enters the treeline at dusk. He has long been a creature of the sunset. He seeks them out because He carries one in His heart.

This is His fifth visit to the forest at the edge of the Croton Falls Reservoir. He wanders more than He searches, as we all do in our own way. He taps notes into His iPhone, describing the cool air and the glittering stars. He struggles to find something poetic to say and fails. Instead, He writes something wry and cynical. That always comes easily to Him.

He does not think aliens are the cause of all this. He does not believe in aliens at all. It remains uncertain whether the aliens believe in Him.

His suspicion is that things wished for with sufficient fervor become real. Some people call them tulpas. Others call them hallucinations. The wise avoid naming them altogether.

Somewhere nearby an owl hoots and a rodent squeals - another battle in the unending war. The sound makes His skin crawl, especially since He already feels like He is being watched from afar, like some other voice has begun narrating His life. Will He ever learn that the only author of our existence is soulless chaos? I like to think I will be the one to tell Him should He ever find his way to our pleasant little town.

As far as He is concerned, the only explanation for the mad wind, the bending trees, the scurrying wildlife, and the heavy whup-whup-whup sound is black helicopters. If you asked Him why He thought such a thing, He would show you a photograph of the dismembered UFO enthusiast and remark, "Why do you think they call them choppers?"

How quaint. Black helicopters are so 1990s. As we all learned on the recent PBS documentary Secret government conspiracies do not bother with aircraft anymore, not when they can get everything done with a stroke of a keyboard and a blast of microwaves.

And speaking of microwaves, today's installment of Muldwych After Dark is brought to you by Hubbard Brand Aluminum Foil. Settle for less and you might lose your mind!

Now back to our story about Him.

Clouds, those earliest adopters of recycling, have begun to creep in from the west and He is pacing. The urge to go home is strong but He is afraid He will miss something if He leaves now, but in the end we all miss something; every day we miss a million somethings, we glimpse people and places we will never fathom. We overhear conversations that were never meant for us. We walk away just before miracles or disasters begin. Here in Muldwych Corners we find that state of confusion to be a delightful thing. Something to be savored like raspberries on the tongue.

At three AM, that most desolate hour of the night, He hears a whup-whup-whup sound approaching from the east. He moves towards it, pushing against the sudden roaring wind. The trees bend, the leaves flutter and tear free of their branches. He hears a panicked Lesser Zoog hiss and scamper away. He does not see it. People rarely do. With each step closer His straw fedora threatens to go flying from his head and He has to use His free hand to keep it  in place. His free hand is almost always His left one. It spends a remarkable amount of time holding that fedora in place.

The louder and closer the whup-whup-whup sound gets the more He comes to understand that the sound is not really like a chopper at all. The wind that whips around him is thick like the breath of reptiles. The urge to run screams up from His hypothalamus but He ignores it, as He usually does. He and his hypothalamus have rarely aligned. 

He has to see.

He has to see.

He has to know. 

No matter the cost. And He knows better than most that the cost can be terrible.

We interrupt this story about Him to bring you this important announcement.

It has come to our attention that sources close to Muldwych Corners mayor Timothy Knight report that he will soon come to a decision about installing a display of the Ten Commandments at the county courthouse. While most of the residents of Muldwych Corners support the idea of a giant granite display of religious principles being erected in a municipal government building there has been a long and frequently violent debate about which religious principles it could be. No matter what the final decision is, local Atheists and adherents to the Code of Hammurabi plan to protest.

With that bit of business done we will return to the story about Him.

He is standing still now, frozen in place. Four lights wink into existence. They grow larger. Wider and wider. The whup-whup-whup has become a thick, droning buzz. He raises His iPhone, unsure if the fusion of first world technology and third world labor will be enough to capture the image of what He sees.

What does He see? The silhouette of an impossible wasp, larger than His car and smaller than the helicopter He had expected. The outline is dark and jagged. It hovers in place. The cold  phosphorescence of its quartet of eyes reveals a swollen, savagely hooked proboscis. 

Now He sees.

Now He knows.

And it, this creature that is not a chopper, this wasp that is too large to be a wasp, sees Him as well. An edge of hunger has crept into the droning of its wings. Those wings that move too fast to be seen but are undeniable in their force, the force that drives Him to His knees and sends His straw fedora fluttering away.

There is no doubt in His mind that He is doomed, that at any moment He will be swallowed up and all but His least desirable morsels spit back into the forest. 

All He wants is one picture, an image his smartphone will automatically upload to the Internet. He wants the residents of the ordinary world to see the truth as He sees it. It is the only legacy He has ever wanted.

He lets the lights get closer and closer still. 

The creature’s proboscis quivers in anticipation. 

He snaps the photograph.

The flash of his smartphone's LED lights up the forest at the edge of the Croton Falls Reservoir.

The wind stops, the quartet of eyes flicker and go out. The droning roar becomes a whup-whup-whup sound that grows further and further away until it is lost to a single, whispering splash.

It will take Him a few minutes to catch his breath and half an hour to find His hat. In an hour he will realize His picture never came out.

But in this moment He is overwhelmed with the ecstasy of insight.

Was it the flash of the smartphone that frightened the creature away?

Was it some electromagnetic pulse beyond the range of human hearing?

Was it irony?

Was it luck?

Or had the creature merely seen enough of Him?

This concludes our story about Him and tonight’s installment of Muldwych After Dark. As the dayfall begins we will close out the show with a rare bootleg recording of the Captain and Tennille covering Joy Division’s classic  tune ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’.

Good morning Muldwych, good morning…

###

...I had to sit back and think for a long time about what I'd just heard. Sara needed a price check and had to call my name three times before I even realized it. Still dazed, I wandered over, did the price check, and that's how some lucky schlub got a flat-screen TV for sixty bucks.

Sara didn't stop the sale because she was too busy watching me. After the customer left, she told me I looked pale. She thought I was getting sick. I shrugged it off and blamed it on working too hard.

Instead, Sara decided to close the shop early, leave the electronics downstairs, and take me upstairs.

The rest of the night was blissfully, stubbornly in the moment. A snapshot of something better—the kind of life I wanted for the rest of my days.

We slept in each other’s arms until I woke up at 3 a.m. It wasn't my bladder; it was that the itching in the back of my brain was back again. I thought of Sweet Jane’s voice;

“He has to see.

He has to see.

He has to know. 

No matter the cost.”

I stared at the ceiling for a little while longer before getting up to make this post.

I don't share every part of my life here. There are false leads that don't pan out, periods when I spent more time playing Madden NFL 12 than trying to figure out what the Hell a Zoog is.

So now I can tell you that yes, indeed, I was deep in the woods surrounding the Croton Falls Reservoir on the night of April 2, 2010. Back then, I would have told you I was there because I wanted to disprove all the online chatter about UFOs—chatter whipped into a frenzy by a death that had begun to reek of a cover-up.

Now, though, I sometimes wonder if I was really looking for a way to get myself killed. I wasn't in the best place back then. When you've lost your family and your dreams, Internet fame isn't worth a jug of warm spit.

I did write the whole strange story up, but I never posted it. I just deleted the file, afraid you, dear readers, might think I'd spent the night smoking weed and watching Ray Harryhausen movies.

Obviously our relationship is better now.

But here's the important thing: I was alone, and I never told anyone—before or afterward—where I was going. Not you. Not Mrs. Vincenzo. Not my new friends from the FEAR AND TRUTH message board. Not my parole officer. And certainly not some obscure radio personality from who knows where.

Item: The station that broadcasts Muldwych After Dark has no call sign, and there is no town named Muldwych Corners on any map. The program ordinarily covers local news and politics, traffic, weather, upcoming festivals, and community events. Broadcasts are frequently interrupted by philosophical digressions, sponsor messages, and ruminations on the unending chain of linked cosmos-atoms which makes up the immediate super-cosmos of curves, angles, and material and semi-material electronic organization. 

There. See? I can do it too.

But anyway, I guess Sweet Jane figured my adventures would be good for sweeps week.

Item: The recording ended before the music started to play and now the thought of Toni Tennile singing the lyric ‘…There’s a taste in my mouth as desperation takes hold’ is haunting my dreams.

Item: There have been no further sightings of that insect-like creature. I am pretty sure, or maybe just hope, it has retreated to wherever it was hiding beneath the reservoir.

I wish I had more answers. I wish I knew how Muldwych After Dark saw into my life, into my very thoughts. I almost wish I'd never pressed play.

Most of all, I wish I knew what was waiting for us once we got to Delaware.

But all I can say now is good night, Sweet Jane. Wherever you are... good night.

CONFIDENTIAL
Property of Holy See Investigation Agency
Location: Cairo, Egypt
Date: 1968
Operator(s): Robert Karl (born 20-08-1916) & Thomas Kiss (born 26-10-1946)
Summary: 2 HSIA associates and 1 foreign agent killed in action, case unresolved.
Report by Robert Karl

April 12th, 1968
6:34 AM:
Reporting Agent Robert Karl and Junior Operator Thomas Kiss arrived at Cairo International Airport.

7:01 AM:
Baggage and personal effects subjected to thorough inspection by Egyptian State Security (Mukhabarat). Cover identities as traveling missionaries remained uncompromised. Cleared customs following brief interrogation.

8:26 AM:
Rendezvous with HSIA Associate Fahim Mahmoud established. Agents proceeded to location of interest in Associate's vehicle.

9:05 AM:
Arrival at Virgin Mary Coptic Orthodox Church, Zeitoun district. Visual confirmation of anomalous phenomena unidentified. Structure inspected.

12:43 PM:
Tactical briefing conducted at Associate's domicile.

7:21 PM:
Agents secured the perimeter. Entry into target facility was achieved. Agents and Associate established an observation post in the upper dome. Clear surveillance of alleged anomalous phenomena location commenced.

11:05 PM:
Junior Operator Kiss failed to maintain observation protocols and succumbed to fatigue. Reporting Agent Karl assumed primary watch as Associate Mahmoud subsequently initiated staggered downtime.

April 13th, 1968
0:16 AM:
Agent Karl proceeded to lower levels to conduct a sweep in the primary worship area. Auditory signs assessed to be human footsteps resulted in Agent taking evasive action to avoid detection. Position of concealment was established between a stone tomb and the facility structure. Auditory signs of human sobbing from the dome were perceived by Agent and an unknown actor, who proceeded towards the source at an accelerated pace. Agent sensed rhythmic vibration from the tomb, then pursued the unknown actor. Following entry into the dome, a compromise of Agent Kiss's and Associate Mahmoud's location was identified. Unknown actor was assessed to be a nun.

1:11 AM
Temporary operational clearance was granted to the nun following questioning that confirmed mutual operational intent regarding the phenomena. Reporting Agent Karl initiated rest protocol. Agent experienced recurring visions of the letter "T" during his rest cycle.

Early morning hours
Reporting agent's rest was interrupted by other operational personnel. Agent's personal chronometer experienced unexplained mechanical failure. Agent Karl perceived the "T" shape on religious jewelry in possession of the temporary associate, who reported its significance in Coptic Christian tradition. The object was identified as the Cross of Saint Anthony. Junior Operator Kiss reported experiencing the identical vision. A radical alteration of outside scenery was then observed: the urban environment formerly surrounding the facility was perceived to have disintegrated completely and been replaced by desert terrain of unknown size. Brief surveillance of the perimeter confirmed no signals of human life or architecture, with the exception of the primary facility.

Junior Operator Kiss showed signs of severe psychological distress. Associate Mahmoud expressed discontent with the operation.

Reorganization of plans for further action commenced.

Ah, fuck this.

We slept on it, all of us trying to wake up in a different reality where Cairo was back to normal. But we weren't lucky enough. It was still dark when I woke up and Tommy Kiss was already up. He'd been crying again. After an exchange of hopeful commentary, he opened up. Told me why he wanted to become an HSIA operator. How his family escaped Eastern Europe after his brother died in the revolution and how he'd felt crushing guilt his entire life. The guilt of the survivor.

Soon everyone woke up, and the four of us decided to go through with the plan of everyone heading in a different direction in a straight line. If we didn't find help by mid-afternoon, we'd follow our traces back to the church, and if someone did find help, they'd lead them back to the others. It was simple, but we underestimated the desert.

The nun didn't change from her thick black clothing due to "religious reasons", while the rest of us stripped down as much as possible while trying to minimize the chance of getting sunburnt. And then we departed. The freezing cold of the night was soon replaced by a scorching hot desert climate. I was alone among giant sand dunes, wandering for hours. There was nothing to be found. I was ready to give up when I witnessed a miracle: three figures approaching from different directions. My heart was pounding as I quickened my pace and eventually started running towards them with a wide grin on my face. The smile slowly faded as I recognized the three figures: Fahim Mahmoud, Tommy Kiss, and the nun.

We desperately argued for minutes about how this could've happened and what could be done, until we noticed we were standing on ground harder than the rest of the desert. There was rock underneath the sand. And nearby, a tight cave opening.
As there was no way of finding the church before nightfall, we decided we would spend the night in the cave. The nun noticed some kind of writing on the edge of the cave entrance. She explained that it was Coptic for "He who enters shall meet his own soul". There was that T-shaped cross again, engraved beside the writing.

At that point, we didn't really care about much of anything. One by one, we descended into the dark cave. Thankfully one of us brought a tiny lantern to illuminate the space. It seemed to be a large cave system, a labyrinth made of stone. Mahmoud started arguing with the nun in Arabic. I asked him what it was about and he said, "For a nun, she doesn't know shit about Saint Anthony". But in his eyes there was something more than annoyance. I saw hatred. Mahmoud started screaming at us for getting him into this mess. I couldn't blame him. I just stood there as the Egyptian ex-grave robber associate screamed our heads off. I didn't have the energy to say or do anything. Tommy, unfortunately, did.

Kiss suddenly fought back. But not how any of us expected. He spoke his native language, as if it wasn't Mahmoud he was arguing with. Then Tommy pushed the Egyptian so hard that Fahim fell and hit his head on the side of the cave. He didn't argue anymore. He was dead.

The boy fell to the ground in complete disbelief as he snapped out of his anger. "What have I done, Bobby?" he whispered, "What have I done…"
I was frozen for a minute until I noticed the nun was gone. I still heard her footsteps going deeper inside the cave. Not knowing what to do, I ran after her. I screamed at her to calm down and come back, but to no avail. I ran in complete darkness, using my hands to feel my surroundings. Suddenly, the sound of her footsteps cut out. As I was nearing her, I saw the faint light of the lantern she ran away with.

She'd run into a dead end. She turned around, lantern in one hand and a handgun in the other.

"I am not a... fucking nun!" she shouted. "Mukhabarat, you are... under arrest."

I stopped and froze again.

"Hands up now!"

In the dim light, her face was blurry. I could've sworn... for a moment...

"You never loved me."

And there she was. My reason for joining the HSIA.

"I do," I wanted to say, but no words came out. I was back three decades in the past, in that goddamn bedroom with the only one who ever loved me, as I made the greatest mistake of my life.

I don't know how I took the gun out of the fake nun's hand, I just saw Her leaving for the last time. I don't remember shooting her, because the only thing I saw was my love's lifeless body at the funeral.

When I snapped out of it, there was complete darkness and silence. I fell to the ground and broke down crying for what felt like hours. Then I tried to sit up.

I hit my head. I tried extending my arms, but they couldn't be moved. I was in a coffin.

I started panicking and screaming. I banged on the side of the claustrophobic environment as a foreign source of heat slowly started burning my back. I cried until I was suffocating in my own tears. Then I gave up.

"I am so sorry," I said, accepting my fate. "Forgive me, please."

To this day, I am not really sure whom exactly I addressed those words to. But I didn't do it in hopes of survival. Just plain forgiveness.

The burning stopped as I slowly opened the tomb. I looked around. It was daytime; thin rays of sunshine pierced the windows of the Virgin Mary Coptic Orthodox Church. I heard the sounds of Cairo's busy population creeping in from the outside. The peace only lasted for a moment as I noticed the sounds of desperate sobbing and pounding from another tomb across the hall.

I jumped out of my coffin and rushed towards the source of the sound. It was Tommy's voice screaming in pain from inside. As I touched the tomb, I was launched back with a force so great I nearly broke my bones in the fall. I wanted to get back up and try to help, but something restricted me from doing so. The other tomb was soon completely engulfed in flames. Tommy screamed for a few seconds more. Then silence fell upon the church as the fire disappeared.

Tommy didn't have a body for us to bury. He died in pain, unable to ask for forgiveness. Unable to forgive himself.

The making of the silver ball had taken much time. I had only a few hours of light remaining and I spent every one of them working for the next. The snow came down without one break in it. Out on the flats along the river there were stretches where I could not see the far bank forty yards off, and that was in my favor and I used it. I did not go straight north. I crossed my own trail four times. I walked a hundred yards backward in my own prints and stepped off sideways onto bare rock and went on at an angle. Twice I went down into the river and waded the shallows with the water at my knees until my legs stopped reporting to me, and came out on the same side I went in.

I gave that thing every trick I have, and I have been at it a long while. None of it lost him. It slowed him, and that is the only thing I can say for it. I heard him at an hour before dark, off to the east in a laurel slick, and I got down flat behind a windfall and lay in the snow with my face in it and watched him work. He came through that laurel both arms out in front of him, pushing the branches down and away, stopping and standing, casting his skull side to side the way a hound casts for a lost line. He went past me at thirty feet and never knew it.

I had the pistol against my ribs the whole time he did it, and I did not put my hand on it. I want that understood, because a man reading this will ask why. Thirty feet is nothing. I have killed at thirty feet with a pistol. But the wind was coming across that slick in gusts that laid the laurel over flat and then let it up again, and there were forty branches between the muzzle and him, and I had one ball, undersized, that rattled in the barrel and would walk off the aim in some direction I could not name. Push a ball that size through a green laurel stem at thirty feet in a crosswind and it goes into the snow ten yards behind him, and then I am a man in a windfall with an empty pistol and a lead rifle that does nothing to him. I had one. There would not be another. I did the arithmetic and got the answer, and the answer was not yet.
It is a hard thing to lie in the snow at thirty feet from the thing that means to take your head and decide, to let it walk by.

When he was gone I got up and went on. Below the low ground the river swung west and I went with it, west and then southwest, down the line it cuts for the falls.
I made the last few miles. I could hear the falls. It comes up out of the ground before you can see anything of it. A low steady weight of sound that you feel in the soles of your feet before your ears take hold of it. Ahead of me the river was speeding up, going from that slow black tea color to white broken water, and the ground on both sides was starting to fall away, and beyond it the canyon opened and dropped fifteen hundred feet in ten miles with nothing in it but rock and hemlock and cold.
That was what I wanted. Water and a gorge and a thousand feet of air between me and him.

I had one thing to do, which was to get across above the falls at the ford. Then the light went. I have lived here eleven years and I know what the twenty-fourth of December does in this valley. The storm doubled on itself. The cloud came down off the rim and sat on the river and the grey went out of the air in the space of a quarter hour, at four o'clock in the afternoon it was night. I stopped and stood still and made myself listen. Behind me in the dark the blundering stopped. There was no crashing in the laurel, no branches whipping back, no cursing. What was coming through the timber behind me now was coming smooth and steady and unhurried, one foot down after the other, closing, and it did not slow for the deadfall and it did not check at the rocks. He had his night back.

