Autistic Sea Serpent

You find the advert face down on the table. You’re picking up after your grandma. She insists her mind is sharp as a tack but her empty tea cups and loose handkerchiefs and day-old newspapers litter every surface. You scan the paper, and a part of you is sure there aren’t any more jobs like this.

The paper is yesterday’s paper and the various jobs match LinkedIn: nannying and dog walker and kitchen staff. The advert, the one, is stark against the others. You read the tiny printed words over and over, always getting stuck on the word WANTED.

Your friends told you not to go: what kind of job asks you to meet in the middle of the woods? What kind of jobs has no website or contact info? What kind of jobs were advertised in the goddamn paper? You friends wouldn’t get it.

Anastasia, your best friend since third class, tells you to keep your “Find My Phone” on and call when you get there. She really wouldn’t get it. Your grandma tells you that this is the world, the other version of it, and you are her granddaughter. So go.

You walk the three and a half miles in high heels. This job probably wouldn’t even expect high heels, but old habits die hard. You were once convinced in college your girlfriend cast a curse on you, the sleepless nights and a relentless rash proved it. Now that you’re an adult, an adult-adult, you don't think so anymore. If anything was a witch’s spell, it was LinkedIn. Hours and hours of youth wasted on the same go-around.

5 years of experience and 3 different references and no street parking but the bus is only a block away. You can walk, right? Unpaid overtime and shaving your legs to go sit for an hour in an uncomfortable plastic chair. That’s an unusual last name, is it a family one? Ah. I see.

You can walk for a long while. Your heels slup, slup, slup in the soupy ground and it takes you longer than you’d like to look around. The street lights dwindle. The trees gather. The path disappears. The woods are thick and unfamiliar and an iron fence rises in the distance. Despite the late summer heat, the air smells of frost. Maybe Anastasia was right–whether you are your grandmother’s descendent or not.

She comes out of the woods on rail-thin chicken legs. Her skirt is short, cut at a horizontal angle, and she looks like where the punk scene from the 80s went to die. She has a studded leather jacket and bleach-blonde asymmetrical hair. You shove your hands in your stupid suit jacket and check the skies. Half-moon, just risen, you’re right on time.

“You here for the advert?”

“It’s half-moon, isn’t it?” you say back and flash her a tight smile. You had had a sudden sinking feeling about her ability to write you a paycheck. 

She looks you up and down. “Spirit?”

“Ghoul.” You shrug. “Yaga?” She sticks out one of her stalky chicken legs. “Servant of one. Two gens back. On my father’s side.” Your strained smile gentles. “I’m Katie.” Her smile sharpens in response. “Stephanie. Come on, let’s take a walk.” “Was that a real advert, Stephanie?” You saddle up beside her despite yourself. “Cause if you’re just here to pull my leg, know that I'm pretty hard to put down.” She lets out a harsh laugh that sounds like it hurts. “I’m counting on it.” She winks. “Now, not sure I know your line so well, what’s the difference between a ghoul and a spirit?” What is a spirit or ghoul? What was a gig worker or a salaried one? Perhaps a whole length away. Stephanie pushes a bush aside to reveal a hole in the iron fence and leads you through. The grass turns from wild heather to manicured green and you emerge into a field of rolling hills. Your skin prickles. You might be hard to kill, but not to capture. You stay low to the ground.

“Can I be paid upfront?” Her breath smells of winter frost and fresh-turned soil. “You down that bad?”

You survey the trimmed grasses and gentle slopes, the unnatural prickle spreads through your skin to your bone. A house rises in the far-distance, and you swallow thickly. “Is this some Scooby Doo shit?”

“Come on.” She pushes your shoulder. “I’ll pay upfront. The only real question is if you’ve got a pair of lungs on you.” You toss your ponytail back. “For as long as you like. But, I gotta ask, are there really not any free banshees right now?” Stephanie’s smile falters for the first time. “Old world is dying,” she snorts. “Or just buried deep enough to feel that way.” “We’re still here.” “Still here.” She slips you two hundred and takes you to the side of a small lake. The water is murky and the edges form an unnatural drop. She hands you a lightweight dress, gauzy and impossibly white, and you wrinkle your nose. You looked back and forth between the far-distant house and the lake.

It took you the whole walk to place the gate and the house and the land: The Turnpikes. Built almost seven generations back and larger than ever. You couldn’t imagine. The old world was dying, but you supposed it was also just right there. You put the dress on and kick your heels off. Gathering your stuff, Stephanie gives you a big thumbs up and backs away. You take a deep breath, you don't need many, but you had a feeling it would count.

A light in the far-distant window turns on. You see your grandma in your mind’s eye, her tangled green hair and wicked little smiles. All this for two hundred? But a ghoul isn't a banshee. You jump in feet first.

The wet and the cold and the dank water with no memory swallows you. You submerge in the tiny manmade lake, and when you come out, you come out screaming.

The fear of ghouls is an ancient one–something hard to kill. That can walk forever, fight forever, go Without forever. And you think, as you toss your head back, drip water, and let your lungs rattle in your chest, that you might scream forever too.

