Feed Me: And Other Horror Stories

Brock Mauve

Absum Press

Copyright © 2022 by Brock Mauve

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

1. The Bear Trap

2. Mate

3. The Bicycle

4. The Request

5. The Truck Stop

6. Second Place

7. Feed Me

8. Don’t Tell

9. Buyer Beware

10. The Carhop

11. The Interview

12. Sinker

Thanks for Reading

1

THE BEAR TRAP

The setting sun undulated through the trees, casting deep shadows along the path. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon. Within hours they would reach the mountain, bringing with them heavy rain and unrelenting lightning. 

Laura increased her pace. She barreled down the trail, heart pounding, legs shaking. “Alpha!” she called, feet cutting through the grass. “Come here, boy!” 

A series of barks rattled off in the distance. 

I’m going to kill that dog, she thought, hurrying in the direction of the barks.

Why had Melissa chosen such a secluded spot to camp? She had been adamant that they go backpacking, that they rough it. Even mentioning the words car and camping in the same sentence was enough to send her flying off the handlebars. They hadn’t even known each other for very long. If Melissa’s enthusiasm hadn’t swept away her apprehensions, filling her head with visions of flowing streams and snow-topped mountains, she never would have agreed to come on such an impromptu trip.

A bolt of lightning tore across the sky. Moments later, thunder rumbled through the mountain, vibrating the earth.

Alpha’s barks sounded again, this time from the trees to her left.

She hurried into the trees. Twigs and leaves dug into her face, slowing her pace significantly. 

“Alpha!” she called. “Come here!”

This time, Alpha didn’t bark a response. Other than the frantic pounding of her feet and the hum of distant thunder, the woods remained silent. 

Panic crept across her chest.

Focus on your breathing, she thought. Don’t you dare stop running. 

A light drizzle drifted through the leaves, causing goosebumps to form on the backs of her arms. How long did she have before the onset of the deluge? Five minutes? Ten? Either way, returning to camp before the storm was quickly becoming an impossibility. 

The sound of snapping metal exploded through the air. An intense pain, more excruciating than any she had ever experienced, bolted up her shin. 

She glanced down at her leg. When she saw the bear trap ensnaring her ankle, her lungs seized. Roughly two feet in length, the rust-colored jaw dwarfed her twitching foot. Its teeth dug deep into her flesh and glowed with the light of the dying sun.

Shards of bone punctured the skin just below her calf. Blood, crimson and fast-flowing, filled her shoe and flooded her nose with the odor of copper.

Adrenaline pounded her body, making her feel lightheaded. Her heart rate tripled.

Springing the trap had been unavoidable given the narrow path through the trees. Half-concealed by leaves, its pressure plate was all but invisible. That Alpha hadn’t triggered it was a miracle. 

She inhaled a deep breath through her nose, trying to calm her thudding heart. She placed her palm on a nearby tree trunk to transfer some of the pressure from her ankle. The movement sent a fresh wave of blood pouring from her wound. 

Deafening thunder billowed through the air. The wind paused as if the mountain was holding its breath, and then the rain started. 

The frigid drops soaked her within seconds. Her clothes pressed tightly against her body, outlining her trembling frame.  

Darkness consumed the woods as the clouds blocked out the sun. 

“Alpha!” she screamed. Her voice came out a frightened shriek. “Alpha!” 

Although she knew that calling out was useless, that the storm prevented her voice from traveling more than a few feet, she tried nonetheless. The thought of Alpha running through the woods in the dark, rain drenching his fur, was more than she could bear. That she had failed to secure him before the storm’s arrival only amplified her guilt. All she could do was pray that he found a cave, burrow, anything to take shelter in before the storm worsened. 

The rain numbed her ankle. If blood still poured from her wound, she couldn’t feel it. Her shin felt detached from her body as if a surgeon had removed her shattered tibia. 

Tears flowed openly from her eyes. Knowing that her crying accomplished nothing only increased her sorrow.

Movement flickered to her left. She glanced toward the trees, trying her best to blink back her tears. 

A woman hovered among the shadows. 

The longer she stared at this woman, the more she blended into the darkness. She flickered through the rain like a flip book drawing, there one moment, gone the next.

She was imagining the woman—she had to be. Nothing more than a psychological manifestation of her panic, she would disappear when she regained her calmness. To believe otherwise was to succumb to the most far-fetched of fantasies. 

Lightning flashed, illuminating the woman with blinding yellow light. Black hair draped to her knees. Rain glistened on her naked body. Pale, owl-like eyes covered the majority of her face. 

The lightning passed, filling the woods with darkness once more. 

You need to get back to camp, she thought. Get back to Melissa.

She forced her eyes onto her ankle. Blackness consumed the trap’s jaw and pressure plate.

Just pry the damn thing open. You have thumbs for Christ’s sake. Use them. 

The woman stirred. Why didn’t she approach? Never speaking, barely blinking, she did nothing but lurk behind the tree, watching her.

She tried her best to push this question from her mind. Freeing her foot from the trap was all that mattered. All of the other problems vying for her attention—the woman, Alpha, the rain—were impossible to solve while her ankle remained pinned within the trap’s jagged teeth. 

If only you had remembered to bring your flashlight. 

Alpha had bolted from the campsite so quickly she had forgotten to grab it. If she had, then she could use it to find the trap’s release; or, if it didn’t possess one, the best location to grip its jaws. Instead, she had no choice but to fumble through the darkness, praying that she could free her ankle before the woman decided to approach. 

She leaned down and ran her fingers along the trap’s frame. The cold metal sent shivers rippling across her spine. She slid her fingers into every nook and indentation she came across, but she failed to find a release mechanism. 

If only she could see the trap. Other than the occasional glimpse afforded to her by the lightning, discerning the jaws through the shadows was impossible. 

The woman stirred again. Was she moving closer? 

Laura opened her mouth to scream—to tell the woman to leave her alone—but shut her lips shortly after. 

Head pounding, she lowered her hands to the trap once more. She pretended her hands were pens and sketched the trap in her mind. This technique worked remarkably well. By her third pass, she had formed a clear mental image of its structure.

Two springs rose an inch over the jaws. If she applied pressure to these springs, the jaws stirred. So she gripped the springs, inhaled a deep breath through her nose, and pressed down with all her might. 

Blood rushed to her face as she pushed. The jaws refused to budge more than an inch—it was as if they were locked in place. 

Despair clouded her mind. She let the rain consume her, resting her head on a nearby tree as the deluge soaked her to the bone.

You can’t give up, she thought.

She didn’t want to give up, but what choice did she have? If she had a crowbar, then she could generate enough leverage to pry open the jaws. But without one, attempting to escape was pointless. 

What if you use your foot?  

She forced her free foot onto the closest spring, throwing her full weight onto the metal plate that served as its base. 

The jaw swung open, groaning as it parted from her flesh.

She raised her foot from the trap. She did so slowly, careful not to slip. When her heel cleared the frame, she collapsed to the ground, trembling. 

A twig snapped to her left. She whirled around just in time to see the woman bursting through the trees. She grabbed her foot with a withered hand, nails digging deep into her skin.

“Get away from me!” screamed Laura. She tried to swat away the woman’s hand, but the awkward angle of her back prevented her from turning. All she could do was flail in the mud as the woman tightened her grip.

A low growling cut through the splashing rain. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Alpha standing beneath a nearby tree, hackles raised. His lips were barred, exposing his teeth.

Alpha sprinted toward the woman and sank his teeth into her thigh. He dug his back paws into the mud, jerking his head as he dug into her flesh.

The woman howled. She wrapped her fingers around his jaw. But no matter how hard she squeezed, he refused to release her.

Blood and rain struggled for dominance in the mud. The trees shook from the storm’s intense winds, catapulting leaves toward the ground. 

The woman seized Alpha and lifted him into the air. She then kicked him in the head, sending him flying into the bushes. He collapsed to the mud, whimpering. 

“Alpha!” cried Laura. She started crawling in his direction, but the woman wrapped her hands around her throat before she traveled more than a few feet. 

Her lungs deflated. She threw her hands toward the woman’s wrists, but the excruciating pain in her shoulders forced her arms back to her sides. 

The woman’s yellow eyes hovered inches from hers, drowning her with their luminosity. She tried to look away, to resist their hypnotizing pull, but her gaze remained transfixed as if locked in place by invisible fingers. All she could do was stare into the endless yellowness, body throbbing with pain. 

Alpha’s whimpers followed her into oblivion. 

Endless trees towered over Laura’s head, flanked by a star-filled sky. Moisture saturated the air and caressed her cheeks with midnight’s chill. 

“Wake up.” 

She turned her head toward the voice. When she saw the woman standing not ten feet to her left, she sat up straighter in the leaves. 

A massive bonfire, built with branches longer than her arms, raged behind the woman. This fire produced no smoke and radiated coldness rather than heat. A pot filled with boiling liquid sat elevated on iron rods above its center. 

“Attempting to flee would be unwise.” 

Laura closed her eyes. She was dreaming—she had to be. The bear trap, the woman, the bonfire—all elements of a never-ending nightmare. In reality, she was sleeping in her tent with Alpha curled by her side. If she focused hard enough, she would be able to hear Melissa’s snoring drifting through the tent walls.

The frigid air billowing from the bonfire crashed into her cheeks, erasing this sentiment. No, she wasn’t dreaming, regardless of how much she wished she was. 

Now that she was fully alert, her pain returned. Her shattered tibia burned like a cattle brand within her leg, and her shoulders felt as if knives were scraping them. She couldn’t even twitch her neck without sending waves of agony rolling down her back. 

The woman drank in her presence, eyes wide, body still. 

She wanted nothing more than to flee, to leave the mountain with Alpha by her side. But her injuries prevented her from standing, much less running.  

“She’s perfect,” said a voice near the fire’s edge.

Laura turned and saw two women exiting the woods. Their appearances were equally as horrid as their companion’s. Deep yellow eyes, which devoured the light emanating from the bonfire, dominated their faces. 

“She is,” said the woman. “She’s the perfect age. Her body is supple and strong. You have done well finding her, Melissa.”

Melissa stepped into the light, eyes cast toward the ground. “Thank you,” she said. 

“Your reward in the coming life will be great. Grab her. It’s time to begin.”

The two women crossed the clearing, grabbed Laura, and dragged her to the bonfire. Frigid air, colder than anything she had ever experienced, crashed into her in waves, freezing the sweat on her skin.

The women released her, sending her crashing into the mud. She landed on her broken ankle, forcing a pain-laced scream through her lips. “Melissa!” she said, shifting her weight off of her ankle. She opened her mouth to say more—to beg her friend to help her—but her words died in her throat. Fear prevented her from forming sentences. All she could do was languish in front of the bonfire, shivering uncontrollably. 

“Melissa will not save you,” said the woman. “Who do you think brought you to us? Our meeting has been a long time coming.”

“What are you talking about?”

The woman ignored her. She dipped her fingers into the pot, eyes closed. 

The boiling intensified. Bubbles lurched over its lip. An alien scent filled the air, tempting her to cover her nose.  

“Hand me the chalice,” said the woman. 

Melissa pulled a wooden cup from the backpack by her feet and handed it to the woman.

“Thank you, child,” said the woman. She dipped the cup into the liquid. A hissing sound filled the air, followed by acrid steam. Unlike the bonfire, this steam was scalding hot. She removed the cup from the pot. Gray liquid tumbled over its lid. “Tilt back her head.”

Fingers dug into her hair and pulled her head toward the ground. The woman lowered the cup to her lips. She tried to turn—to resist the powerful fingers digging into her scalp—but the liquid splashed down her throat before she had time to fight. 

The liquid was porous and gelatinous and expanded in her stomach like ink spilled in water.  

The woman released her hair, sending her collapsing to the ground. “Can you feel it growing inside you?” she said. “Can you feel its pulse?”

“What did you do to me?” said Laura. 

“We’ve made you with child.” 

She forced her eyes onto her stomach. Every few moments, her skin expanded as if something was pressing against her abdomen. 

“It won’t be long now,” said the woman. “Try and relax.”

Her muscles constricted. Blood rushed to her temples, disorienting her. Her vision darkened. 

“Push!” said the woman. 

She pushed. She had no choice; it was either push or risk rupturing her womb.  

“Grab him, Melissa!” said the woman. “The mud is no place for our son.”

Melissa reached between her legs and lifted a creature so grotesque it made Laura slam her eyes shut. 

Coarse, black fur covered the entirety of its body. Only its head, which was twice the size of an average baby’s, was without hair.

Melissa cradled the creature in her arms. It emanated a garbled cry that modulated the air.

The women crowded around Melissa, staring down at the demented being, eyes glowing.

Laura dug her fingers into the mud, her pain too much to bear. Darkness consumed her.

Laura awoke at the clearing’s edge.

The women sat on the other side of the bonfire. The creature lay nestled in a bed of leaves between them, staring up at them with intelligent, yellow eyes. Melissa stood just beyond these leaves, stirring the contents of the pot. 

Laura closed her eyes, trying desperately to form a plan. 

To say that she was exhausted was an understatement. Even moving her eyelids required monumental effort. She felt as if a concrete mixer had crushed her entire body. 

Given the abysmal state of her health, how did she expect to escape? 

She looked toward the woods looming behind her. The rain-soaked branches draped toward the ground in wide arcs, all but obscuring the path winding through the mud. 

If she managed to crawl beyond the bonfire’s glow, then she could hide in the shadows until they lost her trail. Then, once the sun rose, she could find her way back to the car. She had re-parked two days ago after a brief trip to a nearby town, so Melissa wouldn’t know its exact location. 

She inhaled a deep breath through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. She did this three more times, forcing her fear through her lips. 

You can do this, she thought. Have faith in yourself. 

Time slowed to a trickle as she crawled toward the trees. Her pain became a distant memory. All that mattered was reaching the shadows at the clearing’s edge. By the time she reached the woods, sweat drenched her face. 

She crawled until her strength failed, taking refuge under a bush with thick leaves that would conceal her if the women pursued her. 

Vowing to flee to her car at first light, she waited for sunrise. 

She found Alpha perched beside her car the following morning. He sprinted at her the moment she passed through the trees, tail wagging. She wrapped him in her arms, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You were never lost, were you boy?” she said. “You knew exactly where to go.” She opened the passenger door. He leaped into the car. 

She stopped at the first hospital she came across. When the doctors asked her how she had received her injuries, she told them about the bear trap, but nothing more. She didn’t have the energy to explain the women and the bizarre ritual they had forced her to endure. And even if she did, she doubted the doctors would believe her. The story sounded insane—she wouldn’t believe it either.

Her plan was simple. After leaving the hospital, she would return home, pack a suitcase, and then leave town for a fresh start, doing everything she could to place last night’s events behind her. Fortunately, the doctors bought her story, and after resetting her ankle, sent her on her way. 

She reached her apartment around midnight. “I’ll be back in a second, buddy,” she said, rolling down the passenger window. “Stay here.” She then stepped out of the car and into the humid night. 

Traveling up the stairs was a monumental feat. If the doctors hadn’t gifted her with a pair of crutches, she doubted she would’ve made it up the first flight. 

She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The living room was pitch black—her night light must have died. So she trundled toward the lamp she kept beside the TV and flicked it on. 

Melissa was sitting on the couch. She smiled. “Did you think you could escape from me?” she said. “You still have twelve more children to bear.”

2

MATE

Dr. Baron leaned toward the microphone, hazmat suit rustling against his desk. “There’s someone here to see you, Kristi,” he said through the intercom. “A specialist from the CDC. Her name is Dr. Murphy. May I send her in?”

What if I said no? I thought. Would it make any difference?

“Of course,” I said.

The door beyond my bed slid open, revealing a smiling woman standing in the hallway.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said. Her hazmat suit muffled her words as if a layer of water separated us. She sat down in a chair nestled against the wall, a chair I labeled ‘the visitor’s spot.’

“Good morning, doctor,” I said.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Never once did she look at my hand, despite its prevalent spot on my knee.

“I’m here to ask you some questions,” she said. “That is if you’re feeling well enough to answer them.”

“Seems like you’re going through a lot of trouble just to talk. Why not use the intercom?”

“I thought about it, but nothing beats meeting face to face. Reports and microphones can only convey so much information. If I’m to help you—which is my goal—then I need to see you.”

“You aren’t worried about being exposed to…” My eyes drifted toward my hand.

“Not at all. From the tests I’ve seen it’s highly unlikely that your infection is contagious. And even if it was, my suit provides more than enough protection.”

“Forgive my bluntness, but how can you pretend to know a damn thing about me? Every test I’ve taken has been inconclusive.”

“That’s a fair question. The novelty of your condition is indisputable. So much about it is still unknown.”

“I’ve heard my condition described in many ways, but ‘novel’ is a new one. Although it seems a bit trivializing to me, I’ll add it to the list.”

“If I’ve offended you, you have my deepest apologies. Doing so was not my intention.”

“There’s no need to apologize. Being confined to this room has robbed me of everything except my sarcasm, much to the suffering of all.”

Dr. Baron, who was still sitting at the desk beyond the window, stirred gently with laughter. 

“I see.”

“Please, ask your questions.”

“When did your symptoms first arise?”

“I thought you said you’ve read the reports?”

“I have, but I want to hear your side of things.”

“Fair enough. My symptoms started the day after I touched the meteor.”

“And what were they?”

“Fever and brain fog.”

“So nothing with your hand?”

“No. The growth on my hand didn’t form until a few days after. I awoke one morning and there it was.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Nope. Never has. It’s as if it’s always been there.”

“Has the growth spread to any other parts of your body?”

“It’s spread a bit up my wrist, but that’s it.”

For the first time since entering the room, she glanced at my hand. Her eyes were cold and calculating—a hunter stalking its prey.

“Have you found anything on the meteor’s surface?” I said.

“Not yet, but we’re still running tests. I’m confident that we’ll find whatever’s infecting you.”

“I appreciate the updates, but I still don’t understand why you traveled all the way here.”

She was quiet for several moments. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. “Fragments of your growth have entered your bloodstream. According to your most recent tests, the amount is increasing by the day.”

“Is that dangerous?”

“In this case, yes. The growth is starting to alter your entire physiology.”

“I’m not sure what to say. I certainly don’t feel any different.”   

“Give it another week and you should start experiencing new symptoms.”

“Yay for me.”

She forced a smile. “I didn’t come here only to convey such doom and gloom. Quite the contrary, actually. The reason I’m here, the real reason, is to remove the growth from your hand. The procedure will be a grueling one, but I’m positive it will work.”

I sat up straighter on my bed. “Do you really think you can remove it?”

“Of course I can. We don’t have time to waste, either. That is if you agree to let me operate on you.”

“I absolutely agree. When will we begin?”

“Excellent. My assistants will prepare you for surgery tomorrow morning.”

Dr. Murphy’s shielded face hovered inches above mine. “The procedure will take about five hours,” she said. “Once we’re done, I will need to keep you under close observation for at least a week to monitor your symptoms.”

“Is there a chance that I can return home?” I said.

She placed her hands on the gurney, avoiding eye contact with me. “I don’t want to get your hopes up in that regard. Not until we know more about your infection.”

“So what you’re saying is that I might never leave this facility?”

“No. What I’m saying is that the future is uncertain. All we can do is wait and see.”

I stared at my hand, at the growth that had reduced my fingers to a pulsing, black mass.

You had to touch that meteor, I thought. Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?

“Regardless of what happens,” I said, “I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Not until the procedure is a success. A lot can happen in the next few hours. Your growth has proven to be quite unpredictable.”

“What about my blood?”

“Our hope is that by removing the growth, your body will naturally regulate itself. And if it doesn’t, there are a lot of solutions we can try.” She placed her hand on my shoulder. “I know this is stressful, but I promise that you will be well taken care of. The entire CDC is throwing their back into this.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I would have preferred the CDC never learn my name. Such is life I suppose.”

A man poked his head through the door. His hazmat suit obscured his face. “The room is prepped, doctor,” he said.

“Perfect. Let’s wheel her in.”

Two men rose from chairs in the corner of the room and approached my gurney. Their hazmat suits rustled as they grasped the handles on its sides.

A crippling weight formed in my chest, making breathing difficult. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You’re scared. I understand that. But this surgery is necessary in order to keep you alive.”

“You don’t have to be so honest all the time, you know. I thought most doctors use ice cream to calm patients down.”

She laughed. “Fair enough. I will hook you up with a tub of ice cream the moment we’re through.”

“Now we’re talking.” I leaned my head back on the pillow, closed my eyes, and inhaled a deep breath through my nose. “I’m ready.”