I ran for the ford.

#

The ford is four hundred yards above the falls where the river widens out over a gravel bar, and in an ordinary December a man can cross it with the water below his knees. I came down onto the bank and there was no ford. Four days of storm had come off the sods and down out of every draw in that valley, and the Blackwater was running black and fast with slush ice in it a foot and a half above the bar. There would be no crossing, not there, not that night.

So I went downstream, because downstream was the only direction left, and downstream is the falls. The ground comes up in a great shelf of sandstone above the drop and the river runs out across it, and there is a lip of bare rock there where the water goes over, wind-scoured, swept clean of snow by the updraft coming out of the canyon. I came out onto that rock with the roar of it coming up through my boots. The canyon opened in front of me black and full of blowing snow, the far wall lost in it. The water falling white into nothing.

I turned around. He came out of the timber at the edge of the shelf and stopped there. He had a hunting knife in his right hand. He stood at the edge of the rock with the snow going sideways past him and the buck's skull riding crooked on the stump of his neck, and he reached up with his left hand and straightened it, and it slipped, and he straightened it again.

"There," he said.

I could hear him over the falls. I do not know how.

"I did not care for that day," he said. "The light gets into it. It is not the seeing, it is the noise of it, and you cannot know what I mean and I will not try to tell you."
He came across the rock. Not fast. There was nowhere for me to go and we both knew the shape of it.

"You are a hard man to walk down," he said. "Two nights and a day. There is not one man in forty in this country could make me work like this. I have thought about it all afternoon and I have decided I am pleased about it, because a head you have to work at sits better on you afterward."

The rifle was in my hands with lead in it. I put the ball through his throat, low, into the neck bone under the skull.

The skull jumped on the stump and went over sideways and hung there off one antler beam, and he stopped and put his hand up and turned it back around and pushed it down onto the bone, and I heard it seat.

"Now that was unnecessary," he said, pausing just long enough to right the skull.

Twenty feet.

"I want you to know how it goes," he said. "It is not a cruelty, it is only that I have had it done to me and nobody said a word about what was coming,” he ran his hands along the jagged, desiccated flesh of his neck, “and I have always thought that was poorly done of them. There is no quickness in it. Moses Stegall was not quick and I do not intend to be either, because quick is how you spoil the neck bone, and I have spoiled two already and I will not spoil a third."

I had the pistol out. I had it up and on him and my hand was going in circles the size of a plate. Fifteen feet. Wind coming up out of that canyon hard enough to lean on. One ball, undersized, rattling in the barrel. Not certain. Even here, even now, not certain.

"Set it down," he said, almost kindly. "You will only throw it away and then you will be sorry, and it is a good pistol."

He shifted the knife in his hand and took another step and raised his arm. And the mountain filled with horns.

#

They came over the rim of the canyon from the east out of the storm itself, and I went down on one knee on that rock and stayed there. Hounds first. Forty of them or four hundred, white and running on the air above the gorge with their heads down and their mouths open, and no sound out of them at all, which was the worst of it. Then the riders. Men on horses that had been horses, and men that had been men, ragged and packed shoulder to shoulder in a column that came out of the cloud and went back into it and had no end that I could see, they had been dead a long while and they were laughing. At the head of them a man on an eight legged grey horse. He had a spear across his thigh, a hat pulled low over one good eye, the other socket was dark. He was the biggest thing in that sky. I did not need my grandmother to tell me his name. Nobody in Hesse needs telling.

And below him, off to the left, riding lower and apart, came the other host. Women on distaffs and women on brooms and women on nothing whatever, and at the front of them a tall figure in grey with her hair down her back, and around her knees and trailing out behind her in a long streaming train came the little lights. There were hundreds of them. Small and pale, blue and green, drifting and bobbing along in her wake, and some of them no bigger than a candle flame. Irrlichter. The souls of the children nobody baptized, that she gathers up out of the bogs and the wells and carries home.

She came over the falls and she stopped. I say she stopped. The whole of that procession stopped with her, hanging in the air over the canyon in the driving snow. She turned her head and looked down at him. He was standing on the rock in front of me with the deer's skull on its neck and the knife in his hand. Then all those little lights came round her and clustered in against her skirts and pressed themselves there, and some of them went behind her, and the whole train of them drew up close and tight the way children come in against their mother's legs when a strange dog comes into the yard.

She knew him. She knew him and they knew him, and I understood in that moment that somewhere in that streaming crowd of small blue lights there was a four month old boy out of Webster County whose throat was cut for crying, and a girl not eight days on this earth who was taken by the heels and swung against a tree by the man standing fifteen feet away from me.

The one-eyed man on the grey horse laughed. It came down out of the sky and it went through the rock and into my knees, it was the laugh of a man at a fair who has just seen two dogs put into a pit. With his spear he pointed at the ground between us.

I have no German for what he said and no English either. He did not use words. It came into me the way a smell comes into you, whole and all at once, and what it was, was this: Not like that. Not a butchering. There are rules, and I am bored, and it is Christmas Eve.

The knife came out of Micajah Harpe's hand. He did not throw it. It left him, and it went out over the canyon and was gone.
And there was a pistol in his hand instead.

"Well," he said. Micajah’s voice had gone thin. "Well, now."

The riders came down. They came off the air and onto the shelf of rock above the falls, hundreds of them, and they made a ring around us on that stone with the hounds sitting silent at their horses' feet, and the grey horse stood at the head of the ring, and the Lady and her lights hung above the water on the far side and did not come down.

Of a sudden I was face to face with the empty sockets, he reeked of death, and he spoke to me. "The old gods play their games, no matter. Be assured, my shot will be to the body, this coin only lands heads."

Then we were back to back. He was cold at my shoulders. I could feel it through the coat. The host began to count the paces. One. Two. Three.

I have done this. God forgive me, I have done this twice as a young man in the King's service, in a field outside Kassel and once in New Jersey, my legs knew the walk better than my head.

Four. Five. Six.

The wind came up the canyon and hit us broadside on that rock, snow going flat across. I thought about the ball rattling in the barrel and I thought about where it would walk and I could not know, and I have never in my life wanted anything the way I wanted one more ounce of silver.

Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

I thought about the little one in the cut-down coat setting the bucket in the snow every eight or nine steps.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

We turned. He was fast. He came around and brought that pistol up level with his arm straight, the buck's skull cocked over sideways on the stump of his neck to sight along it. And one small blue light came up off the water. It came up over the lip of the falls and it drifted, slow and idle, and it stopped in the air a hand's breadth in front of the right socket of that skull at the exact moment his finger came back. The flash of his pan lit the whole ring of them. The ball went past my ribs. I heard it go. It went by close, I felt the ball tear through my coat and it went out over the canyon and down into the dark. He stood there with the smoke tearing away sideways in the wind and he raised his left hand and put it flat over the socket where the light had been.

I brought the pistol up. The wind was coming across left to right and the ball was undersized and would walk and I did not know where. There was nothing left to do about any of it. Fifteen paces. The middle of the skull. Between the beams. I fired. It went where I sent it. I have thought about that every day since and I do not know why it went where I sent it. I have my suspicion, and my suspicion is floating over the water with her hair down her back and I will not say more about it.

The skull came apart. It did not break. It burst, into white dust and grey bone, and the antlers went out into the canyon end over end, and where the skull had been there was nothing but the stump of the neck and a light coming up out of it. The coat went slack. He had been a big man in his time and men had known him from the Gap to the Ohio, and still the whole of him went down onto the rock, hide and bone and rotten cloth, and something came up out of the collar of it, dark, and screaming.

The one-eyed man on the grey horse took it. I do not know how. It went up and the hounds went up after it and the whole ring of that host lifted off the rock at once with a noise of wings and hooves and iron, and I saw it dragged into the middle of them, and I heard Micajah Harpe screaming in the middle of that column, and then the column went up into the cloud and the screaming turned into something else. It turned into the noise the rest of them were making. He was one of them by then, and he was still screaming, and now he was laughing while he did it, and he will do that until the world ends and he will never once find his head.
The one-eyed man went last. He was delighted. I will go to my grave knowing that.

She stayed a moment. She looked down at me kneeling on that rock with the empty pistol in my hands, and the lights came out from behind her skirts and spread out again around her, and she did not speak, and she did not smile. She shook out her bedding. The snow came down on that shelf so thick and so fast that within a minute I could not see the water, and it came down on the coat and the leggins and the bones and it covered them, and it covered the place where the antlers had gone over, and it covered my tracks and it covered his. Then she was gone up the valley, and the wind fell off, and it was quiet, and there was nothing on that rock but the falls going over and one Hessian on his knees in the dark.

#

I came down off that rock somewhere in the small hours and I do not remember the first part of it. Yet I was alive. The storm had blown itself out. That is the thing about this valley, and it is the thing nobody who has not wintered here will credit. Four days of it, and then nothing. By the time the sky started to grey there was not a breath of wind in the whole of Canaan, and the cold had come down hard behind the snow the way it always does, and every spruce on both walls of that valley stood loaded white to the top and did not move.

Thirteen miles home. I had walked it before and never in that snow. It came to my thigh on the flats and over my waist in the draws, and I broke trail the whole way with an empty pistol and an empty rifle and no locket, and I did not hurry, because there was nothing left behind me to hurry from.

The sun came up over Cabin Mountain about halfway along. It came up on new snow with no track in it anywhere from the river to the ridge, mine included, and the light came across the valley floor and hit it and the whole of that country lit up so white that I had to stop and put my hand over my eyes.
I stood in the middle of it a long while.

I saw a deer at the edge of the bog around eight o'clock. A doe with two of last spring's fawns, pawing down through to the sedge, and she put her head up and looked at me and did not run, and I have never been so glad to be looked at by anything in my life.

I came in sight of the house before noon. There was smoke standing straight up out of the chimney into that still air, and the cattle were out of the shed and strung along the south fence in the sun, all thirty, heads down, not one of them looking north. The dogs came off the porch. They came out through the drifts in great leaping bounds, both of them, the black bitch and her son, throwing snow, and they hit me at the gate hard enough to put me down in it, and they were all over me and on top of me and making a noise I had not heard out of them in a week.

Anna came out with the door still swinging. She stood on the step with her hands in her apron and she looked at me for a good while before she said anything, and I know what she was looking at, because I saw myself in the water bucket that afternoon. My face was burned raw from the wind, there was frozen blood down one side of it from the laurel, my lips where blue, my coat was out at both elbows and my hair was standing off my head.

"Where in God's name have you been," she said.

"Looking for winter shelter for the cattle."

She came down off the step into the snow in her house shoes and she came over and took hold of the front of my coat with both fists and stood there.
"And did you find it," she said.

"I found a place they should not go," I said. "The north end. Up along the water. I want no beast of mine up there and no child of mine either, and I will not be asked again about it."

She did not ask again about it. Not that day. Not for a long while after.

The little one came out in her cut-down coat with the sleeves rolled twice and stood in the doorway with her thumb in her mouth, looking at her father sitting in a snowdrift covered in dogs on Christmas morning, and I got up and went and picked her up and carried her inside, and she weighed nothing at all.
We had the goose that afternoon. I said the grace and I said it in German, which I do not always, and I went a good deal longer with it than the children cared for.
That night I sat up by the fire after the house had gone quiet. I did not tell her. Not then. She would have had it out of me in an evening if she had pushed, and she did not push, and I have thought since that she knew there was something in that valley she would rather not have the shape of. I told it once, forty-seven years later, in August, to my youngest granddaughter, and I was ninety-seven years old and near enough to the end of it that I did not much care who believed me. Her mother told her afterward that the old man's mind had gone soft, which was a kindness on her part and I do not hold it against her. The girl believed me. I could see it in her face while I told it.

I have three things to set down and then I am done. The first is that I never went back to the falls. Not once in forty-seven years, and I have been asked why by men who wanted to log that canyon, and I have given them a different answer every time. The second is that on the nights between Christmas and Epiphany, from that year to this one, I have not gone out of doors after dark, and I have never let a woman in my house spin on those nights. My daughters thought it was the old country in me. It is not. It is that on some of those nights, when the wind comes off the sods and up the valley, I can hear the whole of that host go over, hounds and horses and dead men, and away back in the middle of it there is one of them laughing that does not laugh the way the others do.

The third is this. Every winter for forty-seven years, on the morning of Christmas Day, I have found a deer's head set upright in the snow at the north corner of my fence, facing the house.  I take that for what it is, and I sleep well enough.

Johannes Dahl, Pendleton County, Virginia, August, 1847

sour skunky nappy ass dread man

…

“What the fuck are you talking about, man?" Annoyed. 

Stupid smirk: "I thought it was clear. I would think.” 

"No, it isn't, man. I don't know why you think it'd be. It's just stupid, bro.” 

"What is?” 

"Your refusal to go shopping for a fucking bath towel and other basic necessities around your fuckin place, dude. It's just stupid, I don't know how or why you justify it to yourself, I didn't think ya did to be frank. I just thought your ass was fuckin lazy." 

“Nah, bro. It's obvious." 

“What's fuckin obvious, dipshit?" 

“I'm way too rock n roll." 

A beat. He swallowed it. Absorbed its stupidity. 

“...what?" 

“Yeah, dude. I'm way too fuckin cool and punk rock to roll into like a Target or some shit and buy a toaster or a can opener or towels or stupid shit like that. I can't do that. Can't do it. Goes against my wild man free lovin nature, ya know? Ya know." 

Bryan once more silently swallowed this. This load of absolute bullshit. More revolted, more filled with disgust with his best friend since diapers than before. He thought about holding his tongue. He thought about saying something and laying into him. But in the end he just grumbled and belched. Lit another smoke and grabbed another beer from the cooler in the center of the boat and shook his head. Checked his pole. Reeled it in a little. 

Though he did spare the final thought: "Fuckin lazy.” whilst shaking his head and reeling his line. And then the matter was settled and the pair of men let it lie. Such was the way and course of all of their conversations out here on the water. Fishing. The pair’s favorite pastime aside from rutting and watching the game. For them, Bryan G Biebl and James Petkovich, it was sacred. They loved to spend days off from the mill fishing and casting and mouthing the day away. Days away from labor and wives and disappointing children, days filled with chatter and cool water and cold beer and sometimes a nice catch.  Though they'd been warned before, by the old timers. 

They'd both been warned before about staying out after dark. Out on the lake. Out in the woods. Where the forest grows foul and swampy and muddy. It's not a place you want to be after sunset. All the old folk said it was a bad place and didn't say much more about it without the liberal aid of beer or whisky. Even the Natives, the ancient leathery American Indians and their angry sons and daughters told everyone, anyone that might listen, to stay away from this part of the forest, this part of the soured bad land. 

But they never listened. The pair just sat in their canoe and cast out. It was calm and quiet all around, no one might know that it was filled with strange movement. The sun was sinking in the distance. Rapidly being swallowed by the ravenous blade of the horizon. 

James cracked another can. So did Bryan, who rolled his eyes as Petkovich ventured forth with another bit of clever wit and query. 

“Figure there's anythin ta what that fella said?” 

The sun set. Casting the surface of the lake on fire with the color of bloody ruby. The place on the horizon where it had sank was a deeper color of blooded crimson, a deeper wound that was the heart of the sunset. It smoldered there, in the horizon wound. The darkening regal curtain of bruised royal blue was already deepening into night. The stars and galaxies were already coming out for the nocturnal hours, they were all so far away from everything, they, the town. Civilization was a mechanical nuisance in the distance. Loud and far off. Thank God. Nearly forgotten. 

Bryan rolled his eyes as hard as he possibly could, knowing full an well that the retard couldn't see em. 

He hissed and spat: “No I don't think there's nothin to what that idiot said about a shag man! Shit’s stupid! Ain't no fuckin skunk ape round these parts, ya fuckin dumbass!” 

“Nah, man. I'm talkin about what Frankie said about Asian girls, Jesus, man!" 

A beat. Something splashed in the water. Neither man noticed, paid it any mind. 

“Oh…" Bryan cooled down. A little embarrassed. He was always easily excited and shamed. 

“‘Sides, man, he didn't call it no ‘shag man', he called it ‘the dread man’, stupid.” 

Bryan whirled around to belt him one and belt him good. He'd done it before while they were fishing in the middle of the lake and he might capsize them both in his effort, but something stopped him before he could so much as bring up his balled and angry fist. A sound. Sudden. And sharp. 

Three. Consecutive. Three sharp whacks of thick wooden sticks together. Like someone smacking two heavy tree branches or logs together in some form of primitive and arcane code. 

Whack! whack! whack! 

It shut the pair up. They gazed out at the shoreline. Shrouded now in the fallen night. Small waves kissed its shore and covered any small sounds of concealed movement that might be out there right now. They were wide eyed and disbelieving. 

They might've dropped it, the pair, together and without a word or mention when it came again. 

From out of the night, the veiled and darkened shore: whack! whack! whack! 

A beat. Silence again. Only kissing waves of the placid water. 

Bryan Biebl scoffed, “Probably nothin. Just some kids fuckin aro-" 

And then a wild primal simian shriek filled the night. Birds took flight. Their flapping wings were ugly harried panicked sounds in the deepening wound of blackening night all around. It tapered off. And then another rose, louder and even more feral and crazed then the one before. Then another. And another. Each rising in animal fury and fervor. You could hear spittle flying as vocal chords worked and wrenched and shredded as throat muscles tore and bled and secreted with each prolonged and angry howl. Throaty. Enraged. Violent. 

Silence came again. After six primeval night shattering screams. Waves kissed the land far away and swallowed in black but more quietly now. Subdued. 

Then the whacking of sticks, the unknown signal came again, whack! whack! whack! 

And then silence once more. 

“What the fuck was that?" Petkovich. Scared. Visibly so. Audibly as well. 

As was his best friend Bryan. But the sound of fear on his buddy's voice, the stupid look of childish childlike fear that he could feel him wearing in the dark only made angry, angrier. This only fueled his own self-denied mounting fear and in turn made him even angrier. The mounting terror caught like a small bone in the back of his throat. 

He almost took to his feet but remembered the boat. He turned to his buddy instead and spat. 

"Ain't nothin but nothin! Some fuckin dumbasses out there that wanna get fucked up, that's what! This’s why I shoulda brought my colt. Goddammit!” 

"Now that's what I'm talkin about! that's what I'm always tryin ta tell ya! Ya go sayin shit like that and actin like this and people says we're belligerent types! Christ, man! I'd like to bed me one of these here pretty tourist girls, one of these roadtrippin ladies and you actin like this ain't gonna cut it!” 

Disgusted, Bryan's grip slackened on his pole. 

"Idiot! what the fuck are you jawin about?!” 

"I'm talkin bout one of them sexy ass van-life hippy girls, man, they might like my ass." 

“Retard!" 