For two hundred bucks, a ghoul can be a banshee and a world can be made old and new and when you scream, you can scream until you’re made real again.

------------

A month later, an advert appears in the paper. You wouldn’t normally answer, the odds of getting caught would go up every time you do stupid shit, but your bike spoke broke. DoorDash had been suiting you just fine–you really could bike forever. But the spoke on your bike split like someone snapping their fingers and your heart sank. You used to love biking.

Plus, the advert felt targeted. Near the back of the paper, you’d been checking them every day now, and it was barely a paragraph. WANTED: Spirit or Ghoul with high endurance. Strong preference for ghoul. Flexible hours and attire. Temporary position, paid upfront. Meet at crossroads at twilight.

It was dated for that day. How presumptuous, you think, and you fold the newspaper in half and then in half again like you’re storing good wedding linen.

“I’m going out, grandma!” you call toward the drawing room.

Your grandma mutters to herself, she was a muttery person, before yelling back: “bah! No need to always tell me, you’re an adult, kitty Kate.” The statement was a little at odds with your childhood nickname, but grandma was always insisting you fly to Paris on your own or adopt a hellhound or buy a house. Well, you’d like those things too.

You're out the door in late afternoon. No heels this time, and your pantsuit had gotten a small grass stain last time so leave that too. You walk because of the bike situation, and you walk even more quickly when you’re out of your neighborhood. There were several devil’s crossroads throughout the city, most were tourist traps, but everyone agreed Old Town really did host an intersection of the otherworld. It was also a tourist trap, naturally.

You leave the sidewalk and walk up and then down several stone streets that become stonier with every block. Old Town is lousy with crowds and you suddenly wish you’d worn your pantsuit and heels. A ghoul that looks like she has a business degree might turn out better in their photos, you think.

Head down, eyes on your feet, you almost run headlong into her. She has a the same crooked smile that matches her crooked nose.

“You made it.” Stephanie is wearing a studied leather belt and a pair of black skinny jeans. You pang with jealousy–it must be easy for her to throw on pants or a long skirt and blend right in. “You’re early.”

You muster a smile and check the skyline. “Too early?”

She shrugs. “Depends on if you want the job. Come on, this way.”

Glancing around, you slide a face mask on. No way are you going to be identifiable near Stephanie and her gigs. You walk in step toward the back alleys, thick with shadows and crisscrossing side streets.

“I like the new hair,” Stephanie says as you walk.

You touch the ends of your shortened hairdo. “Thanks.” You muster a better smile. “I was going for morning weather lady.”

“Want to be on the news?” She snorts, and you don’t mention you interviewed at a local radio station. You didn’t make it to the second round. Stephanie points at her own head. “I was mainly talking about the color.”

You feel a blush creep down your neck, and you’re even more glad you put on the face mask on. Had you meant to bleach your hair the same white as hers? God, you’re embarrassing.

“It’ll fade soon.” You sigh, tosling your Weather Lady locks.

“Green?”

“How did you know?” you say dryly. “I used to tell the kids in class that it was part of a curse on my bloodline. Haunted by the ghost of grass or limes, I suppose.”

“I take it spirits aren't the source?” You kind of like that you have her attention, this stranger out of time.

“Nah.” You smile behind your mask and lower your voice, “my family’s favorite symbiote. Can’t get enough of us.” You refrain from saying the word “fungus” since no one wants to hear their companion has a mossy covering from her hair to her teeth. You’d tried dying your hair a hundred different colors as a teen and the fungus always repopulated from the scalp outward.

She laughs, dusty and a little grating. “Is that the difference between a ghoul and a spirit, then? One has phantom green and the other makes their own.”

“Something like that . . .” You are distracted by the empty street ahead. Old Town takes a drastic turn into a residential district, pock-marked by dank puddles and frayed laundry lines. The doors are firmly shut on either side of you, and Stephanie leads around the corner to a layer of bright yellow tape.

“Here we are.” She grins at the crime scene tape.

You set your jaw. “Paid upfront.”

—------------------ The alleyway has a neglected feel, straddling the line between the tourist district and the one for everyone else. An ATM sits at the corner, a soda machine, another machine just for bottled waters, and a third one, near the back, surrounded by a web of police tape.

Stephanie has you hang back until the sun splinters across the horizon and turns the sky a quilted purple. She nods, pulled her hood up, and has you duck your heads under the tape.

You follow as low to the ground as you can, eyeing the mouth of the alleyway. “Where are the cops again?”

“Getting special forces.” Stephanie rolls her eyes. “A priest. Come on.”

Crossing the yellow tape in a few bobbing steps, you see why they’re getting a priest. The vending machine is gently glowing. You cup your eyes, and press your face to the glass, glancing between the licorice packs and rolls of powdered donuts. “Jesus Christ,” you say when you see it, which is appropriate.

A fingerbone slots at the very front of the candy bar wrung, caught in the spring like a gruesome snack. The bone is sun-dipped yellow and cracking in places. You jerk back when you blink and the fingerbone reappears among the cracker packets a second later. You feel slightly ill.

Stephanie clicks her tongue. “Saints’ bone.”

“What is it doing in there?” you ask without taking your eyes off it.