I awoke to a pair of blinding white lights. My mouth felt numb as if I had received a dozen shots of Novocain that had yet to wear off. The sterile scent of bleach filled my nose.

I sat up on the bed. An intricate patchwork of cables and gauze spanned my chest, making movement difficult.

Why is the room empty? I thought.

The profound silence made me feel uneasy.

“Hello?” I said, voice wavering.

Silence greeted my question. Not even Dr. Baron’s cheerful voice—my undying companion over the past three months—sounded over the intercom.

A faint thud vibrated the bottom of the gurney. I peered over the edge, heart racing.

A plastic visor glinted from the floor. Whether its owner was a man or a woman I couldn’t tell—their face was destroyed beyond recognition. Hazmat suit half-melted, the smoldering plastic clung to their skull like boiling cheese.

Vomit pooled in the back of my throat. I turned away, closing my eyes in an attempt to calm my breathing.

No person could survive such intense wounds. Dozens of bones protruded against their melted hazmat suit, highlighting the severity of the burn underneath. If the poor soul still contained flesh, then it wasn’t much.

Their arm must’ve slid from their chest to the floor, causing the sound.

Rigor mortis? I thought.

Did rigor mortis set in so soon? I had no way of knowing. My medical knowledge was almost non-existent.

They raised to their knees. I stared into the ruined mass of flesh that had once been their face, heart cracking against my ribs, brain struggling to process what my eyes were seeing.

I opened my mouth to speak—to gauge the lucidity of such an impossible creature—but closed my mouth shortly after, unable to form words.

The corpse pushed itself to its feet. The front of its hazmat suit peeled away, revealing blackened flesh clinging to ashen bones. It lunged toward me, grabbing at my throat.

I threw up my hands in an attempt to protect myself, but the cables restricted my mobility. The best I could do was jam my elbows into its face as it plunged toward my neck.

You’ve reached the end of the road, I thought.

The door crashed open. Dr. Murphy stormed into the room, pushed the corpse to the ground, and drove her boot into its head, shattering its skull. Its legs pumped on the linoleum for a few seconds before falling still.

“Are you alright?” she said, pulling at the wires attached to my skin.

“I think so,” I said. I wanted to say more—to ask her what the hell was going on—but my exhaustion made forming words difficult. I could hardly breathe, much less speak. I felt as if I had just sprinted a marathon.

“I’m sorry for leaving you here. I thought you were dead.”

“What was that thing?”

“I don’t know, but I have my guesses. All that matters right now is that there are more of them. We need to get somewhere safer.”

She detached the final cable, freeing me from the gurney. I lowered my feet to the ground and stood on unstable legs.

“I’m not sure if I can walk,” I said. “I feel so weak.”

“Let me help you.” She placed an arm around my shoulder.

We crossed the room and exited into the hallway. Dozens of corpses lined the walls. Their hazmat suits were charred and torn, revealing bloated, distended flesh.

“How long have I been out?” I said.

“Now is not the time to talk,” she said. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “There might be more around.”

We paused in front of a supply closet. She unlocked the door with a key she produced from her pocket and led me inside. Then, she closed and locked the door behind us.

Shelves of medical supplies stretched through the shadows. The odor was overpowering; I felt as if someone had just dunked my head in alcohol.

“We will be safe here,” she said. “At least until we can find somewhere better to go.”

“What the fuck happened?”

“The procedure backfired. When I cut into your hand, the growth exploded, releasing thousands of spores into the air. These spores are extremely toxic and can melt through you skin like butter. In select cases, they can even reanimate the dead.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I were.”

I stared down at my hand. Scars covered my skin, but no signs of the growth remained.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “The growth is gone. I thought you said the procedure was a failure.”

“I said it ruptured. Fortunately, it didn’t take your hand with it.”

“Why did you leave me in the operating room? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I tried.”

“And?”

Her face grew pale. “I think you should sit down.”

I complied.

She remained by the shelves, body stiff, face somber. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I will just come out and say it. You’re dead. At least by the standard definition.”

My eyes widened. “Dead?”

“Yes. You flatlined shortly after your growth exploded. I tried to resuscitate you twice once the chaos died down a bit, but I failed to get your heart working again. That’s why I left you. I thought you were dead. If I hadn’t heard the commotion you were causing a few moments ago, I would still think you were dead.”

My knees grew weak. If she hadn’t asked me to sit down, then I would’ve collapsed to the floor. I raised my fingers to my neck. I counted to ten, but never once did I feel a pulse.

“Oh my god…” My voice trailed off—lost in a sea of shock.

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but it’s the truth.”

“How long have I been out?”

“About a day. Maybe a little longer. It’s hard to keep track of the time. There are no clocks in here.”

“Have you been hiding here the whole time?”

“For the most part. The spores moved quickly. Intentionally even. They managed to spread throughout the entire facility before we had barely sounded the alarm. Me and a few others tried to lead as many colleagues as we could to safety. You can see the results. I’m sure there are others still out there, but I haven’t dared travel far enough to find them.”

“Why didn’t the spores infect you? Weren’t you the one who sliced open my hand?”

“I was. And the spores did infect me. My heart stopped the same as yours. Yet here we are, clinging blindly to life.”    

“None of this makes sense. How can the spores have such wide-ranging effects?”

“I can’t say for certain. We may never know. Not without extensive testing.”

“Is anybody coming for us? Surely you’ve been in contact with the CDC.”

“I made a call yesterday. They’re sealing the facility. They can’t risk an infection of this nature reaching the streets.”

“Are you saying that we are stuck here?”

“Not necessarily. Who knows what the future holds? Step one is to contain this facility. If we can do that, then maybe the CDC can get us out of this mess.”

“You don’t sound very hopeful.”

She shrugged. “You saw what is happening to people, what is happening to us. Uncertainty is our only certainty.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We need to reach the cafeteria.”

“Are you being serious?”

“Yes. My CDC contact told me that people are gathering there. He has access to the camera feeds. If we can reach them, then we have a better chance of surviving.”

“How do we know we will be safe there? What if they attack us?”

“They very well might. But we can’t stay here. We have neither food nor water.”

I sat in a chair by the door and ran my fingers through my hair. “Why did that meteor have to fall in my yard? I had so much going for me. A great job, a wonderful fiancé, my dream home. And now I have nothing.”

“Now is not the time for self-pity. We have a long walk ahead of us. The cafeteria is on the other side of the building. We need to be alert if we are to reach it safely.”

“What does it matter? According to you, we’re already dead. What’s the worst that can happen? We die a second time?”

“I said that our hearts stopped, not that we’re dead.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Something is keeping us alive. What that may be, I don’t know. All I know is that we need to reach the cafeteria. Hopefully someone there has learned something that we haven’t.”

“Sounds like wishful thinking to me.” I rose to my feet. “Either way, I’m not going to stay here by myself. If you’re sure that there are others in the cafeteria, then I’m willing to go there with you. Just don’t make me regret it.” 

Our footsteps echoed off the barren walls. We inched around the corpses littering the floor, careful not to step in the black liquid oozing from their mouths. Clutched in our hands were a pair of fire extinguishers we had found in the storage room. Although they weren’t the ideal weapons, they possessed a solid weight and were easy to swing.

We descended a staircase at the hall’s edge. This staircase brought us to the foyer fronting the western entrance to the facility.

Three corpses shuffled aimlessly across the floor, backs turned.

“What do we do now?” I said.

Dr. Murphy was silent for several moments, scanning the foyer. “See those doors over there?” she said.

“Yes.”

“That’s where we need to go. I say we run for it. Once we pass through the doors, we can shut and lock them behind us.”

“What if they catch us?”

“Then we’ll use these.” She brandished her fire extinguisher.

“You can’t be serious.”

“What other choice do we have?”

I closed my eyes, mind racing. There had to be a better way. The men were huge. If they caught us, we had little chance of overpowering them. Taking them head on was not only risky but reckless.

“What if we create a distraction?” I said. “There were several gurneys in the hall behind us. If we push them down the stairs, then that might distract them long enough for us to slip by.”

She thought about it for several moments. “That could work. And if it doesn’t, we make a break for it anyway. It’s worth a shot.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll grab a gurney. You stay here and keep watch. I’ll be waiting for your signal at the top of the stairs to push.”

“Sounds good.”

She disappeared back into the hallway, leaving me with nothing but my troubled thoughts.

I glanced toward the foyer. The darkness made it impossible to see through the windows. How many people were stationed outside? Dozens? Hundreds? What would they do if I tried to sprint through the doors? Would they shoot me on sight or would they force me back inside?

They would shoot you, I thought. And they wouldn’t hesitate either. Then they would burn your corpse.    

A disturbing thought but a true one.

They will never let you out of here. You’re too much of a risk.

Dr. Murphy appeared at the top of the stairs, gurney in tow. I gave her the signal.

The gurney flew down the stairs, wheels spinning through the air like tops. When it reached the foyer it skidded across the ground, filling the room with the sound of clanking metal. It didn’t stop until it struck a wall near the entrance, knocking it over on its side.

The noise it produced had the desired effect: the infected men trundled toward it, hazmat suits creaking.

We passed silently into the foyer. If the corpses noticed us, they didn’t react—the gurney’s still-spinning wheels consumed their attention. We hurried toward the doors, sparing periodic backwards glances to make sure we weren’t being followed.

When we reached the doors, Dr. Murphy placed her fire extinguisher under her arm and tried the left handle. The door rattled in place. She let out a faint curse and lowered her hands.

“It’s locked,” she whispered. “Either that or something’s blocking it.”

“Now what?” I said.

She pulled a keycard from her pocket. “I can override the lock, but it’s going to be loud. Prepare to run.”

She approached the keypad before I had the opportunity to object and scanned the card. The keypad beeped. The door then slid open, revealing a barren hallway.

Hurried footsteps erupted behind us.

“Run!”

We sprinted into the hallway, fire extinguishers billowing by our sides. My lungs started burning within seconds. Given that I had been confined to a single room for months, my stamina was half of what it used to be. It was a miracle that I had survived the melee in the operating room. Now that my adrenaline had worn off, I doubted that I would be so fortunate again.

I followed Dr. Murphy through endless twists and turns. That she could find her way through the shadow-covered facility boggled my mind—I lost track of our path within moments of exiting the foyer. The heavy footsteps thundering behind us shattered my focus. No matter how fast we ran, the corpses lessened the distance between us every few seconds. They would close the gap at any moment, hands grasping at our throats.

“Faster!” she said. “We’re almost there!”

I increased my pace, wheezing like an asthmatic child. But my efforts only delayed the inevitable. A few moments later gloved fingers grasped my shoulders, sending me careening toward the ground.

Dr. Murphy slammed her fire extinguisher into my attacker’s head. The force of the blow shattered its skull and sent shards of bone jutting through its hazmat suit. It reeled toward the wall, limbs twitching, before crashing to the floor. 

“Come on!” she said.

She dragged me down the hall. The other corpse followed us with renewed intensity. Witnessing the death of its companion enraged it; guttural screams poured from its throat with ear-splitting volume.

My lungs burned as if each breath filled them with caustic embers. Without Dr. Murphy’s support, running would’ve been impossible.

“We’re not going to make it,” I said, voice hoarse. “Something’s wrong.”

The closer we got to the cafeteria, the more fatigued I felt. It was as if there was something in the air draining my energy.

“I can feel it too. Just keep going.”

We stumbled through the hall, obstructing our path with gurneys and discarded medical equipment. The stench of death filled the air, overpowering the scent of bleach that permeated the facility.

“The cafeteria is at the end of the next hall,” said Dr. Murphy. The frenzied cries of our pursuer made it difficult to hear her. “Hopefully someone there can help us.”

I tried to respond, but fatigue prevented me from forming words. All I could do was nod my head and focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

We rounded the corner, then skidded to a halt. Dozens of corpses lined the hall in front of us.

“Look out!” said Dr. Murphy.

She tried to lead us into an empty room to our right, but the attempt came too late: the corpses reached us before we took more than a few steps. Gnarled hands slammed into my face, silencing my screams. Three sets of arms lifted me into the air.

Dr. Murphy lay crumpled on the ground to my right. She screamed as several corpses dug their teeth into her flesh.

“Get off of her!” I yelled. I swung my fire extinguisher wildly around my head, striking everyone I could, but the corpses continued dragging me deeper into the hallway.

Why aren’t they killing me? I thought.

A pair of double doors loomed through the darkness. The corpses whisked me toward this door, hands crushing my limbs.

Eventually the force of their squeezing became too much for me to bear, and I lost consciousness. Dr. Murphy’s screams followed me into the blackness.

I awoke on the cafeteria floor. Corpses surrounded me. I darted my eyes around the room, trying desperately to find an avenue for escape, but all I could see was shuffling legs and melted hazmat suits.

The corpses in front of me parted, revealing a tangled, black mass clinging to the wall. This mass possessed the same shade as the growth on my arm and periodically released yellow spores into the air. These spores drifted around the room as if they were self-propelled.

My hand tingled. The mass felt a part of me somehow, like a phantom limb or a sixth sense.

Two sets of hands grabbed my arms, pulling me to my feet. They then started dragging me across the floor toward the mass.

“Let go of me!” I said.

The mass shifted on the wall; I felt like I was staring at my shadow. The corpses pushed me forward. I struck the rancid substance face-first. It covered me from head to foot, dissolving my clothes in an instant.

An intense coldness filled my head, silencing my thoughts. The mass then expanded through my consciousness, projecting a single word like a siren’s call.

Mate.

3

THE BICYCLE

My first blackout occurred at the park behind my house. The aroma of copper flooded my nose, followed by cranial pressure so intense I feared my brain might spurt through my ears. 

I grabbed the fence beside the sidewalk. My dog, Bones, pawed at my leg, watery eyes wide and panic-filled. I reached down to pat his head, but the world went dark before my fingers passed my hip. 

Time stretched to infinite nothingness as I wallowed in an endless void.

The image of a bike, red with a white basket and muddy tires, erupted through the blackness. A hand burst into existence on its leather seat, fingers stretching toward me, casting deep shadows along the handlebars. 

I awoke to the sun on my face and the rough texture of concrete digging into my arms. Bones stood on my chest, barking in my face. His tail flapped spasmodically on my stomach, revealing the panic coursing through his tiny body. 

"Are you alright?" 

A woman's voice sounded to my left. Her shrill words sliced through the air in staccato bursts.

"I'm fine, thank you," I said. I lowered Bones to the sidewalk and pushed myself to my feet. 

"Are you sure? It looks like your head is bleeding."

I ran my fingers across the back of my head. Blood stained my fingers.

"I'll be alright. I must've scraped my head on the sidewalk while I was playing with my dog." 

I hurried in the opposite direction before the woman had a chance to respond. The last thing I wanted to do was converse with a stranger. 

The vision of the bike, and the hand upon its seat, haunted my every step. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get the image out of my mind. It lingered at the edges of my consciousness, flickering like a reel of film.

I had never experienced a blackout before. One moment I had been standing on the sidewalk, walking Bones like I always did after work, and the next, I was face-down in the dirt, enduring the most frightening moment of my life. 

I had only blacked out for a few minutes, right? 

I glanced toward the horizon. The sun hovered directly over the tree line, betraying the fast approaching dusk. 

I pulled out my phone and checked the time. When I saw that two hours had passed since I had entered the park, my heart leaped.

I experienced my second blackout while getting ready for bed later that night.

The red bike materialized in front of me, severed hand still on its seat. 

The hand sickened me. It looked unnatural, a forgotten relic of an ancient, evil time.

Another hand burst into existence on the leather seat. Shards of bone jutted from its palm. The rancid scent of death trailed from its fingers. 

Both hands jolted forward as if struck by lightning. A deafening tearing consumed the air, rocking me backward. But no matter how deep into the abyss I fell, the bike remained in the forefront of my vision, never fading, never shifting. 

I came to on the cold tiles of my bathroom floor. Sweat poured down my shoulders in streams, and goosebumps covered my flesh. 

Terror at what I had just experienced rooted me to the ground. Never in my thirty-four years had I witnessed such frightening visions. Why now? I needed to get to the bottom of my blackouts. For all I knew, one might occur while I drove to work the following day, sending me spinning into oncoming traffic.

I vowed to visit the doctor first thing in the morning.

"Everything looks normal," said the doctor, eyes scanning my charts. "Your tests all came back clean." 

"What's causing the blackouts then?" I said. 

"Stress and lack of sleep most likely. Such episodes are rare but can be triggered by exhaustion. I suggest taking a week off from work and looking after yourself. If the blackouts continue after that, please give me a call." 

He exited the room without a backward glance.

I left his office feeling worse than when I had arrived. My mind scrambled for an answer to my blackouts. That my tests didn't raise any alarms only worsened my dread. 

There had to be something wrong with me. Lack of sleep couldn't explain such bizarre episodes.

But then again, maybe the doctor was right. I hadn't been sleeping well lately. Every time my head hit the pillow, I tossed and turned until sunrise, desperate to quiet my raging mind.

Perhaps by getting some rest, I could move past such a traumatic week.

I experienced another blackout later that night while watching a movie in my living room.

The red bike erupted through the darkness, this time close enough for me to touch.

A torso sat on the leather seat. Bloated arms dangled from its lifeless shoulders. The pulpy stumps replacing its legs and head reeked of death. 

Deep vibrations, low and guttural, rippled through the darkness. The torso climbed from the bike and slithered toward me, hands outstretched. 

I awoke gasping on the living room floor. 

The torso’s blood-streaked fingernails fluttered before my waking eyes as if they were tattooed to my corneas. 

Stomach turning, I pushed myself to my feet. There had to be somebody who could explain my blackouts. 

I just needed to find them. 

I parked in front of Carter's house and killed the engine. He had agreed to meet with me despite the late hour. 

He opened his front door the moment I stepped out of my car. "You got here quickly," he said. "Come inside. I made some coffee." 

I crossed the lawn and followed him into his kitchen. The warm scent of fresh coffee filled the air. 

He poured a cup and handed it to me. "What's going on?" he said. "You sounded pretty freaked out over the phone." 

I took a long swallow, trying to collect my thoughts. "Thanks for letting me come over at such short notice," I said. "I know you have to wake up early for work tomorrow." 

"You know me," he said, filling himself a cup. "I rarely go to bed before midnight anyways." 

I spent the next several minutes explaining the events of the past two days. From the blackouts, to the visions, to my trip to the doctor—I left no detail unsaid. 

By the time I finished, my coffee had cooled. 

He stared at the floor, deep in thought. His face betrayed no emotion; whether he believed me or not was impossible to tell. 

"Sounds like quite a trip," he finally said. 

I opened my mouth to respond but shut it a few moments later, unsure of what to say. Although I didn't have a plan when I contacted him, I had hoped that he would at least comfort me. That he wasn't only increased my sense of isolation. 

"What should I do?" I said. 

"I don't know.” He glanced at his empty coffee cup. "It's been a long time since we've seen each other, Allison. I just didn't expect this is all." 

My cheeks reddened. "If you want me to leave, I'll leave. I should've considered how me showing up like this might make you feel. I'm just frightened. I didn't know where else to go." 

His face softened. "I understand. I don't blame you for being worried about these blackouts. I would be scared too if I was in your place. But the doctor didn't seem concerned, so that's a good sign. If there were something wrong with you, the tests would've found it."

"You would think so, but what if the doctor wasn't thorough enough? The blackout I just woke from was significantly worse than the last two. That can't be a good sign."

"Stressing about it is only going to make it worse. You need to take better care of yourself. One look at you and it's obvious that you aren't eating or sleeping well. You're paler than a ghost. I'm sure these episodes will pass the moment you get a good night's sleep." 

A pit of anger formed in my chest. I refused to believe that my blackouts stemmed from something as simple as lack of sleep. Millions of people suffered from sleep deprivation, but how many of them experienced blackouts as a result? The connection was ludicrous. 

So why did everyone keep telling me the same thing? 

I inhaled a deep breath, forcing my anger through my nose. Lashing out at him would get me nowhere—especially after him seeing me on such short notice. 

"That doctor barely gave me the time of day," I said, trying my best to keep my voice calm. "But I suppose catching up on my sleep is a good idea." 

"You're welcome to spend the night here if you want." 

"That's nice of you to offer, but I better start home." I turned and headed for the door. 

"Wait.” He placed down his coffee cup and rushed to my side. "You just got here. Are you sure you don't want to stay? We can listen to music or something. Anything to help you relax." 

His eyes gleamed as he spoke, making his face look sunken and desperate. 

Coming here was a bad idea; I should've known that seeing me would open old wounds. 

"Thanks, but I think I would rather go home and take a bath. The warm water always clears my head." 