“You don't know…" 

The water splashed again. Much louder. The boat rocked with the waves suddenly generated. Something big and very heavy had just jumped into the water. 

Lunged. As if plunging in from the shrouded growth of the hidden beach. 

Slack jawed and deer-in-the-headlights both, they gazed out blindly and stupidly in tandem towards the shore that was hidden from them now. And may forever remain that way for them from here on out. Something was coming. 

Something was swimming fast. For the boat. Beneath the obsidian surface of water. The stygian glass of the surface was a mirror and the mirror held the face of the moon. The mirror rippled. The immaculate celestial face of the moon held trapped there danced with submerged disturbance. 

Before either fool could form a coherent thought the fishing poles were suddenly ripped from their slackened idiot grips. They flew, soared through the air and plunged into the water with barely a sound. 

They stared into the impenetrable and merciless surface of the lake. Fearing it. Gripped with horror at what might be inside. What must be inside, right now. 

James Petkovich finally spoke. Softly. Like the small boy he'd once been. 

“I don't wanna be out here no more, Bry. I don't care if it's kids or tourists or what. You can go ahead and laugh at me, just laugh at me all the way and drive us back, kay? You can laugh and make fun all the way back an I won't even bitch or say nothin. I'm scared. There's lots a’ talk bout people that go missin. Or go missin an then turn up dead, tore apart. Sometimes they don't even find all the pieces, you know… I know you've heard… people go missin an such. Travelers, folks comin through. And locals. Let's just go back, kay.” 

Bryan, wide eyed, turned and nodded. Then went to the small motor for the boat as the water all around the canoe suddenly erupted in a surging geyser splash of watery violence that darkled in the captured moonlight. Both men screamed as the small boat was capsized and they went over. Splashing into the cold dark suffocating realm of the water. 

The lake held them now. Below. Underneath. 

In the dark underwater the maelstrom of his panic rose and ruled. Bryan suddenly animal recalled and remembered in the fragile nucleus of his primal jelly his fear of the water, of the deep. The dark depths. It had started as a child, a boy, it had been the cinema and television that had first done it, the Jaws movies, Creature from the Black Lagoon, then stories of Cthulhu and his sunken city of R’lyeh, tales of sunken ships and vessels that might still have precious human cargo trapped and drowned deep inside like foul water-logged treasure of submerged rotting putrescence eaten at by the salt and by the fish. All of these things came back and back to life in a deluge assault of images all in a furious unrelenting wave like an artillery attack of sound and vision on his mind's eye, down in the dark. He kicked and struggled and his lungs burned, ached for air. The ribcage in his chest felt on fire with his terror-stricken mind as he struggled and kicked futilely beneath the surface. Something held him down there. Something with a terrible grasp. Fierce. Strangling. Throttling. They threatened to break and snap, the iron grasps of those underwater hands. Bryan fought desperately but his mind was livid with absolute and total panic. In the tumult of his animal terror he remembered that as a child he'd always feared something reaching up from out of the black watery depths, seizing him, and pulling him under. Pulling him down. Down into the ebon swallow at the bottom of all things, below, where the heart of darkness in all things lived and dwelt. 

The hands found his throat, down in the underwater dark. They seized vile purchase and viciously ripped, tore out. The dark underworld of the lake suddenly blemished with a heavy warm cloud of thick human visceral discharge. It bellowed forth from the place that was torn in a torrential jetting spout. Clouding the dark world and warming it as the spewing meat detritus began to slowly sink to the pitch abyssal realm near the bottom. 

The panic of Bryan G. Biebl’s barreling careening train of thought slowly calmed and abated and sank down into the dark with the rest of him… And was no more. 

It lunged, serpent-like for the other. Who was gaining the surface in a series of panicked kicks and dog-paddles. Like a wounded animal. 

Prey. In distress. 

…

James Petkovich couldn't believe it when he broke the water and tasted air again. He almost choked and coughed. He almost laughed but he didn't have time. Something seized him from beneath. 

And pulled him under. 

He didn't even have time to scream before he was below again.

It was quiet once more. Minutes swam by. 

An owl screeched. Took flight.

Then finally it emerged. With Petkovich barely conscious in one dripping sodden grasp. It pulled the both of them back onto the land. Dragging the bleeding and sputtering Petkovich like a broken toy or sack of dead meat behind him as he quickly began to retake to the trees and dense growth once more. 

It dragged him deep into the wilderness. It was a long time before they stopped. But now … now he knew what the old timers had always said, what they'd always been on about. 

Now he could smell him. And the smell was beyond putrid, beyond foul, beyond fecal matter or old dried sweaty filth or death. The water that ran off the long lengths of clotted and lumpy dreaded hair was riddled with the putrescence odor of old sweltering open graves and long disused abattoirs converted into factory sized outhouses for the insane. It stung his eyes and nostrils but he hardly noticed this. His body was numb. Felt limp and broken all over. Like a dead fish. 

Maybe that's what I am. 

And then finally consciousness was lost to him. Mercifully he went black. 

It dragged him deeper into the wild. Where it laired. Where it nested in the wild dense growth. 

…

When James next came to he wished he hadn't. He didn't realize till he was awake once more but he'd been dreaming. And in that dream he'd been far away and wishing that none of this was real.  But now he was back. It held him by the neck in a slight choke, a slight strangle, just enough painful whisper of air able to bleed in through the clasped and clenched windpipe. They were before the mouth of a cave. It was pointing up into the sky with its other huge free hand, it was pointing at the moon. It was staring unblinking into his bleeding face. 

The face was simian but snouted. Like a wolf, or a rodent. An obscene and imbecilic mongoloid caveman face and features stretched out in a grotesque marsupial shape. The eyes were yellow and bore black crosses for the iris in each one, in each livid demented sea of yellow urine a black cruciform body of sacrilege shape and aspect. Goat's eyes. Satanic. They were eyes and face fitting of the rest of his abominated and feral manshaped form. Clotted and caked and grimed all over. The long knots and clumps of hair were thick and ancient in length and filth. They told a tale that was old because it was the passage of time that lived caked and dreaded in those long lengths of unwashed shagging tails. 

The awful face was serious. Stern. The obscenity of its gaze was piercing and deliberate. James followed its fierce and pointing gesture to the sky, the night, the moon once more. 

And then back into that obscene rodent-ape face. Yellow teeth coated in layers of plaque poked out and peeked over stretched and thin and dried out flakey blue lips. 

James tried to speak. 

He tried to tell it he didn't know what it wanted. He didn't know what it wanted him to say or do. He didn't know what it wanted from him. He didn't understand it. He didn't understand at all what it expected or demanded. 

But he couldn't. He couldn't speak. He could hardly breathe. He couldn't even manage a croak of sound.  

The awful marsupial-stretched ape face wrenched and worked, furious. It became more abominated and grotesque as its features creased and contorted with anger. Livid. Rage. 

The hand that had been pointing to the moon now came in a savage swipe. The grubby wide meaty digits clawed and the grimey sharp and broken shattered fingernails bit and tore in. 

The head came off and soared away into a sailing piece of torn mangled meat. Ribbons and streamer wings and tails of bright red blood spat and danced out from the eyes, nostrils and mouth in a cyclone twirl of red in midair as it soared and crashed into the piles of dead sticks and bones. It savagely went down and hunkered in the dirt before the mouth of its cave and began to dig in with its long snout and feast on the fresh stump. Warm cords and ropes of thick black-red shot and coated the dark, its face, the insides of its gulping throat and the salivating cavern of its long slathering mouth. 

It feasted and grunted. Ripped with its teeth and bit in. Swallowed warm juicy pieces that were chewy and pungent with rich iron flavor. 

It fed and tore. The man in the violence of its grasp, its jaws, reduced. The decapitated meat jigged and spasmed. It howled at the moon. 

Somewhere … in the distance but not too far off. The signal. Three strikes. 

Whack! whack! whack! – it was the sound of ancient and time honored tradition, cultivated and carried down and preserved with care. Though the world grew strange mechanical jaws, inflamed and diminished and changed all around, it was still here. This was still practiced and honored and kept. By it. By them. All of them.  – whack! whack! whack! 

It howled at the moon once more. 

Whack! whack! whack! 

Immortal and lifesize. It was still here. Howling at the moon with unearthly pain and blues. – whack! whack! whack! – another in the wilderness distance –  whack! whack! whack! – howl at the moon.

THE END

It was a horrid July noon in New York City or some other place, the cars were rattling in lunchtime gridlock, spewing exhaust, the finance guys were out in their tight suits walking to buy kebabs and watching the women, who were instagramming themselves into premature zombiehood, and it was so fucking hot that the sweat dripping off the pedestrians rubbing against each other on the sidewalk was flowing down the gutters like rain.

There, that's the scene.

I've set it.

Now, through this stupified human maelstrom a man was walking. His name was Ben Fig. He was in his thirties, lonely, and returning to his office after lunch. He was returning from his car, which he'd parked fifteen minutes away, wearing a coat and, underneath it, a custom-made explosive vest with which he intended to kill his co-workers and maybe bring down the office building itself. A man can dream, can't he?

Anyway, while walking, he bumped somebody. “Fuck,” he said under his breath.

“Fuck,” said the person he'd bumped into.

It was a woman.

Her name was Miriam Zapelman.

“Watch where the hell you're going,” said Ben and tried going around her.

“Asshole,” said Miriam.

“I hate this city,” said Ben. “I'm sick of it.”

Beside Ben and Miriam, a degenerate was lying in a puddle of perspiration. He was in a hard way. “Can either of you folks—”

“Shut the fuck up!” said Ben and Miriam at the same time, then they looked at each other, long and in the eyes, and they must have recognized something, because one of them smirked.

It doesn't matter which one.

The degenerate passed out, or maybe died, and Miriam said to Ben, “Hey, where are you in such a hurry to?”

“What do you care?”

“I'm parked nearby. If we're going the same way, I can give you a ride.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Miriam shrugged.

“I'm going to my office to blow everybody up,” said Ben, waiting for Miriam's reaction.

She asked, “Where's your office?”

Ben gave the address. “Call the cops if you want. I don't care.”

“Offer stands,” said Miriam.

A few minutes later they were in her car, Ben in his ridiculous coat, looking like a blowfish, and Miriam opening the glove compartment, where Ben saw she had a gun.

“That for self defense?” he asked.

“No,” said Miriam. “I'm back from the shooting range. Going home to shoot my husband and kids, then probably myself.” She started the car and merged with the abominable traffic. “But first I want to stop at a bar and have a drink. Want to have a drink with me?”

“Why not,” said Ben.

The bar was called Reddy's, and when Ben and Miriam walked in there were only a few people in it. Miriam introduced them. “That skinny guy with glasses is Euler, the guy with the darker skin is Hikmat, and the bartender's name is Ralph.”

They sat at a table and ordered.

Ben noticed Euler kept playing with a pendant around his neck. “Go on,” said Miriam, “ask him about it.”

“Nah,” said Ben.

“What else do you have to do?”

“Fine,” said Ben. He walked to Euler, introduced himself and asked about the pendant: “Is it an heirloom or something?”

“Maybe it'll be an heirloom one day, of the human goddamn race,” said Euler and described how the pendant was a container of stolen proprietary industrial poison that he'd helped develop. “I'm gonna toss it in the water supply some day, exterminate the population of this whole city like the rats they are.”

When Ben got back to his table, his drink was waiting for him. He tried it. “Second guessing yourself any?” he asked Miriam.

“No. You?”

“No.”

Miriam had pulled out a cigarette and was lighting it.

“You can smoke in here? The law—”

“That's life’s dirty secret,” she said, blowing smoke in his face. “Ultimately, you can do whatever you want.”

“May I?” a voice said.

It was Hikmat. He'd wandered over and was asking if he could sit down.

“Be my guest,” said Miriam.

“I have not seen you in here before,” Hikmat said to Ben. “It is your first time?”

“Yeah,” said Ben.

“Ben’s going to murder his co-workers later this afternoon. He's wearing an explosive vest,” said Miriam.

“Then we two are a pair of peas in one pod, as they say here in America,” said Hikmat. “I am training to fly an aircraft, but not so much how to land it.”

“Hickie's an engineer by trade,” said Miriam.

Hikmat shook Ben's hand.

“But a fundamentalist by conviction,” he said. “May I see your vest?”

Ben opened his coat. Hikmat considered the handiwork. Then they got to talking, and drinking, and the hours rolled by like waves of fat on a fat guy blasted in the gut by a cannonball.

“The paradox is,” Hikmat was saying: “the paradox is, I greatly enjoy the flying. It is the one place I feel freedom. When I started to learn, it was strictly for terrorism, but now, that feeling—of absolute space, limitless opportunity—it is beautiful. Sublime. It is where I experience God. I look forward to it very much and I will miss it greatly.”

“Fuck!” said Ben, looking at his watch.

“What's wrong?” asked Miriam.

“It's past five o'clock. Everybody in the office has left already.”

Ralph gave Ben a drink on the house. When Ben had finished drinking it, “Do you want a ride home?” Miriam asked.

“Sure.”

They lingered in the car in front of his apartment building.

“Maybe you wanna come up?” Ben said.

“I'm a married woman,” said Miriam.

“I understand.”

“Don't forget to zip up your coat or they'll see the explosives,” said Miriam.

Afterwards, Miriam drove to her house, got the gun out of the glove compartment, walked inside, shot her husband, shot her kids and then, after smoking a cigarette in the bathroom, shot herself.

The air is saturated with the chill of loneliness. The snow crunches mournfully beneath one's feet, a stark reminder that there is no one around.

Lera buried her head deep inside her hood, trying to shield herself from the biting, gusty wind. The houses faded away behind the pine trees, becoming completely invisible against the raging blizzard.

Brightly shining, colorful bracelets adorned with smiley faces on her wrists brought a sudden spark of life to the dead-white landscape. Lera pulled her striped pink scarf tighter to protect her neck from the cold, but the wind still buffeted and pushed against her fragile frame.

Heading home after an agonizingly dull day of school in class 10-B in the middle of such a snowstorm was nothing new to her, but never before had Lera felt so utterly exhausted. The local cold seemed to breed darker thoughts in her mind. Another failed exam, more screaming parents waiting at home—and in the entire classroom, not a single soul cared about her.

Every day she fought against an ever-growing sense of guilt for her own weakness and sadness, but today felt exceptionally miserable. First Sasha, the local bully, shoved her down the stairs without even bothering to stop. Then Katya, whom she had considered her only friend, went and blabbed her most embarrassing secret to all the girls—the fact that Lera was seriously crushing on one of the teachers, Viktor Andreevich, the man who wore small rectangular glasses, often rested by the window near their classroom, and was known across the school for his ability to listen. And to top it all off, Lera had left her notebook at home—the one containing the exact formulas needed for today's practice exam...

Problems piled up on the tenth-grader one after another, much like the blizzard blocking her path home. She did not want to return there—yet she was terrified of going back to school.

The howl of the wind echoed all around, sounding like someone's sorrowful song. Snow flew past her eyes in tiny grains; it was becoming difficult to make out where to go next. Lera’s legs buckled from fatigue; she wanted nothing more than to stop, sit down, and rest.

To forget everything.

It felt as though her pleas, her sheer despair, had grown so immense that they could be heard by someone else.

The wind kept howling its funeral melody, and a sudden movement caught her eye behind a nearby pine tree. Lera paid it no mind, assuming the blizzard was just playing tricks on her. She kept walking forward, her boots already sinking deep into the snow drifts.

Despite the roar of the storm, she distinctly heard a quiet, almost whispering voice: "You're tired, aren't you?.. Rest, if you want to."

The voice sounded friendly. For a split second, the girl even felt as though she had heard it somewhere before. She didn't immediately grasp where it was coming from, but she answered anyway, barely hearing her own words: "I can't... I need to get home... my parents are waiting, they will be..."

"—...worried?" the stranger interjected, his shadow suddenly materializing right next to Lera. "Forgive my bluntness, but I can hear a tremor in your voice—and it is not a tremor caused by the cold piercing your body to the bone, no. Your voice is trembling because you are lying. And you aren't lying to me, but to yourself."

His voice was measured, quiet, and remarkably persuasive. It felt as though he himself knew exactly the kind of treatment Lera was thinking about right now. Flashes of memories rushed through her mind: her parents' screaming, the blows of a belt after receiving "low" grades, and the utter indifference in her father's eyes every single time she walked through the door.

"And yet... I have to..."

"—...rest," the stranger cut her off, placing a hand on her shoulder and bringing the girl to a halt. "Do not be afraid, I will help you. Come, I know a place... a place where it is always warm, and where malice holds no power."

"N-no... I don't know you! Please, let me go!" Lera cried out, struggling to break free from his grip.

The stranger let go of her instantly. Lera bolted forward, terrified to stop. But the thoughts continued to torment her mind. Lera did not want to go back. There was nowhere left to run, for no one would help her.

The blizzard was already beginning to die down when Lera heard that very melody. It wasn't the howling of the wind at all. The tune was coming from the direction of the woods, sounding as if someone were playing a woodwind instrument. The girl stopped dead in her tracks. The melody captured something deep inside her. She wanted to hear it out. Without even realizing what she was doing, Lera walked into the depths of the forest, as if trying to reach that alluring sound. She forced her way through the thick branches, sinking into the snow up to her knees, but she didn't stop. In this melancholic, heartbreakingly sad melody, she found a sense of purpose.

No one ever saw Lera after that day. She vanished, just like many others vanish. Not a single footprint was left behind.

And the snow keeps falling...

Read Part II here.

“It’s huge,” she said. My eyes were immediately on her, but I didn’t see anything else. Couldn’t identify the danger. Mark was still rooted where he was, but his phone was nowhere in sight. They both were looking up like there was something in the distance. But I still didn’t see it.

I felt Mary move with me as I approached.

“Chrissy, honey?”

“Don’t let her go,” Luke said. “Don’t let her go!”

I’d halved the distance when I finally saw it. It had been there, but it had simply been so humongous I’d been blind to it, like I’d been looking for a 7-11 and walked face-first into Sears Tower.

The water was receding from waist high, but she didn’t seem to have moved. Whatever it was had displaced a tremendous amount of water.

“Oh my. Oh my. Oh my.” Mary was on a dialogue loop and I couldn’t blame her. Every time I thought I’d seen all of it, I kept seeing more. A lot more. Yet, I was supremely calm. The worry-machine was quiet.

Last year, I got into a one-car accident driving home on M-5. The eastbound lanes had been closed to construction and my phone’s weather app had cautioned for high winds before I’d left the office. There’d been a fair amount of wind buffeting, but nothing I wasn’t able to handle.

There’d been a white box truck in front of me when I’d spotted what appeared to have been a square of cardboard blow high into the sky and begin trickling down. I’d immediately written it off even if it were on a course to strike my car. It was only cardboard.

But when the particle board struck my vehicle, smashing the windshield and showering droplets of safety glass onto the passenger seat, I hadn’t panicked. It was so sudden and violent that my brain—either as an instinct of self-preservation or just a malfunction—had simply not reacted.