Stephanie gets to her knees in a creaky, pained movement. “Some kids used it to pay.” Your mouth falls open and Stephanie cuts in, “Saints bones can be used to pay for anything.”

“Yeah--and for miracles,” you say pointedly. Like the miracle of getting stuck in a vending machine, you guess.

“Kids.” Stephanie says and makes a ‘what can ya do’ gesture. She adds more quietly, “hungry ones. And when the cops go looking for them maybe there is nothing in the machine after all. Maybe their eyes were no good and there is no illegal owning of bones or holy objects used as currency.”

You suck on your bottom lip and follow Stephanie down to your knees, hoping the kids at least got one of every kind. “Why can’t it get out?” You never see the finger move, but every time you blinked, it changed positions.

Stephanie propped open the mouth of the vending machine, wrapping her knuckles against the glass with her other hand. “Bit like a casket . . . Bones don’t leave the casket.”

You groan and peer through the vending machine slot, flexing your right hand and eyeing the finger bone. “Two hundred,” you grunt, “now.”

You get $250 for your troubles, inflation and all that. You jam your entire arm in and reach. Your eyes burn from holding them open, locking the bone in place with your gaze, and shoving half your shoulder into new, fascinating positions. The pad of your finger grazes the bottom of the bone.

“Ow!” You realize why no one else has yanked it out yet. “It bit me.” Jerking your hand back, pinpricks of sluggish black blood dribble out of the tip of your finger. Technically, the bone didn’t really bite, but it had become sharp enough to cut.

Stephanie let out a long breath. “I was hoping it wouldn’t register you . . .”

You growl, “ghouls aren’t undead-undead. It wouldn’t recognize me as one of its own.” Stephanie rubs the back of her neck and you let out another groan. “Whatever. Stand back. Give me some room.”

You blink several times until the bone reappears close to the bottom of the case and you jam your whole arm in all at once. You growl, knowing what to expect now. You tell your body to forget your hand. When you yank the damn thing out, black blood sluggishly weeps down your wrist.

“Fuck you too.” You throw the bone to the ground and shake your hand out.

“Hey! Careful.” Stephanie dives on the finger bone, slamming what looked like a shoebox down on it. The lid seals and begins glowing faintly. Stephanie glances up from the ground. “You okay?”

You cover your hand with a handkerchief before she can see. “I will be.” One of your fingers may have been dangling off but your grandma had remedies for that. The moss was useful for more things than just dye.

Stephanie frowns in a way that suggests birthday party cancelations or a rash you can’t reach. She slides you another fifty. “Hazard pay.”

You plan to stay and clean up any trace of blood or fingerprints, but Stephanie grips the box in both hands and turns. “Come on. The witch said we only had until the sun sets.”

“But . . .” You look between the back of Stephanie and the machine.

She waves a hand in the air. “We’re professionals!”

Who is “we”? you wonder. But the less you know probably the better. You check that the gore is contained to her hand all the same and run after her a second later. “Are,” you swallow, panting and looking at the shoebox. “Keeping that?”

“The kid swiped it from the family’s heirlooms, I suppose.”

You grip your pulsing right hand and lower your voice further, “should they be getting it back?”

Saints’ Bones were almost always stolen, claimed by raiding soldiers generations ago or crooked thieves, and kept apart from their holy bodies. Stephanie looks both ways before crossing the street, and then turns on you. “Should, should, should. Shouldn’t you be in the military? Ghouls get paid like CEOs there.”

You study your feet, sun disappearing behind you and leaving you both in the dark. Stephanie steps in close and hands you a brick-like cellphone. “Well, if you’re interested in more gigs in the future. . . I won’t have to pay any more newspaper fees.”

A part of you considers smashing the phone to the ground, but you take it in your good hand.

“So I can get mangled again?” you say this to your shoes, still gripping the phone.

She waves, weakly, and presents a meager smile when you look up. “Well, I mean, you’re good at it.” She shakes her head. "I am sorry about that . . . not an easy job. But. Still."

"Still. . ." You turn away, trying to hide the sudden warmth in your chest and temptation to buy a leather belt. She doesn’t let you watch her leave and you decide to bus home for once.

--------------------

There are no good interviews just like there are no good wars. Just the humiliation of putting on your best underwear and your best mascara and walking home with your heels in hand like returning from a one night stand. Well, one where they don’t want you. The first time the cell phone rings, you bury your head under the pillow.

You’re still recovering from the last good war and it’s hot. Hot like hard-boiling your brain hot. You’re not good in the heat since you have less sweat glands than people, less water, less everything. The fan chugs along and the cell phone rings and you jam your face into your mattress. You want to throw two and a half tantrums and declare yourself legally dead.

You don’t. You pick up the phone on the last ring. Your bike still needs a new chain for your stupid transport and stupid well-being.

“Hello?” A mechanical voice tells you an address and hangs up. The bitterness feels like a physical weight on your tongue. You keep your best underwear and smeared mascara on and change into your gym shoes. 

Your grandma is just getting in while you’re going out.

“Gotta a date?” she says in that crooked way that conveys a whole story: young people don’t date enough these days, young people don’t know how to live, etc.