"You can use mine." 

I took another step toward the door. He watched me as I moved, eyes tracing my steps through the darkness.

"It's fine," I said. "Thanks for the coffee." 

I hurried through the door before he had a chance to respond. Luckily, he didn't follow me outside.

Heart racing, I crossed the lawn and lowered myself into my car.

How could I place myself in such an uncomfortable situation? My relationship with Carter was untenable; showing up at his house brought me nothing but pain.

I had no other choice but to endure my blackouts alone.

I turned on my headlights and backed out of the driveway. Just as I was about to turn onto the road, I noticed a glimmer of light on the side of his house.

I turned on my high beams.

A red bike—the same one from my blackouts—was leaning against the bricks. 

I sped home in a panicked stupor. Mind burning with questions, I threw my car into my garage and hurried into my bedroom.

The bike had to be a coincidence. Thousands of bikes matched the style of the one in my visions; it wasn't exactly unique. Carter was an avid outdoorsman. He had probably purchased it at one of the pawn shops just outside of town.

But no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that the bikes weren't the same, I failed to believe this fantasy. The vividness of their colors cemented their match.

If he owned the same bike, then he must be connected to my blackouts. 

But how?

I struggled to come up with an answer. I hadn't seen him in over a month—not since our relationship ended.

Our breakup had been messy. Carter loved me; he had planned on marrying me. And although I felt strongly about him too, his controlling behavior drove me away.

Suffice it to say, he didn't take our breakup well.

Which was why visiting him had been such a bad idea. Seeing me again—and in such a vulnerable state—gave him hope that he had been right all along, that we were soulmates destined at birth to spend our lives entwined in each other's arms.

That's how he spoke, too: always in hyperbolic terms. At first, such talk flattered me, but as the months wore on, I began to see through his chivalric facade for what he really was: a possessive, broken man.

I paused beside my bed, mind turning.

I had seen the bike before.

He had bought it for me as a present and planned on giving it to me the day we broke up. Memories of that evening burst into my mind. I saw him wheel the bike out of his bedroom, smiling as he unfurled the kickstand and propped it against the fireplace.

"I couldn't resist picking this up," he said. "I know how badly you've been wanting a bike. Isn't it beautiful? Now we can ride by the lake anytime we want."

I faked a smile, barely glancing at the bike. My focus rested entirely on the conversation I was about to initiate and which I had stayed up half the previous night rehearsing.

But even with the words burning on my tongue, opening my mouth required monumental effort.

“There is something that I want to talk to you about."

The seriousness of my tone caught his attention. He released the handlebars and sat down across from me on the couch.

"What's up?" he said.

"I'm breaking up with you."

Once the words were said—those life-altering words not easily taken back—the floodgates opened.

The next hour passed in a blur.

His initial reaction was confusion. My desire to end things blindsided him; he declared that he had done nothing wrong. Why would I want to leave him? Wasn't our relationship the best I had ever had?

I deflected these questions as skillfully as I could. But no matter how hard I tried to put him down easily, his confusion morphed into anger.

First, he berated me. Then he outlined all of my flaws. He told me that I was lucky to have him; that I would never find anybody else willing to tolerate my personality.

The rage in his voice conjured painful memories of the past few months—memories that I was desperately trying to distance myself from.

Even in the end, he tried to control me. And when I didn't let him, his anger only intensified.

I left his house abruptly. That I had lingered for so long was a mistake; I should've left the moment I expressed my decision.

Other than a brief glance as I stormed out of the house, I never saw—nor thought about—the bike again.

And yet there it now was, tormenting me daily.

No, the bike was not a coincidence.

The pungent odor of copper filled my nose. I reeled toward my bed, desperate to prevent the blackout from materializing.

The closing of a car door tore through the night. I glanced out the window just in time to see Carter walking across my driveway, the red bicycle tucked under his arms.

He entered my room moments later—just as my knees buckled and I plummeted to the floor.

"You poor thing," he said, placing the bike by the door. He then kneeled beside me and put my head in his lap. "Our relationship didn't have to go this way. You're responsible for this. Not me."

His shadow-covered face became my world. Limbs too weak to move, I had no choice but to stare into his twisted eyes. "You're a monster," I said. "I hate you."

"You don't hate me. We are meant to be together. You can never hate me."

He ran his fingers through my hair, sending shivers rippling across my spine. His stale breath crashed into my upturned nose.

My vision flickered. At any moment, my consciousness would burst, careening me into the void destined to swallow me whole.

"What have you done to me?" I said, voice weak.

"I'm reclaiming our love," he said. "I'm taking back what's rightfully mine."

"What about the bike? Why do I keep seeing it?"

"The bike is a conduit."

"A conduit for what?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he placed his frigid hands upon my temples.

"Try and relax," he said. "This will all be over soon."

The pressure mounting behind my eyes tripled.

I attempted to raise my arms, to push him away and bolt from the room, but no matter how hard I tried to stir my shoulders, they remained lifeless beside my head.

"Try not to struggle," he said. "Resisting will only bring you pain."

A booming rumble filled my ears.

Then the world went dark.

The bike erupted into existence beside me. It did so violently as if the void had torn, spilling out its rigid frame.

A headless corpse stood beside it.

Carter's voice tore through the void. Deep within the recesses of my mind, I could still feel his hands upon my head.

"Isn't she beautiful?" he said. "It took me many months to learn how to conjure her."

The corpse trembled under his words.

"Soon she will take your place—will love me as you refuse to do."

Red light saturated the void. The corpse shuffled toward me.

"Consume her," echoed Carter's voice, "and take her place by my side."

The corpse reached out its hands.

An overwhelming substance, alien and evil, infiltrated my consciousness. I battled it for as long as I could, but eventually, my strength failed, taking with it my entire being.

A deafening tearing filled the air.

My sight returned.

Standing in front of me was a carbon copy of myself.

"Join me," said Carter, voice trembling. "God knows how long I've waited for this moment."

A slash appeared in the void, revealing my bedroom.

Carter sat on my bed, smiling. I looked to the floor by his feet.

My body had vanished.

The corpse stepped onto the carpet and wrapped Carter in a tender embrace. He kissed her and then glanced at me—at whatever I had become.

"I have no more use for you," he said. "You have been replaced."

The tear in the void closed.

4

THE REQUEST

If you’re older than twenty-five and shorter than six-foot-one, please message me back. You’ve got the perfect face for the service I’m seeking. I promise I will pay you well.

The light of my computer monitor pulsed through the darkness. I re-read the message flickering in the center of my screen for the dozenth time before lowering my fingers to the keyboard.

What can I help you with?

I’m hesitant to tell you. I don’t want you to think that I’m playing around. 

Why would I think you’re playing around? 

My request is an odd one. I’m confident nobody has ever asked you to do what I have in mind. 

You would be surprised. I’ve received all sorts of requests. 

Not like this one. 

Are you going to tell me what you’re looking for or not? My inbox is full. I don’t have time to mess around.

Minutes passed. Periodically, three dots appeared in the chat box as the sender typed. But then these dots would vanish, leaving me staring at a blank screen. Just as I was about to power off my computer and go to bed, I received a response.

I want you to drive a knife through my heart. 

Sure you do, buddy. Stop wasting my time. Please don’t message me again. 

I turned off my monitor and crawled into bed. Within minutes of my head hitting the pillow, the conversation became a distant memory. 

I awoke to find another message from the sender waiting in my inbox. 

I apologize for last night. I should’ve talked money before springing my request on you. I don’t blame you for reacting the way you did. I would’ve reacted the same way had our places been reversed. 

Every fiber of my being told me to block the bastard. But my fingers inched toward the keyboard on their own accord. 

I seriously doubt that. 

Are you ready to talk money? 

As I said, I don’t have time for this. Please leave me alone. 

What will it take for me to convince you that I’m serious? 

Message me again, and I will block you. 

You’re being unreasonable. 

I hovered over the sender’s Fiverr profile, hand trembling, and blocked him. 

The following day I awoke to find an envelope at the foot of my bed. Heart racing, I tore it open, revealing a blood-covered photo of me sleeping.

I stumbled into my computer. My elbow struck the mouse, powering on the monitor. Shining in the center of the screen was another message from the sender, this time from a different profile. 

Are you ready to take me seriously now? 

I sat down at my computer, head pounding with rage. 

I told you to leave me alone, asshole. 

He responded immediately.

Thank you for leaving your window unlocked. You’re even more beautiful in person. That’s rare these days. I’m prepared to offer you a lot of money if you accept my request. 

You can take your money and go to Hell. I’m not interested. 

Refusing is a mistake. I’m a reasonable person–I promise. I will make it worth your while. Nobody will know you did it, either. I will make it look like an accident. 

The man was insane. Responding to him was a mistake. Giving in to my anger would get me nowhere—it would only increase his fixation. 

I rose from my chair and closed the window beside my bed. I then triple-checked the lock, tugging against the frame with all of my strength. 

Let’s see that bastard get in now, I thought. 

My phone vibrated on the nightstand. I crossed the room, picked it up, and then scanned the text rolling across the screen. 

Please don’t ignore me. I hate being ignored. 

My phone tumbled from my hand. How had he found my number?Unless he had hacked into my Fiverr profile, there was no way that he would have access to my contact information. 

You leave your phone on your nightstand, I thought. 

The bastard must’ve checked my phone. My lock password was embarrassingly simple—one look at the fingerprints on my screen and anyone could figure it out in seconds.  

What about the rest of your personal information? He had access to it all. 

I closed my eyes as a wave of dread slammed into my chest. My head grew light, forcing me to sit on the bed. 

I needed to call the police. I was in way over my head; I should’ve called the moment I found the envelope by my bed.

I dialed 911 with trembling fingers. 

An officer arrived ten minutes later. She inspected every inch of my apartment, but other than the photograph, she found nothing suspicious. 

“Do you have anywhere else you can stay tonight?” she said. I could tell that she wished she could do more for me. But other than the messages the man had sent me, she had nothing to investigate.

“I can stay at Bailey’s house,” I said. “She’s my sister. She lives in Wylie, so the drive’s not too bad.”

“Good. I recommend that you call her. I don’t want you staying here tonight. I will tell the leasing office what’s going on. If we’re lucky, they might even have security cameras. I didn’t see any while walking up here, but you never know.”

“I will. Thank you. Hopefully, this was just an isolated incident.” 

“Hopefully.” She rose from her chair. “Remember, don’t respond to any more messages from this man. Giving him attention will only make matters worse. Changing your passwords and phone number would be a good idea too.”

“Of course.”

She walked to the door. “I wish I could do more. Regardless, please call again if anything even remotely suspicious happens.”

“Absolutely. Thank you for your help.”

“That son of a bitch,” said Bailey, voice raised. “You’re telling me that he broke into your apartment?” 

“Yes,” I said. “He climbed through the window beside my bed.” 

She shook her head. Her eyes glazed over—lost in a flood of disgust. “The police should’ve done more for you. This guy should be behind bars.” 

“They need more evidence to secure a conviction. The cops aren’t going to go all CSI on a minor break-in.” 

“I understand that, but what if he comes back?”

“Then I’ll call the police again. If they catch him in the act, then he’s going to jail.” 

“That’s if they arrive before he harms you. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just worried. I don’t like that you live alone. That makes you the perfect target for pricks like this.”

“You live alone too.”

“I’m your big sister. I’m allowed to live alone.” 

“Sure you are.” 

We awoke the next morning to find a note taped to the fridge. 

Keep the police out of this. Let’s not blow things out of proportion. Respond to my text.

Seeing this note sent Bailey flying off the handlebars. She started pacing around the kitchen and smoking cigarettes, a habit I thought she had quit. 

“What the fuck is wrong with this guy?” she said. Smoke drifted through her lips as she talked. “How did he find you here?”

“He broke into my phone,” I said. “He probably took screenshots of my address book. Either that or he followed me here.” 

“Goddammit. I’m getting the police out here.” 

She pulled out her phone and made the call. 

But just like yesterday, there wasn’t much the police could do.  

“This is getting out of hand,” said Bailey, face pale. She lit another cigarette and jammed it between her teeth. 

I sat on the living room couch, eyes closed, heart pounding. 

Out of the billions of people this guy could’ve contacted, why had he chosen me? 

There’s something about you that he’s attracted to, I thought. It doesn’t matter what it is. All that matters is that he’s not going away anytime soon.  

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and read the text glowing on my lock screen. 

Calling the police was a mistake. I warned you. 

I read the message twice, and then I showed it to Bailey. 

“That bastard,” she said. “I’ll teach him to mess with my little sister.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

She didn’t respond. Instead, she disappeared into her room. When she returned a few moments later, she had a pistol in her hand. 

“When did you get that?” I said. 

“A few months ago.” She chambered a bullet. “Let’s see that asshole break in now.” 

Night fell, bringing with it unrelenting wind that berated the sides of the house. 

I sat on the bed in the guest room, staring out the window, dreading the sleepless night ahead. 

Bailey peeked her head through the door. “How are you doing?” she said. She was still fully clothed—prepped for the all-nighter she was about to pull. The pistol hung from a holster on her hip. 

I kept my eyes on the window. “I’m doing fine,” I said. “Given the circumstances at least.” 

“You know I won’t let anything happen to you, right? I’ll be sitting in the living room all night. If that prick tries to pull any more stunts, I’ll shoot him between the eyes.” 

Hearing her talk so aggressively typically would’ve made me laugh. But after last night’s break-in, laughing was the last thing on my mind. 

“I can’t thank you enough for letting me stay here,” I said. “I don’t think I can handle being alone right now.” 

“You don’t have to thank me. It’s the least I can do. Now try and get some sleep. You look exhausted. I’ll handle the rest.”

I fell asleep after hours of tossing and turning. Although my mind demanded I stay awake, my body succumbed to exhaustion. I had slept nine hours in the past two days—I needed sleep, whether I wanted it or not. 

I awoke to the sun on my face. For a few moments, the break-ins became forgotten memories—horrible events that had happened to a different girl at a different time. 

I forced myself from the bed and donned a pair of jeans. I then exited the room and walked into the hall.

“Bailey?” I called. My voice echoed through the house in haunting pulses. “Are you awake?” 

When I received no response, I walked into the living room. 

I found her on the couch, throat slit from ear to ear. Congealed blood covered her skin in blackened patches. Her mouth hung open in a silent scream. 

I collapsed to my knees, tears welling in my eyes. My vision grew blurry as I started hyperventilating. 

You never should’ve stayed here a second night, I thought. Her blood is on your hands. 

I crawled toward her and placed my head in her lap. Her skin felt frigid as if she had been dead for days instead of a few hours. 

You can’t just sit here wailing like a child. You need to take action. Call the police, leave the house, anything. 

I inhaled a deep breath, trying my best to calm my galloping heart. I then grabbed the pistol from her holster. The handle’s textured rubber dug into my palm, grounding me in the present. 

I forced myself to my feet. Ears ringing, I stumbled back into the hallway. I needed to get my phone. For all I knew, the man was still in the house. My life depended upon me calling the police as soon as possible. 

As I passed the kitchen, I noticed a note taped to the fridge. The message was on the same paper as the previous morning and written in the same sprawling cursive. 

Legs trembling, I stumbled into the kitchen and tore the note from the handle. 

What do I need to do for you to take me seriously? Don’t call the police, and don’t leave the house. Call me immediately. My number is on the back of this paper.

Your sister looks a lot like you, by the way. If her hair was a different shade, I might’ve asked her to fulfill my request… 

The note slid from my fingers. My thoughts scrambled—I could hardly tell up from down. 

I leaned down and grabbed the note from the floor. I stared at the number on its back, heart pounding. 

Calling him is a mistake, I thought. 

But what other choice did I have? If I went to my parent’s house, then he would follow me there. 

Place yourself under police protection. 

Doing so would protect me, yes, but what if he targeted my loved ones while I was away? Losing Bailey was painful enough—I couldn’t handle losing anyone else.  

The kitchen walls started spinning. I placed my hands on the counter as a burning pit formed in my stomach. I felt as if at any moment I might blackout. 

I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed the number. I tightened my grip on the pistol as it rang. 

A man’s voice greeted me on the second ring. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” I said. 

“I know. I’ve been waiting for your call.” 

The attic door swung open in the hall A few moments later, heavy footsteps sounded on the ladder. 

I dropped the phone and raised the pistol. 

A man stepped into the living room, hands raised. “Don’t shoot,” he said. 

His black hair stretched below his shoulders, and his skin was paler than ivory. 

His sudden appearance turned my blood to acid. The pistol in my hand felt as if it had gained fifty pounds, causing my fingers to tremble. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “Please, lower the—”

I pulled the trigger. A bullet struck him square in the sternum, sending him stumbling toward the fireplace. “You asshole!” I screamed. I emptied the magazine into his stomach. By the time I finished firing, my ears were ringing, and sweat poured down my back. 

I dropped the pistol and hurried toward the hallway. The walls spun around me as if I had just downed an entire bottle of whiskey. 

The man rose to his feet. 

Although riddled with bullet holes, his suit was devoid of blood. It was as if his skin had absorbed his wounds; he appeared to be injury-free. 

He flashed me an annoyed look. “That wasn’t necessary,” he said, brushing off his pants. “That fucking hurt.” 

He crossed the room and slammed me to the ground. Stars filled my eyes. I grabbed his arms, trying to force him off of me, but his muscles were like steel.

“I’m done playing games with you,” he said, mouth inches from my ear. “You’re making this more difficult than it has to be. I’m a patient man, but my patience only stretches so far.” He tightened his grip. “If I release my hand, are you going to remain calm?” 

I nodded my head. 

He released me. I gulped down air, lungs burning. He stared at me silently for a few moments, waiting to see if I would resume struggling, then rose to his feet. “Can you stand?” 

“Yes,” I said, voice hoarse. I pushed myself to my feet. 

An eerie silence filled the house. He continued staring at me, brown eyes sucking the light drifting in from the windows. 

“What do you want?” I said. “Why are you doing this to me?” 

For a long time, he didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up the pistol and examined it as if it were an alien object. “Weapons are peculiar things,” he said. “Killing is a simple act. Why make it so complicated?” He glanced at Bailey. “I’m sorry about your sister. She was getting in the way. Surely you understand.” 

His accent grated on my ears. It sounded European, but I struggled to pinpoint the country. 

Why do you care where he’s from? I thought. You need to flee the house before he makes you the headline of tomorrow’s paper. 

“Why haven’t you killed me?” I said. 

“I desire a service, and you are my top candidate to perform it.”  

“What service?”

“I already told you. I want you to drive a knife through my heart.” 

He’s messing with you. Stop talking and run. 

He pulled a knife from his pocket and placed it on the counter. “This is what you will use,” he said. 

“What if I refuse?” I said. 

“Then I will kill you.” 

He will kill you regardless of what you do. 

“I don’t understand. Why do you want me to stab you?”

He was quiet for a long time, staring at the blade between us. “I’ve been alive for a long time,” he said. “This is how I’ve chosen to end things.” 

“Why don’t you just do it yourself?”

“I’ve tried. Many times. My hands refuse to complete the task.” He nodded his head at the pistol on the ground. “As you’ve seen, I’m a unique individual. Killing me isn’t easy. I’m not even sure it’s possible.” 

“If bullets can’t kill you, then how would that little knife?” 

“I have a theory. That knife is pure silver. I doubt that even my affliction can protect me from it.”

“What are you?” 

“An anomaly.”

“You’re fucking crazy.” 

“What does it matter what I am? I will be dead soon. That is if you do your part.” 

“Why me?”

“You look just like my wife. If I were to let anyone end my life, it would be her. Unfortunately, she died many years ago. I long to be by her side once more. Thank god I found you—I’ve been searching for a match for years.” 

“What if I refuse? I’m no murderer, regardless of how much you deserve to die.” 

“If you refuse, then I will haunt you for the remainder of your life. Suffering will be your undying companion, but death will not take you. Not until I let it.” 

His words crashed into me as if they were a physical force. The knife glinted on the counter. I stared at it, hands trembling. 

“You are considering my request,” he said. “That is good. All you have to do is stab me, and I will be out of your life forever. I will give you all of the money to my name, which is quite a substantial sum, as payment.”

“What about the police?” 

“Do not worry about them. Tell them you acted in self-defense. Your sister’s corpse corroborates your story.” 

“Don’t you dare talk about my sister.”

“Fair enough.”

“Hand me the knife.” 

He complied. 

The knife was heavier than it looked. The handle was smooth and cool to the touch. 

“Don’t hold back,” he said. “If you do, then we will keep trying until you don’t.” He unbuttoned his shirt, laid down on the couch, and closed his eyes. “I’m ready.”