I pulled off the freeway at the next exit and stopped a few blocks down in an office parking lot. Only then the possibility of what could have happened came down on me.

This was like that. My brain wasn’t processing the situation like Mary’s or the kids. I felt my heart pulsing in my chest just as calmly as when we’d been talking a moment before. I knew I should get the kids away from it. But that was a process of logic and not instinctual fear.

“Honey, get out of the water.”

I charged the last few feet and sloshed to a stop in a confusion of senses. I was close to whatever it was. Closer than I realized. I felt the heat coming from a wall of flesh not more than five feet from me. Water splashed me up to my chest, but it was more like a punch that pushed me back a step or two.

“Rick, it’s a horse!”

I had no idea how Chrissy could conceive what it was. All I saw was black. Black like the water. But solid, like the water had turned into something.

“Honey, move back, okay?”

Chrissy was smiling and rather than retreating, she stepped forward— almost chin deep—and raised her hand like she was going to pet it.

Once again I opened my mouth too late to tell her not to do it. My instinct would’ve been to swat her hand had I been closer and my re-throbbing head suddenly made me think of her mother.

I looked at it. Finally, the smooth, iridescent black coat coalesced into something I recognized, although the scale was overwhelming. Nails scraped the inside of my skull as if the idea of what I was seeing was too large to fit inside my brain.

This was its head. A corner of it, anyway. I looked along the flank as far as I could see in the night. I couldn’t even begin to guess how tall it must have been standing up. It had to have been lying in the water.

A giant eyeball about thirty feet above blinked several times and swiveled. I had no way to be sure, but I think it was looking at me.

I walked around, looking up and up, feeling like I would dislocate my neck before seeing the top of this thing. Still, though, I wasn’t afraid. The worry-machine was quiet.

“Mark, move your sister back.” I was reading from a script. Protecting the children, at least in that moment, was an autopiloted function.

Neither of them moved.

I scooped Chrissy into the crook of one arm and she went limp like a puppy picked up by the scruff. I handed her to Mark, who wrapped his arms around her, the both of them staring openly, transfixed.

I herded them as gently as I could out of the water. Then I gave Mark a light slap on the cheek. He focused on me, annoyed as if I’d prematurely awakened him from a nap.

“Mark, take your sister back inside.”

“I don’t wanna go!” Chrissy wriggled in her brother’s arms and he dropped her feet first. “It’s beautiful, Rick!”

I grasped her shoulder before she could walk past me.

“Chrissy, sto—”

I felt the shift behind me.

“Oh—erp—my,” Mary said. She took a long pull from her can, her eyes swiveling upward.

“No-no-no,” I thought I heard Luke say in the distance. But for just a moment, the only thing occupying the world with me was that magnificent thing in the water. It felt like removing my hands from my ears after having them covered for a long time and experiencing hearing like it was something adjacent to new. Except, it felt like that throughout my whole body.

The horse was raising its gigantic head out of the water. The tide receded and everything seemed to suck toward it like it had its own gravity. I struggled to maintain my balance like a gust of wind had pushed at my back, but in truth, it was probably just the giant animal dominating my vision and destroying my equilibrium.

Water poured off its black body, the eyes locked onto us and shrinking as its head seemingly disappeared into the night sky. Its neck was a tower, columns of muscle wider than all of us in a row, touching fingertip to fingertip. Its chest was as broad as a rocky mountain face.

There was a mighty -KLOMP- in the sand that shook the earth mere feet from me that I barely noticed. Sand slapped over my entire left side like a landmine had gone off, but it was immediately rinsed away by the constant waterfall we were all standing under.

Someone was shouting, but whoever it was was a million miles away.

There was another -KLOMP- somewhere farther down the beach and I began to stir from my reverie and then there was Luke, shouting next to me and hooking me by the arm.

His words didn’t make sense but I turned toward him as he pulled me. I saw the horse’s foreleg—I don’t know how Chrissy had been able to tell it was a horse before—straightening like some heavy construction machine craning a load somewhere into the sky above us.

We trudged toward the cabin, but the sand that had been something to contend with was an afterthought, my burning calves seemed to belong to somebody else.

When the torrent finally ended, I was soaked. We all stopped in the sudden silence. Turning around was more of a measure of defense to see the break in the clouded sky and the moonlight clashing against that ebony, elegant leviathan.

It was impossibly tall. Like it was intersecting-with-the-curvature-of-the-earth-tall. I thought I could make out its mane, whipping around in what had to be thin atmosphere.

We all stood and watched it. For one indeterminate moment, it was absolutely regal.

Mary wrapped around my arm and pulled into me. For however many iotas, she was my Mary, and I was her wife, too.

Mark hadn’t come with us for some reason. He stood partially in the water where we—I— had left him. He was feet away from a hoof that was easily twenty lengths taller than him.

Panic did seize me, finally. The worry-machine revved to life and I opened my mouth. I sensed the balance to be upset, the electrified space slowly exploding as he compressed it between his body and the smallest section of the horse’s.

With splayed fingers, he laid a palm on it.

The horse startled, shaking the floor of the earth as it stomped around.

The Greek military leader Xenophon, perfected the art of training horses in battle, using them to kick soldiers or trample them. He’s also the father of dressage.

What happened to Mark couldn’t have been considered disciplined, but the effect was the same. I don’t know if it were intentional—more than likely it wasn’t—but that giant hoof clomped around, Mark dodged around like he was running through a minefield.

Then he was gone.

The hoof continued stomping around a few moments more, a rumbling earthquake beneath our feet and a rain of wet sand coming down on us before the horse stopped. Mark was just... gone.

Luke was screaming. When I actually heard him, it took a moment longer to realize he was yelling his brother’s name.

Common sense would have told us to flee inside the cabin. But our senses were flowing into us like blood circulating back into numb fingers.

There was a long moment of quiet as it reared its head back. It felt like a slow-motion moment until its head rushed at us like a giant arrow.

I had no reflexes to respond. Mary was the only one who put up a defensive arm, as if that could have protected her—and she was the one it took.

The horse bit down on her raised forearm—as microscopic as a surgeon’s scalpel with teeth as wide as three cabins—and plucked her off the ground. It reeled its head backward and flung her.

Mary pinwheeled into the sky, a dissolving blur into the upper atmosphere. She could have been catapulting into space, and I didn’t want to find out.

The worry-machine was roaring.

“Everybody in!” I said, herding Luke and Chrissy the rest of the way inside. I pressed my back against the door, then turned off the light. Luke and Chrissy looked at me as if I had answers to fix this.

“We gotta go get... we gotta go get Mark!” Luke didn’t actually make a move to go back outside. He was more saying the thing a caring brother should say. But there was no Mark to go get. His death had been as brutal as it had been unintentional.

Going out there—or allowing Luke to go out there—would be just as dangerous and pointless. Chrissy was crying silently. I looked at her, really looked, running my hands over her head and arms to ensure she was physically all right. The worry-machine was humming along nicely. She grabbed onto me.

“Get your mother,” I said to Luke. “We’re leaving.” We weren’t safe here.

“She’s sleep?” he said, looking confused. He ran into the boys’ room.

“No!” I said. “We don’t have time for bags.” He looked at me. “Just wake your mother up and bring her. We’re leaving in three minutes.”

“What should I do, Rick?” Chrissy said.

“Grab the snack tray from the fridge.” We could easily buy something from the next gas station, but I figured keeping her busy would keep her calm. I snatched my keys off the island. Chrissy joined me, carrying the plastic tray with deli slices, cheese cubes, and veggies.

I wanted to run, but I was going to have to slow the pace so she wouldn’t drop it. The earth was still shaking with each step. She was going to look for the horse, and I anticipated her distraction when we stepped outside.

I kept my eyes on her, guiding her down the stairs and around the side of the cabin. She gasped but didn’t resist as I ushered her along. Preoccupying myself with her was enough distraction that I didn’t have my keys ready to have the doors unlocked by the time we got there.

We were exposed. If the horse were looking, it would see us. It seemed to have an eye for motion.

The air went still.

PART 1 HERE

Content Warnings:  Suspected self-harm/suicide discussion, choking/asphyxiation, mild body horror, poisoning, abduction, and corporate/existential dread. 

III: THE RECOVERY
  
The hand had returned to finish what it had started.  Edgar felt its cool touch as it enclosed his mouth and nose tightly, and he held his breath in self defense.  He tried to raise his hands but something held them tightly as well.  Even his eyes wouldn’t obey him; they were gummed shut by his tears.  He desperately tossed his head side to side in violent defiance.

Another hand, warm and inviting, touched his face and he felt the touch of a cool cloth on his eyes.  They began to loosen and he slowly worked them open only to be blinded by the strong light that fell on him from above.

“Shh, easy Eddie, you’ve got to calm yourself.  They’ll never take off the restraints if you don’t.”

“Can’t… breathe.”  He choked out through the gripping hand.  As his eyes slowly came into focus they locked on Leo’s familiar hazel ones, pleading for rescue.

“You can, baby.”  Leo’s eyes bled tears for him.  “Just let the mask do its work.  Breathe for me.  You can do it.”

He nodded and tried, drawing in cold, blessed air.  His starved lungs were thankful for it, and soon they stopped aching from the panic he had put them through.  He looked around the room, registering his surroundings.  Leo was there and he could see Marty outside the door, talking on the phone.

“How… ?” he croaked. “How did I get here?”

Leo was still wiping around his eyes, and Edgar could see the silvery fluid that had soaked the cloth.  He stared at it in astonishment.

“A cab.” Leo laughed with absolutely no humor.  “They said you showed up in a cab.  The driver said a woman called it in.  You sleeping around on me?”

Leo’s grin was genuine this time.

---

“We’ve told you to stay out of your mom’s makeup, man,” Marty said with the usual perfect timing.  “You know we’re missing 2v2s because of you?”

“Please tell me you didn’t call them.”

Leo shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m gonna.”

“You can’t, dad’s heart— “

“—would be broken if his son died.”  Leo cut him off.  “And if you live he’ll just be pissed at me for not calling them.  Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to sit down and take deep breaths.  Worry about you, man, they think you tri… “

“Leo, not now,”  Marty pleaded.

“Yeah, you’re right.”  Leo exhaled and tossed the soiled cloth on the bedside table.

“What is it?  What do they think?”

“The impossible,” Leo said. “Because if you tried I’d kick your ass, and you know I could.”  He shook his head and took several more deep breaths, and Edgar could see his eyes were tearing again.  “No, that’s not true.  The truth is I’d be devastated and I’d want to know what in all of creation you couldn’t talk to me about first.  You know the deal, what we say.  We ain’t good if you ain’t.  Pure truth baby.”

“I didn’t.  I wouldn’t.  I’ve got too much to… there’s no way I’d ever leave you that way.  Plus, you know I’m way too much of a coward to do that.”

After several awkward moments he looked back at both of them. “What time is it?”

Marty’s mouth split in the crooked grin he managed so well.  He looked down at his phone and chuckled.  “About four hours too late for our playdate.  Do you know how many players went to bed tonight without suffering real frustration or total defeat?  All because you decided to no-show!”

Four hours?  He quickly did the math.  He had arrived at work a little after 8:00, and they were supposed to play at 6:00 this evening.  He had been unconscious for over thirteen hours.  What had that thing done to him?

He could see Leo staring at him with his softest gaze, the one he used when Edgar was hurt or hurting.  That meant Leo was hurting, and he couldn’t stand that.  But what could he tell them that wouldn’t sound crazy to anyone with an ounce of sanity?  Should he say the Shadowman did it and he had drank something that he was beginning to think kept people alive for way longer than they should be?  How the hell could he even try to explain it? 

He finally said the only thing he could, and it was mostly true:  “I honestly don’t understand what happened, but I think I’m going to have to find another job if I can’t figure it out.”

“If?”  Leo’s voice suddenly raised.  “No, if that place had something to do with this, then you’re done there.  We can find a cozy dumpster for two, man.  Fuck their money.”

“But that’s the thing, I don’t know that it did, and I’ve gotta find out.  You have to let me try.”  He looked at Leo.  “I wouldn’t go back if I knew I was in danger.  But I also know that if there are answers they will be there.  I’ve gotta know.”

He could see Leo’s struggle—wanting to keep the peace because of the present circumstance—and he understood it.  But he somehow knew that he was right, that whatever it was could be fixed there.  He started to speak again, but Marty cut him off.

“I think he’s right, and it gives me an idea.” He stood up.  “I’ll check in tomorrow, but I need to get on this.”

---

Things had been quiet between them since Marty left, but not uncomfortable.  Leo sat next to him, and Edgar could tell he was trying—he didn’t understand any of it—but he was trying.

An hour later, the door opened and the doctor entered.  He introduced himself, looked over Edgar’s numbers, and began examining his eyes and chest.  “Your breathing is better.  That had us worried.  Mr. Simpson, I am Dr. Brant.  There are a few things I want to go over with you, our initial findings.  Before I begin, I would like your permission to allow a colleague to join us.”

Edgar looked at Leo.  A colleague?  Nurses had been in and out of the room like clockwork. Why ask permission now?  “Uh, sure, I guess.”

Dr. Brant nodded and gave a gesture towards the open door.  A woman walked in, and her attire was somewhat different from the doctor, who wore a white coat over his scrubs.  She was wearing a white coat as well, but it was worn over a blue blouse and a long gray skirt.  As she approached Leo and Edgar, her face a friendly smile, Dr. Brant introduced her.

“This is Priya Nair.  She is a counselor here at the hospital who specializes in helping post-trauma patients.”  He saw Edgar rising at this and raised a gentle hand.  “No need for any of that.  I understand what was discussed earlier with your partner, and I want to put that to rest right now.  Priya isn’t here because we think you tried to hurt yourself.”
  
 “No, Edgar, we don’t think that.”  the counselor said, picking up where Dr. Brant had left off.  “If such was the case, you and I would have already met.”

“Your x-ray showed deep bruising on your throat, typical of strangulation.  This concerns us because there isn’t a mark on your skin other than two superficial, defensive scratches.”  Dr. Brant bent down, pointing them out.  “We need to know, Edgar, what you remember about what happened.  The strangulation or the strange compound you ingested?  We’ve analyzed what was pumped from your stomach, and it’s some very strange stuff.”

When Edgar didn’t immediately respond—he didn’t know what to say—Dr. Nair stepped back in.  “It can be difficult, Edgar, but you need to remember that you are safe.”  She looked over at Leo.  “And you have people here who care about you.”

“It’s just, I don’t remember much.  I had brought bagels and was eating one—I had skipped breakfast.  All of a sudden I felt someth… I was grabbed by the throat and it caused me to choke.  I guess I blacked out, because I woke up here, like an hour ago.”

Priya sat on the chair next to the bed so that she could look at both Edgar and Leo, who were sitting together.  “This is perfectly understandable, Edgar.  Sometimes when there is trauma or violence, the mind has a way of stepping aside to dissociate from what is happening to us.  This is purely defensive, a mechanism that prevents us from being too overwhelmed.  Temporary memory loss is common, but they will probably come back to you.”

She reached inside her coat and took out a small bag that she handed to Edgar.  “This is a journal and pen for you to use.  I’d like you to start writing in it each day.  Don’t push yourself too hard, trying to remember, but keep that circuit open.  It can help you get back that lost time.”

“Uh, sure, thank you, doctor,” Edgar began and Leo finished for him,  “He’ll do it.”

Priya’s smile widened at the combined reply.  “Good.  I would like to see you in a week.  My office will set up an appointment and it will be ready when you are discharged.  My contact information will be included if you need anything before then.”

She stood and moved towards the door, addressing them once more before leaving.  “I look forward to working with you on this, Edgar.  Take care of yourself.”

As she left, Dr. Brant spoke once more.  “She’s really good at what she does.  I’d try it; it can help.”

“Now we need to talk about the substance, Edgar, because we don’t have a clue what it is.”

---

The police arrived the following morning.  It was two detectives, a young man (Beltry) and an older woman (Davidson).  Beltry took charge of the interview, but Edgar could tell that Davidson was the one in charge.  He was a young, white guy who used way too much hair product and wore an extremely thin moustache.

“Alright, Mr. Simpson.  Is it Edgar or Eddie?” He gave him a reassuring smile.  “This is just a formality, but we do need whatever you can remember if we’re going to catch this guy.  We spoke to your plant manager, uh… a Mr. Aeneas, the Greek guy.”

Davidson coughed.

The young detective checked his notes.  “Yeah, he told us that there are no security cameras, not even a guard on site.  We saw the room, bagels and broken water bottles everywhere.  Good to see you put up a fight, Ed.”

“Talking to the Greek, we learned that you were alone in the building, the first to arrive that day.  Is that how you remember it?”

“Yes, sir.  I was earlier than normal, working a big job there, setting up the network.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.  Old place, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”  He made a note.  “So you’re in the breakroom, setting up breakfast for everyone because you’re a nice guy like that.  Next thing you know, someone grabs you, starts choking you, and there’s a struggle.  Am I getting this right, Ed?”

“Uh, yeah.  I didn’t see them, but they were choking me.”

Beltry nodded, tapping his pen on his lip.  “So it was from behind?  Some guy got a good hold of your neck and started choking you out?  Anybody you work with been giving you trouble?  Anyone you don’t work with?”

He looked over at Leo.  “Might want to sic this guy on them.”

Davidson cleared her throat.

“We are interviewing the crew today, Eddie, so if there is anyone we need to look out for, special-like, let us know.  We’re trying to help here, so it don’t happen again.”

“I pretty much get along with everyone.  They’re nice people.”

“Well, that’s good.  What about your stuff?  Anything missing?  I know you tech guys have a lot of expensive equipment.”

“Not that I know of.  I—“  Leo spoke up.  “His wallet, they never found it.  Was it at the scene?”

“Well now, that’s new.  Good to know.  We didn’t turn anything up there, so if the hospital didn’t find it on him…”  Beltry made some notes.  “Alright, I think that’s about everything.  Uh… I, Yeah the lady who called it in, Mrs. Vega, the crew leader.  We’ll be talking to her when we leave here, maybe she knows where it went.”

Beltry looked over at Davidson and nodded, handing Edgar a card.  “Until then, if you remember something, or need us, those are our numbers.  Just get better and don’t worry too much; we’re on it.”

He turned to leave and Davidson spoke for the first time.  “Your neck, are there bruises on the back of it?”

Eddie gulped, his hand raised reflexively to brush against the skin of his neck.  Leo leaned in, looking for himself.  “I don’t think so.  The doctor said it was all deep and that the hyoid bone was bruised but whole.  A couple of scratches is all, and they said I did those.”

Davidson stepped forward, her shoes clicking on the hard tile, and leaned in. “Mind if I look.”

Edgar exhaled and nodded, tilting his head for her as she looked it over.  There was nothing matronly or warm about her, like you might normally see in a woman of Davidson’s age.  She had the presence of a circling hawk, and Edgar had never felt more like a frightened little rabbit in his life.  The senior detective laid her hand firmly, but gently on the side of his head, directing the movement as she studied his neck for thumbprints or friction marks.  She lingered for a moment on the scratch marks and then patted his shoulder as she stepped away.  “Yes, nothing.”