“Another gig,” you say and maybe she can read the look on your face. How many interviews can one possibly go on? Two? Three a week for the rest of your life, maybe.

Your grandma grabs your shoulder. “Moneys not everything, lovie.” You want to grumble that that’s easy for her to say. “I’m not enlisting.” “Bah, and I didn’t raise you too! Just stop wallowing. You’re too pretty to wallow,” she began one of her tirades and hobbled to the next room. You roll your eyes and grab a small backpack.

“I’m going out, grandma!” You smile as that sets off her next tirade and you’re out the door. In the streets, it’s the kind of day that has forgotten how to end–a kind of eternal twilight of summer. Following the address, you pass kids jumping through sprinklers and families spraying each other with the hose and teens hold dripping popsicles as they loiter in front of convenience stores.

You fan yourself and fight off a nostalgia potent enough to drop you like a stone. You make your way through winding suburban neighborhoods into an oasis of shops. 

You recognize most of these little bodegas: a sandwich place, a tiny grocery store, a Chinese restaurant. “For Sale” signs dot the street just as often. The flower shop and the bookstore went under ages ago–who can keep an indie flower shop open nowadays? You would have liked to work there, college degree and all, you think. 

You come to a back alley and your spine prickles from one to the other. Despite the heat, you tug on a jacket and pull up the hood. You’re local here. You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing here.

Before you can smash the cell phone and run, a shadow on chicken legs appears. “You made it!” She grins. “Home turf too, eh? Perfect job for you.”

You crouch. “I still shop at that grocery store,” you hiss. Or at least, maybe you will shop there again soon.

“Sure you do.” 

You cut your gaze up at the other woman. “What do you want?”

She puts her hands on her hips. “What I always want,” she winks, “a ghoul or a banshee or just some sonofabitch to finish this.” You run a hand through your hair. “Alright, but I’m getting double hazard pay if I lose another finger . . .” Her eyes go wide. “Did you–” “It’s fine. All still here.” You wiggle your right hand in midair and feel a little peevish that there’s not even a scar left. The fungus was cruel like that. 

“Well, I’ll give you a hand with this one as best I can.” You scowl, mouth twisting into a squiggle on your face. “I guess I don’t pay to laugh at my jokes, come on, come on.”

She herds you into a deep pocket of shadows and you hear it before you see it: a low, crooning, howl. The alleyway is more of a ditch, stones fitting together like uneven teeth and a low wall of dirt makes up the back. The howl, barely audible, carries on the breeze. To your surprise, a tiny figure is huddling on the ground next to the mouth of the alley.

You falter. “A kid?” Stephanie slaps you on the back and the kid turns around, face blotchy and eyes a hot red.

Stephanie clicks her tongue. “He won’t say anything, will you kid?” The kid sniffles and he looks back to the alleyway, gaze fixed ahead. You join him, holding yourself back. You swallow whatever gasp or whine is trapped in your throat. Between two empty businesses, the thing rises with the fading light of day: a shifting, gooping mass, more outline than substance. Eyes flash among strings of pearly outlines, yellow eyes and teeth and wet snouts.

“Dogs don’t like me,” you say automatically and the hot eyes of the kid flash in your direction, so red it startles you.

“What about a grim then?” Stephanie takes out a cigarette. 

You give the alley another look and among the rising tide of spirits, a larger, darker dog looms. The dog lets out a low, mournful howl.

“It’s my fault,” the kid quivers, “I couldn’t–”

“Hush, kid, that’s part of the deal of you being here.” Stephanie puts a finger to your lips and purses them.

You put out a hand and she slips four hundred in it. Your eyes go wide. “What? That’s too much. What do you want me to do?” “This one is, uh, more of a personal favor. Personal favor, personal money.” Your mouth is hanging open. “I dunno.” You look between the money in your hand and the sheer weight of living ghosts in the alleyway. “That’s a lot of spirits for the suburbs.”

“I didn’t mean to!” the kid wails and tears at his hair. 

Stephanie shakes her head. “You try to bring one back, sometimes you bring a lot more.”

It clicked into place in your head all at once. You want to shake your fist and kick something. Instead, you shove the money in your pocket and put your hands on your hips. Stephanie laughs and blows out a stream of smoke from her cigarette. It smells like cloves.

“That’s what I like about you, soldier. Can do attitude.”

“Write that on my next letter of rec,” you grumble but you’re already at the mouth of the alley. Stephanie hands you a little box and you shove that in your pocket. “Dogs really don’t like me,” you remind her.

“Why do you think I called you? It’s not very far. We’ll use the whistle if I have to.” Stephanie did not disappear into the shadows like the first time and you realize you have an audience. You shove off your hoodie at the last minute and start walking. 

Approaching the mass of spirits is like entering a cool bath. The sounds of crickets dampens and the last rays of sun take on a blue hue. The chill is refreshing against the summer heat and the strings of pearly white part before you. 

Spirit or not, the dogs shy away from your quick movements and most-likely-strange smell. They nip and growl and you keep eyes fixed on the dark, bulky outline. The grim in the center is an enormous hound dog, a dog’s dog, and spittle drips from its maw. You take a steadying breath and the spirit is at an arm's-length when a sharp sound punctures the air and you look back to see the kid blowing on a whistle.