I approached him on unsteady feet, pausing beside his chest. 

“Don’t be afraid. My time has come.” 

I tightened my grip on the knife. After taking a moment to steady my hand, I drove the blade into his sternum.

His eyes flew open as if I had doused him with cold water. “I can see her!” he yelled. “She is calling my name!” His eyes then closed, never to open again.

5

THE TRUCK STOP

The moon towered over the road, bathing the concrete with lunar light. 

I slammed my foot on the gas pedal. My engine lurched as the speedometer reeled into the triple digits, shaking the windows and vibrating the seats. 

“Slow down, Jason,” said my wife, Denise. “You’re going to get us killed.” 

I eased my foot off the gas, the ghost of a smile upon my lips. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t help it. It’s not often I get an entire highway to myself. I haven’t driven down this interstate since my father’s funeral.” 

“Wow. It’s been that long?”

“It has.”

I rolled down my window. Cool air flooded the cabin, bringing with it the intoxicating scent of early spring. 

She wrapped her hand around mine. “How much longer until we get to Texas?” 

“We’ll be lucky to get there before morning. You should get some sleep.” 

“If you’re staying up, then I am too. I made a promise. And besides, I can’t stop thinking about how stunning our cabin was. Who would’ve thought Montana was so beautiful?”

“Everyone but you, I suppose.” 

“Hey.”

We spent the next half hour driving in silence. The serenity of the countryside demanded our undivided attention. 

Denise fell asleep just as the moon reached its zenith in the sky. Hand still pressed against mine, her head rolled into the corner between her seat and the window.

“So much for staying up all night,” I said under my breath.

Now that she was asleep, nothing could stop me from resuming my flight down the interstate. We had gotten a late start; I vowed to make up for lost time. So I pressed my foot harder on the gas pedal, smiling as the speedometer climbed.

The car flew down the road. Signs and mile markers bled past my windshield at a nauseating pace. 

The road cut to the right. I slammed the brakes, but the car smashed into the guardrail before I had time to turn. 

Glass shattered. Metal crumbled. The engine stalled, sending the car flipping over the guardrail. 

Next thing I knew we were lying upside down in a ditch, headlights flickering. 

Numbness consumed my limbs. Shock clouded my mind. My seatbelt pressed against my waist with such force I could hardly breathe. 

But I was alive. 

Denise shifted next to me. I tried to turn and face her, but my seatbelt pinned me to my seat. The best I could do was crane my neck in her direction. 

“Are you alright?” I said, voice weak and panic-laced. 

“My arm is broken,” she said. Her voice sounded far away. “I can’t move.”

“Hang on.”

I fumbled through the darkness for my seatbelt release. When I found it, I jammed my thumb on the red button, sending my head slamming into the roof of the car. Stars filled my eyes, but I hardly noticed them. Freeing Denise was all that mattered. 

I forced open the door. Glass rained from the shattered window. Heart racing, I crawled out of the car.

“Hurry!” she said. “I can barely breathe.” 

I sprinted around the ruined hood and paused beside the passenger’s seat. 

“I’m here,” I said. “You’re going to be fine.”

I grabbed the crumpled handle and pried open the door. The metal frame screeched as it dragged across the pavement. After taking a moment to clear away the fallen glass, I peered inside the car. 

Denise sat upside down in her seat, left arm clutched against her chest. A bone jutted from her wrist.

“Try not to move,” I said. “I’m going to get you out of there.” 

I crawled inside the cabin, careful not to bump her arm. I then unbuckled her seatbelt eased her onto the road. 

“What happened?” she said, voice shaking. 

“I came upon a turn too fast and hit the guardrail,” I said. 

Her face grew pale. She walked over to the nearby hill and sat down in the grass, supporting her arm with her knee. “Were you speeding?” 

“I was.”

“You always are.”

A heavy silence descended between us, broken only by the howling of the wind through the trees. 

“Let me see your arm,” I said. I walked over to the hill and sat beside her.  

“Don’t touch it,” she said. 

I surveyed her wrist, trying my best not to let my fear consume my face. “We need to get you to a hospital. You’re losing a lot of blood.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and pressed the home screen. “Damn. My phone is dead. Can I see yours?”

“It’s still in the car.” 

I hurried over to the car and looked through the passenger side window. When I saw the shattered remains of her phone wedged beneath the door, my heart fell. 

“Did you find it?”

“Yes. It’s broken. I’m sorry.” 

“What are we going to do then? No cars have driven by. I’ve been watching.”

“First, I’m going to splint your arm.”

“Do you know how?”

“Yes. My Health teacher taught me during my freshman year of high school. It’s the only thing I remember from that class.”

“Lucky me.”

“There’s a first-aid kit in the trunk. Or at least there was. I’m going to check.” 

I returned to the car. Fortunately, the trunk had just enough clearance for me to pry it open and stick my hand inside. After a few moments of groping through the darkness, I found the first-aid kit and yanked it free. 

“I found it,” I said.

“Good. Please hurry. It hurts.” 

Sweat poured down my brow as I splinted her arm. By the time I finished, she had grown calmer. “It still hurts,” she said, “but not as bad. Thank you.” 

“I’m so sorry for this. My reckless driving put your life in danger. I’m ashamed of myself.” 

“Let’s focus on getting out of here. Now’s not the time to beat yourself up. There will be plenty of time for that when we get home.” 

“I know that tone. You’re going to kick my ass later. And I don’t blame you. I deserve it.” 

“You do deserve it. And I’m going to be kicking more than your ass. Now help me up.” 

I eased her to her feet. 

“Are you able to walk?”

“I feel lightheaded, but I think I can manage a mile or so.” 

“Walking’s our best bet. We’re bound to come upon a gas station or a diner sooner rather than later. Then we can call an ambulance.” 

“How about an Uber? I’m not trying to go bankrupt over my stupid wrist.”

“Fair enough. We’ll only call an ambulance if we absolutely have to.” 

We set out on the interstate. After a few minutes of walking, we approached the Iowa-Missouri border. 

“I didn’t know we were so close to the border,” I said. “I was driving even faster than I thought.”

A woman’s voice sounded behind us. “Are the both of you alright?” she said. 

“No,” I said, turning in her direction. “We were just in a car accident. Can you help us?” 

“You poor things. I though that’s what I heard. Thank goodness I found you.”

“I’m glad you found us too. Do you have a phone?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t. I never bring it with me while I’m walking. However, there’s a rest stop nearby. If you follow me there, I’m sure there’s a phone.” 

“Of course. Lead the way.” 

The rest stop burst through the trees. A lengthy parking lot flanked the restrooms. Beyond that, trees stretched for as far as I could see. 

“My dad hated this place,” I said. 

“Did you grow up in the area?” said the woman.

“I did. He refused to stop here.”

“Why’s that?” said Denise. 

“I’m not sure.” 

We paused near the entrance.

“The lights are still on,” said Denise. “I can see them glowing through the windows. Hopefully someone is on duty.”

The woman stared inside. “I don’t see anyone,” she said.

“Try the door,” I said. 

She pulled on the handle, but the door remained shut. “It’s locked.” 

“The welcome center must be closed. Let’s check the restrooms. There might be a janitor or something.” 

We approached the restrooms nestled along the right side of the building. 

Darkness pulsed through both the male and female entrances, dousing the water fountain that resided between them with shadows. 

“Hello?” I said.   

I walked inside the men’s room and turned on the light. Harsh yellow overheads whirled to life, casting a sickening glow over the concrete floor.

“It’s empty,” I said. “Check the women’s room.” 

The woman disappeared into the shadows. She returned a few moments later, shaking her head. “It’s empty too.” 

“I don’t understand. Someone has to be here.”

I glanced toward the parking lot. It was entirely barren. Even the side lot, which at any other rest stop might contain a handful of sleeping truckers, harbored nothing but dust. 

“Someone’s coming,” said Denise. She pointed toward a narrow dirt road that cut through the trees behind the welcome center. 

Headlights, bright and white, radiated through the leaves. A few moments later, a semi came roaring into the parking lot. The driver parked beneath the trees and killed the engine.

“Thank god,” said Denise. “For a moment, I was afraid we would have to keep walking.”

We started through the grass toward the truck. Just as we were about to reach the pavement, the driver burst from the cabin. Blood caked the front of his shirt. His hair was wild and unkempt and drifted well below his shoulders. A gore-streaked hole replaced his left eye.

“Stay here,” I said. “I’m going to figure out what’s going on.” I bolted toward thim.

The driver stumbled forward a few steps and then collapsed to the ground. By the time I reached him, he had fallen still. 

I kneeled beside him and examined his face. 

Deep scratches stretched from his forehead to his chin. His nose was broken in at least three places. 

I placed my hand under his nostrils. Although faint, I could feel a steady torrent of air on my fingers as he exhaled. 

“Sir,” I said, trying my best to conceal the fear in my voice, “can you hear me?”

His eyes flew open. “Where’s Ben?” he said, voice a faint whisper. 

“I don’t know. What happened to you?” 

“Take me to Ben.” His eyes grew panicked. “Ben needs my help.”

“Who’s Ben?” 

“My friend. I’m not sure where he went. He…” His voice trailed off, lost in the sea of blood dripping from his throat. 

“Hang in there. I’m going to help you.”  

He emanated a final raspy breath before falling still. 

A piercing silence descended over the parking lot. It was as if the trees had died alongside the driver, robbing the world of oxygen. 

I rose to my feet, heart pounding, desperate to return to Denise.

But she and the woman had disappeared. 

A scream erupted through the trees behind the rest stop.

I sprinted toward the woods. 

The scream sounded again, this time closer. I hurried in its direction, stomach reeling. 

After a few seconds of running, I came upon a man. Dark blood covered his shirt and stained the ground around him. 

I crouched a few feet to his right, too afraid to pass any nearer. “Please stop screaming,” I said. “I’m here to help you.”

The man’s eyes darted onto mine. “They put something inside me,” he said. “You have to get it out.” He raised his shirt to his chest, exposing a cut that wound deep into his stomach. “Please hurry.” 

A branch snapped to my left. 

I turned around just in time to see the woman step onto the road. Behind her stood three men, naked and covered with blood. 

Air rushed to my head, forcing my mouth shut. My eyelids grew heavy; my breathing slowed. 

 “Don’t resist, dear,” said the woman. “Close your eyes.” 

My eyes slammed shut. 

I awoke to the smell of burning wax. The sloping walls of a cave surrounded me.

The man I had found in the woods lay unconscious to my right. The wound on his stomach, now fully exposed, oozed blood onto the ground. 

The woman strode into the chamber, followed closely by Denise. 

I tried to stand up, to whisk Denise away from such a horrible place, but ropes fastened my legs to a nearby stone. 

“If I were you, I wouldn’t strain myself,” said the woman. “Your wound is fresh. Best not widen it any more than it already is.” 

I followed her eyes to my stomach and lifted my shirt. When I saw the wound stretching across my skin, my heart skipped. “What did you do to me?” I said. 

She ignored my question. Instead of responding, she ran her fingers through Denise’s hair. 

Seeing her touch my wife filled me with rage. “Let go of her.” 

She smiled. “She’s free to go as she pleases. I’m not holding her captive.” 

“Denise,” I said. “Are you alright?” 

Denise stared at me. Her eyes were cold and lifeless as if she already had one foot in the grave. 

I glanced at her wrist.

It was perfectly healed. 

“What did you do to her?” I said. 

“I awakened her,” said the woman. “I would’ve awakened both of you, but only she was chosen. She is a lucky girl.” 

The man turned onto his side. His eyes were wild and radiated panic. Drool dripped down his cheek. “Where are we?” he said. He struggled against the ropes binding his legs. 

“Stay still,” said the woman. “Or your cut will worsen.” 

She pulled a knife from her pocket and placed it on a stone in the middle of the chamber. She then started chanting in a language that I had never heard before, a language that sounded ancient and guttural. 

Wind filled the cave, extinguishing the candles. The walls shook. 

Blue light, harsh and cold, exploded from the stone beneath her knife.

My stomach reeled with pain. Sweat poured down my body, dousing my cut.

The man resumed screaming. 

Stars reflected across the ceiling, blinding me with their brilliance. First blue, then red, then white, these stars undulated spasmodically across the stones, never fading, never dimming. 

Denise stared into the writhing blueness dancing beneath her. An intense look of pleasure washed over her face. Her eyes widened, making her look skeletal and inhuman. 

I collapsed to my knees, desperate to free myself from the pain radiating from my cut. The wound had darkened to a deep blue. Before long, it would turn black, followed by the rest of my torso. 

A sloshing exploded to my right. I turned toward the man, and then recoiled when I saw a substance, black and alien, slide from his stomach. 

This substance was the size of a small dog. Deep perforations, filled with tentacles, lined its outer layer. These tentacles opened and closed at irregular intervals and filled the chamber with the fetid stench of death. 

An intense pressure formed beneath my ribs. Before my mind hardly had time to register this agonizing sensation, a similar substance crawled from my wound. 

These creatures slithered across the ground toward Denise. When they reached her, they leaped into the air, attaching themselves to her stomach.

Smoke filled the chamber, consuming the stars. The acrid haze poured down my throat and enveloped my lungs. Breathing became an impossibility; all I could do was writhe on the ground as I asphyxiated. 

The smoke vanished. It did so without warning, jolting me as fresh oxygen burst through my nose. 

I blinked away the fog that had formed over my eyes like cataracts. Denise loomed through the shadows, head nearly brushing the ceiling. Her skin had turned charcoal black, as had her eyes. 

The woman ceased chanting. She stared at Denise, eyes caressing the entity she had become. “Follow me,” she said. “It’s time to return home.” She stepped through the portal, which had stretched wide enough for a car to drive through. 

Denise followed.

“Wait!” I roared. I pushed myself to my feet. But before I could get my legs working, blackness overtook my vision, and I plummeted to the ground. The last thing my mind registered before succumbing to nothingness was a booming voice drifting through the portal. 

6

SECOND PLACE

Jessica awoke to the sound of rain striking a window. Handcuffs bound her wrists. Attached to an iron bar just below her shoulders, these handcuffs forced her arms into right angles, sending pain radiating across her shoulders. 

Panic mounting, she darted her eyes toward her feet.

Her ankles were chained to the hulking frame of a treadmill. 

 “I hope you slept well.” 

A man’s voice sounded behind her, startling her so badly she yanked against her chains. She wheeled around, straining her eyes against the murky shadows drenching the room.

The man looked like any other thirty-something guy she might see walking about town. Regardless, he looked vaguely familiar, like an image observed underwater.

“Who are you?” she said.

The man crossed the room and paused beside the treadmill. He examined it for a few moments, eyes gleaming, before turning to face her. “Nobody important.” He flipped on the treadmill. 

The mechanical belt whirled to life. Given the chains locking her in place, she had no choice but to match the tread’s pace.

“How fast can you run a mile?” he said.

“What?”

“You heard what I said.” 

“I can run a mile in five minutes.”

“That’s fast.” His voice was calm, nonchalant. A dad striking conversation with a stranger in a park. “I struggle to run a mile in under six.” 

An eerie silence filled the room, broken only by the low humming of the treadmill and the clanking of her chains as she walked. 

“Did you run in college?” he said.

She resisted the urge to scream. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. I’m just trying to get to know you better. We’ve never spoken, despite numerous opportunities.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Perhaps you will remember by the end.” He leaned across the handrails and raised the treadmill’s speed to four miles per hour. 

She lurched backward, caught off guard by this sudden increase in pace. 

“Careful. You don’t want to fall. Those cuffs are secure. I bolted them down myself. We wouldn’t want you dislocating a shoulder or tearing a ligament.” 

Pain spiraled up her arms. She tried to straighten her elbows, but the handcuffs refused to budge. The skin on the soles of her feet tingled as she forced herself into a light jog. 

“You run well,” he said. “You have a gift.”

“Let me off. Please.” 

“No.” His eyes narrowed as if he were dealing with a petulant child. “You’re not going anywhere. Best pace yourself. Not even your stamina is without limits.” 

She didn’t know how to respond. How could she? What could she possibly say to someone so unstable? 

He increased the speed to eight miles per hour. 

She flailed against her chains. Having to increase her pace so suddenly almost made her lose her balance. 

“Now we’re running,” he said.

Her breath became labored. The intense panic rippling through her body made it nearly impossible to retain oxygen. She felt like a deflated balloon; at any moment, she might pass out. 

He moved to the front of the treadmill. Now that she didn’t have to crane her neck to see him, she could better make out his features. 

His face was just as forgettable as his clothes. Eyes the same brown as his hair, his pupils were indistinguishable from his irises, giving his eyes a distant look. Untrimmed stubble lined his cheeks. His lips were thin.

“We could’ve been friends, you know,” he said, raising his voice above the treadmill. “Good friends, even. It’s sad that things had to turn out this way.” He lingered for a moment, as if he were about to say something else, then disappeared through the door on the other side of the room.

She watched the door swing shut behind him. Heart galloping, she tried desperately to slow her breathing. But now that she was alone, confined to the treadmill like a captured animal, her panic spiraled into the stratosphere. 

What if he never returned? She could only run for so long before she collapsed from exhaustion.

She glanced down at the tread whirling beneath her feet. If her skin dragged along the rugged surface for even a few seconds, the damage would be severe. Her chains prevented her from moving; she would have no choice but to endure the torturous friction. 

And for how long? 

She needed to relax. Catastrophizing the situation would only make matters worse. 

Isn’t this a catastrophe already? she thought.

She inhaled a deep breath through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. Then, she closed her eyes, repeating this process until the pain in her limbs became a distant memory. When she opened her eyes again, her calmness had returned. 

She glanced at the mile counter. Much to her surprise, she had only traveled a quarter-mile. If she could manage to keep her breathing steady, then she could run for much longer before growing tired. 

She was an avid marathon runner. Averaging seven marathons a year, she attended every event she could within a four-state area. By her count, she had run over fifty marathons, each with a better time than the last. 

Running kept her occupied; it freed her from the never-ending drudgery that was her life. 

Now, she prayed that it would save her life. 

There has to be a way to escape. You just have to find it.

She scanned the room, searching for any objects that she could use to free herself. But other than the rain-drenched window to her left, the room was empty. Her captor might as well have stranded her on the moon. The only way she was stepping off the treadmill was if he unlocked her; she could see no other way. 

All she could do was run. 

Time passed, bringing with it pain and exhaustion. 

Around mile fifteen, she stopped looking at the mile counter. Doing so only made her panic. 

Her lungs burned. Her heart ached. Her elbows and ankles were swollen and numb. 

But still she ran on. She had no choice. It was either run or succumb to the endless grinding of the tread. 

How much longer could she run before she collapsed? The thought filled her with fear but also with curiosity. Never before had she pushed herself so completely. Plummeting so far past her body’s limits filled her with a demented sense of pride. 

Let’s see how proud you feel when the treadmill peels off your skin. 

The longer she ran, the more she pondered her captor’s identity. Although he looked familiar, she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why. 

Who cares who he is? He’s probably just some stalker. You most likely saw him while crossing the street or buying groceries. 

No matter how badly she wanted to believe this—to allow her mind to cling to such a simple answer—she couldn’t. The man’s words conveyed disdain, not adulation. He detested her. Why else would he leave her to die such a gruesome death? 

She replayed their conversation in her mind. 

Although brief, the entirety of their interaction had centered around running. This fixation, paired with the treadmill he had chained her to, spoke to a particular interest in the sport. 

I struggle to run a mile in under six, he had said.

At the time, this detail had seemed insignificant, but she found it rather revealing upon further examination. 

Most adults their age couldn’t even complete a mile, much less run one in under six minutes. Doing so required strenuous training. 

Had she competed against him before? 

A torrent of memories flooded her all at once, making her feel lightheaded. 

She had competed against him. By her count, they had participated in over ten marathons together during the past several years. 

His name was Brandon McDowell. She knew this because he came in second place in nearly all of her first-place finishes. That she had taken so long to recognize him spoke to her panicked state; on any other day, she would’ve made the connection much sooner. 

Identifying her captor only caused more questions to burn within her. As Brandon had said, they had never spoken before. So why would he target her in such a brutal way? Surely he didn’t take losing so personally. The marathons they attended were amateur events; winning them meant nothing. 

They obviously mean something to him. 

Could Brandon’s motivation truly be that mundane? 

The thought made her see red. Adrenaline poured through her veins despite her exhaustion. 

You can’t give up. You can’t let that creep beat you—not like this. 

Evening came. 