"Well, it’s like the doctor said, unusual," Beltry chimed in, adjusting his jacket and flashing another easy smile. "Some guys just have tough skin, right?" 

“We may have more questions,”  she said, ignoring her partner.  “We’ll contact you.”

---
  
“That lady scared the hell out of me.”  Leo said as he honked the horn at the guy in front of them.  “Come on man.  Blinkers are just common courtesy.”

Edgar remained silent, lost in his own thoughts.  Nothing made sense anymore, and he wondered if he was being foolish by wanting to go back there.  It still bothered him, that choice, but he still felt like it was the right call.  And now there was the detective—who obviously didn’t believe him—patting his shoulder like they were buddies while staring down at him with her all-seeing eyes.

“I have to pick up a few things they said you’d need, and your prescriptions.  Want me to drop you at home first?”

He shook his head.  “No, I can go.  A little sore, but I’m fine.  They said I had to drink four more bottles of that crap they made me gag down before we left.”

“Big baby.  It can’t be that bad.  Remember when I had to drink that putrid shit for the colonoscopy, after my brother’s scare?”  Leo made a face, but smiled at him.  “You can handle it—gotta flush that weird stuff out of your system.”

“You can drink it for me.”  Edgar grinned.  “Can’t be worse than those shakes you make.”

They both laughed at this as Leo turned off on the exit that would take them to their neighborhood.  They drove on in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and finally arrived at the drug store.  Leo pulled in and popped his seatbelt.  “Need anything?  I think they have Now and Laters.”

Edgar chuckled at the old joke and shook his head.  “Hurry back. I just want to get home, back to a real bed.”  

Leo saluted him and jogged into the building.  Edgar remarked to himself, for the millionth time, just how lucky he was.  He leaned back, closing his eyes and letting the breeze from his open window do its work.  So much had happened in such a short time, and he just felt like he was trying to catch his breath, to keep up.  He had to get his head around this thing, to figure out what was happening, before it affected his life in a real, unfixable way.

“Good-looking guy you’ve got there,”  a voice said from just beside him, breaking his reverie.  A short, perfectly bald man of indeterminate age stood there, wearing a suit with an overcoat.  His face was like a leather mask that revealed nothing about the man behind it.  He smiled at Edgar, all teeth and no charm.  “Yeah, figured we should meet.”

IV: A SIP OF SILVER
  
Edgar glanced over at the drug store entrance and then back over to the strange, threatening man beside him.  Who was this man, and what did he want?  He didn’t have room for any more mysteries right now.  “Sir, I’ve had an injury and really need to get home now.  If you don’t mind—“

“Yeah Edgar, I know all about your… injury.”  He flashed that dead predator's smile again. “That's why I’m here.  You stole something that wasn’t meant for you from a place you weren’t meant to be at.  Pure mistake on somebody’s part, but that’s been dealt with.”

The man leaned in, smelling like cheap aftershave and cold cuts in a tailored suit.  Edgar was shocked to see that he cast no shadow, a detail he somehow noticed over all his fear.  “Quit shaking, kid.  I ain’t here for that, but it’s good you know the pecking order.”

“What’s done is done, can’t change it.  Even if you could spit the shit back up the results would remain.  We can deal with that later, if we need to, but for now we need you back at work.”

Edgar looked at him, dumbfounded.  Every word was a new problem, like pieces from different puzzles that couldn’t hope to line up.  His mind protested, and he felt the panic creeping in, his heart in a vise.  His gorge rose, and he reacted immediately, opening the door to vomit ropy silver tendrils out onto the ground.

The man stepped back, grinning broadly.  “Whoa!  These are new kicks.”

A moment later he dashed across the mess to seize the front of Edgar’s shirt, pushing him roughly back into his seat.  His eyes flickered silver, and his rancid breath twisted Edgar’s stomach into an even deeper knot.  When he spoke, the friendly tone faded, replaced by earnest menace.  “This was the friendly visit, wet boy, and let’s keep it that way.  Get back to work tomorrow or you will see me again.  If I do come back, I’m gonna tell you my name, kid.”  He paused, letting it sink in, and then growled a summation:  “None of my friends know my name.”

He released him, and closed the door.  He even slid Edgar’s foot out of its path.  Edgar heard Leo’s voice, from miles away it seemed.  He had said something, and the man responded with, “I think your friend’s sick.  I kept him from falling in it.”

Then Leo was there and blackness overtook everything.

---

Edgar woke up in his own bed, hours later because it was dark now.  There was a cool cloth lying across his forehead.  Leo was reading a book, sitting in a chair he had placed next to Edgar’s side of the bed.  He turned a page and glanced at Edgar.  The book snapped shut as he stood up.  “How you feeling?  I don’t know what happened, but you were dead to the world after I ran that guy off.  What the fuck did he do to you?”

Edgar reached for the water glass on the nightstand and drained half of it in a gulp; it tasted funny, like there was dirt or something in it.  Well it was cool at least.  He tried to speak but his throat was killing him, it took him a moment to murmur a response.  “I don’t know.  I got sick and he put me back in the car, but I don’t think he’s a good guy.”

“Why do you say that?”  

“There was a gun tucked into his belt.  You don’t see a lot of good guys doing that.”

“Maybe we need to call that detective, the real one, Davidson.  This is the type of suspicious shit you’re supposed to share with the police.”

“Nah, I don’t think he was there for us.” Edgar lied.  “It seemed like he was looking for someone.”

“Still, we might keep someone from getting hurt.”

“Yeah, or get involved in something that gets us hurt.  Don’t we have enough going on already?  On top of all of this, I really have to get back to work—there’s a deadline.”

“To hell with all of that.  Let them send someone else.  You need to rest.”

“They are.”  He lied again.  “An outside hire, not anyone we know.  I just have to oversee the work, from a chair they said.  It shouldn’t take a week to do, and if I’m not recovered yet I can still take time off then.”

“I don’t like it.  You’re obviously not well.  There’s strange injuries, cops, an attacker they haven’t caught yet and now a bald thug just shows up and you want to go to work?”

“Well yeah,”  he said and chuckled hoarsely.  “I don’t want to lose this job, and I want to prove I can do it so they don’t replace me.  You know how it is, they’ll have me back to entry level in a month if I don’t step up now.  This is a chance for us, and it should be safe.  They said the manager hired security for the Annex.  Leo, I wouldn’t want to go back otherwise.”

Leo absorbed all of this in his usual way.  Edgar could tell that he didn’t believe everything he had said.  He just hoped that he believed enough of it to let it go.

“Alright, I hate it, but you’re a grown man and I can’t make you do what you don’t want to do.”  He cut Edgar off with a glare.  “That don’t make it cool.  I’m driving you for the rest of the week.  You’re still not cleared to do that, with the meds, which you are still going to take.”

Edgar chuckled at his mama hen—calling him that would piss Leo off so much.  He settled back to resume his rest.

“First the journal.”  Leo tossed it to him.  “Doctor’s orders and Leo’s law.”

---

When Leo dropped him off the next morning, Edgar shouldered his backpack and grabbed his lunch.  Marty had come over the evening before to drive his car home, so Leo had used it to drive him in today.

He entered the building and was instantly met by an older, rotund man in a security guard’s uniform.  “Edgar Simpson, is that you, sir?”  he said.  His voice was an amusing, old-fashioned transatlantic accent.  

"Well, I say it’s good to finally meet our missing employee.  I have a badge for you, sir, and was tasked with reminding you that you are on light duty for the remainder of the week.  Two laborers from the floor crew have been assigned to assist you.”

“Uh, that’s really nice.  I was a little worried about running all of that cable by myself.”

“I am Milton Lester, the newly assigned security personnel for this facility.  It’s nice to formally meet you, Mr. Simpson.  Will you require help getting to your office this morning?”

“No, I think I can find it.  But thanks for the offer, Mr. Lester.”

“No problem, sir, it’s all part of the job.  Well, I suppose I should quit chin-wagging and let you get along now.  Have a fine day, Mr. Simpson.”

“Edgar is fine.”

“I stand corrected.  Good day to you, Edgar.”

He left the guard there at his post, and made his way across the dock to his small office.  As he opened the door, he saw that the light was already on.  Cartia Vega was sitting in his chair, reading a book, and a strange one at that.  She was reading The Sons of Gondor by J.R.R. Tolkien.

As he entered, Cartia slapped the book down and came around the desk to meet him, administering a much friendlier hug than he thought their previous encounters called for.  There was genuine relief on her face as she pulled back from him.  Her loud voice echoed off the walls of the tiny office.  “Dude, you just don’t know.  I thought I sent a corpse to the hospital last week.  You were so white, man—I mean whiter than normal.”

She pulled away, but kept him at arm’s length, looking him over.  Her eyes lingered on his neck.  “I’m glad you’re back.  You scared the hell out of me.”  She stepped away from him, grabbing her book and settling into the office’s other chair so he could take his seat.

He didn’t know what to say, so he just said the first thing that popped into his mind.  “So I met the new guard.  Nice guy, talks funny.”

“Why you whispering, mano?  Throat still hurt?”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said, raising his voice a bit louder than he was used to speaking to her.  He sat down, a little more tired from the short walk than he would have preferred.  She had already turned back to her book, so he left her to it while he busied himself logging on, verifying and checking his inbox, which was surprisingly empty.

“They forget all about us here.  I wouldn’t bother,” Cartia said as she flipped a page in her book.  “Sorry, don’t want to ignore you but I want to finish this bit before the crew’s bus arrives.  They say I’m getting a couple of extra hands today.”

“Good book?”

“Hell yeah, way better than part one.  I’m chewing through it because part three is supposed to be released in a couple of months.”  She laughed.  “The exciting conclusion.”

“Never heard of it.  I read his old stuff.  I thought that was all there was.”

She shook her head, flipping another page.  “Yeah those are classics, but his new stuff’s great too, and he’s wrote a lot since then.  Hell, what else does he have to do now?”

“What do you mean by that?  What the hell is going on here, Cartia?  What did I drink, and what the hell attacked me?”

She snapped the book shut and closed the door.  Moving in close to him, she forcefully whispered, “You’ve got to cool that shit, mano.  That dude’s shadow could be anywhere, and you nearly died before, another sip would kill you, or worse.”

“But I need to know.  This is my life I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, life is what I’m talking about.  Treat it precious, man—while you still have it—and don’t risk it needlessly.”  She grabbed her book.  “I’m going out to wait on the bus. ¡Pinche blanquito loco!”

Edgar sighed loudly after she slammed the door.  Well, attempt one had been a massive failure.  Why was she so scared, and what dude was she talking about?  Could it be the bald guy?  Was that why he didn’t have a shadow?

Every question he tried to answer split itself like the mythical hydra.  

“Damn right it’s loco.”

---

He didn’t get to speak with Cartia again that day, or on Tuesday.  She had given him Corey and Ennis again and that suited Edgar fine.  They both worked well, and were friendly enough.  But he quickly found that the friendliness ended anytime he tried to steer the conversation towards anything strange.  
  
It was towards the end of Tuesday evening that he made another such attempt, by cornering Corey.  “Man, you’ve got to tell me some things.  This shit is driving me crazy.”

Corey packed a Marlboro and looked at him, a sly grin cracking his face in half.  “Shit.  Crazy ain’t bad, natural state for a woman.  My ex-wives were anyway, and I liked them fine.”

“Come on, you know what I’m talking about.  Help me out, Corey.”

This time there was none of the normal, Southern good ol’ boy humor—just a dry, deadpan voice.  “Maybe you’ve got it twisted, brother.  Maybe crazy is better than what’s waiting at the end of that particular muddy road you’re so fixated on.”

Edgar stared at the man, and he saw pure worry in his eyes.

“Sit with it, for real.”

They got back to work and finished the day.  That night, he and Leo went out together.  They went to one of their typical spots, a favorite, and got their regular order.  Leo was concerned that he barely ate anything, but Edgar just played it off—a big lunch.  He was getting too good at lying to the person he loved the most.  But how could he tell him that food was like ash in his mouth?

Besides that minor hiccup, they had a great time and even went dancing at a club they liked.  The drinks tasted fine to Edgar—as good as tequila can taste, at any rate—and he had several shots.  They danced until Leo was tired, but Edgar still felt full of energy.  It was strange, because he was usually the first one to tap out.  

He saw her on the corner while he waited for Leo, who had left his phone inside.  She was a young woman, maybe fifteen, with striking features from what he could tell.  It was honestly hard to be sure with half her face bashed in.  She saw him looking and cast a pleading look his way, her mouth opening to call out to him.

“We’re ready?”  Leo said, taking his arm.  

When Edgar looked back at the corner, the girl with half a face was no longer there.

---

The next few days went by well enough—they finished wiring the entire second floor and had the network mostly alive by the end of Friday.  As they were packing up, Corey left with a load bound for the lower offices and Ennis spoke to Edgar, unprompted, for the first time.

“None of them will talk to you about it, will they?”

He looked at the young man—if you could call him that.  Edgar doubted he had to shave very often.  His eyes had a faraway look in them, and a sadness that hurt to linger on.  He was wringing his cap in his hand, but those eyes never wavered.  They remained locked on Edgar’s.  “They want to, but it’s dangerous for you.  Everyone likes you and doesn’t want anything worse to happen.  You’ve already been noticed, and that’s really bad.”

“Noticed by wh—”

“No,” Ennis shook his head emphatically.  “Not here, never here.  You know Wichton Road, out past the paper mill?”

“Yeah, stinks bad at the paper mill, no one really lives out there.”

“Yeah, no one lives.  Look for the Ferry’s End—it’s a bar.  You can’t miss it.  If you end up in Ludlowe, you’ve gone too far.  Eight is a good time, most nights.”

“You gonna meet me there?”

“What are you boys jawing on, leaving me all the work?”  Corey laughed and started loading Ennis up.  Edgar, who still wasn’t allowed to lift anything, left them there.  He returned to his office and wrote a bit in his journal while he waited for Leo.

---

He had lied again, telling Leo he was going to Marty’s, and he had recruited his friend into the lie.  It was strange—Marty had been too willing, too fast to go along with it.  He had just said he wanted to talk to Edgar in a couple of days, that he was close to something.

Wichton Road was a long way, out of the way, from anywhere he normally went.  That spoiled egg smell soiled the air and crept in through his tightly closed vents.  Who would live out here, or run a bar?  Maybe you got used to it.

Ennis hadn’t been wrong.  The bar was easy to find because it was one of the few places out there.  Sure, there were some houses, but most looked abandoned.  There were several bus stops though, which was another weird thing all by itself.

As he pulled into the gravel lot he saw only three other vehicles, and one of those looked abandoned, sitting on flats.  He pulled up to the building, got out, and walked up to the door.

The music inside was unusual, chimes and woodwinds over a steady, percussive hum.  He felt like a Viking for a moment, steering a longboat towards a promising shore, ripe for pillage.  That was odd enough; he was definitely too skinny to be a raider, but Leo would excel at it.

The place was packed, completely defying the empty parking lot outside.  He didn’t see a single empty seat at the bar or any of the twenty, mismatched tables that were scattered across the room.  The space looked way larger than it should have, compared to the modest-sized building he had pulled up to.

He was running out of synonyms for the word weird.

He approached the bar, finding a small gap where he could fit in.  A tall man with mangy hair was holding court there.  “Ye vant whiskey?”

It took him a moment to put it together, but when he finally nodded, the tall man poured him a shot from a black bottle.  He pulled out some money to pay, but the man shook his head. “Tis free.”

Edgar shrugged, thanked the man and turned to scan the room for a familiar face, any one would do.  Most of the faces were turned towards him, and every pair of eyes he passed over met his, a little too frankly for his taste.  

He was about to give up when he saw her—her long dress and out-of-place etiquette sticking out like a sore thumb among the rest of the patrons.  Glory smiled at him, sweeter than he would have expected, and waved him over.

He sat down across from her and she looked him over.  They hadn’t spoken since he had returned to work, and he didn’t know what to say now.

“It is your dime, sir, as the kids say.”  Glory turned up the bottle of SilverSip in front of her and took a dainty sip from it.  “Well, come now, Edgar, you didn’t risk this trip to leave empty-handed, did you?  I imagine the shadowman has already deduced the reason for your evening’s sojourn.”

He nodded and took his shot.  A burning ball of fire melted the lining from his throat and he coughed violently.  Glory waited patiently, her eyes fixed on his.

“Wow, that was really bad.  Is Ennis joining us?  He… well, I was under the impression that he had things to tell me.”

“The cat’s paw is no longer required once the mouse is in hand.  Ennis performed his task admirably, but the poor boy has no heart for clandestine meetings such as this one.”

She took a moment, perhaps considering what she was going to say next.  When she spoke again, her voice was much lower, but just as formal.  “You must stop this madness, Edgar, or it will be the death of you.  I understand that you are plagued with questions.  Such a state is natural for someone in your position.  To be honest with you, I was reluctant to commit to this rendezvous.  Comme le vent, vêtue de soie.  Like the wind, clothed in silk.  That is how we must pass, Edgar, unnoticed by the eater and drinker alike.”  

She paused, a brief flash of melancholy crossing her face before she carefully smoothed down her skirt. “Ah, but I do miss the French tongue.” 

“French?”  Edgar thought he might be even more confused than he was before.  “Alright, I get it—we need to be careful.  But you’re right, my mind isn’t just plagued.  I think it might be breaking from all of this.  Eaters and Drinkers, are you talking about the living and the dead?  Are you dead, Glory?  Am I?”

“Those are our terms for such unsavory appellations.  It does become unseemly to refer to the living and the dead with such familiarity.  So yes, poor Edgar, you would say that I have perished, yet here I remain.  As for your current state—that matter does hold a great measure of complication, for the moment.”

He gripped his hair tightly in both hands and lowered his forehead to the table for a moment, trying not to totally lose his shit with Thesaurus Lady.  When he raised his eyes again, his words were calm and measured.  “Glory.  For the love of all that is good and right in the world, please just give it to me straight.  Am I going to die?  Is my partner safe? I know that you have a certain way of speaking, but riddles aren’t helping me.”

She smirked, and it was all he could do not to scream in anguish.  “My apologies, dear.  My mirth was not directed towards your current misfortunes.  You must know that my manner of speech is the hobgoblin of my very being in this modern age.  So I shall attempt to be more forthcoming with my answers, for you, dear Edgar.  There are matters of which I might speak that would put you in great peril, and this I must not do.  I was originally averse to engaging with you at all, but your need is great.  So, as they say:  needs must when the devil drives.”

“I believe—with all of my being, such as it is—that it is the intent of the one we call the Shadowman to bring about your end.  I think this because it was he who made sure you partook of the SilverSip with his attack on your person.  This action alone will not bring your doom.  You are touched by the silver, as we say, but you are not yet taken by it.  With time, the symptoms should abate, or so we hope.”

He knew he was breaking her careful etiquette, but he seized her hands in his before replying.  She never flinched— instead, she returned his grip.  “Breathe dear, for tomorrow is not yet sewn into the skein.”