Car lights flash in the distance and the kid blows on his whistle twice. “The cops?” you mouth the words.

“Animal control,” Stephanie mouths back and stomps out her cigarette. Her blaise attitude has never annoyed you more. You pour on speed and lunge for the dog. The grim flattens to the ground and lets out a long howl.

“Goddammit.” You lunge for the grim over and over and the other spirits nip and bite at your heels. “Goddammit!” The problem of being a gig worker is the problem of most workers: you’re not really trained for most auxiliary tasks.

“The box!” Stephanie calls out. “The box.”

You take the box out of your pocket and whip out a length of leather. “Here boy.” The grim bundles itself into an impossible ball in the corner of the alley and then goes for your face.

“Bad dog!” You yell and dodge to the side, nearly avoiding losing your nose to a spirit. The grim turns to bolt the other directions.

“Please, Lil Bits, please!” The child calls and that is enough for the grim to falter. You whip the collar around the spirit's neck. For a moment, you think the dog won’t be material enough and the leather will fall to the ground. The grim whines in the back of its throat and you figure this is as good a time as any, you pick up what’s left of the animal in your arms and run.

You’re lucky, so damn lucky, and all three of you are across the street just as an enormous truck pulls up. 

“Holy hell,” the officer says, “that’s a lot of grims. Who did this?” The goopy mass of spirits is already fading into the ground and sky, but you’re not about to point that out.

Stephanie pushes you both through a door and you nearly choke on your own spit. The door leads to another door which leads to a field. There aren’t any fields in the city. You’re only stopped by the fact you notice a mound and fence nearby and realize it’s a baseball field.

Stephanie is whispering, “Come on, kid, this is it. . .”

You place the snarling mass of animal down and the collar still hangs around the grim’s neck, but just barely. The kid snuffles pathetically. You want to look away. You want to go home and bury your face in your mattress. Who needs this, right?

Instead, you watch the kid form a silvery mass in his hands and it looks like a baseball, a glowing baseball, in his tiny grip. Tears are pouring down his face and Stephanie steps back next to you.

“You know, you could have let animal control handle that one,” you complain, though your heart isn’t in it. You came back with all your fingers this time after all. 

“Yeah, but then they wouldn’t be able to say goodbye.”

The collar drops to the ground with a hard thunk and the kid winds up, ball glowing a silver halo. 

“As high as you can now!” Stephanie yells and the kid ignores her. He lets the ball go straight up into the air. The dog leaps. Its shadowy limbs stretch into an arch, all muscle and sinew, and it chases the ball into the sky.

“Go get it! Good girl, you’ve got it.” You watch the dog chase the moon until it is nothing but smoke and stars and wipe your damn eyes.

“I’m not sure I can do this again,” you say because you have enough to fix your bike now, probably.

“Sure,” Stephanie says. Neither of you know you’ll be the one calling her next time.

The day you call Stephanie is the day the weather decides to go bad. It sometimes happens—rolling in like a storm front on a random afternoon. They reported them on the weather channel and if it was really bad, sirens would go off. There weren’t any sirens that day.

You rest your head against the bus window. Another day, another part-time-nothing. This one was normal: an afternoon job in landscaping that your grandma recommended. You just needed to get to Davenport just 30 minutes away. An arrangement that turned out to be your grandmother’s second best friend needed help gardening. You know it was getting bad when your grandma was setting up pity-gigs for you.

You didn’t mind gardening though, liked it, really—you liked most things that kept your hands busy and mind snapped into focus. Hell, you even enjoyed Miss Patty and her endless stream of chatter. Like many only-children raised by a grandparent, you tend to get along better with older people more than your own generation.

The commute though, the commute was going to suck the soul of your toes. The drive to Davenport was thirty minutes, but the bus ride? The bus ride was your whole life. Bumpy hours spent in a sardine box of strange smells. There were good buses, great buses, in your city, but this one wasn’t one of them. A gunked-up metal tin box on wheels with no AC.

The bus is half-full that day and you’re still covered in a thin layer of sweat and soil. You surreptitiously pick dirt out from under your fingernails. Every time you wore gardening gloves they felt so in-the-way that you opted to plunge your hands into the ground instead. A 20-something young woman in a college jersey throws repeated looks your way. Ugh.

It’s noisy. There are two separate mothers at the front of the bus hushing their kids. One has a burbling fresh-looking baby with a pink bow attached to her wisps of hair. The other one wrangled two toddlers situated around her in different wiggling formations. One toddler kept moving to the window and the other was trying to grab a fly out of the air with his chubby fists. A day laborer still in a bright yellow vest sat behind them. Another young man, a college student you think, murmurs to himself a row back. The young woman with mousy hair and the jersey sat across from you—probably also a uni student. Finally, an entire group of chattering teens sat in the very back. You are ignoring their loud game called “WOULD” that apparently involved shouting out the word “WOULD” while giggling at someone’s phone repeatedly.