The tread felt unnaturally rugged. Blood oozed from her feet and pooled along the floor. Sweat poured down her body in streams. She had passed the threshold of exhaustion long ago. Willpower kept her legs pumping. 

Willpower and hatred. 

Still, she had yet to come up with an escape plan. The cuffs binding her limbs refused to budge. She was stuck, no matter how much she hated to admit it. 

Her head grew light.

Keep pushing. If you can make it a bit longer—

Her knees buckled. She fell head-first into the guardrails, striking the rigid metal with her forehead. An intense ringing assaulted her ears.

Then the world went black. 

By the time she regained consciousness, night had fallen. 

Numbness plagued her entire body. Even her thoughts felt sluggish; remembering where she was required monumental effort. 

She glanced up at her hands. Although the cuffs had wound deep red lines into her forearms, she couldn’t find any other damage. 

Relieved that her fall hadn’t shattered her wrists, she glanced down at her legs.

Bloody pulps had replaced her feet. The grinding friction had shredded away most of her skin.

She tried to lift her feet, but the chains prevented her from raising her ankles high enough to clear the tread. 

Tears welled in her eyes. Given the extensive damage, it might be years before she walked again, assuming she made it out of the room alive. 

Yank your feet through the cuffs. It’s the only way. 

This thought filled her with fear. Although her feet were a shadow of what they used to be, they were still too large to slide through the cuffs without significant pulling. But what other choice did she have? The tread further eviscerated her feet by the second. Before long, it would reach bone, inflicting irreversible damage. 

So after inhaling a few calming breaths, she yanked her feet through the cuffs, ignoring the intense pain bursting from her toes, and vaulted onto the carpet. 

The door swung open. 

Brandon stormed in, knife in hand. “Who said you could stop running?” he said. He charged toward her.

She swung her legs around the treadmill and kneed him in the stomach. The blow caused him to slip on the pool of blood gathered on the floor and land on his upturned knife chest-first. He howled as the blade disappeared to the hilt. 

She recoiled from his flailing limbs, face contorted with shock. But then she seized upon the opportunity and wrapped her legs around his throat. 

His eyes bulged as she squeezed her thighs together. Blood spurted from his chest, staining his white shirt a deep red.

He died a few minutes later, the treadmill drowning out his final death rattle.

She released him and lifted her feet to her arms. The movement required every ounce of her remaining strength. Even then, she only managed to keep her feet raised for a few seconds before her core gave out and sent her legs plummeting back to the carpet. 

She dripped just enough blood onto her wrists to allow her to slide her hands through the cuffs. Now completely unshackled, she eased her aching body underneath the handrail and lowered herself to the carpet. Then, she turned and looked at Brandon. “Second place as always,” she said before crawling out the door

7

FEED ME

James and Chris stepped through the rusted gate, shovels propped against their shoulders. Behind them towered the vine-covered walls of a dilapidated mansion. Once belonging to Andrew Boone—a renowned scientist who had died in the early fifties—the property now lay dormant. 

“I’m telling you,” said Chris, shifting his shovel to his other shoulder. “Coming here was a waste of time. The locals took everything of value decades ago. All that’s left is moldy wood and ruined furniture.” 

James tore his gaze away from the moon, which broke through the low-hanging clouds in flashes of white and silver, and smiled at his friend. “The mansion’s been picked over, yes,” he said. “But we’re not here to poke around Mr. Boone’s dresser. You know that, Chris.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

James surveyed the sprawling grounds undulating toward the horizon. Although he had read about the opulence of Mr. Boone’s mansion in numerous articles, witnessing the weathered beauty of the property still stole his breath away. 

“What do you think we will find here?” said Chris. “We’ve never brought shovels to a job before.” 

“I don’t know, exactly. Rumor has it that Mr. Boone buried half of his estate on these grounds. I want to see for myself. Who knows what we might dig up?”

“Probably nothing but bugs. What’s so special about this Boone guy anyways?” 

“He was a scientist and investor. He became obsessed with genetic experimentation after he retired, all but ruining his name.” 

“Why did he bury half his estate?”

“Why does anybody do anything? Maybe he wanted to spite his family. Or maybe he has something to hide. Either way, my source is credible. There are riches buried here. We just have to find them.”

“Whatever you say. I think this whole thing is nuts. You know I like to do our jobs during the day when people are at work. Who knows what kind of creeps are lurking out here?”

“You just need to trust me.” 

“The last time I trusted you, I ended up in prison.” 

“That was different.” 

“Sure it was.” 

Haunting cicada calls filled the air. The moon reached its zenith, bathing the sloping hills and untrimmed grass with lunar light. 

James paused in front of a massive oak tree. “Let’s dig here first,” he said. 

“Why here?” said Chris. 

“My source told me to focus around the Oak trees.”

“What source? When have we ever used sources? You sound like a cop.”

“I can’t reveal him to you. All you need to know is that he is very close with the Boone family. I promised him half of whatever we find in exchange for his information.”

“Half?”

“Quit your whining and start digging. I’ll get the next hole.”

Chris hammered his shovel into the earth. The aroma of soil filled the air. 

After digging for over an hour, Chris came upon a silver canister.   

The canister was spotless, despite its age. Not even a scratch blotted its glistening surface. 

“What did I tell you?” said James. 

“I can’t believe it,” said Chris. “What is that?” 

“Why don’t you find out?”

Chris reached for the canister.

The ground collapsed the moment his fingers touched it, sending him plummeting into blackness. 

Dirt billowed into the air. James raised his hands in front of his face, trying to protect his skin from the endless cloud. When the dust finally settled, he stared into the hole. 

The collapse had widened the hole by six feet and increased its depth by twenty. Rocks and roots dotted its jagged walls. 

Chris lay at the hole’s bottom, face and jacket covered with dirt. 

“Are you alright?” said James.

Chris remained lifeless on his back. Not even his chest moved; he didn’t appear to be breathing. 

The icy throes of panic gripped James’s throat. Had he just witnessed his partner’s demise? Chris had been standing by his side only moments ago. Could death come so quickly?

“Chris,” he called. “Please tell me you’re alright.”

Chris stirred as if waking from a deep sleep. He rolled onto his side, opening his eyes. “What happened?” he said, voice slurred. 

“You fell. The ground collapsed. Are you injured?”

“I don’t think so. My head hurts a bit, but that’s it.”

“No broken bones?”

“No.” 

“Thank God. For a moment, I thought you were dead.”

“Perhaps that would’ve been best.”

“Hang on. I’m going to get you out of there.” 

James turned from the hole and surveyed his surroundings, looking for anything long enough for Chris to hold onto. But no matter how hard he searched, he found nothing. “I can’t find anything long enough to reach you,” he said. “Can you climb out?” 

Chris pushed himself to his feet and approached the nearest wall. “Maybe,” he said, examining the soil. “The dirt looks pretty loose. I doubt that it can hold my weight.” 

“It’s worth a shot. If you can at least climb a few feet, I can lower you a branch. There’s a few dead ones behind me that we can use.” 

“Ok.” 

He dug his fingers into the wall and hoisted himself upwards. But after climbing for a few feet, the dirt crumbled and sent him skidding back to the bottom. “It’s no use,” he said. “The only way I’m getting out of here is if I grow wings.” 

“What about the canister? There could be anything in there. Maybe you’ll find something useful.”

He turned toward the canister and tapped it with his foot. “There’s something heavy inside. I can feel it moving around.” 

“Open it up.” 

Hands trembling, he propped the canister against his thighs. “This thing weighs a ton. What did Boone bury in here, his entire library?” 

“Do you see a latch?”

“Hang on.” He ran his palms over the canister’s surface. “It’s completely smooth. There’s a date stenciled on its side.” 

“What does it say?”

“September 21st, 2020.” 

“That’s today.”

A metallic screech boomed from the canister, causing him to drop it and retreat toward the wall.

“What was that?” said James.

“I have no idea.”

The canister leaped into the air as if pulled by an invisible string, landing back on the dirt with a dull thud. It then emanated a stench so horrid James raised his shirt to his nose.

“Get me out of here,” said Chris, voice laced with fear. He flattened himself against the wall.

The canister leaped into the air once more, this time landing vertically by his feet. He scrambled to the other side of the hole, desperate to distance himself from the bizarre object. 

“I’m calling for help,” said James. “Hang in there.” He jutted his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. But when he pressed the home button, the screen remained dark. “I don’t understand. It’s dead. Last I checked, the battery was at ninety percent.” 

“Let me check mine,” said Chris. He pulled his phone from his coat. “Mine’s dead too.” 

A wave of nausea pounded James’s stomach. How could both their phones be dead? 

Another metallic screech tore through the hole, twice as loud as the previous one. Dirt and rocks poured from the earthen walls, coating Chris with a fresh layer of filth. 

The canister shook. 

Chris bolted up the wall, using the exposed roots as footfalls. “Hand me the branch!” he said. 

James grabbed the nearest branch and lowered it into the hole. 

Chris grabbed it and scurried further up the wall. But right as he neared the surface, the canister released another screech, sending him plummeting back to the ground. His head struck the canister, dousing his temple with blood and knocking him unconscious. 

James stared at his collapsed friend, face stunned. Chris had almost been close enough for him to grab. If he had climbed just a few more inches, then he could’ve pulled him to safety. 

Instead, he had no choice but to watch gravity run its course. 

The canister shook violently, then burst open, ejecting half of its frame onto Chris’s chest. 

Nestled within the crumpled silver lay a creature unlike any James had ever seen. It had a man’s head, but its body resembled that of a vulture. Thick, pale skin covered its featherless body. Dark veins, which looked translucent in the moonlight, consumed its face. In place of a mouth loomed a massive, hooked beak.

The creature rose from the canister and stepped onto the dirt. It then stared at Chris, chest heaving as it sucked in air through the slits that served as its nose. 

James stared down at this creature, heart performing backflips in his chest.

The creature took a step toward Chris.

“Stay away from him!” James yelled. 

Chris stirred as if waking from a deep sleep. He opened his bloodshot eyes and stared at the creature. A look of revulsion overcame him as he registered its face.

“What the fuck,” he said. He scrambled toward the wall, feet kicking through the dirt like jackhammers. “Get away from me!” 

Feet whispered in the grass behind James. “I apologize for this,” said a man’s voice, just above his shoulder. Before he had a chance to turn around, a boot struck him square in the back, sending him flying into the hole. 

He struck the ground beside Chris. He then looked toward the ledge, gasping for air. Through the lunar light he could make out the silhouette of a middle-aged man. 

“This isn’t personal,” said the man. He placed his hands in his pockets. “I hope you can understand that.” 

His sounded familiar. “Jackson?” said James.

“Yes.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“The world isn’t ready yet for my father’s experiments. Until that day comes, I’ve taken on the responsibility of looking after his children.” 

“What about our deal?”

“A small fib. A regrettable one, too. You and your partner seem like reasonable fellows.” 

“Get us out of here!” said Chris.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. It’s feeding time.” 

The creature lunged for James, beak hurtling toward his neck. He raised his hands just in time to grab it by the wings and hold it at bay. 

Leathery skin slithered across his fingers. He pushed against its shoulders with as much strength as he could muster, gritting his teeth as it released another volley of shrieking cries.  

The creature’s beak drew closer to his neck, despite his pushing. He felt as if he were wrestling with a three-hundred-pound man. 

Chris barreled into its side, pinning it against the ground. He then stomped on its head repeatedly, crushing its skull. Its legs lurched forward in a final spasmodic leap, then fell still. 

An eerie silence filled the hole. Only moments ago the creature’s beak had been an inch from James’s neck. Its sudden death filled him more with shock than relief. 

“A pity,” said Jackson. “If only my siblings weren’t such picky eaters. They prefer live flesh, and that of humans most of all. Something to do with the incubation process.” He removed his hands from his pockets. “It doesn't matter. Five more of my brothers came due today, and they are aching for a meal.” He pulled a pistol from his waistband and shot both men in the legs. “That should level the playing field. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

8

DON’T TELL

The propane stove hissed to life. Julian Jasper placed a small pot of water on the infantile flame, wincing as the fire’s sharp blueness intensified his migraine. 

The smell of uncooked ramen noodles assaulted his nose. Had he already opened the packet? He had cooked so many batches over the past two months the act had become autonomous. 

Instantaneous Saturnalias! 

The phrase glared at him from the half-open noodle packet’s spine. That some advertising schmuck had staked their career on the ridiculous motto never ceased to baffle him. His purchasing of three hundred packets before entering his basement was an irony he chose to ignore.

Then Jesus wept. 

He turned away from the stove and glanced at his children. They sat hunkered in the corner beside his grandmother’s moth-eaten couch. Their saucer-like eyes traced him through the shadows, never blinking, never turning. Soiled rags, which had once resembled clothes, clung to their bodies in tatters. 

A boy and a girl. Just like Stephanie wanted. 

He wrapped his hands around his throat and squeezed until his knuckles popped. He smiled as his eyes bulged and blood filled his temples. 

His children watched him, the same lifeless stares plastered to their faces.

He released his throat, the pressure in his head all but dissipating. Although he knew the pain would return within the hour, at least he could eat his dinner in peace. 

Steam crashed into his face. 

The noodles were done. 

Hallelujah.

He dumped the excess water into a tin cup beneath the stove. He then partitioned the noodles onto the three plates resting on the fold-out table in front of him. “Get it while it’s hot,” he said.

His children lumbered toward the table, faces as lifeless as ever. Neither spoke as they crossed the room. No thank you, no smiles. They started eating the moment they sat down.

What had he done to raise such ungrateful children? He fed them daily, kept them clean, and watched over them as they slept. Most importantly, he kept them alive. By his count, they were the only children left in the city. 

Yet day after day they punished him with blank stares and silent dinners. 

They blame you for their mom. In their minds, you killed her. 

He tightened his grip on his fork. He no more killed their mom than God plagued him with the migraines threatening to send him to an early grave.

“Can I be excused?” said Derek. 

His son’s words snapped him back to reality. He stared down at Derek’s empty bowl, heart racing, and forced a smile. “Sure,” he said. 

“Me too?” said Madison. 

He resumed his death grip on his fork. Why did they always plow through their dinners like starving animals? Did they detest being near him that much? “That’s fine,” he said. “Hand me your bowls.” 

They handed him their bowls then retreated toward the couch. When they reached the faded cushions, they picked up the deck of cards nestled on the armrest and resumed their game of Go-fish. 

Julian shoved a forkful of ramen into his mouth. Salty water rolled off the bloated noodles in scalding rivulets, searing his throat and watering his eyes. The pain made him smile. 

The pain made him feel alive.

Five heavy knocks rattled the door in its frame. 

His migraine returned. 

Madison and Derek glanced at the door. Fear replaced the lifelessness in their eyes, and their faces grew so pale that he could see spindly veins writhing beneath their cheeks. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “The door’s locked. They can’t get through.” 

“That’s what mom said,” said Derek. “Before the lights went out.” 

“What happened last time will never happen again. I won’t let it.” 

His words sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. Regardless, he needed to keep the kids calm. Although sitting trapped in the basement had strained their relationship, they were still his children. Without them, he had nothing, as much as he hated to admit it. 

The room fell silent. Other than the wind, which pummeled the roof with relentless clawing, the world was silent. 

He approached the door on trembling legs. His heart roared in his ears as he walked, intensifying his migraine. 

Why had those bastards returned so soon? Only two weeks had passed since their last visit, and before that, two months. Such a sudden return defied everything he thought he knew about the world.

That is before the world went belly-up. 

For all he knew, the entire country had perished, leaving only him and his children to inherit the barren husk of man’s folly.

Not that they could claim their inheritance. Venturing up the steep steps beyond the basement door ensured only one thing: death. To think differently was to entertain the most far-fetched of fantasies. The rest of their house might as well have vanished. 

When he reached the door, he leaned down and placed his ear by the keyhole. 

A whispered voice, sexless and ageless, drifted through the lock.

“Hello Julian.”

Frigid breath flooded his ear canal. The pungent smell of copper filled the room, tempting him to gag. His migraine raged on. 

He opened his mouth to speak but struggled to get his voice working. His vision grayed; his stomach lurched. 

“I know you’re there, Julian.” 

If only he could get rid of the damn migraines. Then he could tell these sons of bitches to leave his family alone, pummel them back into the ground, sky, or whatever God-forsaken place they had crawled out from. 

“What do you want?” he said. His voice sounded callous and hoarse as if he had smoked a lifetime’s worth of cigarettes since rising from his chair.

“Your wife says hello,” said the voice. “Stephanie says hello.” 

He closed his eyes. Stephanie’s panicked shrieks reverberated through his mind, transporting him back to the day of her death. 

She had died, hadn’t she? 

You never saw her corpse. Those bastards dragged her through the door in total darkness. 

He glanced at the fingernail scratches on the doorframe. There was no way she survived such a brutal assault. Nobody taken ever returned; this was common knowledge. 

“Why are you here?”

“You know why I’m here. It’s time.” 

“You’ve already taken my wife. Isn’t that enough?” 

Whispered laughter greeted his question. “That’s not for us to decide.” 

A barbed dagger tore through his brain. Never before had he experienced such a brutal migraine. Time lost all meaning to him. He became a shape, wallowing in an endless ocean of suffering. 

“It hurts, doesn’t it? You poor thing.” 

 “If you mean to kill us, then do it. Why wait?”

“I cannot kill what is already dead.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

 “You have twenty-four hours. Pick one, or I will take both.” 

The being’s words were a physical force, robbing him of breath. His diaphragm constricted; his lungs deflated. The walls, those faded monoliths that had immobilized him for months, closed in around him. 

He bit his fist, desperate to relieve the tension threatening to spill his brains through his ears. A bubble was expanding within his skull at an alarming rate. At any moment, it would pop, ending his miserable life. 

“Embrace your pain,” said the voice, “for if you try to trick me again, pain will be your undying companion. Hell is Heaven compared to where I’m from. It’s best you remember that.” 

“What are you? Why have you come here?”

But the being had already disappeared, taking with it his migraine. 

He slumped to the ground, exhausted beyond words. 

Despite the being’s chilling ultimatum, he rejoiced that he still drew breath. Few people survived such encounters, and he had now survived three. 

Why he possessed such luck was impossible to guess. Perhaps he was the butt of some cruel joke. The beings needed some sort of entertainment, didn’t they? So why not throw his family through the wringer? 

He pushed such thoughts from his mind. Attributing such a human motivation to his tormentor might prove to be a costly mistake. It had absolute power over him; that was all that mattered. 

Or did it? 

He had thwarted it once, days after taking shelter in the basement. 

Upon hearing its knocks, he had ushered his family through the trapdoor beneath the rug. Although he knew hiding in the cellar was risky, the ruse worked: the being departed the basement after several minutes of failed searching. 

“What did it say?” said Derek, voice just above a squeak. 

“Nothing,” said Julian. “Pay it no mind.”

“Did it mention mom?” said Madison. 

He closed his eyes. Why had God cursed him with such an unbearable situation? Why hadn’t He killed his family months ago like all of the other families in town? Had he done something terrible to deserve God’s wrath? 

“It didn’t mention your mother,” he said. “It’s best that you forget about her now.” 

“I miss her,” said Madison. 

“So do I,” said Derek. 

Julian rose from the floor and checked the locks on the door. 

You have twenty-four hours. Pick one, or I will take both.

The being’s voice raged through his mind, causing a line of sweat to form on his brow. Filling such a demand would break him; it defied the little humanity he still possessed. 

But what choice did he have? He had no more tricks to pull. And even if he did, the being was on to him now. Next time, it wouldn’t leave until it got what it wanted. 

What does it want, exactly? 

He had no way of guessing. What the beings did to people once they captured them was a mystery. Nobody lived long enough to find out. Hell, nobody even knew how many of them there were. Some reports recorded thousands, while others, millions. 

“What’s wrong, dad?” said Derek. 

Maybe I should just kill them now. Put them out of their misery. 

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just making sure the locks are secure.”

Derek watched him apprehensively. 

He knows something is wrong.  

He approached his children on trembling legs and hugged them. The gesture startled them so much they trembled against his chest. 

“Everything will be ok,” he said. 

He tried to say more, but no other comforting phrases entered his mind. Callousness had governed his behavior for five months. Compassion eluded him; even embracing his children felt like an alien act. 

When he released them, tears filled his eyes. Fortunately, he wiped them away with his sleeve before they could see. 

Keep it together. It’s too late for you to go soft. Derek and Madison fear you, and nothing will ever change that. 

Darkness fell, bringing with it nightmares and shattered dreams. Julian sat at the fold-out table and lit the single candle resting at its center. Darkness covered the rest of the basement. 

Heart racing, he checked his watch. 

The being would return in twelve hours.

This knowledge filled him with numbness rather than fear. The time for fear had been five months ago when the world had ended and the meek had inherited the earth. 

Sitting at the table in the dark, the fetid smell of stale ramen noodles staining his sinuses, he waited for the end. 

You either take all of us or none of us, you son of a bitch. 

He refused to give in to the being’s demand, refused to offer up one of his children like a sacrificial lamb. Such an act went beyond cowardice; it was subservient. 

And if anybody thought they could make a servant out of him, they could take the express lane straight to Hell. 

Is your pride worth Derek and Madison’s lives? 

He eyed their sleeping forms through the shadows, bile-like guilt rising in his chest. 

Pride aside, their lives were already doomed. The being would return whether he offered it one of them or not. It wanted all of them and wouldn’t leave until it accomplished its insidious task. So why resist? Why cling to a life that was quickly approaching its end? 

There’s a knife in the closet. You can slit your wrists tonight and be done with this fucking nightmare. 

But what about Derek and Madison?

Slit theirs too.

This thought rang so clearly through his mind his arms broke out in gooseflesh. 

He rose from his chair and approached the closet. His legs moved on their own accord; he could no more stop his shuffling feet than he could silence his roaring heart. When he reached the door, he grabbed the tarnished knob with a trembling hand. Sweat poured down his back in reams. For the first time in months, his migraine had entirely disappeared.  

The door swung open on silent hinges. He rested his shoulder on the frame and turned toward his children. They remained asleep, undaunted by his midnight trek. 

Mounds of old luggage and junk accumulated over fifteen years of marriage spilled toward his feet. 

Many months had passed since he had entered the closet. Seeing such an abundance of relics from his former life filled him with sadness. 

I am Ozymandias, king of kings. Look upon my mighty works and despair. 

He rummaged through the closet. He had placed the knife in the pocket of one of his old coats; he was sure of it. But no matter how hard he searched, the knife remained hidden. 

Stomach turning, he tried his best to ignore the incessant ticking of his watch. How long had passed since he had last checked the time? Five minutes? Maybe ten? Each second lingered in the air like a caustic mist, stinging his eyes and burning his skin. 

He would give anything to pause time, to wrangle the entire universe into submission. He needed time to think. How could he make informed decisions otherwise? His life and the lives of his kids hinged upon his actions over the next eleven hours. 

You need to calm down. Worrying yourself into a panic attack isn’t going to help anybody. 

A cardboard box, weathered and faded, burst into his peripheral vision. He possessed no memory of it. Had Stephanie hidden it before her death? 

He grabbed the box with trembling hands and peeled back the lid. When he saw the glint of a gun barrel tearing through the darkness, his heart galloped. He wrapped his hands around its smooth handle. Although no gun expert, he could tell the slender firearm was a .38 caliber pistol from all of the mobster movies he had watched during his teens.  

Finding a gun changed everything. 

What would you do with a pistol? What are you, some kind of cowboy?

Desperate, that’s what he was. 

And a desperate man was capable of anything. 

He fumbled his hand through the box. After a few moments of searching, he uncovered a carton of bullets. 

Stephanie had to have hidden the gun in the closet; there was no other explanation. She had always been secretive. For all he knew, she had hidden dozens of additional objects throughout the house. 

He snapped open the loader. Six bullets grinned at him through the darkness, easing his anxiety with their deadly brilliance. 

For the first time in months, his confidence returned. 

For the first time in months, he felt powerful. 

The pistol gave him options. The pistol gave him hope, which he had thought had evaporated in a world gone to shit. 

He placed the pistol in his waistband, careful not to pull back the hammer. The box of bullets he put in his pocket. 

Mind racing, he closed the closet door. He had eleven hours to make a decision. 

He had eleven hours to decide his fate.

The soft light of dawn raged beyond the basement’s walls.

Julian placed his hands on Derek and Madison’s shoulders, jolting them awake. “Prepare your things,” he said. “It’s time we left this goddamn basement.” 

Derek and Madison sat up on the bed, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Confusion consumed their faces. He never woke them up this early. Not unless something was wrong. 

“What’s going on?” said Derek. “Why are we leaving?” 

“It’s not safe here anymore.”

“I thought you said nowhere is safe,” said Madison. 

“I did say that, but now I’m not so sure.” He pulled the covers from their frail bodies. “All I know is that we need to leave as soon as possible.” 

“Did you hear from mom?” said Derek. 

God, I wish they would stop mentioning her. 

“No. Now is not the time for questions. Both of you need to pack. And do it quickly. We don’t have a lot of time.”

They scurried from the bed, scooped up their backpacks, and began loading them with their meager possessions. 

“Remember to put on your winter clothes.”

His heart raced as they packed. The pistol in his waistband dug into his skin. 

When the time comes, will you be able to use it?

Of course he would. The pistol was the boost he needed to jolt him from the stupor that had consumed him the past five months. He would find their tormentor, unload fire and lead on its twisted skull, reload, and then fire again. 

What if there’s more than one? For all you know, there could be thousands of them roaming the streets. 

That problem he would deal with later. All he knew was that remaining in the basement guaranteed their deaths. Even without the being’s ultimatum, they only had so much food in reserves. By his count, they had roughly three months of supplies before hunger set in. 

If they had to die, best go out with a bang than with a whimper. 

There has to be something out there for us. If we’ve lasted this long, then there must be others too. 

A pipe dream, but one worth clinging to. 

When Derek and Madison finished packing, they strode over to him and placed their backpacks by his feet, faces pale.

He tightened Derek’s coat around his shoulders. “Keep your coats and hats on at all times,” he said. “Although it’s warm in the basement, it’s freezing outside. At least it should be this time of the year.” 

Derek gazed at the ground. Moments later, tears started running down his cheeks in broken streams. 

“What’s wrong?” said Julian. 

“I’m scared,” said Derek. 

“About leaving the basement?”

“Yes.” 

Julian attempted a smile. “I know it’s scary, but we don’t have a choice. We can’t stay here anymore.”

“Are they coming to get us?” said Madison. The popped collar of her coat muffled her voice. In another lifetime, Julian might’ve snapped a photo. 

“Of course not. It’s just time for us to move on.”

The ease with which he lied never ceased to amaze him. 

What would Stephanie say if she saw you right now?

Whether his wife would agree with his decision to flee or not didn’t matter. They had no other choice. It was either run or wait to be slaughtered like cattle. 

“Where will we go?” said Derek. 

“To the woods,” he said. “Grandpa has a cabin in the mountains that we can stay in. If we’re lucky, he’s still there.” 

“So we’re going in the car?” said Madison.

“Yes.”

He prayed that his car still worked. 

Thank God I placed chains on the tires earlier this year. 

If he hadn’t, then they might as well dig their own graves. No car could leave a driveway, much less scale the mountains, without a solid set of chains. 

He grabbed the backpack resting beside his feet and slung it around his shoulders.

How do you know you will even make it up the stairs? If the stories are true, you won’t even make it through the door. 

He banished these thoughts as quickly as they came. He refused to die cowering in his basement like trapped vermin. 

There had to be a life for them somewhere. They just had to find it. 

You’re making the right decision. Any thoughts to the contrary are cowardice. 

He dropped to one knee. “We don’t know what we’re going to see out there,” he said, “so I need the both of you to be brave. If we stick together, we will be fine.” 

They stared up at him as if he were the God of the earth. 

“The plan is simple,” he continued. “We will go up the stairs and into the living room. Then, we will enter the garage through the kitchen. After that, we will hurry to the car and forget this place ever existed. How does that sound?” 

“Ok,” said Madison. 

Derek nodded his head. 

“Good. Now grab your things.” 

They placed their backpacks around their shoulders. 

An oppressive silence descended over the basement. Now that the time had come to leave, to step through the pale door that had confined them like a prison warden for five months, his courage faltered. 

Had finding the pistol made him reckless? 

Don’t doubt yourself now. There’s no other choice but to leave. You only have six hours left before that bastard returns. 

In the rush of packing, he had forgotten about the incessant ticking of his watch. 

The being would return soon. And when it did, it would leave with one of his children in tow. 

He wrapped his hand around the pistol’s grip. The smooth rubber fit perfectly in his palm. 

Let’s see that son of a bitch try to take them. Let’s see how it likes a bullet between the eyes. 

“No matter what you see,” he said, “stay beside me. I will keep you safe.” 

They nodded. The fear in their eyes made them look three years younger. 

Julian pulled the pistol from his waistband and approached the door. After taking a few moments to make sure he had a bullet chambered, he placed his hand on the faded doorknob and twisted it. 

The door swung silently into the hallway. 

He peeked his head through the doorframe, gun stretched before him, and surveyed the stairs. 

Bright yellow sunlight, clear as water, undulated down the stairs in gentle waves. Dust motes danced through this light, dazzling his eyes with their brilliance. 

He stepped tentatively into the hall. His footsteps echoed up the stairs as he walked. 

Gun raised, he undressed every inch of the hall with his eyes. But no matter how intensely he searched, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Even the wind had died, basking the house in utter stillness. 

He ascended the stairs. When he reached the landing, he pushed aside the half-open door and peered into the living room. 

Other than the dust, which caked the furniture and billowed from the door in intermittent streams, the room was exactly as he had left it. Even the mug he had dropped upon receiving the order to take shelter lay untouched on the carpet beside the couch, coffee stain billowing around it like festering mold. Sunlight streamed through the drawn curtains. He closed his eyes, reveling in its warmth. 

Remember the plan, goddammit. Keep moving. 

Although he knew he needed to head toward the garage, that lingering in the living room might get him killed, he couldn’t help but approach the window towering on the wall across from him. The world beyond the basement mesmerized him; he couldn’t help but drink it in. 

The cars that had once lined the street were gone. Either stolen or used for hasty evacuations, the national panic had left no vehicle untouched. Most houses had broken windows. One or two had collapsed roofs. Other than that, the neighborhood looked just as he remembered it. It was only when he glanced at the sky that his eyes regarded something wholly alien. 

A transparent sphere, at least one thousand feet in diameter, dominated the sky. Light bent around its edges, giving it a three-dimensional appearance. He watched as a cloud intersected with its outer edge. At first, the cloud retained its shape. But as it passed further through the sphere, it elongated. It was no longer a cloud by the time it reached the other side but a white streak smeared across the sky. 

Before he had long to contemplate this marvel, a gurgling sound tore through the house. 

He wheeled around, clutching his gun tightly in his hand. The sound had erupted from the dining room.

The gurgling returned. This time, the sound stretched for several seconds, leaving his hair on edge.

Run to the garage. Now. You’ve stayed here for too long. 

He crept toward the dining room and peered through the door. 

Someone, or something, had nailed Stephanie’s corpse to the wall. Jagged spikes split her body into eight pieces, sending her organs spilling toward the floor.

She opened her eyes. Her green irises glowed like flames, contrasting with the pallid skin of her severed head. Blood pooled in her throat, producing a grated gurgle. 

A migraine exploded behind his eyes so intense he crashed to his knees.

The whispering of feet sounded on the carpet to his left. 

He turned and saw Derek and Madison standing by the couch, smiling. 

He had forgotten entirely about his children. It was as if the moment he had exited the basement, his mind had not been his own. 

“I told you not to trick me.” The sexless, ageless voice of his tormentor cut through the air. His migraine reached fever pitch. “I told you that I would return.” 

Derek and Madison disappeared into the kitchen. When they returned, broad knives glinted in their hands. 

“You can’t escape me. I’ve been with you for months. Inside them. Waiting. Laughing.”

His children grew as the voice spoke. Before long, their heads scraped the ceiling.  

Their smiles widened. 

This isn’t happening. I’m still in the basement. This is a dream. 

“It’s time to join your wife. She’s been waiting for you for a long time.” 

Derek and Madison leaned down and grabbed his arms. 

Julian screamed.

9

BUYER BEWARE

The letter lay open on Zack’s lap. He ran his fingers along its edges, face contorted with rage. “They can’t be serious,” he said. “This has to be a joke. Nobody is that petty.” 

“They’re very serious,” said Ariana. “Jolene texted me their demand this morning. She’s just as perplexed as we are.”

“What did she say?” 

“She said that we should talk it over, but she recommends we decline. Either way, she’ll touch base with their realtor as soon as we make a decision.” 

He leaned his head back on the couch, trying to ignore his pounding temples. 

If he had known how difficult the Silvas were going to be, he never would’ve agreed to purchase their house. They made unrealistic demands, were terrible communicators, and, after a two month leaseback, had left the house in terrible condition. 

“There’s nothing to talk over,” he said, rising from his chair. “We’re keeping their money. And they’re lucky we don’t ask for more. We’ve spent five hundred dollars on top of their deposit fixing this place up, and we haven’t even started on the drywall yet. That’s money that we’ll never get back.”

“Should I text Jolene our decision, then?” said Ariana. 

“What do you think?” 

“I agree. They don’t deserve that money. Not after all of the repairs we’ve had to make.” 

“Exactly.” 

She pulled her phone from her pocket. “It’s settled then. I’m texting her now.” 

The sound of exploding glass tore through the night, jarring Zack awake. “What was that?” he said. 

Ariana sat up against her pillow, eyes wide. “I don’t know,” she said. 

He rose from the bed and crept toward the hallway. He stuck his head through the door and peered into the shadows. “Stay here. I’m going to check the house.”

“Be careful.” 

He entered the living room. The frigid wood floor sent goosebumps spiraling up his bare feet. He paused beside the couch, straining his eyes against the darkness. 

Glass covered half the floor. A cinder block lay on its side by the coffee table. The curtains behind the couch fluttered in the wind, exposing the shattered window overlooking the backyard. 

He stood in the hall staring at the ruined window for several seconds, anger constricting his chest, before storming back into the bedroom. 

“Someone threw a cinder block through our living room window,” he said. “There’s glass everywhere.” 

Ariana sat up straighter in the bed. “What?” she said. “Did you see who did it?” 

“No. I knew we should’ve invested in those security cameras.” 

“We’ve only been here for a few weeks. There’s no way we could’ve known this would happen.” She rose from the bed, rubbing her shoulders against the chill rapidly filling the house. “Who do you think is responsible?” 

“The Silvas.”

She laughed. “Are you being serious? They just sold us this house. Why would they go about breaking it?” 

“Because we’re keeping their deposit. Think about it. Jolene texted them our decision a few hours ago. Clearly they’re not pleased.” 

“I don’t believe it. I’m sure one of our neighbor’s kids is pranking us. Either that, or someone thought the house is still abandoned and decided to have some fun.” 

“Don’t be naive. It was Bryan Silva. I’m sure of it. And I refuse to put up with his bullying any longer.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“To pay him a visit.” 

“At this hour? Losing your head isn’t going to solve this. If anything we should be calling the police.”

He ignored her. He exited the house, fists clenched, vowing for revenge.

He reached the Silva’s residence ten minutes later. The house was still and lightless. Even the wind, which had been raging since noon the previous day, had faded to a faint breeze that barely stirred the layer of leaves covering their lawn. 

He exited his car, heart pounding, mind racing. Finding the broken window in his living room shattered his typically calm demeanor. He wanted nothing more than to break down the front door, seize Bryan Silva by the collar, and throttle him into oblivion. 

He grabbed the cinder block from the passenger’s seat and cradled it in his arms. 

Leaves crunched under his feet as he crossed the lawn. Approaching silently was the last thing on his mind. He wanted Bryan to confront him. If he did, then he would tell him exactly what he could do with his cinder block. 

He paused once he reached the porch and surveyed the half-circle window above the door. Although the window loomed several feet above his head, he was confident that he could toss the block high enough to shatter it. The block weighed less than forty pounds. With the right momentum, he could probably throw it across the lawn.

He gripped the block with his fingertips, swung it by his hips a few times, and then released it. 

The block cleared the door with ease. Glass and dust rained on his head as it soared through the entryway, striking the wall beyond the door before crashing to the ground.

“That will teach them to fuck with me,” he said under his breath. He then jogged back to his car, feeling better than he had in weeks.

Zack awoke the next morning to the ringing of his doorbell.

“Who could that be at this hour?” said Ariana, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“I have no idea.”

“Better answer it. And when you’re done, I’m expecting an apology. You scared me half to death last night by storming off like you did.”

He grunted an acknowledgment then shuffled to the door.

Bryan Silva stood peering through the window beside the entryway, the cinder block at his feet.

Zack opened the door, doing little to mask the distaste overtaking his face.

“What were you doing at my house last night?” said Bryan.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Zack.

“I have footage.”

“Your footage is wrong.”

Bryan stared at him for a long time without speaking. “You owe me my deposit.”

“I don’t owe you shit.”

“We’ll see about that.” He picked up the cinder block and returned to his car.

Zack watched him pull out of the neighborhood, blood pressure skyrocketing.

The sound of exploding glass filled Zack’s house once more. He rose from bed, head pounding with rage, and pulled on a pair of jeans.

“That son of a bitch,” he said.

“Should I call the police?” said Ariana. 

“Not yet.”

He stormed into the hallway.

This time, Bryan had thrown the cinder block through the dining room window. The block had landed on their china cabinet, ruining their best dishes.

“That motherfucker,” he said.

Ariana followed him into the hallway. Her face turned pale the moment she saw the ruined china cabinet. “Did you see who did it?” she said.

“I know who did it.” He scooped up the cinder block and exited through the front door before she had a chance to respond.

Not even the cool night air could soothe his temper. Acid filled his veins, lining his skin with sweat.

He hurried into his car and sped onto the road, narrowly missing the neighbor’s mailbox.  

When he reached Bryan’s house, he killed the engine. Then, he grabbed the cinder block and exited the car.

A plastic tarp covered the window above the front door.

You’re going to need a lot more than plastic to fix this house when I’m through with it, he thought.  

He approached the dining room window, arched the cinder block beside his head, and then tossed it through the panes.

A piercing wail tore through the night.

Hair rising, he looked through the ruined window.

The cinder block had struck Bryan’s son, lacerating his scalp. Blood poured openly down his face.

He sprinted to his car. He forced open the door and thrust the keys into the ignition just as Bryan came running onto the lawn.

Bryan’s face was a tangled mass of rage. He bolted toward the sidewalk, eyes wide enough to swallow the world, but Zack sped down the street before he reached the curb.

He drove home in a dazed stupor. He took secluded roads that were dimly lit, praying that a pair of flashing red and blue lights didn’t appear in his rearview mirror.

How did you fuck this up so badly? he thought.  

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Bryan beat him to his house. The sight of the faded sedan parked in his driveway sent a fresh wave of sweat crashing down his brow.

He parked by the mailbox, killed the engine, and stepped quietly inside.

“Took you long enough,” said Bryan, voice drifting from the living room. His words projected calmness, as if the man barreling toward his car less than twenty minutes ago had been a figment of his imagination.

He stepped into the living room. Ariana sat on the couch, pale, frightened face cutting through the darkness as if moonlight bathed it. Bryan sat in the armchair across from her.

“We can talk about this,” said Zack. “There’s no need to act rashly.”

“The time for talking is over. You nearly put my son in the hospital.”

“I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

“You know what’s funny about this whole thing?”

“What?”

“I’m not the one who broke your window.” He glanced at the ruined window to his left. “That’s why you targeted me, right? You think I vandalized your house?”

Zack’s cheeks turned red.

“It was your neighbor’s kid. I used to have issues with him all the time. Why do you think we moved?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe. All I need you to do is follow me.”

“What?”

“If you’re serious about ending this, then follow me. Both of you.”

“Listen to him,” said Ariana.

“Ok.”

They followed him into the hallway.

“Being here brings back a lot of memories. I spent over a decade in this house.” He pulled a knife from his pocket and tapped the hilt along the carpet. On the third hit the floor emanated a hollow sound as if that portion of the foundation had been gutted. “There you are.” He peeled back the carpet, exposing a tarnished door.

“What are you doing?” said Zack.

“Showing you the secrets of your new home.” He slid open the door, revealing a dank hole.

Ariana placed her hand on Zack’s arm. His face grew even paler.

“When I moved, I vowed to put this life behind me,” said Bryan. “But after what you did to my son, I will make an exception. Step inside.”

“You’re insane,” said Zack. “Do you actually think that we will go along with this?”

Bryan jammed the knife into his thigh.

Sharp pain tore through his leg. Ariana wrapped her hands around his arm, screaming wildly, in an attempt to keep him from crashing to the floor.

Bryan removed the knife, sending blood splattering across the carpet. “Step inside. Or I will kill both of you now.”

They lowered themselves into the hole. The fetid stench of death filled their noses.

“Try to control your breathing,” said Bryan. “The oxygen in there runs out quicker than you think. The couple before you only lasted a few hours. Enjoy your new home.” He slammed the door shut, shrouding them in darkness.

10

THE CARHOP

I’m a Sonic carhop, but I keep the speaker live after people order. I started this habit three weeks after I got hired. Despite the intrusiveness of listening to customers’ private conversations, I can’t help but lurk on the headset as they wait for their food.

If you are wondering why I do this, the answer is simple: it passes the time. Anybody who’s worked in fast food knows how mind-numbing working in a kitchen can be. The repetitive tasks, the aroma of grease, the rude customers—all only a fraction of the bullshit fast-food workers put up with daily. 

I remember the first time I kept the speaker live after taking an order. It was a cloudy fall day, and the wind howled through my headset as I finalized the customer’s payment.

I opened my mouth to repeat the total, but the angry words of two men drowned out my voice.

Normally I would’ve switched off my headset. However, the intensity of their voices caused me to linger on their channel. They sounded like they were from the northeast and spoke so fast I could hardly understand them. Given that I was used to hearing the slow drawl of my fellow Texans, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

“I can hear him kicking against the door,” said the man in the passenger seat. “Why the hell are we ordering drinks? We’re going to get caught.”

“Relax,” said the driver. “I don’t hear shit. You’re imagining things. He’s out cold. I made sure of it myself.”

“There it is again!”

“That’s the wind. If you keep screaming, then we’ll really get caught. Do you want your drink or not?”

I flipped off my headset, heart racing.

I prayed that I misunderstood their conversation. Dumas is a small town. Other than the occasional robbery, nothing bad ever happens here. Abductions only happen in movies.

At least that’s what I told myself.

I glanced through the window toward their car. The driver had parked in the bay on the far left of the lot, so I could only see the backs of their heads. Every few moments, one of them punctuated their words with their hands as if they were arguing.

Eventually, curiosity overtook my apprehension, and I flipped the headset back on.

“It’s too late to back out,” said the driver, voice trembling with rage. “We’re in this together. You’re the one who stabbed the guy for Christ’s sake. And besides, the ritual’s nearly complete. By the time we get him into the basement, Laurel should be ready.”

The man in the passenger seat was quiet for several seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But this better pay off. If Laurel’s wrong, and we have to go out again, I swear to God I’m finished.”

The driver laughed. “You’ll go out again. I know you will. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

I watched in stunned silence as my co-worker, Danielle, brought them their drinks. The driver flashed her a smile as he grabbed the cups. He then pulled out of the lot, leaves swirling around his tires like falling rain.

I passed the rest of my shift in a daze. Deep down, I knew that I should call the cops, but I couldn’t force myself to pull out my phone. Cowardice steeled my tongue, a regret I will carry to my grave.

I spent the next week lurking on the headset after every order I took. I couldn’t help myself. Given the boredom that naturally plagues small towns, my mind clamored for any excitement it could get. That I was violating peoples’ privacy hardly crossed my mind. The high created by that first encounter haunted me like a blissful acid trip. I became addicted and scrambled to take as many orders as I could.

The two men returned to the drive-thru ten days later. My heart quickened the moment I saw their sun-stained Toyota Camry. I took their order immediately after they pressed the call button. Then, trying my best to ignore my palpitating heart, I listened to their conversation as their burgers hissed on the grill behind me.

“Laurel’s taking her time, isn’t she?” said the passenger. “This whole thing’s one goddamn mess.”

“It is a mess, I’ll give you that,” said the driver. “At least our trip to the cemetery went smoothly. The earth was much softer than I thought it was going to be. Our shovels broke through the topsoil like butter.”

“They sure as hell did. Still, my back hurts like a mother. I can’t believe I didn’t stretch before we started.”

They were silent for a few moments. Other than the wind howling through the speaker, the world was quiet.

“Do you think Laurel’s going to give us what she promised?” said the passenger.

“Of course she will,” said the driver. “We’ve done too much for her to back out of our deal. Without us, she’ll never be able to complete the ritual.”

“When is she going to give it another attempt?”

“Saturday night. Right after we deliver our final haul.”

“Which cemetery do you have in mind?”

“Not sure yet, but I’ll let you know.”

I disclosed this conversation to my friend Tammy as we walked to our cars following our shift.

“Sounds like you took an order from a pair of psychos,” she said, leaning against the hood of her car.

“I’m serious,” I said. “These guys are dangerous. They’ve killed one person and maybe more.”

“Why haven’t you told the police?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve been too scared to speak up.”

“I can tell this has you worked up. Why don’t you come over tonight? I want to hear more about what you heard.”

I threw myself into the beanbag fronting Tammy’s bed, thankful for the cool caress of the fabric. I had spent the last hour of my shift working the fryer. Layers of dried sweat clung to my skin—I vowed to take a shower the moment I got home.

“Tell me again about what you heard today,” said Tammy, peering down at me from over the lip of her bed. “And this time, start from the beginning.”

I recounted the conversation. By the time I finished, the sun had set.

“Did you say they drive a green Toyota Camry?” said Tammy. 

“I did.”

“Does it have an ‘I mess with Texas’ bumper sticker?”

I sat up straighter on the beanbag. “It does. Why do you ask?”

“The driver lives on this street. He rented the house on the corner about a month ago. Keeps to himself mostly. I talked to him once while I was walking my dog. His name is Mike.”

“Does he seem dangerous?”

“Not at all. He’s very nice. The only thing that stood out about him was his accent.” She walked over to the window behind her bed and looked down at the street. “His car is parked in front of his house now. Take a look.”

I hurried to the window and pressed my forehead against the glass, straining my eyes against the darkness. When I saw the car, my heart lurched. “That’s the same Camry. It’s definitely him.”

Tammy pulled away from the window and started pacing around the room. “This is beginning to make sense. My mom’s been complaining about hearing strange noises drifting from his house during her morning runs. I’ve always brushed her off—you know how paranoid she can be—but now I’m not so sure.”

I turned from the window. “What should we do?”

“We should scout the place out.”

“Are you being serious? You just admitted that this guy is dangerous. Why the hell would we go over there? Do you want to die?”

“Of course I don’t. I want to live. Think about it, John. Mike might be the sickest bastard to ever pass through Dumas. We have to bring him to justice.”

I stared at her, mouth agape. Although Tammy had a sadistic side, this went beyond thrill-seeking. 

What she was suggesting was downright insane.

“I know you want to be a detective one day,” I said, “but your idea is crazy. We’re in way over our heads. We need to call the police or at the very least tell our parents. Confronting him ourselves is way too risky.”

“Who said anything about confronting him? We’re going to break in when he’s not home and snoop around to see what he’s up to. We can’t trust the police to take him down. This guy’s intelligent—you can see it in his eyes. The moment he sees a patrol car parked in front of his house, he’ll have the place on lockdown. Breaking in is our only option.”

I closed my eyes, trying to slow my roaring heart. As close as Tammy and I were, she infuriated me weekly. Regardless, I had to give it to her. She made my life interesting, whether I wanted her to or not.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go over there with you. Not because I agree with your reasoning, but because I know you’re going to break in regardless of what I say. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt.”

Tammy called me later the next day. “Mike’s gone,” she said, voice rushed. “I just watched him back out of his driveway. Get over here quickly.”

I parked in front of her house thirty minutes later, stomach turning with nervous energy. 

Never before had I agreed to do something so dangerous.

She hurried to my car the moment I killed the engine. “Took you long enough,” she said. “We don’t know how long we have. Every minute counts.”

“I had to sneak out,” I said. “Unlike you, my parents give a shit about what I do.”

“You poor thing.”

We started walking down the street towards Mike’s house. Given the late hour, not a soul was in sight.

When we reached the house, we paused in the driveway, surveying the windows looming behind the bushes.

“Do you see anything?” said Tammy.

“No,” I said. “The place looks dead.”

“This is our chance. Follow me.” We hurried into the alleyway and paused in front of the gate leading into the backyard. “I scoped the place out last night. He keeps his gate locked, but the fence is easy enough to climb. Think you’re up for it?”

I glanced up at the wooden gate towering above my head. “If I can get my feet on the handle, I think I can manage. Lead the way.”

We landed in the backyard a few moments later. My ankles exploded with pain as my feet crashed to the ground, sending me tumbling onto my back.

“Now’s not the time to rest,” said Tammy. “Who knows how long we have?”

“What if he has an alarm?” I said, pushing myself to my feet.

“Then we’ll run before the police arrive.”

We approached the back door. Tammy tried the knob, but Mike had locked it. “Looks like we won’t be getting in the easy way,” she said.

I walked over to the window to our right and wrapped my hands around its base. After giving it a few hard tugs, I raised it high enough for us to pass through. “Are you sure about that?” I said.

She smiled at me. “Look at you. Maybe it’s time you quit Sonic and became a thief.”

“That’ll be the day.”

We crawled through the window, hands striking the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor.

I rose to my feet, swiveling my head around the darkened room.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I found it empty and followed Tammy into the living room. 

Bright, cheap prints of Van Gogh paintings lined the walls, giving the space a staged feel.

“Is the furniture covered in plastic?” said Tammy.

I glanced at a nearby couch, squinting my eyes against the darkness. “It sure is,” I said. “What the hell?”

Plastic enveloped nearly every object in the living room. My aunt was a germaphobe, but even she didn’t go to such extreme lengths to maintain her home’s cleanliness.

“Let’s keep going,” said Tammy, voice rushed. “If Mike has a plastic fetish, that’s not our concern.”

“What is our concern?” I said. “What do you think we’re going to accomplish tonight?”

“Simple.” She approached the hallway beyond the living room on silent feet. “We’re going to find the bodies.

I stared at the basement door, fists clenched. The house had fallen eerily quiet. Even the wind—which had been howling through the still-open window in the kitchen—had dissipated.

Tammy nodded her head at me, then opened the door.

A narrow staircase descended into the darkness. I inched onto the first step and clutched the rail, staring at the back of her head.

“It’s freezing down here,” she said, rubbing her arms.

She wasn’t exaggerating. I could see my breath billowing before me every time I exhaled.

I imagined Mike lurking in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, eyes tracking me through the darkness, and shuddered.

When we reached the final step, we paused.

“There has to be a light switch somewhere,” I said. I felt along the wall and smiled when I found a switch. A single lightbulb whirled to life, illuminating an empty basement.

The front door creaked open. Three voices—two male and one female—drifted down the stairs.

“Shit,” said Tammy. For the first time that night, genuine fear rippled across her face. “We need to hide.”

I swiveled my head around the room, desperate to find cover. However, the room was completely barren. There wasn’t even a couch to duck behind; we were entirely exposed.

She grabbed my hand. “There!” she said. She pointed at a small closet nestled under the stairs.

We sprinted into the closet and shut the door behind us just as the sound of footsteps drifted down the landing.

“Which one of you left the light on?” said a woman’s voice.

“Come on, Bill,” said Mike. “How many times have I told you to turn the goddamn lights off? You left the window open in the kitchen too. How careless can you be?”

“It wasn’t me,” said Bill.

“Whatever you say.”

 “It doesn’t matter who did it,” said the woman. “As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

The woman was stunningly beautiful. 

“Are you sure tonight’s the night, Laurel?” said Mike.

“Absolutely,” she said. “We have everything we need to begin. And not a moment too soon. Autumn’s nearly over. If we don’t make our window, then we’ll have to wait another year.” She passed within an inch of the closet. “Grab the bodies. Let’s get started.”

Mike and Bill opened a trapdoor leading deep into the earth and disappeared into the ground.

“Be careful,” said Laurel. “I don’t want a single body damaged.”

“Easy does it,” said Mike, voice muffled. “You heard the lady.”

A few moments later, they re-surfaced carrying the largest trash bag I had ever seen. Dark liquid oozed from its bottom in a syrupy stream and pooled on the floor.

“Where do you want it?” said Mike, grunting under the bag’s weight.

“Place it in the center of the room,” said Laurel. “We need plenty of space.”

They lowered the bag to the ground then placed their hands on their knees.

Mike caught his breath first. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got fifteen bags left. Now’s not the time to get winded.”

The odor enveloping the room became unbearable as they retrieved the rest of the bags. My eyes watered from the stench, which clogged my throat and tied my stomach in knots.

Tammy placed her arm in front of her mouth to prevent her coughs from reaching Laurel’s ears.

“Grab the knives,” said Mike.

Bill crossed the room and grabbed a pair of knives resting on the floor in the corner. Dried blood covered them.

He handed one to Mike.

“Be careful with the bodies,” said Laurel. “Even a small cut can be enough to ruin the ritual.”

They grunted their acknowledgments, and then they sliced open the bags.

Piles of limbs tumbled to the ground. Many were interlocked with one another, forming a jumbled mass on the concrete. The level of decomposition differed from one limb to the next. Some were withered to the bone, while others were remarkably well preserved.

“Spread them out evenly,” said Laurel. “They need room to breathe.”

By the time Mike and Bill finished separating the limbs, the pile nearly stretched to the stairs.

“Excellent job,” said Laurel. “You’ve worked hard to reach this point. But worry not. The time to receive your rewards is finally here. Rejoice, for such a marvelous gift is only bestowed every one hundred years.”

They kneeled in front of her.

“We’ve been waiting for this day for a long time,” said Mike. “Thank you.”

“No, my friend. Thank you. Your dedication to our cause is unprecedented and will be lauded in the coven for centuries.”

“Thank you,” said Bill.

“The ritual is an arduous process and cannot be stopped once it begins. It will irreparably change your minds. Even your names will seem like distant memories.”

“We’re ready,” said Mike. “Right Bill?”

“Yes.”

“Then rise.”

They rose.

“Stand among the limbs you’ve harvested willingly and in service to the coven.”

They strode over to the limbs.

A profound silence consumed the room. I glanced down at Tammy and was surprised to find her face calm. Not only had the color returned to her cheeks, but her eyes had narrowed as if she were trying desperately to form a plan.

Laurel resumed speaking a few moments later, chanting in a language foreign to me.

The limbs began to twitch. Initially, these movements were hardly perceptible. A single toe here, a ring finger there, but as her voice increased in volume, the limbs jolted to life. One by one, they slithered over to Mike and Bill and burrowed into their skin.

They swayed under the weight of their new flesh. The dozens of arms, legs, and heads fused with their own quivered in the yellow light like crazed insects.

“The pain you will inflict on the unfaithful will be legendary,” said Laurel. “Under my guidance, our reign will be long-lasting and bountiful. So powerful will the coven become that even God will grow to fear us.”

Tammy nudged my ribs. I turned my head. She produced a knife from her pocket.

I reached to grab it from her, but she bolted from the door before my hand passed my hip.

She sprinted across the concrete and jammed the knife into Laurel’s neck. Blood exploded from her neck in violent streams, splashing Tammy’s cheeks like melted licorice.

Mike and Bill shrieked as their master tumbled to the ground.

Tammy glared at me. “Don’t just stand there!” she said. “We need to get out of here!”

I sprinted from the closet toward the stairs. Just as I was about to follow her onto the first step, my feet slid in Laurel’s blood, and I crashed to the ground. Mike seized my ankle and lifted me into the air.

Tammy bolted from the stairs and stabbed him in the chest, freeing me.

I scrambled after her up the stairs.

Mike’s guttural screams chased us into the hallway.

I slammed and locked the basement door behind me. “Where did you get that knife?” I said, voice hoarse.

“I brought it with me. Just in case.”

What do we do now?”

“Simple. We burn down the house.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?”

“Follow me.”

We hurried into the kitchen.

“Look for a bottle of lighter fluid. Mike has a charcoal grill in his backyard. I’ve never seen someone with a charcoal grill not have lighter fluid.”

“Good thinking.”

We rummaged through the cabinets for about a minute before she found the fluid.

“I knew it!” she said.

The basement door rattled in its frame.

“We better hurry,” I said.

“Look for a lighter.”

I found a lighter a few moments later in a drawer above the sink.

“Here,” I said.

“Thanks. Stand back.”

I retreated into the living room. I watched as she doused the hallway with the flammable substance. Mike and Bill shrieked as the liquid sloshed under the basement door.

“I hope this works,” she said. She dropped the lighter in the fluid just as Mike and Bill burst from the basement.

The hallway immediately went up in flames. Within seconds the fire raged into the basement, scalding Mike and Bill’s new flesh. They tumbled to the ground as their skin blackened, filling the air with the stench of rotten meat.

Tammy and I fled through the front door, thudding hearts drowning out their twisted screams.

11

THE INTERVIEW

Mr. Mateo collapsed to the ground, leaving me staring at the camera, face stunned.

Our interview had been going so well. To think that he could pass out so suddenly filled me with dread.

I stared at the cameraman, begging him with my eyes to intervene. However, rather than turn off the camera and help me, he stared at Mr. Mateo, mouth agape.

Silence saturated the park. The yellow light drifting from the street lamps made Mr. Matteo’s flesh look decomposed as if he had been slumped against the curb for a month rather than a minute.

Cursing myself for my inactivity, I knelt beside him and checked for a pulse. When I didn’t find one, I placed my palms on his sternum and performed CPR with as much strength as my trembling arms could muster.

After continuing my chest compressions until my forearms burned, I gave up and sat down on the curb. 

He was dead. There were no two ways around it.

It was while sitting on the curb with my head in my hands, ears vibrating from the haunting cicada calls filling the street, that I had a revelation that caused my heart to sink.

I hadn’t called for an ambulance. I had neglected to perform the one action that might’ve saved his life. 

I dug my phone from my pocket.

Mr. Matteo shot up from the curb. “This isn’t real,” he said, voice thick with death. “I’m being tricked.”

I returned his gaze, too frightened to look away. I opened my mouth to speak, but my words died in my throat. Luckily the cameraman—whose name I never asked—intervened.

“Please sit down, Mr. Mateo,” he said. “Let us call for help.” 

“I came back. I didn’t let death take me.” 

“He doesn’t have a pulse,” I murmured in the cameraman’s ear. “Call an ambulance.” 

His eyes widened. He nodded his head and hurried toward his truck. 

“Where’s he going?” said Mr. Mateo. 

“He’s calling for an ambulance,” I said. “You need to go to the hospital.” 

The moment I said the word hospital, rage overcame his face. It was as if he had become another person; the frenzy in his eyes made him look inhuman. “I’m not going to the hospital,” he said. He took a step toward me. “Do you know how difficult it was to come back? How long I had to scheme? I’m not going to let some doctor ruin this for me.” 

I raised my hands in a calming gesture. “There’s no need to worry. Everything’s going to be fine.” 

“Fine? Hell’s coming for us all. Nothing’s fine. The only reason we’re having this conversation is because I’m smarter than the rest. I found a way out.” 

His words made my skin crawl. Surely he was delirious; nobody returned from the grave. Either I had failed to locate his pulse, or his pulse was so weak I didn’t notice it.  

But as I stared into his face, that pallid, ghost-like face that cut through the shadows of the park like a whisper drifting down an empty hallway, I doubted myself. 

“Please, have a seat,” I said. “You’re not well.”

He laughed. “I’ve never felt better in all my life, child. One day, maybe you will understand.” He bolted toward the cameraman. His shoes tore silently through the grass, leaving no footprints in their wake.

When he reached the cameraman, he grabbed his shoulders and rammed his head into the side of the truck. 

The cameraman crumpled lifelessly to the ground. Blood poured from his scalp and pooled on the concrete beside him. 

Seeing his blood smeared across the truck jolted me into action. I hurried down the sidewalk, adrenaline flooding me. What I planned on doing once I reached Mr. Mateo, I didn’t know. All I knew was that I couldn’t stand by as he murdered an innocent life. 

He wrapped his hands around the cameraman’s throat. His back muscles swelled as he squeezed. “I’m not going to the hospital!” he said. “You’re going to Hell!” 

I flew across the street. 

I grabbed his arm the moment I reached his side. However, no matter how hard I tried to pull him off, he didn’t budge.

A few moments later, the cameraman kicked his legs, then fell still.

He released his throat and rose to his feet. “Don’t try and look for me,” he said, eyes swallowing me whole. “You will never find me.” He then leaped into the trunk, laughing hysterically. 

“Stop!” I yelled. 

I hurried over to the trunk and threw my hands into the shadows. 

But Mr. Mateo had vanished.

12

SINKER

Captain Anderson glanced out the window, surveying the storm raging beyond his desk. "The waters are rough," he said. "Encountering a storm of this magnitude is rare during this time of the year. Such is our luck, I suppose." 

"Will the storm pass by morning?" said Ben.

"Doubtful. It’s supposed to last until Sunday. Normally, I would never let you dive in these conditions, but time’s growing short. Our deadline is set in stone." 

"The weather isn't a problem. I've dived in worse before."

"Have you?"

"Yes. Back when I was in the marines."

Captain Anderson smiled, a rare gesture. "You were in the service. I forgot. I did a stint in Vietnam myself." He traced the water streaking across the deck with his eyes. His face became pensive—lost in the raging sea. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. "The ship is deep." 

"How deep?"

"About one-hundred-and-thirty meters." 

"That is deep." 

"I know. That's why I'm sending Matthews with you. He's been a diver since you were in grade school. He'll be a valuable asset down there in the dark."

Ben nodded. Although he had never met Matthews before, the diver's reputation preceded him. "I couldn't ask for a better partner. I must say, though, this comes as a surprise. I typically dive alone. And besides, I didn't even know he was on board. Our paths have yet to cross." 

"He keeps to himself. I brought him on as a consultant. However, the situation demands he suit up. He's not happy about it, but money talks."

"Louder than anything else." 

Thunder boomed, vibrating Captain Anderson’s desk. A floatation device blew past the window, ropes billowing behind it like snakes. Ben watched as it skipped across the deck before plummeting into the ocean. 

"Is your family aware of the stunt you're about to pull?" said Captain Anderson. 

"I've told my wife our general location but spared her the details. I've found that worrying her helps neither of us. She knows that we're not out here fishing for shrimp. She's well aware of the risks I take."

He grunted. "Mary used to worry herself sick over my expeditions. God rest her soul." He paused for a moment, staring into his empty coffee cup as if a maelstrom had formed in its center. "I wouldn't send you out there unless we had no other choice. You know that, right?" 

"Of course I do. I know how much of a bind you're in this year."

"Saying we're in a bind is an understatement. If I don't pay McGregor by Sunday, he's going to repossess the boat. And I don't blame him. I haven't made a loan payment in over six months. He's a patient man, but his patience will only stretch so far."

"It's a shame what happened to the Liberty. She was in a class of her own." 

"She was. No other salvage vessel could compete with her. But every dog has its day. If only we could've gotten a few more years out of her. Then I could've paid off a replacement in full." 

The door behind Ben's chair burst open, sending rain splattering onto his neck.

"Glad you found us, Matthews," said Captain Anderson. 

Matthews sat in the chair beside Ben. He had dark, silver hair and green eyes. Thin wrinkles lined his cheeks, betraying the thousands of hours he had spent under the sun. "Diving in these conditions isn't part of our agreement," he said. His weathered voice echoed around the cabin, drowning out the pounding rain. "The water is too rough. I'm not trying to die settling a debt that isn't mine." 

"I mentioned during our negotiation that a storm was brewing to the east and that you might have to dive in rough waters.” 

"You did. But this is much worse than a typical storm. When is the last time you stepped outside? These are hurricane winds!" 

"I understand your frustrations. Trust me, I do. If we could afford to wait out the storm, then we would. But our deadline is approaching. And this deadline is one we can't miss." 

"Everyone knows that the Liberty crew doesn't do things by the book, but this goes beyond risk-taking. This is reckless."

"I can't force you to dive, but if you do, I promise to make it worth your while."

"How so?"

"I'll pay what we've already agreed, plus let you take fifteen percent of the money we receive for recovering the necklace." 

 "Fifteen percent?"

"Yes. That's the most I can offer."

Matthews cast his eyes toward the window, deep in thought. Other than the pounding of the rain, the cabin was silent. "I accept," he finally said. "But only if we do things my way. This is a difficult dive, even without the storm. With the storm, it's almost impossible." 

"I'm counting on you and Ben to get it done. You two are among the industry's finest." He rose from his chair. "Let's get to work, shall we?" 

Rain pounded Ben's respirator. Lightning tore through the sky, exposing the rolling waves. 

Matthews stood by his side, checking the lines of his rebreather. His diving mask reflected the lightning strikes as he worked.

We should be using compressed air, thought Ben. These rebreathers are going to throw off our balance.   

They had gotten into a shouting match about this topic while suiting up. The currents in the open ocean were rough to begin with; in a deluge of such magnitude, they would be brutal. They needed all of the maneuverability they could get. But Captain Anderson had put Matthews in charge, so he had no choice but to acquiesce. 

When Matthews finished checking his lines, he flashed him the thumbs up. 

Ben reciprocated the gesture.

Moments later, the sea engulfed them. 

Frigid water consumed Ben's wetsuit. Bubbles the size of quarters exploded past his goggles, barely visible by the ship's light. Matthews loomed to his left, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

A jarring silence consumed the water. He had only descended a few feet, but that was enough to muffle the rain. Only the familiar sound of his breathing, modulated by his respirator, greeted his ears. 

A lightning bolt illuminated the ocean, providing him with miles of unobstructed view. He watched the violent waves rippling across the surface, heart pounding.

He followed Matthews into the darkness. According to the radar, the wreckage was directly beneath them. As long as the currents didn't throw them from their path, they should have a straight shot. 

Their task was simple: recover a diamond necklace stored in the captain's quarters. The captain's widow was offering a considerable sum of money to any crew that returned her necklace. Typically, Captain Anderson avoided recovery jobs because of their low payout. But given the current circumstances, he had accepted out of desperation. 

The target ship, the Canterbury, was rumored to be cursed. This rumor stemmed from a single telegram transmitted from the boat before its sinking: They have risen. This message, paired with numerous sightings of the ship snaking along the coast over the years, resulted in no other crew daring to accept the gig. 

Lightning flashed, exposing the sea once more. Hundreds of fish burst into view beneath his feet. The water was calmer sub five meters—albeit barely in a storm this size—influencing the fish to fight over coveted portions of the half-dead reef stretching toward the horizon. 

He descended past this reef with ease. Periodically, fish crashed into his wetsuit, a typically forgettable feeling made unnerving by the thick blackness surrounding him. 

Powerful currents tugged at his flippers, slowing his descent. The storm made the depths almost unbearable; if his technique faltered, even for a moment, then the rushing water could offset his course by hundreds of feet. 

Matthews fluttered at the edges of his headlamp. He had to give it to the man: he was an excellent diver. They had only been in the water for a few minutes, and he was already a good twelve feet ahead. 

When they reached the ocean floor, Matthews paused. He pointed at a chunk of metal nestled in the sand.

The ship was close. 

They swam north. Sand and reef undulated beneath them like rolling hills. 

Swimming on the ocean floor never ceased to excite Ben. The world felt foreign so far beneath the surface. Even with the unstable conditions, drifting along the sand filled him with peace. He had returned home, a realm where few dared to tread. 

The current picked up, jolting him to the right. His headlamp flickered as water pounded into his ribs with bone-crushing force.   

His respirator roared in his ears. The current intensified with each second that passed. If the water struck his lines at the right angle, they might sever his rebreather, guaranteeing his death.

Matthews' headlamp became a distant speck. Had the current already pulled him so far? For the first time in hundreds of dives, panic crept across his chest. 

There shouldn't be a current of this magnitude so deep; their charts would have picked it up. Not even the storm could generate enough tension to disturb the water so profoundly. 

Ben's center of gravity shifted, twisting his head toward his feet. His stomach tied in knots as vertigo overcame him. 

The current grew stronger, making movement impossible. He felt as if he had dived head-first into a hurricane. All sense of direction became lost to him; not even his headlamp was enough for him to orient himself to the ocean floor. 

Remember your training, he thought. Now's not the time to lose your head.

He kicked horizontally against the current. But the force of his kicks only pushed him a few inches, doing little to ease the water's pulling. He tumbled along the ocean floor like a beach umbrella caught in heavy winds. 

Matthews’ headlamp vanished. He didn't even know which direction his partner might be in; the bubbles crashing into his mask limited his vision. 

How far had the current already carried him? Three hundred feet? Maybe five? He had no way of knowing, which only increased his fear. The further he traveled, the harder it would be to find the crew once he surfaced. The nature of the dive prevented him from bringing flares; captain Anderson would have to stumble upon him by chance. 

That's if you surface at all.   

A terrifying thought but a true one. At any moment, his lines might rupture, causing him to asphyxiate. 

He wouldn't wish such a brutal death on his worst enemy. 

The hissing sound of his respirator filled his ears. He didn't know what frightened him more, the panic stabbing his heart or the rushing water, desperate to drag him screaming into the blackness. 

A school of fish hovered at his peripherals. Paused along the current's edge, they stood immobilized in the frigid water, avoiding the vortex that would rip them to shreds. 

He noticed the glint of metal out of the corner of his eyes. Fighting the current, he turned his head. 

A massive ship, at least three hundred feet in length, dominated the ocean floor. Algae covered its surface. Beneath the algae loomed a thick layer of rust. A sprawling hole snaked across the front of the hull, exposing the decayed interior. 

The current carried him within fifty of the ship's stern, then disappeared.

He swam to his right, desperate to distance himself from the current's path should it reappear.

He glanced into the open ocean behind him. Blackness stretched for as far as he could see. Matthews might as well have been on Mars; his odds of finding him in the dark were one in a million.

Matthews was right; the mission was too dangerous to complete. They never should've entered the water. By doing so, they placed not only their lives in danger, but the lives of the crew, who would risk everything to recover them. 

For the first time in ten years, his respect for Captain Anderson waned. Pressuring him into the water highlighted the selfishness of his motives. 

He pushed these thoughts from his mind. He had agreed to the dive; nobody had forced him into the water. Not even Captain Anderson, who had more riding on the expedition than anybody else. 

He had nobody to blame but himself. 

Nobody would fault you for surfacing. It's a reasonable thing to do. 

Surfacing was reasonable, yes, but how could he when the ship was right in front of him? By a stroke of blind luck, the current had placed him directly beside its hull. Their dive point had been significantly off. He and Matthews would've had to swim for hundreds of feet to find the ship, a feat the storm made impossible. 

Surfacing, then, would be a wasted opportunity: one that would not only end his career but that of the entire crew.    

He regarded the Canterbury. Although time had reduced the vessel to a rusted husk, it possessed a beauty immune to the slow corrosion of the sea. It called to him. Not even the murky water bleeding through its ruptured hull could lessen its allure. 

You still have plenty of oxygen. The ship is big but nothing you can't handle. And besides, you've seen its specs. The captain's quarters are beneath the bow. Locating the necklace shouldn't be that difficult. 

All comforting thoughts, but without Matthews to watch his back, the Canterbury could quickly become his tomb. Tangled diving lines, malfunctioning headlights, shifting debris—all manageable with a partner but deadly solo. 

What about the cost of not trying? Although surfacing is the safer option, failing to find the necklace will set your career back decades. 

If Captain Anderson went under, then he had nothing. Years might pass before he convinced another crew to take him on. He wasn't getting any younger, and working with Captain Anderson carried a stigma that wouldn't disappear overnight. They were a notorious crew.

This notoriety came with a steep price. 

Ben swam toward the Canterbury. He ran his hand along its hull. Rust and algae billowed around his fingertips. 

The ship was in surprisingly good condition for its age. Over one hundred years old, the Canterbury had been one of the most luxurious passenger liners of its day.

How the ship sank was still a mystery. Many believed that it had struck a cliff near the shore—perhaps during a storm—but no passengers survived, preventing the corroboration of this hypothesis. 

Equally confounding was how far the ship drifted off course before sinking. Estimates placed it between three hundred and seven hundred miles to the east of its charted path.

Fortunately for him, these mysteries didn't impact his ability to do his job. Recovering the necklace was all that mattered. Easy in, easy out—just the way he liked it. 

What about Matthews? He probably thinks you're dead. What if he surfaces and alerts the crew? 

A serious possibility but out of his control. With luck, Matthews would follow the current's path and reach him in a matter of minutes. He was a fast swimmer, the fastest he had ever worked with. Even if he surfaced, the odds of him re-entering the water to search for him were high. 

We'll laugh at this later. Finding that necklace will soothe everyone's nerves. 

He pushed off the hull, sending a fresh layer of rust billowing through the water. He then started swimming toward the hole in the bow. 

When he reached the hole, he paused, shining his headlight into the ship’s interior. 

A hallway undulated toward the light's edge. Wooden doors lined each side of this hallway, half-collapsed from rot. Through these doors, he could see the ruined husks of passenger quarters. 

He secured his distance line. Although he was confident that he could find his way back from the captain's quarters without the rope, skipping this precaution would be stupid. One wrong turn might strand him in the bowels of the ship forever. 

Once he finished securing the line, he proceeded into the hallway, reel in hand. 

The temperature of the water dropped the further into the ship he traveled. Thick shadows clogged his headlamp. He pulled out his flashlight. 

After swimming for about twenty feet, he passed into the first-class smoking room. Algae covered the mahogany walls, smearing the mother-of-pearl inlays with dark green sludge. A fireplace dominated the center wall. Surrounding this fireplace were paintings reduced to tattered, illegible canvases. 

According to the captain's widow, her husband's quarters were in the small hallway that fronted the third deck. In her words, he was a belligerent man who refused to sleep on the boat deck with the rest of the ship's officers. He prized his sleep and disliked the constant disturbances inherent to sleeping among his charges. 

I don't blame the man, either. 

He swam toward the staircase at the edge of the room. His flashlight passed over a fallen mirror as he traveled, sending colorful reflections dancing across the fireplace. He took a moment to check his distance line when he reached the staircase and then passed onto the third deck. 

Debris lined the floor. The entire hall looked as if a tornado had ravaged it. Ruined bits of furniture and shards of wood cluttered the water, desperate to break through the ceiling and rise to the surface. 

The door to the captain's quarters was on the wall to his right. Unlike the doors on the passenger's deck, the water had preserved the wood remarkably well, affording him a rare glimpse of the beauty the ship once possessed. He swam toward this door, his flashlight clutched tightly in his hand, and pushed it open. 

His flashlight illuminated a simple bedroom. In the right corner floated an ornate desk. 

He eased the distance line through the door and yanked open the desk’s only drawer, producing a muffled grinding sound as the hinges grated against the wood. 

Nestled near the back of this drawer was the most beautiful necklace he had ever seen. Its diamonds shimmered under his flashlight's glow. 

He picked up the necklace, placed it in a pouch fastened around his waist, and exited the room. 

His distance line floated through the hallway like bloated seaweed. Severed from the stool he had placed just outside the door, its only anchor point was the knot he tied at the edge of the hull.

He had only passed into the captain's quarters for a few moments. How had the line been severed in such a short period? He had secured the rope tightly to the spool. Unless a massive piece of debris had struck it during his absence, its unwinding should've been impossible. 

At least the line isn't necessary. 

Having the distance line was like holding onto a guardrail while descending a staircase: its presence was reassuring, if not always required.

Regardless, the distance line's failure filled him with paranoia. It was only after completing extensive checks of the rest of his equipment that he traveled deeper into the hallway. 

The water felt denser, making it difficult to move his arms. The beam of his flashlight stretched no more than seven feet before blackness engulfed it. 

You're just stressed. The water is the same. 

He kicked his feet faster. Bubbles drifted past his shoulders as he propelled down the hall. 

When he reached the stairs leading to the second deck, he paused, heart pounding. Debris engulfed the landing, obstructing his path. This debris had sliced through his distance line, leaving it floating in front of the stairs like a giant worm. 

The roof above the stairs contained no damage. It was as if the debris had materialized out of nowhere; the hallway appeared unchanged, making a collapse unlikely.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. Fixating on the issue was a waste of time. The stairs were one of many paths out of the ship. If he explored the rest of the deck, finding an alternate route should be easy. 

He turned from the debris and traveled further down the hall.

When he reached the other end, he found a metal door. He placed his hands on the rusted frame and pushed. The door swung open. He swam inside. 

Deep shadows surrounded him. Never in his career had he encountered water so dark. He felt as if he had traveled to the hidden depths of a cave; without his flashlight, he wouldn't have been able to see his hand in front of his face. 

The corpses of five men materialized through the shadows. They stood huddled in the corner, facing outward. Rotten, tattered clothes hung from their bodies, streaking through the water behind them. Their skin was bloated and devoid of pigment. Eyes missing, black holes dominated their faces. 

A dull thud echoed through the water behind him. He wheeled around, heart galloping. 

The door had slammed shut. He hurried across the room and wrapped his hands around the handle. He pulled as hard as he could, but the door remained stuck. 

He turned back toward the corpses, temples pounding. 

They appeared closer, as if they had shifted a few inches forward. His flashlight illuminated their faces with more clarity, exposing black veins that snaked from their foreheads to their necks. 

They haven't moved. You're just frightened. 

He desperately wanted to believe this—to tell himself that such thoughts were insane—but his brain failed to overpower his eyes. The corpses had moved while his back was turned. He was sure of it. 

His respirator hissed like a dying snake in his ears. His rebreather grew painfully heavy on his back. 

Keep your head. There has to be a way out of this room. You just have to find it. 

The corpses followed him everywhere he turned his eyes, mouths contorted by silent screams. 

He scanned the entirety of the room with his flashlight.

No other doors lined the algae-covered walls. The room was built like a bunker; he could find no discernible exit. 

Despair crumpled his lungs. His eyes drifted toward the corpses as if drawn by a magnet.

See? They're dead for Christ's sake. They can't move. 

That the corpses had survived in the water for so long should've been impossible. The Canterbury had sunk over a century ago. During such an immense period, the sea would've ground their flesh into nothingness. 

He pivoted his flashlight around the room once more. There had to be another exit. 

He noticed the faint glint of a window on the far wall. Almost entirely covered by grime, this window was difficult to spot and stretched no more than three feet on every side. 

He swam toward it, careful to keep his distance from the corpses. He wiped the grime from its surface, revealing the entrance to the smoking room. 

You can smash through the glass with ease. 

The water shifted to his right. He turned. 

The corpses stood directly behind him. His flashlight devoured their flesh, removing all traces of shadow.

Rope burst from a small hole in the wall and tightened around his wetsuit. 

He struggled against this rope, respirator roaring in his ears. But no matter how hard he worked, its grip strengthened. 

His flashlight tumbled from his hand. Darkness consumed the room, sending his heart leaping into his skull.

Heavy footsteps thudded on the floor. A hand grabbed his arm, digging deeply into his wetsuit. Another hand wrapped around his throat, driving the air from his lungs, causing his respirator to release a jarring wheeze.  

He swung his free arm above his head, striking his flashlight. He grabbed it and smashed it into the head of the corpse grabbing his neck. Its forehead crumpled like a rotten pumpkin, forcing its hand from his throat. 

The ropes around his shins slackened. 

He lunged for the window. The corpses grabbed at his feet, fingers clawing at his suit. 

When he reached the window, he thrust the flashlight forward. The glass shattered. He hurried through the opening, but one of the corpses grabbed his feet. He placed his hands on the wall and pushed, freeing his feet from the flippers, allowing him to pass into the smoking room.

The flashlight spun beside his head, illuminating the corpses intermittently like a lighthouse. They grabbed at his feet like starving dogs desperate for a meal. He swam toward the staircase. 

The corpses followed him through the window. They ran along the ground as if the room was devoid of water. 

Losing his flippers cut his swim speed in half. Regardless, he reached the stairs long before the corpses and elbowed through the debris blocking his path. He then fled down the hallway toward the second set of stairs. 

Six more corpses stood in the middle of the next hallway, backs turned. Blood stained the water around them. 

He flattened his back against the wall. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. The last thing he needed was his respirator giving away his location. 

You can't linger here. The bastards behind you will reach the stairs any second. 

The corpses in the hall dropped to one knee. Their hands clawed rapidly at something on the ground in front of them, sending a fresh wave of blood pouring down the corridor.

Ben could make out a window in the room to his left. This window was already half-broken, exposing the open sea. If he could reach it without alerting the corpses, then escaping the ship was still possible. 

It's a risk you'll have to take.

He bolted for the door. 

The corpses turned just as he reached the doorway. Matthews floated in the water beside them, limbs reduced to bloody stumps. The corpses had torn off his mask and consumed the lower half of his jaw, leaving only the top row of his teeth.

He wanted to lunge for Matthews—to save the man from such a cursed fate—but doing so would be suicide. So he plunged deeper into the room, using his flashlight to crash through the window. 

The corpses grabbed at his feet, but their attempt came too late—he was already speeding away from the ship as fast as his trembling limbs would carry him. 

He swam for over a minute before turning around. 

Bright yellow lights glowed from the ship's windows. The holes and rust had vanished from its hull. It was as if the boat had never sunk; its condition was the same as it had been the day it left the harbor. 

He could make out the silhouettes of hundreds of faces staring at him through the windows. They stared at him longingly, begging him to return.

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