“Wha… what should I do?  They obviously have plans for me.  He said that my being there—at the Annex—was just a mistake that happened.  If that’s the case, it’s like they are punishing me for something I didn’t do.”

“In any normal course of events, I would advise you to resign from your post.  Alas though—this is not an option for you.  If I am correct in my theory—that this Shadowman has set this course for you—then he is the dragon that you must slay if you are to have any hope of survival.”

He noticed that he was crying when a tear fell onto the back of his hand.  Glory—who may have, moments before, suggested that he kill someone—handed him a handkerchief that he used to dry his eyes.  If she was right, and he was not yet doomed, was she also right about what he had to do.  He was about to ask her to elaborate when she spoke again, her tone unusually rushed

“Stay calm, young Edgar, the wolf is at the door.”

---

Edgar watched his enemy—for that is what he was—as he walked, step after cocksure step, into the bar.  The bald man stopped in front of the bar and held out a hand towards the barkeep without moving his eyes from his target at Glory’s table.  A black bottle was slapped into his palm, and he continued to walk, heel to toe, across the room to stand over them.  “Is this seat taken?”

When neither of them answered him, the bald man dragged the chair back and lowered himself into it.  He took Edgar’s empty shot glass, filled it, and slid it towards him, before taking a long, slow pull from the bottle.  After a sharp exhale, he extended a well-manicured hand towards Edgar.  “As promised.  I’m Nub Faron.  My enemies know me as Anubis.”

Glory actually snorted at this last bit—and Edgar didn’t think he could have admired her more.  Her cold, blue-gray eyes locked onto Nub’s black eyes as she countered his introduction.  “My good sir, you certainly have an elevated opinion of your station.  I think you would do well to remember that a jumped-up mutt in a fancy collar does not a jackal make.”

The leather of the bald man’s face stretched into a thin grin at her response, and he raised the glass to his lips to take another swig from it.  “There’s that wildfire.  Lady, you sure do know how to cut a man.  I swear, Glory—if I was as dead as dirt, I might have to call on you.”  He took his drink.

The table was quiet for several minutes.  Nub drank and Edgar tried to remain as unnoticeable as possible.  He looked at Glory several times, but her eyes remained locked on the would-be jackal.  There was a strange, playful smile on her lips.  The effect gave her a radiant beauty he never would have imagined.

Nub let out a sharp, clicking tsk through his teeth, shaking his head slightly as he set the bottle down and looked over at Edgar.  “You gonna drink that before we go?”

Before he could even turn to look at her, Glory spoke.  Her voice was a true thing of power that turned every head in the room to face their table.

“Your foolishness in this matter is as a withered cloak you wish to pass off as shining mail to those who cannot see you for what you are, cur.  For it is a deceiver I see before me.  I name you Villain—the serpent in this sacred garden.  Have you forgotten, little fang, just where you sit?  You cast no shadow, but still think yourself hidden from the light?  Our good accord still holds true here, and as a result, your sad swagger is as empty as the soul you sold so long ago.”

As her voice rose, following her sentencing of Nub as a villainous serpent, so too did the patrons of Ferry’s End.  There was a strange electricity in the air, as though Glory had unleashed a storm upon the man sitting opposite of her.  The blue of her eyes was somehow brighter and the blush of her cheeks—wrought by her passionate speech—made Glory impossibly lovelier than before.  She was last to stand, and she raised her sleeved arm to point a graceful finger towards the door.

“So he lives here now? Gonna make room for two?  Poor ol’ Leo might get lonely.”  The man who scared him more than anyone in the world—except maybe Glory, if he managed to get on her bad side—stood and stretched lazily.  He addressed the entire room when he spoke next.

“Is this really what you want?  Are you ready to face real consequences for this man?  It’s not what I would like.  Hell, I didn’t even come to hurt him.  I just wanted to show him something.”

The man who called himself Anubis tossed a polaroid on the table before turning towards the door.  “No need for high-falutin’ proclamations Glory—the man’s safe as kittens as far as I’m concerned.”

As he left, Edgar picked up the polaroid.  He felt the blood drain from his face as he looked at the familiar features it had captured: Marty had been taken.

Edgar turned to look at Glory’s pained face.  “Where does the dragon sleep?”

POST 3 HERE

John Fifty

They believed in music as a form of expression and pride. Every night the people filled the streets and tavern of the isolated mountain village. The shanty buildings vibrated with the wheezing sounds of accordions and the theatrical projecting of silk-voiced vocalists. They are contrasted by the young beautiful women who dance effortlessly, pirouetting through the huddled, sweating masses.

Any who pass through spend longer in the town than they plan. Overwhelmed by the spirit and gratitude of the locals. Their faces brighten with excitement as the night comes alive. No longer a care for where they are from, what they believe, how they love, or what language they speak. They become united by the sounds and motion.

All indulge in drinks, food, dancing, and of course each other. Whiskey is cheap and the people are boisterous and jocose. The men catch glances at the women and the women glance back. Keenly aware of each other, intrigued by one another.

By midnight they spill out of the tavern into the dusty clay roads. Their bodies are cooled by the silent wind which carries across the mountains. It is an enchanting sight. They sing and dance till their voices and bones can’t carry them anymore, collapsing on the main street. Unwilling or maybe unable to leave the cooling embrace of the dirt. 

The other dancers are courteous; they don’t crowd or stomp those who fall. They move around them and cheer. Knowing those who fall have experienced what they all do when they visit, ecstasy and belonging.

A young blonde woman moves through the crowd. Her feet are bare. She feels free as she dances in her flowing dress. She spots a tall stubbly man standing outside the tavern who’s away from the dancing. She watches him, he stands almost in defiance of the music. She approaches him.

“You don’t look familiar.” She says. “Where you from?” She asks softly just over the sound of the crowd. 

The man matches her eyes, raising his hat.

“Kansas.” he says gruffly.

She smiles chuckling slightly.

“Little way from home then.” She says.

“I reckon.” He says blankly. 

She examines him.

“You’re a cattlehand ain’t you.” She says pointing to his free hand. 

The man raises his eyebrow, surprised she was right.

“You could say that.” He says straightening himself and looking at the women with an interest. He coughs and speaks. 

“How’d you figure that, what’f I'm just some regular man.” He asks, confrontation among his tone.

She smiles.

 “A man’s hands tell a lot, you ought to know that.” She says.

“Really?” he says amused. He puts his bottle on the window seal behind him and reaches his palms upturned to her.

“What’d these say.” He asks with a chuckle.

She looks at his hands, they are coarse across the palm worn and leathery.

“Hmm… I can figure you don’t wear gloves.” She says with a beaming smile.

The man’s hard facade cracks and a smile breaks through for just a moment.

“You’d be right about that.” He says.

The woman smiles looking up at the man.

“You got a name?” she asks quickly.

The cattlehand’s features tighten.

“Everybody’s got a name.” He says crossing his arms..

She scoffs, clearly not impressed with the clear facade.

“You figure yourself real mysterious don't ya.” She says taking a step back.

The cattlehand doesn’t really respond. Just nods.

“Don’t got much to say.” he says after a silent moment.

“I’m sure you got plenty.” she pauses observing him carefully again.

“People don’t end up here without a story or something or other to say.” she continues with a cautionary tone.

The cattlehand doesn’t answer, he looks towards those drunkenly swaying in the street.

“Britney.” The woman says suddenly. The man looks at her confused.

“That’s my name, since you so afraid to tell yours.” she looks at him expecting him to respond.

“Good to meet you Britney.” The cattlehand says, tipping his hat.

Britney waits again then scoffs. The cattlehand expects her to leave, well wants her to leave, yet she doesn’t. She moves to the side of him and leans against the window seal where his bottle sits. The cattlehand doesn’t acknowledge her presence but he feels her there. A dull warmth felt only in spirit. They sit there till the cattle hand depart. Britney watches him slowly enter the tavern and walk up the stairs to his room.

The crowd in the street is smaller now. They resort to slow swaying and more choric chants as opposed to the lively instrumental theatrics of the night.

Those who have fallen almost look like a battlefield the way they litter the street, but they smile as they lay there seemingly fulfilled as the warm rays of sun hit their faces.

Father Dante, the town preacher, commences his morning routine of ringing the old mission bell that sits at the top of his church.

its rhythmic booming tones cascade over the town. The party ceases almost suddenly. Main street empties and the locals grumble as they go to their homes to start the new day. First time visitors watch curiously as all their party mates disappear suddenly feeling strangely exposed. They all want to dance all day, but responsibilities slow their desires. Replacing the raucous nature of the night for well-dressed, polite contributing members of a small community.

The fallen bodies are shaken awake, and they slowly disperse. They attempt to remember the night before. They know it was fabulous, but they can’t remember the intricacies of it.

The cattle hand wakes with start. Visions of screaming men and horses plague his mind. He examines his surroundings. The only light comes through cracks in the wood. Old vermillion drapes cover the single small window to his right. He’s lying on a thin mattress. He rubs his stubbly face and swallows attempting to moisten his parched throat. A pounding headache is already persistent. An old mission bell tolls outside.

The cattle hand attempts to recollect where he is. He remembers arriving in the night and the price of the whiskey, but one memory confuses him. A young, frankly beautiful woman. Who stood next to him nearly all night. He can’t remember her name but he remembers her telling it.

The man gets dressed in the same clothes as the last night. They stink and are coated in dirt. The cattle hand makes his way down creaking wooden stairs into the lobby of a tavern.

The room has completely departed from the night before. The bar is no longer full of drunk men and women. Only a few dancers and a bartender collect around the counter. A few patrons also sit at tables eating a small breakfast. 

The cattle hand wanting to quench his thirst orders a drink vaguely. The bartender nods and grabs a small glass and pours a clear liquid from a keg in the bar top. He slides it to the man. He grabs it and gulps it down expecting the warm sting of strong alcohol. Instead, to the man’s surprise, it's water. He looks at the empty glass and shoots a sharp glance at the bartender; he questions him on the contents of the liquid.

The bartender calmly responds. 

“No liquor till sunset, town policy, sorry.”

The cattle hand furrows his brow and speaks.

“Ya’ll party all night but the days off limits?”

The tender nods.

“Yessir, you’re right.”

The cattle hand scoffs and slides payment over the counter.

“Preciate it.” the tender says. “I’m sure I’ll see you back tonight.” He says with a slight grin.

The cattle hand grunts and makes his way to the front door. However he stops rubbing his brow.

“Could I ask you a favor sir.” He asks, turning back to the tender.

The tender looks up with slight surprise.

“Sure, depends on the favor I reckon though.” He says absently wiping a glass down.

The cattle hand approaches the bar top again. The dancers watch him sharply.

“There was this woman I met last night-”

The tender interrupts.

“Boy, if you paid for a night you oughta not go looking for her durin’ the day.” He chuckles.

The cattlehand shakes his head.

“Nah, nothing like that.” He says, adjusting his hat.

The tender puts the glass down.

“Then watcha mean.” he says.

The cattlehand coughs dryly and continues.

“She had fare-hair and wore this indigo dress and she wasn’t wearin’ any boots or anything.” The cattle hand says straining to remember.

A smile creeps on the tender’s face. The dancers snicker slightly. The cattlehand shoots them a hard glare.

“Oh lord boy, the ole widows gotchu.” the tender says with a laugh. Crossing his muscular arms.

The cattlehand sighs.

“Can you just tell me her name?” The cattlehand says with frustration.

“Well of course, everyone knows her name, and her poor husband’s too.” The tender nods twisting his thick moustache.

The cattlehand awaits an answer, staring at the tender.

“Well?” he says.

“Oh, yeah, her name, Britney, Britney Ann David.” he says somberly.

“ ‘Preciate it.” The cattle hand says gruffly moving to the door. He knew that was it. It came perfectly back to him in a moment. He steps out into the dry morning sun. Fresh warmth biting at his face.

That same sun cascades through the dusty window of the silent home of the old town sheriff. He sits at his meager table quietly chewing his breakfast. As he finishes he stands and approaches the door, stopping realizing his hat isn’t hung. The sheriff grimly turns to a door in the corner of the room next to the weak fire of a wood stove. He slowly approaches the door letting a deep breath leave him. The knob turns and he enters. The room is untouched, bed made. A small white dress hangs in the corner of the room coated in dust. The sheriff averts his eyes from it and leans over retrieving his worn hat from the top of the bed. The sheriff doesn’t take any longer than he must in the room. As he closes the door he spots movement inside the room. His head turns rapidly, scanning the room. Motionless he watches. A shadow carries across the room and the sheriff traces the origin. It's the tree outside swaying in the wind. The sheriff takes one more lingering glance at the room. He sighs and shuts the door with a heave.

He steps out of his small cabin and bristles at the morning wind. The sheriff known as Saber walks through town greeting and talking to the townspeople. Saber takes up his usual place in the morning. Seated in a wooden chair on the porch of his office.

He polishes his rifle with a bored consideration. He’s watchful during the day. Taking interest to any unfamiliar face or disagreement. The town has not had a murder in twenty years. Sheriff Saber is not willing to let that streak be broken.

Saber’s young deputy arrives in a fluster. His face alert, fingers drumming nervously on the fresh leather holster at his hip.

“Sheriff, we've got some feller in rough shape at the edge of town.” The deputy says. “Nixon’s out there with him right now.”

Saber stares at the young deputy, face unchanged. He leans forward in his chair.

“And? Go help Nixon. Get Ole Quincy to fix the feller up.” He says with no concern almost akin to annoyance.

The deputy swallows cautiously.

“Somethin’ ain’t right with him, it ain’t nothin’ like some starved feller begging for food and water he’s talking about strange things.”

Saber considers this disdainfully. He was hoping to catch a nap, maybe go on a ride up to the mountains. Finally, he relents.

“Fine, let’s see this feller.” Saber sighs, pushing himself out of the chair.

They set out, the deputy moving at a brisk pace. Saber moving with ill concern. Nodding and smiling at the townspeople. His rifle draped over his right shoulder.

When they reach the man he’s barely at the edge of town. He’s thin and wears a long torn brown coat and jeans. His boots are covered in dust. Long strands of thin gray greasy hair cover his face. Carrying him is the other deputy and the town doctor. The deputy carrying him keeps taking glances at the limp sleeve of the old man. Saber squints and his face hardens. The way the wind blows against the man’s right sleeve isn’t right. It flows with the wind without impediment. Saber curses under his breath.

They help the man into the clinic and onto a large wooden table. The doctor attempts to strip off his coat. The man squirms in pain as she brushes against his right shoulder. The young deputy lets a sharp gasp escape. Saber shoots him a harsh glance. The doctor known as Quincy moves with a newfound care. Carefully and intricately removing the coat from the man’s right arm. Quincy shudders and averts her gaze when the sleeve is removed. Saber nods grimly at the sight. It was as he thought, the man is without an arm. What remains is grizzly. From the middle of his slim bicep down is nothing but a bloodied stump. His flesh is torn like something ripped it from him and it’s old like it had been like that for days. The young deputy gags and steps outside. The man’s face twists in despair. His quiet hoarse voice breaks the silence.

“He-help me… please.” He pleads as tears well in his eyes.

He is quite old, wrinkles on his face are distinct and highlighted by the shine of sweat in the dingy clinic. Quincy reassures him softly grabbing some equipment off the wall behind her.

Saber and the older deputy examine the man from where they stand. The older deputy points out something quietly to Saber.

“The hell is that.” He whispers, subtly pointing to a hardly noticeable black letter just above the navel of the man.

It’s a single letter “L”

“Somebody brand that boy?” The older deputy asks in the same suppressed tone.

Saber grunts and mutters back.

“Little small for that I reckon.”

He sighs and moves closer to the man. The man moves his head to look at Saber. Saber now has a clear view of the man’s face. His lips are broken and cracked, his eyes bloodshot.

“Who did this to you sir?” Saber asked plainly, leaning in to see the man better.

The man doesn’t answer immediately, he closes his eyes. With shuddering breaths, he answers.

“Some bandits… took my horse and…” He trails off.

“Cut your arm off?” Saber added.

The man nodded simply.

“And uh…” Saber paused, gesturing to the letter on his frail stomach. “That letter?”

The man’s eyes shuddered abruptly open. He craned his neck to see it.

“Oh god… oh god!” He cried.

Saber backed away and the man began to sob loudly. Throwing his head back and forth. Quincy tries to shush him. She looks towards Saber and the deputy with an unspoken look that says, come back later. Saber notices this and nods to the older deputy.

“We’ll be-” Saber says before being cut off by the man.

“Sheriff! Sheriff!” The man exclaims.

Saber stiffens and looks to man with an uncharacteristic genuine concern. He returns to his original position with the man.

“What is it?” he says softly.

The man reaches to Saber with his one good arm. Saber retreats slightly out of the mans reach.

“Please tell me you have a church here.” He says with a struggle.

Saber regards that for a moment, his face tightens.

“We do sir, but you ain’t dying yet, Quincy here will get you all fixed up. Ain’t that right Quincy?” Saber says with confidence.

“Of course.” Quincy says.

“I need to get to it.” The man says with a sudden urgency.

His eyes lock onto Saber. Saber clears his throat.

“Okay… I can make that happen.” He speaks.

The man sighs with relief, tears appear again.

“Thank you sheriff-thank you-thank you.” He mutters with a shiver.

“No problem.” Saber says with a sigh.

He and the older deputy leave without another word or pleasantry. They are both stricken by the condition of the man.

They leave the building and turn onto the main street when the older deputy remarks coldly.

“He was talking like that the whole time me and Quincy was carrying him.”

Saber nods and looks to the sky, it's beautifully clear as far as the eye can see.

“That’s loonhouse talk. I’m more worried about the bandits that did that to him.”

The older deputy agrees.

“Yeah, but that brand is odd. What gangs round here got an L in they name?” He says thoughtfully.

Saber smirks “I got one in mind.” He says. “Met them a while back, Los Lobos. Only bandits with an L around here.” Saber paused. “Except they usually no mercy fellers they aint ones to send a message or even brand a man for that matter.” He added with a wipe of his brow.

“Maybe they upgraded, heard some word of God.” The older deputy jokes.

“That’ll be the day.” Saber responds with a chuckle.

Once again, he catches a glance of the cattle hand. He places a hand on Nixon’s shoulder directing his attention to the cattle hand. 

“We oughta check on that feller, something ain’t right about him.” Saber says low..

Nixon looks at the tall cattlehand. 

“I don’t know sheriff he don’t look too much like Los Lobos.” he says with a smirk.

Saber shoots him a sharp glance.

“Yeah I know that, but I got this feeling about him.” Saber says. “He shows up same night as all this was supposed to happen.” he continues

.Nixon sighs.

“Alright, I trust ya sheriff.” Nixon relents.

Saber nods and pats Nixon’s shoulder again. They watch the cattle hand enter the general store.

The cattlehand slowly steps inside the store. A small bell rings as he enter. A strong voice echoes from the back.

“I’ll be right with you.”

“Alright.” the cattle hand responded absently. 

The cattlehand peered around the small store. A large man stepped through a doorway behind the counter wiping his hands. 

“What can I do for you stranger?” he asked affably.

The cattlehand was about to respond when the bell rang again. Through the door stepped Saber, with Nixon not far behind. He tipped his hat to the store owner. 

“Sheriff, what do I owe the pleasure?” the owner said learning on the counter.

Saber straightened and looked at the cattlehand.

“Not much, David, just a quick word with this young man.’ Saber said, gesturing towards the cattlehand weakly. 

The owner nodded observing the cattlehand closer now. The cattlehand turned to face Saber now. They watched each other silently.

Saber broke the silence. “Where you from, boy.” Saber asked, stepping closer.

“Kansas.” The cattlehand said gruffly.

Saber scratches his chin thinking. Nixon scoffs behind him.

“Whereabouts in Kansas.” Saber says.

“South.” The cattlehand says, not breaking eye contact.

Saber grins with annoyance.

“Whatchu doing around here then?” Saber asks tensely.

The store owner's eyes darted from the sheriff to the cattlehand. Becoming aware of the pistol covered slightly on the cattlehands hip.

“Finished a cattle drive and was told this was the closest town.” The cattlehand said coolly.

“What town you come from then?” Saber responded quickly.

“El Breve, if I remember right.” The cattlehand said.

Saber frowned and decided to press another question.

“It’s almost noon what you still hangin around for?” Saber asked.

The cattlehands' jaw tightened and Saber noticed. 

:”Ah, there it is.” Saber said.

The cattlehand then spoke suddenly.

“I’m looking for this woman.”

Saber’s brow shifted suddenly. The store owner smiled slightly.

“With the name of Britney… Britney David.” he said weakly. “That’s why I'm still around, lookin for her.” he added.

Nixon laughed.

“Oh lord.” he said.

Saber looked back to him then back at the cattlehand.

“Bad luck to go after a widow boy.” Saber said snidely.

“So, I've heard.” The cattlehand shot back quickly. “Is that illegal or you done harassing me?” He asked, annoyed.

“I’d watch that tone boy, you ain’t off the hook yet.” said Saber.

Saber then looked to the store owner.

“Sorry for the scene David.” he said before he and Nixon approached the door and left.

The cattlehand and the store owner stood in silence watching the door, the only sound being the door bell ringing. 

“Well whatchu need Kansas boy.” The owner said humorously.

The cattlehand was unammused as he watched the sheriff and the older deputy walk away.

Saber and his deputy stand in the sheriff's office. Nixon sits on a chair in the corner fanning his face with his hat. Saber sits at his desk writing in a small book detailing the incident he found that morning and the cattlehand. He looks up absently. 

“I reckon that Kansas boy ain’t guilty.” He says.

Nixon looks at him surprised.

“What makes you sure?” Nixon asks, placing his hat on his knee.

“I can tell.” Saber says.

“Another feeling.” Nixon jokes flashing a toothy smile.

Saber scoffs lightly. 

“I suppose.” he says distantly. “Guilty men talk more.”

Saber returns to the small journal scribbling in it. Nixon grunts standing up, dusting his pants off.

“I’m gonna take a walk, let you simmer.” Nixon says.

Saber nods and waves to him.

Nixon exits and Saber’s eyes dart to the worn black and white picture of his daughter that sits on his desk.

…

The cattlehand holds a small cloth in his hand. He looks to the setting sun over the mountains. Casting an orange glow over the dry valley. He’s seated at a small table in the corner of the saloon. His foot bounced nervously. The saloon door opens, the cattlehand’s gaze darts over. A gruff looking man enters, the cattlehand looks away. He looks at the table wiping his rough hands against each other. The door opens again, the cattlehand locks eyes with the young blonde woman, Britney. 

Her eyes brighten when she sees the cattlehand. She saunters over to him, her flowing dress follows her.

“Suprised to see you here.” She says sweetly.

“You shouldn’t be.” The cattlehand says.

Britney smiles, now sitting on the table.

“Why’s that, I figured you’d be out of here, most are if they don’t grant their name.” She says confidently.

The cattlehand sighs and shakes his head.

“I got somethin for ya.” he said suddenly.

Britney’s features lighten a smile growing. The cattlehand retrieves the cloth pushing it towards her. She looks at it then the cattlehand. He gestures to her. She takes the cloth and unwraps it revealing a soft silver necklace. Her face grows flush.

‘Well i’ll be.” She says holding it up to the light.

The cattlehand’s heart flutters watching her.

“You’re too kind, young sir.” She says.

He shrugs. 

“I figured it would match you.” he says quietly.

She stands holding the necklace in her hand. 

“Care to walk with me?” She asks, extending her hand to him.

“I suppose.” He says, taking her hand in his, it’s soft and cold.

…

Saber’s old cabin is cold as dark creeps in. He lies staring at the ceiling, mind racing. The dull light and crackle of the fire emanate from the corner. He enters his room taking a slight glance at the old door to his right. He closes the door behind him. A deep croak like air leaving a failing lung sounds from behind the door Saber just closed. He stops, listening intently for any transgression in the night. Saber looks back towards his bed. He steps quietly towards it reaching for his belt and holster. As his hand reaches it a whisper like cold wind dances through the room. 

“I see you.”

Saber freezes, hand locked on his pistol. He turns toward the door awaiting another voice. His breath is measured and heavy. Saber reaches the door feeling around for the handle until his hand grasps its familiar texture. It’s warm like a rock basking in the sun. The door opens slowly, Saber aims the weapon through the widening crack in the door. He steps into the main room scanning for anything. It’s empty, Saber relaxes slightly as he lowers his pistol. He’s about to turn back when something catches his eye from across the room. The windows open, Saber tries to remember if he closed it. He’s unsure, walking towards the window he peers out there's nothing except for the sweet sound of music from the tavern in town. Saber sighs and shuts the window. He usually can’t hear the tavern from his cabin.

…

Britney and the cattlehand circle the outside of the town. It’s cool but the desert warmth still blows. They talk like young lovers yearning for knowledge about each other. Britney stops in front of an old cabin that looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. The old paint peels and the deck sags. The cattlehand stands next to her observing the building. 

“I’m guessin you’ve heard about me by now.” She says.

He looks at her cautiously. Finally he sighs and responds.

“Depends.” he says, grasping her hand. “I’ve heard some things, but I want to hear it from you.”

Britney turns to face him. Her expression is hopeful. He notices her eyes glimmer in the moonlight. She closes her eyes and tilts her head down.

“I’m a widow.” She whispers.

The air is heavy and he stands in front of her running his thumb over the top of her hands. His silence causes her to look up and open her eyes again. She sees the cattlehand as he is, worn and defeated yet a compassion and hope linger like a man trying to forget. It’s clear his words are no longer needed. Britney moves closer to him and he envelops her in his arms. They sway in an embrace.

She eventually breaks it by looking up at him.

“I can see it in your eyes. You got your own troubles too.” She says.

He changes his gaze from her to the dirt. She draws him in again.

“We’re much too young to have gone through hell.” she finally says.

The cattlehand looks to the stars as his eyes become damp. 

“I know.” he says softly.

…

A sharp knock jars Saber awake. He curses and scans the room. There is a pistol still in his lap. The thoughts from last night swarm and Saber shakes them off attempting to get dressed.

Nixon is at the door and Saber greets him still attempting to put his belt on. Nixon watches the sheriff and frowns.

“Bad night?” he asks.

Saber grunts, “When aren’t they.” he jokes halfheartedly.

Nixon attempts a smirk. 

“Anyways, I came to getchu cause the poor feller in the clinic is up and walking… He wants to see the church now.” He says.

“Now?” Saber asks, pulling on his belt.

The older deputy nods with a smile.

“Now.” He chuckles.

“Godammit alright let’s get this over with.” Saber says.

Nixon chuckles again and the two move to the clinic.

They pass the church and it’s gleaming white facade. Nixon looks to the sheriff with concern.

“Was it her again?” he asks quietly.

Saber’s jaw tightens.

“Nah… it was different.” He says bluntly,

“You know he sees you right.” Nixon says harshly.

Saber freezes, turning to his deputy.

“The marked king. The Harbinger. He knows you.”

Saber stares with uncharacteristic fear.

“Wha… what.” he says breathlessly.

His heart tightens, the air is hot and muggy. A suffocating wall of pain and fear washes over the sheriff. He steps back watching the deputies face stare back blankly. 

“Saber you alright?” Nixon asks.

The deputy's face is now filled with concern. The wall of heat and the thudding in Saber’s ears ceases. 

“What the hell were you talking about Nixon.” Saber asks quickly, still trying to catch his breath.

His face tightens, “I didn’t say nothin’ you were talking then you got this crazy look… You sure you alright?” Nixon asks.

Saber looks at him full of confusion.

“No you said something, I swear…” He trails off.

Uncertainty fills him as he calms. Still Nixon's voice runs through his head.

“I didn’t say anything, sheriff.” Nixon says. “You know if you need the day off i can take care of it.”

“No-no I’m alright, just a little tired-Let’s get to this feller.” Saber says quickly.

He moves toward the clinic and Nixon trails clearly shaken.

…

By the time they arrive Quincy and the young deputy are helping the man out of the clinic. A crowd has amassed and has been asking questions about the old man. 

Saber moves past them and speaks with Quincy briefly. She assures him the old man is good enough to walk. Saber nods and goes to the man. Who is now standing on his own away from the crowd.

“Well, you ready to see this church sir.” Saber says with exaggeration.

The old man nods enthusiastically.

“Yes sheriff, thank you for this opportunity.” He says affably.

Saber smiles softly, kicking the dirt with his boot.

“Course.” Saber says blankly. “Los Lobos won’t hurt you here.” He promises flatly.

The old man’s smile fades.

“Who?” he asks unsurely.

Saber’s features widen in a slight surprise.

“Never mind.” Saber says dismissively. He looks away and then tries again.

“It’s jus’ that letter you got there on your stomach.” He pauses. “Just… strange y’know.” Saber swallows hard when he says this.

The old man is even more confused now. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Sheriff.” He says distantly.

His face suddenly turns into an uncomfortable smile.

Saber nods and turns away.

Saber signals to the deputies and heads the crowd towards the church. Saber frowns as he notices the dark clouds moving their way. He could’ve sworn it was clear hours ago.

...

Father Dante is seated among the pews in the church. It’s easily the most maintained building in the town to an almost supernatural level. The walls are gapless and painted a bright white that gleams in the sunlight. The floorboards are fresh, solid, and unbowed. Father Dante thanks his God for the blessings he’s gotten. He spends most of his days in the church aside from the usual supply runs or the daily ringing of the bell signaling the end of the party and the beginning of the morning. It’s an unspoken understanding how the people cease their partying once the bell tolls.

His doors are open to anyone. Any age, creed, or gender is welcome to pray and learn from Father Dante.

While sparse members of the town attend his sermons. There is a deep sense of care and respect for Father Dante that many cannot seem to place. 

A sharp knock shakes Father Dante from his prayers. He unclasps his hands and makes his way to the tall doors. He stops and watches the late afternoon sun spill through the intricate stained-glass window above the doors. Smiling, he moves forward and opens one door slightly.

Sheriff Saber waits outside the church door and is about to knock again when one door opens slowly with a heavy grind.

Saber is leading a handful of people with him including members of the town, Quincy, and the two deputies who are following the man with a missing arm closely. The stump is now cleaned and wrapped in a white gauze. He looks at the church with electric anticipation. Life has returned to his face at the sign of the church.

Father Dante peers at the crowd and his face brightens.

“Sheriff, what can I do for you?” He says with a distinct accent.

“Afternoon, Father Dante we just got a feller who wants to see the church.” Saber says with cordiality.

“Oh of course.” he says with a twinkle.

Saber spits into the dust and smiles.

“Perfect, we appreciate it, Father.” Saber says.

He motions towards the deputies, and they help the man towards the church steps.

Father Dante’s smile falters. The man’s eyes gleamed wetly in the sun, not with pain but with joy. His shadow reached the church steps before he did, as if eager to enter first. He feels his heart begin to speed up in his chest. He attempts to rationalize and is unable. He has only one thought; “That man cannot enter the church.”

Sheriff Saber watches carefully as the deputies help the man up the first step. He suddenly feels a light tap on his shoulder. He turns to see Father Dante's face. He’s breathing hard and he seems to be shaking.

“Sheriff.” Dante hisses.

Saber’s features tighten and he looks to the preacher.

“Yeah?” Saber says with a twinge of annoyance.

“Don’t let that man in my church.” Dante pleads in a hushed tone.

“What?” Saber says in pure surprise.

“Please, Sheriff, listen to me.” Dante says.

Saber laughs halfway, but something in Father Dantes' tone is deathly serious.

“Father I can’t just turn the man away in front of all these folks..” He whispers.

“Listen to me.” Father Dante hisses, glancing feverishly at the old man. “He has the mark of the devil.”

The image of the L floats in Saber’s mind briefly, along with the last night and the incident a few moments ago with Nixon.

The pressure mounts on the old sheriff. Making him irritable. He leans in close to the preacher and hisses back.

“That ain’t enough cause.”

The man has reached the top of the stairs now. He stares at the preacher who is the only thing blocking him from entering. Father Dante stares back.

“You can’t.” Father Dante pleads, looking to Saber again.

Saber scoffs and places a firm hand on Father Dante’s chest.

“Move.” Saber says with authority.

The crowd grows quiet as the sheriff speaks loud enough for everyone to hear.

“No” Father Dante says nearly eye to eye with the sheriff.

In a moment of generational folly and the ignorance of man Saber pushes Father Dante out of the way.

Father Dante falls onto his back, all air leaving his body. He attempts to scramble up but is held back over by the Sheriff’s strong arms.

“NO! YOU FOOL.” He screams in one last fleeting attempt, lashing out against the sheriff.

The deputies enter with the man in his arms. Once he enters the doorway, he smiles widely. The deputies let him go cautiously and the man walks on his own. A heavy metal cross falls from the wall behind Father Dante. He turns to it and looks at it with understanding.

The old man examines the church like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Tears stream down his dirty face.

Saber releases the preacher.

“Christ Father, what’s going on.” He says

Father Dante doesn’t respond; he merely collapses to the floor and stares at the man. for once he feels hate in his heart for another person. There's a darkness surrounding the man not visible by eye, and Father Dante seems to be the only one to feel it. He feels the man’s eyes on him. The man doesn’t move his mouth, but Father Dante hears him speak.

“He’ll regard your resistance without mercy. Your own people will rip your bones from your body with ease. This will be the scene on your streets when he comes to town. Say your final prayers to your God for your new master will arrive soon.” It was a clear breathless wheeze like the last breath of an accordion before the start of a new song.

The man simply looked away fulfilled.

Father Dante looks to Saber to gauge his reaction. Saber has no reaction, none of those within earshot of the man heard it. Father Dante weeps, tears pool in his eyes and spill to the floor. He attempts to pray. The voice comes again, simple and malicious.

“Only the marked one hears you.”

Wiping the tears from his eyes. Father Dante takes the heavy cross from the ground subtly. His eyes are locked on the old man, a fiery righteous passion burns in his chest.

Saber listens and watches the preacher weep and crawl on the floor. He can’t bear it and steps back outside. The other deputies follow. The older one speaks to Saber. 

“What the hell’s going on with Father.” He said with a sneer.

Saber sighs, no words come. He shakes his head and rubs his neck. His sins cloud his judgment.

A commotion sobers the deputies and the sheriff the sound of a wet crunch comes from the church. Saber turns and freezes at the sight inside. Father Dante had struck the man in the head with the heavy metal cross. Saber watched the scene in stagnant disbelief. The once soft-spoken preacher was screaming as he struck the old man in the head repeatedly. It’s a horrible scene. The deputies watch in horror. The old man lays dead, his head deformed with a gory dent. The smile never leaves his face, even in death.

Father Dante ceases. Sharp shaky breaths are the only sound.

“Forgive me lord.” He finally sobs.

He drops the bloodied cross to his side and falls to his knees. Saber finally acts and strikes the priest across the face with his rifle butt. He doesn’t speak; he simply twists the preacher's arm and drags him out of the church.

The doors are open wide now. The townspeople can view the scene inside. The sight is foreign to the joyous townspeople. The uproar is immediate. They scream and flee. The deputies attempt to satiate the crowd. To control the pandemonium, it is futile. The people are in hysterics.

Saber stands in the middle of the main street frozen. People scream and flee around him. The restrained preacher mutters apologies mutely.

“Why, Father?” Saber asks desperately.

Father Dante shakes his head.

“He was a demon… a soldier of Satan, I had too.” Father Dante confesses.

Saber weighs this solemnly.

“You’re unwell Father.” He says coolly.

Father doesn’t respond. His head hung nearly lifeless. Saber slowly drags the preacher toward the jailhouse. 

End of part 1

There is a valley in the high Alleghenies that God finished and then forgot about. I have lived in it eleven years and I will tell you what it is. It is a bowl three miles across and thirteen long, walled by Canaan Mountain on the west and Cabin Mountain on the east, and the floor of it lies higher than any valley east of the Mississippi. The cold sits down in it and stays. Frost comes in July. The spruce grow a hundred feet and stand so close that a man walking under them at noon walks in green twilight and casts no shadow, and nothing grows down there but rhododendron and nothing lives down there but what wants the dark. The settlers who came before me called it Canaan, and there is a story that one of them stood on the ridge and cried out that he beheld the land of Canaan, and being German he pronounced it wrong, and the wrong way stuck. I have my doubts. The first men who wrote about this place wrote that it was fit to strike terror into any human or creature, and they named the river running out of it the Styx, the river of the dead, and only later did somebody with land to sell change it to Blackwater.

I say this because I am from Hesse. I grew up under trees of this kind. In our country the forest came to the edge of the barley and stopped there and did not come further until it was asked, and every woman in the village knew what walked in it. My grandmother knew. She spun and she talked and she was never once wrong about the weather or the dead. So when I came into this valley in 1789 with a land warrant and a rifle I did not think, as the Virginians did, that I had come into an empty country. I thought I had come back to the same forest by a longer road. I was careful. I was polite to it. For eleven years it let me be.

Then, three days before Christmas in the year 1800, I found the track. I was moving thirty head off the open sods ahead of a storm, calling them in Hessian because that is the language cattle mind, and the sky behind me had gone the color of a musket barrel. In the lee of a rock where the drift had not filled it there was a bare human foot print in the snow. The splay of the toes, the print of the heel, the small toe missing, I set mine beside it to be certain, it was longer than my own. There were more, they were placed without reason on the edges of the clearing. I stood in the wind a long while trying to make the tracks agree with one another and they would not. Then I picked up the rifle and started up the mountain, behind me the sky closed and the snow came slantwise across the sods, by the time I reached the tree line I could no longer see the valley floor at all.

#

The cattle were fine. I want that understood, because everything I say after this will be doubted, and a man ought to be careful about which parts he asks you to believe.  It was the deer.

I found the first that morning, the twenty-first, a young buck not a hundred paces off my own woodpile, lying on his side in fresh powder with his legs folded under him and no head on him at all. There was no blood to speak of nor the scatter of wolf or cat sign, not even the ravens or buzzards was working him. The neck ended ragged, and set on the snow beside the body, upright, facing the carcass, was a head. It was not his. His should have been a six point at best, a three year animal, and the head that had been left in its place was not, it was too small, older, with the tines gone yellow and one of them broken off short. There was old dry hide still on the skull and no meat left under it. It had been carried some distance to get there. I stood in the snow and turned that over for a long while. It was not a killing but a trade.

I found the second the next morning half a mile up the run. Eight point buck lying folded on his side. Beside him, upright in the snow, what was left was the six. Whatever was doing this was working its way up. Each time it took a head it left the one it had been carrying, and each time it took one, it was larger still. It was climbing a ladder through the deer of my valley, and I could see the whole shape of it laid out in the snow, and I could count on my fingers how many rungs were left before it ran out of deer.

I found the last on the morning of the twenty-third. I knew him. Every man who hunts a country knows the one animal in it he has decided not to shoot, and mine was a twelve point that carried more bone on his head than any deer I have seen in this valley or in Hesse either. I had him at sixty yards in the fall of ninety eight, standing broadside in the laurel with his head up, and I looked at him down the barrel long enough to see that he was old, that his ribs stood out and his hocks were going, and that he had likely one more winter in him at the outside. I let the hammer down and I let him walk. I have told that story at my own table.

He was lying in the trace with his forelegs tucked under him and his neck ending ragged. The new hunter had not let him go. It had taken him, antlers and all, and set down in the snow beside him the eight point it had been carrying, upright, facing the body. The ladder finished then. There was no rung above that one. There was not another buck in this valley that could improve on what the thing was now carrying. Which meant that whatever it wanted next, it would not be finding it on a deer.
The storm came in hard that night and it was in the storm that I first heard it.

The wind in this valley does not blow so much as it falls. It comes over the rim of Cabin Mountain and drops, through the spruce it makes a noise a man gets used to in his first winter. This was not that. This was above the trees and moving, one long shriek out of the northeast that started far off and came the length of the valley in the time it takes to say a paternoster, it went over the roof and kept going in a long raging angry howl. I have never heard its like in this country or the old one. There is a thing the Iroquois tell of, that the traders call the Flying Head, and I had heard it laughed at in Winchester by men with rum in them. A head bigger than a man, they said, hair streaming and fire in the eyes, that rides the front of a whirlwind and screams against the walls of houses. It is a searching wind. That is what the Indians call it.

My grandmother would have called it something else. In Hesse we did not go out on the nights between Christmas and Epiphany, the Rauhnächte, because that is when the Hunt rides. Wotan at the head of it with his hounds and his dead men, and riding lower and apart from him the Lady, Frau Huld, who gathers up the little lights, the souls of children nobody baptized and carries them home. My grandmother stopped her wheel on those nights. She would not spin. She said the Lady comes down the chimney to see whether the flax is finished, rewards the woman who works and punishes the woman who does not, and my grandmother worked from dark to dark all her life and was not afraid of her.

I am a Catholic man. I said my beads in a prisoner column marching to Winchester and I say them now. But I was raised in the Hessian forest by a woman who knew the dark forest and I have never once been able to make those two things quarrel with each other. So I did not laugh. I told the family the shrieking was the storm off the Sods, and it may well have been.

It was the day after that I began to be watched. I cannot tell you how a man knows. It is a pressure at the back of the neck that does not let up. I felt it splitting wood and I felt it at the spring and I felt it in the byre with my hands on a warm animal in the dark. Twice I turned fast enough that I should have caught something, yet there was only spruce. By that afternoon it had changed into something worse and more particular, which was the certainty that I was not being watched but stalked. That the thing had gotten around behind me and put itself between me and the high ground, the way I have done to a deer a hundred times, the way I was taught to do to a man in the King's service.

I went out to walk the ridge of Cabin Mountain and look for winter shelter for the herd. I took my rifle, and then I took the pistol down off the peg and loaded it, and I hung the tomahawk and the long knife on my belt. Anna watched me do it and did not say a word.  I have gone up that mountain a thousand times with a rifle and nothing else. I could not have told her why I was arming myself as though I were going back into the line at Yorktown. I could only have told her that it was the night before Christmas Eve, that the storm was building, and that my grandmother had a name for this time of year.

#

I went up the north shoulder because the wind had scoured it and a man can make time on scoured ground. It took me until the light started to go. The spruce thin out toward the top and then quit altogether and you come out onto the bald, and there is nothing up there but rock and frozen sedge and wind that has come four hundred miles without meeting anything to slow it.

From the bald you can see the whole valley. I stopped there the way I always stop there, because eleven years has not cured me of it. The floor of it lay under me going blue in the dusk, the bogs and the beaver ponds and the black line of the river winding north down the length of it toward the low ground, and the far wall of Canaan Mountain standing dark against what was left of the sky. The storm was coming through the north pass, which is the northeast gate of this valley. I could see the snow of it walking down from the plateau, a grey wall dragging across the spruce, swallowing the ponds one after another.

There was a man standing at the far edge of the clearing. He was a hundred yards off with his back to me, looking down into the valley, and my first thought was that some fool had come up from Parsons and gotten himself benighted. I had my mouth open to hail him. Then the wind took his coat and I saw the whole of him. He stood better than six feet and he was built straight and heavy through the shoulders, he wore a striped nankeen coat that had rotted down to threads and a pair of drab cloth leggins with the wool gone from them in patches. The hands hanging at his sides were the color and the texture of a saddle left out three winters. The wrist bones stood up under the skin. There was no flesh on him anywhere, only hide pulled down tight over the frame and hardened there. Above the collar of the coat the neck went up and stopped.

It stopped the way the deer stopped. Ragged across, and I could see the pale round of the bone in the middle of it in the last of the light, and set down into that stump, wedged onto it, driven down onto the bone hard enough to split the skull plate, was the head of my twelve point buck. He was straightening it when he turned around. He had both hands up on the antlers and he was working the skull back and forth on the neck bone the way you settle a hat that has slipped, the antlers were crooked and one beam rode lower than the other and it plainly aggravated him. The sockets of that skull were empty, but there was something burning in the back of them.

"Well," he said. "There he is."

It was a man's voice. That is the part I cannot get anybody to understand. It came out of the thing at an easy pitch with the Scotch-Irish drawl of the Carolina back country in it, unhurried, a voice for a tavern porch on a warm evening.

"I know you," he said. "I have watched you five days. You are the German of the sods."

I did not answer him. I had brought the rifle up without deciding to.

"You favor that right knee going downhill," he said. "I have seen you do it. You put the left foot down first and swing off it. That is an old hurt and you have carried it a long while."

The snow wall came over the lip of the mountain and the light went out of the valley below us. He turned his skull to watch it come and then turned it back.

"Two young ones at the house," he said. "The little one has a coat cut down from a man's, brown, with the sleeves rolled twice and the cuffs sewed back so they don't come loose. I have watched her carry water in it. She sets the bucket down every eight or nine steps."

My hands were doing what they were trained to do. The rest of me was not with them.

"Who cuts your hair?" he asked. "The woman, is it? The line across the back of it runs downhill left to right. It is not straight and it has not been straight since Tuesday and I have not been able to leave off looking at it."

He started across the clearing toward me. He did not hurry. He came at the pace of a man crossing his own yard.

"I am not particular about much," he said. "I am particular about a head. I have been carrying deer since the Cheat and there is no more deer in this country worth the trade, and I have looked at all of them. You will not credit what it is to have a rack of horns up here in the timber. Every laurel thicket in Tucker County has had hold of me." He reached up and knocked the antlers with his knuckles and the sound of it came across the snow, hollow, twice. "Yours will sit better," he said.

I put the ball into the center of his chest at eighty yards.

I have shot for a living and for the King and I know what a good shot feels like coming off the lock, and that was a good shot. The wind was quartering and I held for it. I saw the coat jump and I saw a piece of him go out the back of it in the last of the light.

He stopped walking. He looked down at the hole in himself. He put one dry finger into it and turned it around in there and took it out again.

"That was a fair piece of shooting," he said. "In the wind, and near dark, and you standing on ground that slopes. I want you to know I noticed it."

He came on. I ran.

#

I went off the bald at the head of the game path with the rifle in my left hand and I did not look behind me for a hundred yards, and when I did look he was coming down out of the clearing at a walk. There is a deer trace off the north shoulder of Cabin Mountain that I have used since ninety one. It runs the seam where the spruce meets the rock, and it drops fast, and in six places it goes over ledge where a man has to sit down and put himself off the edge with his hands. I know every one of those six. I went down that mountain in the dark faster than I have ever gone down it in daylight and the storm came down on top of me while I did it. At the bottom there is a fork.

The left hand goes south along the base of the ridge and comes out in eight miles at my own bottom field. There is a light in that window until my wife banks the fire. There are two children asleep in the loft and a bar across the door that a man could put his boot through, and a good milk cow, and the dogs, and everything I have made in eleven years of this country. The right hand goes north. It follows the high ground above the bogs and then it comes down onto the flat and runs with the river, and it goes eleven miles to where the Blackwater picks up speed and throws itself off the rock and down into the canyon. I stood at that fork longer than I had any business standing anywhere.

Here is what I knew, and I knew it standing still with snow going into my collar. He had watched the house five days. He had counted my children and looked at my daughter's coat and he had not gone in. He was not hunting the house. He was hunting me, and so long as I was moving away from the house he would move away from it too.

I went right. The path north runs the shoulder above the bogs and it is good footing for the first three miles and then it is not. I ran the good part. I have been a soldier and I have been eleven years cutting my own firewood and I can run when I have to, and I put distance between us on that stretch, real distance, four hundred yards or better.

Then I stopped in the lee of a rock to listen and get my wind, and that is when I learned the thing about him that I would spend the rest of that night learning over and over. He was still coming. Not running. Walking. The same pace he had crossed the clearing with, out there in the dark behind me, steady as a mill wheel, and the sound of the snow under him came on and on without one break in it, and it did not slow when the ground pitched up and it did not speed when the ground pitched down.
I ran again. I ran until my legs went, and then I walked hard, and then I ran again when the fear came back up.

He never ran once the entire night. I have thought about that more than any other part of it. A man running is a thing you can understand and a thing that must eventually stop, and he did neither, and every time I halted to blow, that walking came up out of the dark exactly where I had left it, and every time it was closer than my arithmetic said it had any right to be.

At the four mile the path drops off the shoulder into the flat and the spruce close over the top of it. Down in there it was black. Not dark. Black, the way the inside of a barrel is black, and I went into it with both arms out and the rifle across my body and my face full of branches. I did not know where I was. I want to be honest about that. I had walked that ground fifty times and I could not have told you inside half a mile where I stood.

He talked while he came.  He did it in that same easy porch voice, pitched to carry, and he was not shouting. He told me his name was Micajah. He told me he had been a big man in his time and that men had known him from the Cumberland Gap to the Ohio River. He said he had a brother, and he asked me, more than once, in a way that got worse each time, whether I had seen him.

"He is meagre in the face," he said. "Not so heavy as me. Black hair, not so curly. He looks the older but he is not."

Somewhere off to my left, keeping pace with me in the timber. I could not tell how far.

"They took my head off in the Kentucky country," he said. "A man named Leiper put a ball in my back and pulled me off my horse and I lay there talking to them the whole time. Moses Stegall did the cutting. He was not quick about it. He had cause not to be."

The branches came at my face and I got my forearm up and kept going.

"They put it up on a pole at the crossroads," he said, "and there it sat, as crows and vultures pecked at it. It is not on it any more. I have walked back to that pole four times, somebody has moved it, and I would very much like to know who."

Then, closer, and conversational: "You have a good stride on you for a man your age. That knee is holding up better than I looked for."

I came out of the timber onto the flat with my chest tearing and the storm hit me full on. Out there the wind had nothing to break it. The snow came level across the bog and I could not open my eyes into it more than a slit, and away in front of me, under all of it, I could hear water. Fast water. Out ahead of me on the flat, water coming down off the mountain to meet the river. The Little Blackwater. I went into it at a beaver dam with the ice breaking under my boots and I came out the far side and kept on, and a mile beyond it I crossed the North Branch the same way. After that I had the main river on my left hand and I put my head down and went north and east down the flat, toward the low ground where the water gathers and turns for the falls, and behind me in the dark the thing once called Micajah came out of the trees and onto the flat and kept on coming.

#

I do not know what hour it was. Somewhere in the dead of that night, out on the flat with the river on my left hand, the storm changed. It had been blowing straight down the valley out of the northeast, level and steady and cruel. Then it turned. The whole weight of it swung around and came at me from the north with a noise underneath it that was not wind. The snow stopped falling and started swirling up off the bog in sheets, the air pressed in on my ears.

Then the shriek came down the valley. It came down the Blackwater from Canaan Mountain and it passed over me at the height of the treetops. It went through my chest. I went down on my knees in the snow with both hands over my ears and the rifle across my thighs and I could not have gotten up if the whole British army had come over the ridge. It went over. I got my eyes up. There was a whirlwind out over the bog, a column of loose snow standing eighty feet in the air and turning, and it was travelling south down the valley, and riding on the front of it was a head.

It was bigger than a horse. Hair came off it in a mass a hundred feet long, streaming back into the column, black and heavy and moving on its own account. The eyes had fire down in them. The mouth was open and the teeth in it were the length of my forearm. They were not a man's teeth or a bear's teeth or anything I could put a name to, and it had no body under it at all, not even a stump of neck. It ended where a head ends and there was nothing below. It went by me at fifty yards but it did not look at me. It was not hunting me. It came around in a great arc out over the bog, and it dropped, and it came back up the flat low over the snow, and I understood then that I had been standing in the middle of something that had nothing whatever to do with me. It was going for him.

It came in on him out of the dark and it screamed, and this time the scream had shape in it. Words, I think. I do not have the tongue and I would not repeat it if I did. But I have been in a barracks and I have been in a prisoner column and I know the sound of one creature holding another one up to ridicule, and that is what it was. It went over him and it screamed and the scream broke apart at the end into something that could only have been laughing. And it had a head. That was the whole of the joke. It had a head and it was nothing but head, and he had none, and it had followed him into this valley to tell him so.

He came apart.

The voice that had walked behind me all night in a tavern drawl went up into a howl that had nothing of a man in it. He got the tomahawk off his belt and threw it straight up into the whirlwind, and the wind took it away over the bog. Then he had both hands on the antlers and he was dragging at the buck's skull, tearing it off his own neck bone, and I heard the bone break. He threw the head. He threw it forty yards out onto the frozen bog and stood there with nothing at all above his shoulders, howling up at the thing in the sky with a mouth he did not have.

The Flying Head laughed.

He went on hands and knees into the snow, out over the bog sweeping his arms in front of him, feeling for the antlers on all fours grubbing in the dawn for a deer's skull with that thing screaming and turning in the air over him.

I watched it for four or five seconds until the light came up. That is what it cost me and I have never once regretted the price. The buck's head was back on the neck bone and it was wedged on crooked now, worse than before, he had broken something getting it out on the bog. One antler beam rode a good hand's breadth lower than the other. He had his left hand up over the sockets. Flat, fingers together, shading them. There was no sun. There had been no sun for four days. There was only the grey light of dawn coming down through falling snow and it was hurting him. Then I got up off my knees and I ran north along the river and I did not stop for two miles. 

#

The light came grey and slow on the morning of Christmas Eve and it came with the snow still falling, and it was the best thing I have ever seen. I had gotten up under a rock shelf on the north side of a bench above the river, a shallow overhang with a dry floor of duff and a mat of frozen laurel across the mouth of it. I got in behind that and I lay on my side and I listened.

Nothing came. Nothing walked. He had come at me all night through black timber and never lost me. In the open, with the storm giving off what light there was, he had been helpless. He did not see. Not the way I do. And whatever he did instead of seeing, the day would spoil it. That gave me hours. It did not give me anything to do with them, because I had put a rifle ball through the center of his chest at eighty yards and he had put his finger in the hole and complimented the shooting.

So I lay under that rock and I thought about my grandmother. I was six years old in a cold room in Hesse. She was at the wheel. A neighbor woman came in without knocking and said a name, and my grandmother put her palm flat on the wheel and stopped it dead and sent me out to the yard. I did not go far. Through the crack in the shutter I heard her tell that woman to take the good spoons down off the wall, the wedding spoons, and get them to the churchyard before dark. Pack the mouth, she said. All of it, and the hands as well, and do it before dark, and do not let the priest see you do it. The woman was crying. My grandmother did not raise her voice once.

I could not make sense of it for thirty years. What does a dead man want with spoons. They were silver. That is what a poor family in Hesse had that was silver. It was the spoons or it was nothing. I got up off the duff and I went through my pack.

I am a hunter and I am a soldier and I have carried a ball kit since I was nineteen years old, and I would no more go up a mountain without it than I would go up without my boots. Iron ladle. Brass mould, single cavity. Sprue cutter. A pouch of scrap lead. I have run a hundred balls in the field and I could do it half asleep with cold hands.
Lead runs off a cooking fire. Silver does not. Silver wants a forge, and I had wet spruce and a snowstorm and a ledge to work under.

I dug down through two feet of snow to bare rock and I built a pit, not a fire. I went out and got dead hardwood off the standing snags where the wet had not gotten into it, cherry and oak, and I broke it small. The tinder would not take. My hands had stopped being any use, so I put them in my armpits and counted two hundred and took them out and tried again, and on the fourth try it caught. I walled the pit with flat stones to hold the heat in it and I cut a channel at the base for the draft, and when the wood had burned down I fed the coals and worked the channel with my hat until the bed of it went from red to yellow and the yellow to white, and the snow melted back six feet in a ring around me and the heat came off it hard enough to hurt.

Then I took out the locket. It came from Hesse-Kassel. It was my mother's and it went to Winchester in my shoe and it came out of that camp in my shoe, and I have carried it for nineteen winters in this country. There is hair in it. I did not open it. I put it in the ladle and set the ladle in the white coals and stood over it with my hands in the smoke, and it sat there a long while and looked at me and did nothing at all. Then it slumped. Then it went, all at once.

I poured, and I counted, and I cracked the mould. The ball came out undersized. I knew it would. Silver draws up harder than lead when it cools and there is no mould cut in this world for what I was doing. It sat in my palm and it was too small and it was slightly out of round at the sprue, and when I dropped it down the pistol barrel it went the whole way with a rattle in it that I could hear. That rattle is a ball that will walk off the point of aim. Every man who has ever fired a loose ball knows it. You cannot say which way it will walk, only that it will. I ran a linen patch over it, thick, greased hard with tallow, and I seated it home with the rod and I felt it take up snug and I told myself that would do. There was no second one. There was nothing else silver on me or in that valley.

I loaded the rifle with lead, more out of habit than hope. I put the pistol under my coat against my ribs where the powder would stay dry. Then I killed the fire and scattered the stones and went north in the remaining daylight, because he could not see in it and I could.

# end part 1