Your head plunks against the glass and knew it was going to be a long hour. The road from Davenport was mostly country and you pass through every version of weather. Bits of stray rain and wind, sheets of sunshine, and even a quick stint of hail that clattered against the metal roof. The inside of the bus remained a clammy muggy box where you sweat and sighed and waited.

The city appeared in the far distance right as a dense fog rolled in. You were technically only thirty minutes from the ocean so this sometimes happened. The older window-toddler draws doodles in the condensation.

The baby begins to cry. You keep eyes to the wisps of misty countryside. A sharp sniffle comes from your right, and you glance over. The girl across from you is crying. You frown at her, and she frowns even harder at you. Big fat tears roll down her cheeks. 

“What in the hell?” someone mutters to themselves before the bus goes over a large bump and everyone jostles. 

A teardrop hits the knees of your pants. You touch your face, and you’re crying too, large fistfuls of tears. You jerk to your feet. The faces of the passengers are wet. The sunshine outside appears to flicker and the fog has gathered into something physical, immense, shifting. A chill hits you over the head like a hammer and you sit back down in your seat. 

The bus driver gets a single sentence out, “we’ve seemed to have hit a spectral migration . . . stay seated.”

Dead quiet seeps through the space in response and then, after a long moment, a wave of muttering. A chorus of voices rises.

The girl across from you seems to speak to herself, “What do you mean, it’s only September, the migration isn’t for months. . .” “Don’t tell me we’re going to be late.” The day laborer gives a resigned groan. “I don’t see anything outside,” one of the teens says. “There can’t be anything.”

A singular voice rises above the rest: “HUSH!”

The young man you had mistaken for a college student rises and you recognize a priest's gold insignia around his throat—from one of the harvest gods, you think. The young priest puts a finger to his lips. A hush descends and you look outside. The fog is dense, lightless, a monotonous wall of grey. You cock your head to the side. There are no faces or shimmering bodies outside. It doesn’t seem like a ghost migration to you, but you watch all the same.

Ghosts can’t normally hear you, but the bus remains quiet all the same. You want to sneak to the front of the bus and ask the driver if she’s driven through anything like this before, but a stillness overtakes you. Condensation drips down the sides of the windows. A few droplets begin to drag in circles—like someone is pressing from the other side.

You reach, slowly, into your pocket and take out a boxy cellphone. You’d been keeping it on you as of late, but it had remained quiet since the Grim incident. Keeping it palmed in your hand, you inch to your feet toward the front. Most everyone has their noses pressed to the glass, but one of the mothers grabs your elbow as you pass. She has a hard grip and very motherly aura as she looks you over—it’s almost flattering. Your grandmother is good to you, but not maternal.

You look back at her and she points back to your seat. You slowly shake your head and then make the signifier for just one moment. She lets you go, but mostly because her very fresh, doughy baby was whimpering again. The bow was about to fall off.

You clear your throat so the driver knows you’re there and doesn’t scream when she glances back. Surprisingly, the driver has an almost bored expression—she might not be the type to scream when she sees a ghoul. You hide your dirt-encrusted hands behind your back and lean over to whisper.

“I’m not sure this is a spectral migration, ma’am,” you say under your breath as quietly as possible. “I haven’t seen a single ghost.” You aren’t going to mention the moving droplets just yet.

As if on cue, the outline of a hand presses against the corner of the window. You jump and the driver, once more impressively, doesn’t so much as flinch. You notice, though, a single teardrop making its way down her face.

“I might agree with you,” she practically mouths the words, barely a whisper, and you both look outside to what you can only describe as a structure. The structure, a pointed black house, moves on legs of spindly poles as if striding through water.

Ah. Yes. You think. This isn’t the road. This isn’t the outskirts of Devonshire or the countryside. This isn’t the ghosts moving with the seasons. A door has opened, usually always by accident, and you’ve driven as easily as you please into the Otherlands.

You hunch over on the steps of the bus and make a phone call.

-----------------

The news that you’ve left your own plane of existence spreads through the bus in a trickle. No ghosts. No home. Just the Others. Everyone continues to whisper in the aftermath.

“None of you,” the priest has a thick accent so it sounds like “noon of yoo.” He gestures. “Are leaving this bus.”

The day laborer grumbles, hands shoved deep into his pockets, “fairy country. Had to be fairy country.”

You pressed the cellphone harder to your ear, it had rung-out twice already and you’re bouncing your leg.

“Someone is out there,” the oldest toddler’s high-pitched voice rises over the others. “Do you see it, mama?” “Yes, yes, darling.” The other, frazzled mother covered the older toddlers eyes with one hand. “They won’t hurt us. We just can’t let them in.” The little girl turned away from the window, which was at least something. “Why not?”

The priest shot a finger in the air. “They’re demons.” “They’re fae.” You roll your eyes and squeeze your phone. Pick-up, pick-up, pick-up, you think as the call rings. How many other people could be calling her right now? Though, you suppose you don’t know your handler that well.

“We need to get out.” One of the teens is breathing hard, chest rising and falling in hummingbird-fast puffs. “We came from back there.” He points behind them. “We need to go back there.”

The adults in the room exchange a look. “Otherlands don’t necessarily work like that, hun,” the mother with the infant says. 

“How are we going to get out then?”

The arguing begins. Offerings. Negotiations. Driving as fast and hard as you can. The college student’s eyes sweep the entire room.

“We should start asking ourselves why this happened. Fae don’t mess with you unless you’ve messed with them first.” The space seems to hold its breath at that.

The laborer throws his hands up. “I don’t mess with the fae.”

“Well, me neither!” the college student adds.

“If anyone did invoke them,” the mother pointedly was not looking at the group of four teens, “such as for fun or on a dare . . . we might be able to help if they told us how they did it.” “We didn’t do it! What about her?” One of the terrible teens pointed at me and this day could only get worse.

“Just because she’s a ghoul?” one of the other, maybe less-terrible, teens broke in. 

You want to crawl under something and instead call Stephanie for the fourth time, turning your back to the group in turn. She picks up on the second ring.

“What is it?” she grouches, and maybe she’d been asleep. 

“Hurry,” I say in a rush, “we’ve driven into an Underhill.”

“Who?”

“What? Me,” you recognize the whine in your voice a second too late. “I mean, a bus full of people on the way from a place called Devonshire. Bus 301, like only a little ways from the city and now there are Others out there.” And they were drawing pictures in the condensation. Stephanie allows for a listening kind of silence. 

“Hmm,” she says, and you want to throttle her just enough to get the throttling out.

“Hmm?” “On it,” she says, and then hangs up. 

“What?” you say, but again, she’d already hung up. “How?” A barn owl lands on the hood of the bus, jostling the entire vehicle. The people on the bus turn to look at the hood of the roof as one.

You swallow thickly. “Ma’am?” you say to the bus driver like she’s your elementary teacher and maybe she could do something. The owl is man-sized and, upon further inspection, is not an owl at all. You swallow against a growl building in the back of your throat. A ghoul’s natural fight response is sometimes called the Feral Response instead, but you don’t have time for words.

The owl’s eyes blink sideways and two skinny arms stick out from under the wings.

“Oh, that’s all?” the oldest toddler says aloud, her sweet high voice seeming to echo. “Well, I don’t like mine very much. I’d rather be Delilah or a Penelope, not—” her mother slaps a hand over the little girl’s mouth and thank the Harvest Lord or whoever that the little girl hadn’t gotten to the point.

You back away from the front window. “Ma’am?” you say again, just for good measure. Maybe you can’t drive out of the Otherlands altogether, but maybe you could drive away from the man-sized fae creature. The driver’s mouth hangs open and her eyes are half lidded, empty. She doesn’t say anything in return and you take another step back.

“AREN’T YOU A PRIEST?” the college student wails. “DO SOMETHING.”

The priest falls to his knees and begins a prayer of protection. Both wheat and barley are invoked. You tune it out, instead whispering to the nearest person, the day laborer. 

“We just need to stay calm. I’ve called someone to come get us,” I say, mostly for the need to tell someone.

“You called someone?” He says loudly, then, his eyes narrow. “There isn’t any single under a fucking fairy hill.”

“Unless, unless,” one of the teens, the very stretched out tall one that you begin to refer to as Evil Teen, begins. “No single unless you are one.”

“My fucking lord,” you say back.

“We saw you, we saw you make a call and then that thing shows up.” The college student gestures to the bird eyeing you from outside. “Sure,” you say with false bravado. “Fucking sure, I’ve got fairy satelights or owl wifi or something out here.” Though, it was a good question. How did Stephanie have a phone that could reach Outerlands? It was also a question you couldn’t answer reasonably without a very tedious story about your work history. One of the mothers, the one you have dubbed “frazzled mother,” puckers her mouth. “Who did you call for help?” She glances at the window. “How soon will they be here?”

The priest lifts his face, coming out of his prayer to wheat and so forth. “Perhaps we should back away. Make a plan for our lord’s intervention.”

Finally, a reasonable statement.

The Evil Teens eyes narrow. “Not with her.”

“Look, you can see my phone if you like for like, any fairy shit. It’s not even mine just an . . . an heirloom?”

A handprint presses to the window behind her and I swallow against a rumbling growl in my throat. The college student stands. “What was that? The noise you just made.”

“Uh.” The infant lets out a baleful cry and the toddler jumps to her feet at the same moment.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” the toddler says.

It was only by the grace of the day laborers' reflexes that the little girl didn’t bolt out the bus door. He catches her around the middle and pulls her off her feet. “Oh, no you don’t. None of us are going out there.”

The infant lets out a second piercing shriek and her bow falls to the floor. The frazzled mother lets out a cry. “Cyrus! No.” Both children wiggle like they are possessed by caught fish, but the younger toddler seems to contort himself nearly in half and makes a break for the door. The dimpling of his chubby knees are the last thing you see in a flash of white.

“Shit!” you say, look to the others, and then repeat yourself. “Shit.”

You are, you already know, faster than all of them, and you are out the door before one of the people can accuse you of witchcraft next. As your feet leave the bus, a shard of light opens at the same time. You don’t have time to be saved though, you have a child trying to become a changeling on your hands. The air is nightmare-wet outside, like a soggy hand to the face, and smells of salt and roses. 

Cyrus, the toddler, makes it only a few steps before you swing him off his tiny feet. “How are you so dang fast?” you cry, and Cyrus wiggles like he’s possessed by that fish again. And maybe he is. A pair of enormous wings block out the light behind you and you feel the whisper of cool breath.

“Give him to me.” You hear the words inside of yourself while your ears, your actual ears, pick up an inhumane screech. Tears stream down your face and these can’t be regular fae. You grip the child like your life depends on it. “Or I’ll take him.” You tuck Cyrus into you and roll to the side, you roll and let out the growing snarl from the back of your throat. The owl’s beak jabs forward and takes off a chunk of your shoulder. You hear the ripping sound more than you feel it, purposefully on your part, and dive under the long twiggy legs of the owl that are far, far too many. Dodging between the forest of legs, you run headlong into the bus.

The Frazzled mother stands in the bus’s doorway, arms open wide and cheeks flushed a reddish hue that looks nearly neon. “Cyrus, Cyrus, honey.” She leaps forward, looking ready to fight.

“Stop saying his name!” You fling the child into the mother’s arms all the same and crawl up the steps of the bus. A whoosh of air hits your back and you practically do a somersault away from the jab of the beak. You almost lost whatever ass you had and let out a low whoop. “HA!”

“Don’t play games.” The owl looms closer, delicately placing one of its many, many spindly black legs onto the bus as if testing it. “You are my guest here and my guests must be considerate.”

“Wrong.” You have never been more relieved to hear a singular voice in your life. You turn in place, mangled arm flopping at your side, and the shard of light you had seen before was a full blown blare of color—a tear to the other side. Stephanie stands holding what appears to be a shot gun, an actual shot gun in her arms.

You begin to laugh, which is the wrong move. The owl flaps its enormous wings. “The child,” it says. “Will be happy.”

“Wrong again.” Stephanie cocks the gun. Many of the other passengers appear to have fled through the portal and the frazzled mother shoots away from you both. Good. Only the bus driver and the priest are left.

The priest cocks his head to the side, face wet with tears. “He’s here.” You crawl toward Stephanie’s dark leather boots. “We need to get the fuck out of here, I only have so much flesh to lose.”

“That’s not a normal fae,” Stephanie says conversationally, still pointing the gun. She addresses the creature, “where is the autumn lord? Why isn’t he stopping this?” If an owl-thing could smile, it would be doing so now. “The autumn lord is no more and summer bleeds forever. Only,” he flaps his wings. “Our manners are left.” Stephanie fires the shotgun and you grab the bus driver bodily with your good arm and heave her out of her seat. The second she leaves her spot, the driver begins to babble. “No, no, I don’t, I can’t, we haven’t got the time. We mustn’t.” “Uh-oh.”

“Get her out of here.” Stephanie begins reloading her shotgun with what looks like purple powder that smells like curry.

You hustle the bus driver down the way and it’s only by an inch you miss the priest. He has stopped his prayers and cocked his head to the side.

“MY LORD,” the priest screams at the top of his lungs and throws himself forward. You aren’t fast enough.

“Stop!” You grab for him with my good arm but it’s too late. He flings himself past the mass of feathers that is the fae creature and out into the lightlight grey mist. The priest is gone before you begin crying again. The owl, again, begins to smile.

Stephanie steps between you and the smiling thing. “We’re getting out of here.”

“But—” I say, already forming a plan to pass the babbling bus driver over to her and go after him. Stephanie stomps near your good hand.

“Not the time.” “Take her. I won’t even be a minute,” you say, knowing you’re probably lying. You push the woman over to Stephanie like she’s a sack of potatoes and try for a smile. “Don’t worry, I can survive things most people can’t dream of.”

“We don’t have time for your dreams and I can’t begin to explain what this means. You're not going anywhere.” She thrusts downward and unceremoniously crushes your toe with the butt of her gun.

“Ah!” You let out a feral snarl just in time for her to shove the bus driver through the portal and drag you from behind. You are still snarling at her, eyes fixed on the place where the priest disappeared, when the air pops. You blink. A number of people who used to be one a bus are milling about in the middle of a dusty country road. Your toe hurts. Your shoulder hurts. It’s quiet sunny out.

FIN PART 4

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So I look up a pretty prominent Star Wars guild and message one of their council and ask them to poll the same question and get back to me in a week. They do, and naturally the fuckin geeks said "Death Star".

it would be REALLY, REALLY FUNNY….if Roach has been the same horse for like…..fifty years…..and Geralt doesn’t notice his horse is magic, because how long do horses live? 100? This is Fine. Horses, he’s found, are surprisingly sturdy. One time a catastrophic storm sank Geralt’s ship and drowned literally everyone on board but Roach was found chilling on shore, a-okay. 

Jaskier: So I didn’t want to bring this up at first, because I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t cool with your magic horse–

Geralt: Jaskier. This is a normal horse.

Jaskier, who has seen this horse appear on rooftops, in the middle of lava fields, refusing to swim but two seconds later showing up on the other side of a lake, and one time doing this for half an hour: