Story Blog

Her first day had been a whirlwind. After a four and a half hour drive, and an hour shopping for supplies for the week, all she wanted was to take a soak in the tub and go to bed. Despite its remoteness, the cabin was actually very modern. It even had wifi. It had a kitchen with shiny new appliances, heat, air conditioning, and a very inviting whirlpool bath. She had seven days in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do except read, watch Netflix on her computer, and get drunk by herself. There was no need to rush it.

She was in bed by nine-thirty, too tired even to notice how dark it got at night until she turned the last light off in the cabin. The nearest neighbor was over a mile away through the woods. There were no street lights. Clouds had rolled in, so there was no moon, no stars, and even if there had been the trees created an almost impenetrable canopy that no evening light could push through.

When Meghan flipped the switch to turn the light off in the loft where the bed was, she was shocked at how all the light drained out of the cabin. All that was left was the faint glow of numbers from the clock on the nightstand, the clock on the oven downstairs, and the clock on the small table beside a rocking chair in the main room. The bed creaked as she lay down. She stared up at the skylight above the bed, a surreal thing to look through when all there was to see was black. She wondered what would happen if the power went out, and was very glad her phone doubled as a flashlight. She made sure it was charging before dozing off.

Meghan slept; for a while anyhow.

Hours later she awoke with a start. If there was a reason for her sudden awakening, a noise or some other trigger, she missed it. She only knew that sudden quickening of her heartbeat and that light headed feeling as her eyes slid from side to side in the darkness. Her mind wanted to drift her back to sleep but she couldn’t go there, not yet. She listened and heard several pops come from somewhere far away.

Gunshots? She thought. Probably. She wasn’t in the city anymore. It was hunting country, right? People hunted at, she looked at the clock, three in the morning, right? It was rural country. Meth country. On her way in she drove by more than a few abandoned looking trailers and junkyards, all swarming with people who looked like they jumped right out of a movie that exploited the supposed dangers of desperate country lifestyles. She told herself she wasn’t being fair, that they were probably fine people. She heard another two pops, followed by total silence.

It was an eerie silence. This deep in the woods she expected to hear birds or insects or trees swaying and creaking in the wind all through the night. But it was a modern cabin, with all of the amenities, including insulated walls and weather sealed doors and windows. She’d closed them all earlier because the temperature dropped significantly as the sun went down.

She picked up her phone from the nightstand and scrolled through her tweets to pass the time. This happened way too often. Part of why she was so desperate to get away from it all was her recent insomnia. Her therapist and physician said that it was probably stress, and had heavily suggested meditation, breathing exercise, and all of the other bullshit advice that they give before they’ll give away any honest to God sleeping pills.

Her eyes were starting to get heavy again after about an hour of mindless browsing, when out of the darkness and the silence, a sound struck her ears. Click-clack-chunk–somewhere downstairs, maybe from outside. She held her phone still and listened very closely. Was it the wind? Her mind playing tricks on her?

She waited again for the sound. If it was the wind then chances are it would blow again in a similar way and rattle whatever that was. Nothing. But still something nagged at her. Had she locked the door? She had. It was an instinct. Probably not necessary for this part of the country. Even so, she had locked the door knob and the deadbolt and pulled the chain lock as well.

Click-clack-chunk. There it was again, almost five minutes later. Now it had her full attention. She held up her phone and got out of bed, frustrated at how loud the bed squeaked with every movement. She made her way to the wall and flipped the light switch. She squinted against the brightness.

At the top of the stairs, Meghan paused and listened again. She waited. An animal. That’s all. The light, or the noise of her moving, scared it off. Maybe the squeaky bed wasn’t so bad after all. She shook her head.

“Stupid,” she whispered to herself. She shut the light off, walked back into bed, and typed into her phone.

“Freaking myself out at this cabin for no reason. Welcome to the wooooooods.” She hit ‘tweet’.

She put her phone down on the nightstand and closed her eyes. She tried her meditation techniques: she took a deep breath, clenched her lower leg muscles for a few seconds, released the tension, let out the breath. She did the same with her upper leg muscles, her abdomen, her shoulders. It definitely had a calming effect. It worked to a certain degree too. There were no noises anymore, only her breathing. Sleep, she thought, just sleep.

But of course the noise returned. She knew that it would. She was half expecting it with every breath she took. Only this time it sounded different. Clickclick-clackclack-chunkchunk. Double the noise, and it sounded like it was coming from a different part of the cabin.

She got up quickly and walked to the stairs, only the screen of her phone lighting the way. She held her hand over the back of the phone and turned on the flashlight. She didn’t want to shine the light too brightly, just enough for her to see over the edge of the railing and down toward the back of the cabin. The back door was similar to the front, except it was a double door. She’d locked that too, knob, deadbolt, and chain.

Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she stared at the back door. The windows looked out onto the steps that led down toward the river, but in the dark they were completely opaque and colored in with black. It felt like a long time, sitting there staring at the door. She felt foolish, crouched and waiting for something to happen.

The sound came again. Clickclick-clackclack-chunkchunk. She was staring at the door when it happened, and she clearly saw the doorknobs moving. Meghan let out a gasp and covered her mouth with her hand. The flashlight, now uncovered, shone down at the door and just as the light spread over the window. There was nothing there. And yet the doorknobs turned back ever so slightly, enough that she was sure what she was looking at was real.

Her fingers went numb and she dropped her phone. She wasn’t lucky enough to have it just land on the floor. It bounced twice, did a small cartwheel, and tumbled off the balcony. It landed down on the first floor with a crack, resting face down on the ground, flashlight still glowing at full brightness, illuminating a cone up into her face.

Meghan kicked her feet and scrambled back from the balcony. She clasped both hands over her face. Her breathing was loud and ragged. It was too loud. She tried to drown it out, but that only made her whimper. She thought she was being foolish. Being alone in the dark was making her crazy. It was the wind at best and an animal at worst. She didn’t see anything. It was all in her imagination, and she was convinced of it. It didn’t mean she wasn’t scared.

She decided that light would help, so she got up and walked from room to room, and flicked on every single one in the house.

Would it be stupid to call the police? She thought that yes, it probably would be. Who cares? Someone was trying to get in. What’s the worst that would happen? They come out, look around, tell her she’s spooked for no reason, and then leave.

She collected her phone from the ground and was relieved to see that it wasn’t cracked. The case had done its job. She wondered what would happen if she called 911. Where would the call go? She hadn’t noticed a police station in town. Thinking about it, she realized she didn’t even have the address of the cabin. All she had received from the listing was directions to the place.

On the kitchen counter was a notebook that read “Welcome” on the front cover. She opened it, hoping to find an emergency number. She had rented places like this before, and they always had some kind of cute orientation book that had details about the house and points of interest in the area. She was relieved when the first page showed a series of local numbers for police, fire, and emergency medical services.

She pulled out her phone and dialed the number for the police station. The line rang through, clear as a bell. While she waited for them to answer, she looked back down at the notebook and something caught her eye. A bright pink greeting card peeked out of the pocket on the inside of the notebook’s cover. She pulled it out. It read “Thanks For The Visit” in big block letters that were surrounded by glitter. Inside was printed:

There are no lights or signs on the way to the lake, and I nearly miss the turn off of the main road. A winding dirt path is the only way through the trees. I decipher the twists and turns by memory alone. The car creeps, because the wildlife in the area do not fear humans or their machines. Eyes shine in the darkness. Things move from the edge of my vision to hide themselves among the thickets. Although I am alone, I am not lonely. They retreat completely as I approach the turn to the cabin.

It is a sharp turn, and low branches scratch the outside of my car with a loud squeal. The moment I am fully pulled into the gravel drive I kill the lights and let the car idle a moment. My eyes adjust to the starlight that shines through the trees. Nothing has changed. The cabin still tilts to the left, the railings of the front porch are splintered sticks lying amidst amidst broken planters, the garage hangs open choking on rusted equipment, and the wind causes all the dry boards to creak and groan. A single candle burns in a window on the second floor. He will burn it down one day.

I am almost shy to look to my left, across the lawn toward the dock and the lake beyond. It knows I am here, but I do not want it to think I am too eager. I carefully remove my shoes and socks and leave them on the floor of the car. When I step out and onto the sharp gravel I feel it, that first tingle up my spine. This is happening. I am really here.

But so is He. Frederick. A distracting flame in the otherwise perfect darkness.

My uncle. He is the current owner of the cabin, which he named Scáth Corner, and he is part of the reason I am here. I consider not going in. It is not necessary, and he certainly will not be happy to see me. He has not been happy to see me in a very long time because I am a reminder. But he also will not know. He does not leave his bed anymore. Would he even be aware of my presence? Nothing can taint this, so out of respect for myself I go inside and I put out his light. Out of spite I cut the wick.

Now it is just me and the lake. The lake. Blackrock Lake. Named for its odd feature, a large fist of obsidian rock near its center, shaped from some unknown millennia-old event. Warmth rises in my cheeks when I see it in the distance, holding court in the still water. It is a pleasure to be greeted, to be seen so completely. This must be how it feels to walk down the aisle toward the altar, all eyes on me.

It takes willpower to force my legs to do their work and carry me forward into the grass. I shiver at the cold dew that drenches my toes. Shedding as I walk, I drop my clothing one piece at a time on the lawn until nothing remains. Modesty is gone, replaced with the desire to see and to be seen. Even though the wind blows cool air on my skin, it never touches the lake, which takes on the appearance of black glass reflecting the stars above.

Three large stones lead the way to the floating dock. The stones are wet and for a moment I am afraid that I will slip and fall. So I move quickly, feeling sprightly and excited, as I step from stone to stone. The dock sinks slightly under my weight, and I am careful to step on the cross boards. It is not well maintained, and several of the boards are rotted to near disintegration. The lake ripples smoothly like oil when the dock sinks in. I am transfixed at the stars which roll and gleam on the short waves.

I approach the edge of the dock and crouch to dip my hand in, but no, no need to test it. Faith is the answer. The water will be warm for me. It is ready and waiting, and would not want me to be uncomfortable. Ignoring the roughness of the boards below, the prospect of splinters does not even enter my mind, I turn and sit with my back to the lake. My breath comes faster. Despite my earlier confidence I am nervous. I glance back over my shoulder, and watch the Black Rock from the corner of my eye. It unfolds, fist turning to a beckoning hand, and I barely contain my smile.

Eyes finally wide open, I turn back to stare at my car, barely visible across the lawn. It is the last remnant of my life. I fall backwards and land in the dark water with barely a splash.

The water is warm and I sink for only a moment before floating to the surface on my back. I have always been a better floater than swimmer, which is perfect for tonight. The water laps over me while I stare up at the moon and the stars. This far from the lights of the city, every sparkling sun shines brighter, and all of them are out tonight for me. The lake carries me easily. I wave my arms like the wings of a bird to push me off and away from the land.

They never let me swim at night. So why leave me here after dark when there is nothing else to do? No. I will not think about that. Not anymore.

As if in answer to my wandering thoughts, the lake reminds me why I am here with a field of pondweed. The large flat leaves brush against my skin like dozens of caressing and pulling hands, dragging me deeper along the lake’s surface. I dip my head back to search for the Black Rock. I must have lost track of time because it is much closer than I have ever gotten to it before.

They do not believe me, but that does not matter anymore. No more thoughts. It is over. All I want to do is float, look at the stars, and enjoy the feeling of Blackrock Lake swallowing me whole. I am invincible now, immune to harm. I let out my breath, and still my arms and legs until I sink.

The researchers who study the machine at The Institute have two very clear instructions:

1. Do not touch it 2. Do not plug it in

Their attempts to rebuild it amidst these restrictions have been unsuccessful. There is only so much that can be accomplished by simply looking at the machine from afar. The inner workings are the key, but the danger in getting too close to it, even in its off state, is not worth the risk.

The original creator of the machine was Khelia M, a seventeen year old who built it as part of a senior year science project for [BLANK] High School. By all accounts, Khelia M was a genius, though she kept her intelligence under wraps for most of her life. It was an effort to fit in. As the only black student in a school that was predominantly white, she didn’t like to advertise the hyper intelligent streak that ran through her. Only in her final year at school did she seem to realize the folly in this attitude, and she began to show unprecedented promise, surpassing her fellow students in all subjects pertaining to math and science. It culminated in her creation of the machine.

All of the project notes were destroyed in a fit of rage by her father Roger M on the evening of her suicide.

The only surviving documentation is a shoddily put together tri-fold board that was left behind at [BLANK] High School on the night of the science fair. This board, covered as it was in what appeared to be the ramblings of an insane person, was disregarded until the researches realized the promise of the machine. The graphs had curves and plotted points. Frequencies were listed in unknowable order. Everything was scribbled over and over again until the handwritten data points looked like a photograph taken with a shaky hand. The only legible part of the project board was the title itself, and the official name of Khelia M’s invention as represented in the records of The Institute. She called it a Compound Reality Tuner.

The Institute obtained information from two of the judges of the [BLANK] High School senior science fair regarding Khelia N and her project.

Farah S, Chemistry teacher, described it as: “Uninspired nonsense. Something out of science fiction. A pretty metal box with glowing coils and a light vibration that caused the baseball in the center of the pedestal to slowly shift and rotate in its container. An interesting effect, but not one with any scientific significance. There was no hypothesis, no documentation, no goal for the experiment.”

The second judge, Wayland F, Math and Calculus teacher, was more generous in his description. “The effort was there. The concept was fascinating, even if it was a little confusing. In another year or two, we might have seen something truly remarkable from Miss (N). This device, this machine, just wasn’t there yet.”

Upon further discussion, researchers from The Institute were not impressed with Wayland F’s knowledge on the subject, and felt that he was simply offering generic positive feedback on a project he didn’t understand.

When asked to describe Khelia N’s mental state on the day of the science fair, both teachers offered minimal feedback. Wayland F continued his offering of worthless platitudes which the researchers found completely unhelpful. Farah S was more blunt, and said that Khelia N “looked frazzled and completely out of it. It isn’t uncommon for the pressures of our accelerated programs to manifest themselves in the declining mental and physical health of the students. It is the toll they pay on the road to excellence. She was pushed to succeed and was pushed too far. Considering what happened, that probably sounds stern of me, but there’s no reason to sugar coat it.”

The two teachers were more forthcoming in regards to their colleague, the third teacher assigned as a judge for the [BLANK] High School senior science fair, Environmental Sciences teacher, Tom G, known henceforth as Subject One.

According to Farah S, Subject One spent several minutes conversing with Khelia N regarding her project. They were neighbors, so Subject One did know Khelia N better than the other two judges. Later, during awards deliberation, Subject One commented on Khelia N’s appearance and that she appeared to be stressed out and overworked. Subject One was clearly worried about the student’s well being, and, according to Farah S, was maybe a little too concerned:

“Was something going on there? I don’t know. Maybe. Their fates are too similar to ignore it completely. He was watching from his window that night. Everyone in the neighborhood saw him up there staring. Yes of course, watching the girl’s father tearing his hair out as his daughter dies on the front lawn is a traumatic event for anyone to witness. But at the end of the day what did it really affect in (Subject One)’s life?”

At 2:23am, Friday May 15, 2015, a 911 call was placed from the home of Donna L. Donna L lived across the street from Khelia N and family, and two doors down from Subject One. The Institute was not able to obtain a transcript of that call, as it is still considered part of an open investigation. Researchers were able to sit down with Donna L and take an account of what she witnessed that evening.

“I heard a loud bang from outside. Woke me up it was so loud. At first I thought it was a gunshot, so I got up to look out the window. It was (Roger M). He was in the driveway, but it wasn’t a gun, he had some object that he was smashing over and over again with a crowbar. I didn’t even see (Khelia M) right away. Just thought (Roger M) had gone nuts or something. Then I looked over and there she was on the front lawn. He kept shouting something, I think it was ‘evil thing’ or something like that. I never saw her get up, but no one is telling us what happened to her. He killed her, didn’t he?”

It likely was a gunshot that Donna L heard that evening.

Researchers for The Institute were able to access surveillance footage that was illegally obtained from the family’s home computer. Khelia M had an argument with her father that evening during which he threatened to destroy the Compound Reality Tuner. Not much video was captured by the home computer, which is located in the corner of the living room. But the audio was very revealing. Khelia M is largely unintelligible, but it is very clear that she is upset and confused. She rambles, says the same thing over and over like a skipping record. One of the things she says very clearly several times is that Roger M barely even exists anymore. Roger M is more clear. He believes that she has been driven crazy by her invention, that she is obsessed, and that it needs to stop. He called it “devil machine” several times in their argument.

In the final moments captured by the family computer, the front door can be heard opening, followed by a gunshot. Khelia N shot herself in the chest in the living room while her father took the machine outside. He came back in, called 911, then picked her up and took her out to the lawn. While he waited for the ambulance, while his daughter bled to death in the grass, he smashed the machine in the driveway. When he considered the job done, he went over to his daughter’s side, and wept over her.

Subject One watched the whole thing as well. But he was distracted. The symptoms of exposure to the machine had already started.

There are several eye witness accounts that confirm Subject One interacted directly with the machine during its display at the [BLANK] High School science fair. The student displaying next to Khelia N, a girl named Paula A, stated that Subject One reached his hand in between the two halves of the machine. Another witness, a student named Brian W, stated that the baseball looked like it was about to topple from its stand, and that Subject One touched it to steady it while the machine was running. It is believed that this interaction, no matter how brief, was enough to cause the difficulties that followed.

Subject One came to The Institute one week after his exposure to the machine. He was admitted to a mental health ward at [BLANK] Hospital the previous day, and experts from The Institute were called to consult on the matter. After an hour of interviews, the decision was made to move Subject One to The Institute’s facility. Due to the top secret nature of our work, Subject One’s husband could not be informed of the move. It is an unfortunate consequence of our work and we do hope that once the research is concluded that the benefits will outweigh any of the emotional distress caused by these procedures.

Subject One displayed the following symptoms:

1. Visual and auditory hallucinations 2. Blurred vision 3. Panic attacks 4. Twitching muscles 5. Heavy flinch reflex 6. Debilitating inability to focus 7. Insomnia

The original interviews with Subject One were extremely difficult. Only through a significant cocktail of sedatives and stimulants were were able to determine what, in Subject One’s own words, was truly wrong with him.

Under sedation, Subject One described his illness in his own words. He stated that “it feels like an insect eye, thousands of images in separate cells, but all layered on top of each other. Each one shows me a slightly different version of what I see. I’m not even here in some of them. I see my house, I see several picnics, I see different hospitals, and nothing at all. You are the clearest, but that won’t last. It never lasts.”

Subject One also describes his first experience of this effect, back when it was minimal. He said “I woke up that evening when I heard a crack from outside. I went and looked out the window and saw Khelia (N) and her father on their lawn. I saw her father in two places at once. One was by his daughter’s side, and one was in the driveway. I looked away and saw (Subject One’s Husband) sitting up in bed, but he was also lying down as well. The him that was still lying down sat up and the two hims seemed to join together. I just thought it was my eyes playing tricks on me. It got much worse after that.”

He also talked about Khelia N and her science fair project. “I had trouble understanding the project. I don’t know what she was trying to accomplish and she couldn’t describe it to me. If she was experiencing anything like what I am, I can’t believe she was even standing there. The machine looked dangerous. It glowed strange colors. The baseball inside of it turned around in its stand like it was being vibrated. I thought it was going to fall so I put my finger on it to steady it. Reflex more than anything. I didn’t get shocked or burned though. When I touched it, Khelia nearly jumped out of her seat, but then she sat back down and apologized to me several times.”

The conversation with Subject One did not last very long before he lapsed back into his delusions and hallucinations. It seemed that the more time passed, the worse his condition got. He became so distressed that The Institute and the doctors assigned to Subject One decided it would be best to induce a coma. Even in his comatose state, Subject One tossed and turned constantly, and was clearly in a distressed state.

Based on the information The Institute received from Subject One, several theories about the effect caused by interaction with the machine were developed.

One theory has to do with the concept of infrasound. The machine may generate a frequency that is imperceptible to the human ear, but will vibrate the fluids in the ear, eyes, and even brain to hallucinatory ends. It’s possible even that interacting with the field generated by the machine may cause this vibration frequency to self-sustain within the human body. Khelia N and Subject One may have interacted similarly with the machine, and as a result were infected (so to speak) with this malady. The vibration would have to be so minute that even our instruments could not detect it, at least so far. For this to cause such a growing ill effect, the vibration would need to be increasing in strength within the human body minus outside stimuli. We are monitoring Subject One with this in mind to see if this vibration can be detected.

Another more controversial theory is that the machine does what its name suggests. It generates a field between the two side panels that connects and cycles through parallel realities. It “tunes” the field, moving an object through these realities. To what end, we do not know.

In this theory, a person who comes into contact with this field gains perception of these parallel realities. These perceptions, which appear to be auditory and visual at the very least, overlap with one another, creating a long-exposure effect for the person so afflicted. The effect is exponentially cumulative, meaning as time goes by, the number of parallel worlds increases to a number that is impossible to imagine. Even with this exponential growth, the differences between these realities are so small that it would take hours and even days for the deviations to be noticed. But once the deviations are spotted, it becomes so distressing for the afflicted that their lives became unbearable. Subject One is effectively peering through the senses of countless versions of himself throughout compounding iterations of our world. The majority of these likely lead similar lives, but the longer this effect lasts, the greater the differences become. It is even suspected that when Subject One is asleep, he may experience the sensory input from an awake version of himself in a different reality, and vice versa. Imagine every possible difference in environment visible to you all at once, then layer on top of that all of your dreams and nightmares.

The Institute is working tirelessly to prove or disprove the current theories. Regardless, it is likely that Khelia N and Subject One are afflicted with the same ailment. Khelia N killed herself as a result, perhaps out of mania, perhaps out of desperation knowing that her father may have destroyed the only solution to her problem. Subject One might have followed the same path, but he is in the care of The Institute, so the danger of self harm is no longer a concern.

In the meantime, the machine will remain inert. We at The Institute do not have any near future plans to turn the machine. For now, it will remain an artifact of odd interest, like so many others we have collected over the years.

“Yippee!” and “Hurray!” and “Whooooa!” and a measured “Tee hee hee.”

Zenith Grats, husband to Elgie, sort-of-father to Lonnie, paused in the middle of a swig from his third bottle of Kruikbrew’s Cherry Black Stout (12.5% alc/vol), and turned a confused eye toward Ari.

“I’m sorry?” asked Zenith. He misheard Ari. (“Kind of funny” that’s what he must have said.)

Ari lifted his metallic cigar to his mouth. There was a bluish glow, followed by the smell of minty oils that filled the air and were quickly tossed aside by a cool summer breeze. “Elgie isn’t very good at the whole bubble thing, huh? She’s getting maybe a third of the potential bubbles out of that wand on each blow.”

“What are you a bubble expert?” asked Zenith. “And what did you say about my kid?”

Ari shrugged. “I mean, okay look, I’m not trying to be a dick or anything but he looks like he’s pretending to have fun over there. No one could possibly like bubbles that much.

“Kids like bubbles,” said Zenith. He wasn’t sure if he should get pissed or not. He was fairly drunk, and unlike some people Zenith was significantly mellower when drunk.

“Maybe. I don’t get it personally. I mean, dogs like bubbles too but that’s because they’re stupid and don’t know what the hell is happening. Your kid isn’t dumb. That kid, that one right there,” said Ari, using his cigar-shaped vaporizer like a pointer, directed at Lonnie, like he were teaching a lesson and needed to indicate an important passage on a large blackboard. “He’s full of shit.”

The words rolled through Zenith’s mind and tried to find purchase. Anger receptors were firing. Was Ari being deliberately insulting? If so, why? Was it a fight he was looking for? Ari was big, stronger than Zenith, and he knew it. That might be why he said the things he did.

He looked around the back yard, taking inventory of things that he could hit Ari with if he needed to. The grill was heating up behind them; it was almost time to put the hot dogs and hamburgers on for dinner—(wire scraping brush, metal tongs with rubber grip, spatula). Elgie’s famous potato salad, covered in foil, sat on the table nearby—(heavy wooden salad bowl). The blue rolling cooler was half cracked open, over flowing with ice and drinks—(beer bottles-12oz AND 40oz options). Games—(badminton rackets, baseball bat, bocce ball-gripped in the hand like a stone, lawn dart-stabbing point)—that would go unused in their conventional sense if Ari kept up his tone.

“He’s being a normal kid,” said Zenith, and then quickly, “you know what? Whatever. Fuck you.”

Ari laughed. “Oh relax. I’m not saying anything. You get so sensitive when you’re drunk.”

Awkward silence. Electronic breath. Swig of beer. Mild stream of bubbles cascading through the air. Giggles of (false?) enjoyment.

“But seriously,” said Ari, “you need to watch that kid. That’s a deliberate deception over there. No five year old should be a fucking liar.”

Zenith felt the heat rising in his face. Never mind the mellow that came along with his drinking, it was all beginning to fade away, replaced with fury.

“I don’t even know why we bother bringing you out for these things,” said Zenith. “You’re such a piece of shit.”

Ari turned to watch Zenith, his face was blank, with no sign that any of the comments were affecting him. It somehow made it worse.

“You can’t sit there and insult my wife and my kid and expect me to just take it.” Zenith was clenching his fists, ready to throw down if Ari said anything that was even remotely insulting.

“He isn’t even your kid,” said Ari.

Zenith began to count to ten in his mind; not to calm himself, but a countdown to an explosion.

Elgie noticed this unfolding. She hadn’t heard anything that Ari said but recognized from Zenith’s posture that things were about to get out of hand. It usually fell to her to play peacekeeper, to end things before they got out of control. They only brought Ari out for the cookouts to remind Zenith of where he came from. He was the only thing left that resembled family for Zenith, for better or worse. It almost never ended well. But that was kind of the point. She handed the bubbles to Lonnie and walked over to her husband.

She reached Ari just as Zenith popped up out of his seat. He had fury in his eyes. He threw his bottle down on the patio and it shattered on the stones.

“You’re overreacting, as usual,” said Ari. “I’m just being honest. He’s isn’t your kid, right? Unless magic is suddenly real. Oh! Maybe you invented a time machine since the last time I saw you, went back five years, fixed your balls, and taught yourself how to fu-“

“Okay that’s enough,” said Elgie. She reached behind Ari’s neck and pressed her fingers into the switch, shutting Ari down mid-sentence.

Zenith was still breathing heavily, red-faced; staring at the powered down Ari with tears of anger welled in his eyes.

“Don’t you think his personality map is too cruel?” asked Elgie. “This doesn’t seem like good therapy. You look like you’re about to have a heart attack.”

Zenith calmed himself. It was over. “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe you’re right. Normally it takes him longer to piss me off.”

Zenith stared down at the slumped and silent Ari. “My dad was an asshole, but I still miss him.”

The raft, such as it was, had a rope tied around a metal loop that shuddered and clinked loosely within its setting. The rope dipped into the water, then rose again, disappearing up into the nearby fog, toward a large dark mass that was just obscured enough to keep its shape hidden. The sound of creaking wood and flapping sails gave this mass away as some kind of boat. Otter tried to move, to get a better look around, but the raft was unstable and it threated to capsize with every minor shift. There was something else too, something bundled around Otter’s feet, set into a divot on the raft, and tied with a short line around Otter’s left foot. It was a cloth bag. Ze brushed hir foot against it and felt hard stones within.

   The fog seemed to be in state of constant building and receding, because after a moment the boat came better into view. It was the rear of the boat, obvious by the site of a long rudder that jutted half out of the water. It was then that Otter saw ze was not alone. Lined up along the railing at the rear of the boat there stood no less than a dozen hooded figures of different heights and sizes. They were chanting something, low and barely audible between the wind, the splashing and that screaming.

What was that screaming? Otter carefully leaned hir head back down to the plank and then turned it to look in the direction of the splashing and the screams. At the edge of the fog there was something bobbing up and down in the water. Another plank, maybe? And surrounding that was a great bubbling and churning that exploded out of the water. With each bubble that broke the water’s surface there was a cacophony of shouts, cries, screams. They were different voices. No two screams sounded the same. Two words came into Otter’s mind: feeding frenzy.

Where was ze? How did ze even get here? It wasn’t often that Otter had gaps in hir memory, especially ones that left for no guess as to how ze ended up in this situation. What was the last thing ze remembered? A town called Musket. An inn called Pennywhistle. Footsteps approaching on the wooden floor. The pressure of a hand on hir shoulder accompanied by no hand.

“Now it is your turn Elodea. Are you awake?” shouted an old woman’s voice from the boat. The woman used a name that Otter hadn’t heard in many years. Ze went by that name a lifetime ago, during a darker time. There weren’t many still alive who knew that name well enough to correctly associate Otter with it. And those who did could be forgiven for trying to get rid of hir.

“You put us all in danger, and so you will join the rest in the deep,” a different voice, younger, angry.

The screaming nearby died down, as did the splashing. Otter looked across again and could see something moving just beneath the surface. Dark tentacle shadows wavered and squirmed beneath the ripples.

A defiant instinct rose in Otter and it made hir want to respond to the voices threatening hir. But that would be a waste of time. Ze needed to concentrate. Without hir gear ze was less effective, but not entirely defenseless. What Otter did have was wood, and rope, and cloth, and stones. With that, ze might be able to--hir concentration was broken as the figures on the boat began to chant once again.

“Abys oblit ni absit,” they said, over and over.

Otter leaned up again to look at the figures on the boat. The fog was almost completely lifted, which gave hir just enough time to see four of the assembled carrying a large cylindrical object to the railing. It looked heavy. It also looked to be tied to the other end of the rope that ran up from Otter’s raft.

There wasn’t much time. As soon as that thing was dropped in the water, it would only be a few seconds before it yanked the raft under and tossed Otter out into the ocean. The raft wasn’t stable enough for hir to try undoing the knot that tied the bag of stones to hir leg, so ze’d have to wait until ze was in the water. For that, ze was going to need air.

It was an old trick, one of the earliest that Otter ever learned. “An oldie but a goodie,” as hir mentor might have said. With a whisper, Otter pulled hir palms up to cup around hir mouth. Ze made a seal with hir hands, and then parted hir fingers just slightly to let a pinpoint of air through. With an uttered word, some ancient unknowable language that was more growl than speech, Otter sucked in a deep breath through the small opening in hir hands. It was known as the eternal breath, one small draw of air that steeled in the lungs and provided the sensation of breathing for nearly an hour. That ought to be enough time.

There was a loud splash from the direction of the boat, followed by loud cheering voices. The rope went taught in seconds, the raft jerked downward, and Otter was propelled forward into the water.

The sea water was warm, probably too warm. The heat was being radiated by something nearby. Bubbles filled with screams coursed through the water in the direction where Otter had seen the writhing tentacles. Ze blinked through pain as the salt water stung hir eyes. Ze tried to see through the murk, and there they were, creeping in the dark distance, fluttering tentacles pulling in hir direction.

They came closer and Otter was chilled by what ze saw. Faces, human faces, hundreds of them, bundled together like a school of fish operating in tight maneuvers. They were only barely recognizable as human. They clearly had been at one point. Now they were bloated, elongated, with purple swollen cheeks, bulging foreheads, long strands of still growing hair floating above the skulls, eyes socketed and empty, and stretched open mouths coursing with streams of large bubbles to carry their screams to the surface. In each mouth were long needle teeth, stained with blood, and dangling with pieces of flesh. They’d recently fed. The other raft’s former resident.

Each floating head was attached to a long tube-like throat that was no wider than a bamboo pole. They undulated and swallowed, carrying their meal down toward something; the body. The way they seemed to converge inward, suggested that they were all connected to one mass.

For a brief moment Otter felt a tinge of fear run up hir spine. Was this where it all ended?

As if in direct response to this feeling, the group of monstrous faces turned in hir direction and twitched forward. Fear was blood in the water. This creature, whatever it was at its core, was drawn by fear. While it definitely noticed Otter’s sudden appearance in the water, it didn’t actively move toward hir until that thought hit hir mind. So ze cleared hir mind, regained control, and seemed to become invisible yet again.

It was circling though, biding its time, waiting for another victim. Perhaps those on the boat were afraid in some way, enough to draw it here and keep it around for the kill. The stones attached to Otter’s feet pulled hir down further, away from the heads, and down toward its base. While Otter was anxious to undo the rope and free hirself from the dragging weight, ze decided to let hir curiosity take over. Otter wanted to see what was below.

The bottom of the sea became visible; as did the creature’s full form. The throats became one, joining in a massively thick bundle, and not far below it connected to the top of a sloped surface that was covered in overlapping fleshy plates. Everything was very dark, so Otter wasn’t able to see much detail, other than that the creature was massive. Its bottom edges squirmed and flapped and kicked up dirt into the water, darkening the area further. Perhaps it sensed that Otter was close, because it continued to move in hir general direction. It was looking for hir.

There was something else. Up the stalk, where all of those strange necks converged, something was emerging. A bulge birthed past a fleshy lip which poured out dark liquid. A shudder, and the bulge shook off a thin membrane which revealed a face

(a familiar face?)

What was that flash of recollection? It was a person that Otter recognized, although a distorted grotesque version, but ze couldn’t put a name with the face. The thing was too close for comfort. Even if ze was able to remain composed, fear had its way of creeping into the nooks and crannies of the mind. Eventually it will get close enough, and it won’t make any difference how much ze tamps down the fear.

Otter decided that ze’d had enough.

While it wasn’t necessarily Otter’s primary interest in situations like this, ze was very good at one thing. It was the first thing ze learned; another oldie and a goodie: killing. Without equipment it was harder, but there was the bag of stones still tied around hir leg. Stones could be used, but ze wondered if it would be enough.

Otter bent over and worked at the knot on hir ankle. The descent was still steady, and ze wanted to make sure ze didn’t reach the sea floor. It could be reasoned that the creature did its killing with those heads and the rows of teeth inside of them, but that base could be dangerous too. The skin of it, overlapping and quivering, looked like it was beaded with sharp nubs. The knot came loose and Otter pulled the rope and clenched it in hir teeth. Ze kicked and pumped cupped hands through the water to pull hir toward the creature.

There was the face again, the familiar one, slowly opening and closing its mouth, floating slowly up and away on its thin neck. Didn’t matter. Otter grabbed onto the lip and quickly went to work. It noticed this sudden contact and the creature began to thrash in response.

Ze pulled the rope off of the stone bag but made sure to keep it closed and pressed between hir knees. Ze reached around the trunk of the bundle of necks and pulled until the rope encircled it. Ze tied a loose loop to hold it in place. There was no need to knot it tightly for this particular ritual. All it took was a small whisper. A word, spoke in an ancient language that meant at its core “shrink.” The rope tightened on the trunk and its knot didn’t unwind. After only a few seconds it contracted into the throat flesh. A few seconds later it started to cut. Another few seconds, and the sound of screams echoed in the deep, combined with the loud snaps of severing throats.

Otter didn’t pay attention to this. Instead, ze kicked away from the trunk and pulled the stone bag up into hir palms. This next part was a risk, but was a necessary one. The rope would eventually sever the trunk entirely, but it might not be a mortal wound. The air that Otter held in hir lungs was keeping hir alive at that depth, but in order to cast this last bit of insurance breath was needed. Ze held up the stones and breathed out a long stream of bubbles. Inside the cloth bag a light began to shine. The water surrounding the bag sizzled as it turned to steam from the heat. Otter released the bag and kicked hirself away toward the surface.

The stones continue to glow and gain heat until the bag burst into flames beneath the water. They tumbled down into the fleshy exterior of the monster. There were seven stones in all, each white hot, each searing through its outer layers, punching charred holes through the creature’s body. The screaming tapered off in steps as each neck was severed by the ever constricting rope. Dark blood billowed to fill the sea. Eventually the screams stopped as the final head was severed. The only sound was the muffled sizzling as Otter’s heated stones did their job, burning the creature from the inside.

Otter felt the pain in hir chest as the need for air grew more urgent. Ze kicked and swam for the surface, desperately pulling hirself up toward what minimal light shone through the dark blood and the motionless severed appendages of the creature.

It died. Otter knew it in an instant. Because when it died, a memory returned. That familiar face that grew from the creature’s neck belonged to (Feder) a man. For an instant Otter forgot about the pain in hir chest as the memories (Feder) returned. Hir mind was flooded, reality collapsed. His name was Feder and he was a liar.

Ze was sitting in a tavern in a town called Musket, in an inn called Pennywhistle. Footsteps approached from behind. A hand landed on hir shoulder. “I need your help,” said the voice. “My husband was taken from me. They plan to feed him to the screaming sea. There is a monster there and I have to save him from it.” Only there was no monster there, not in the town of Limelight anyway. Feder was the monster. The town was a haven for the abused, the outcasts; people seeking refuge from the ones who were supposed to love them, but who hurt them instead. Otter realized it too late. Feder’s husband was there, but of his own free will. His name was Aliss. His face was covered in bruises, arm broken. He was shy and scared. They poisoned hir and Feder to render them unconscious. The old woman, her name was Mother, she was protecting the town. She explained this as they fell unconscious. They were sacrifices to secure peace, to end the suffering of Mother’s people, to purge the terrible memories that plagued their nightmares. Otter had woken up early enough to watch from hir raft as Feder was dumped into the ocean. When the creature devoured Feder, and made him a part of it, it ate the memories of him as well.

Pain returned. Otter was still underwater. Ze continued to kick and swim upward until finally, with a loud gasp, ze broke the surface of the water. Ze looked around quickly, searching for the boat, but at first all Otter saw were the faces, blue and bloated, floating with their trailing throats squirming through the surface of the water. They snapped their mouths, but it was a reflex. They had no life left in them.

Ze spotted the boat through the fog. It was moving away at a high clip, too far and too fast for hir to catch up to it. Otter wondered about the memories that were likely flooding back into the minds of the people on the ship. Did they remember the sacrifices? Otter thought that they probably did not. Maybe Mother did. Someone had to, or every time they fed someone to the creature they wouldn’t remember to come back the next time. Ze thought of the people of the town and how they were experiencing this. How many had they sent out here to the sea? How many of them were now remembering the abuse, not to mention the knowledge of all the people they’ve killed to forget? Otter only lost a day when Feder was killed. How many collective years had been erased back in Limelight? What kind of toll will it take on their minds? Suddenly Otter was having second thoughts about killing the creature.

At just four and a half feet tall, he was almost entirely obscured by the plants’ close clusters. His grave-darkened skin, wrinkled and chitinous, was like camouflage in the gloam. But there he was, roving in the wetland, his body twitching with loud dry cracks of bone against bone. Each step he took was accompanied by the wet slosh of mud filling the empty spaces his footprints left behind. The boy would wander like this for a while, but eventually he would find his way home. Otter needed to stop him here before he had the chance.

The boy’s death wasn’t publicized in the colony, and the funeral was hidden during the celebratory final day of the Cargo Drop Festival. Otter understood this. Rattler’s was highly contagious and the parents wanted to avoid being ostracized. It was a deadly gambit that ended up working out. Three days and neither of them had shown symptoms. They were out of the woods, but their silence created a worse problem than disease.

Ze needed to act fast before the boy was too far away, so ze pulled out the pouch that was filled with dirt from the boy’s grave. Ze’d collected enough to fill it to near bursting and hoped, as always, that it would be enough to properly entice. Otter pull out a metal plate from hir pack, rested it on the ground, and poured the entire contents of the pouch out into a tall pile. Ze dusted hir hands with the soil until it coated fingers and palms with the dust. Then came the knife. The hand didn’t matter. Each palm was crisscrossed with dozens of lines, all drawn for the same purpose.

Otter was the troublemaker, the outcast, the necessary evil. Every colony had one. They are the ones who learns about the forbidden for the sole purpose of keeping it away. Prohibition never works entirely and someone has to know the tricks of the other side’s trade. Ze crouched down, cut a long slice, and clenched the fist. It barely hurt anymore when the blood flowed. A red line poured down onto the grave dirt pile and Otter heard the cracking bones as the boy turned toward the fresh scent of death and life.

Without looking up, ze reached into hir bag and pulled on a pair of heavy black canvas gloves with striped orange jasper stones set into each each finger and palm. It’s unlucky to view the bloodless up close, so Otter tied a threadbare blindfold over hir eyes. It was embroidered in silver with intricate knot designs, the meaning of which was lost to history. But its effectiveness outmatched its shoddy appearance. Otter stood back up, held hir arms spread out to either side, palms forward, eyes open but seeing nothing; and waited.

Crack. Crack. The approach of the bloodless was loud, but it wasn’t the volume of the rearranging bones that Otter waited for. It wasn’t the footsteps. In the open air, sound can be misleading. The smell was the key. The wind hates the bloodless, and it actively avoids them, cutting around them like a slipstream. The scent grows strong as they approach, but once they are within a proximity, the air goes dead, drops like a stone, no upwind and no downwind. It confuses them, because no wind means that they lose the smell of the blood in the dirt. They hesitate.

Otter picked up the scent of dusty, semi-decomposed skin. It was like pollen and it tickled the depths of hir nasal cavities. Ze was used to it, only stung a little. The reflex to vomit went away a long time ago. Hir eyes began to feel that tingle as the curse tried to penetrate the blindfold. It was the turn of negative fate trying to enter the body and being deflected by the old artifact. It hurt, but most forms of protection hurt during the act of prevention.

The cracks grew louder, snappied left, then right, then from behind. It seemed to surround hir on all sides. It’s an old trick that was meant to spook the children. It frightens the ill informed, and convinces the victims that not only are they being attacked, but that the bloodless are everywhere.

Otter took in short sharp breaths through hir nose and waited. The scent disappeared suddenly, and the shuffling cracks stopped. With a loud slap, Otter closed hir hands.

Ze made sure to account for the height of the bloodless boy, knowing that it was once a child was not easy to think about, but it had to be kept in mind. There was a moment of resistance when the jasper in the gloves pressed to the boy’s skull. He seized, causing a loud series of cracks as his bones unlocked and straightened within their dusty shell. A low whine poured out of the boy’s lips as the air left its body. And finally there came the sound that Otter hated the most, a mixed blessing that both disturbed and made hir glad that it was almost over. It was the sound of heavy grained sand rattling against the metal plate, then forming into a pile, as the bloodless turned to dust in Otter’s hands.

Ze held hir breath, though no evidence had ever suggested that breathing in the dust of a dispatched bloodless caused any ill effects. Otter only recently started this habit without really knowing why. Until the skull sifted through the fingers of hir gloves, and nothing was left to hold but air, Otter didn’t breath.

Otter pulled the gloves off one at a time and stowed them in the bag. Then, carefully, ze took off the blindfold and placed it in the side pocket. With a silent whisper of apology on hir lips, ze lifted the plate and let the dirt and sandy remains of the boy slide onto the ground. Otter then went to work with the trowel to mix the remains, the grave dirt, and the soil below. Ze has never seen a bloodless reform from the pile, but there are enough stories of it happening that Otter would never risk it. The turning of the soil stops that.

My parents were gone for the evening, and my older sister Hannah was left in charge. Her version of in charge was to sit in her room on the computer while I watched TV downstairs. Hannah’s only rule was that I needed to leave her alone.

We ran out of soda, so I went down into the basement to get a new bottle from the refrigerator down there. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed the missing brick if it weren’t for the warm breeze that brushed over my fingers when I pulled the chain for the overhead light.

The draft had an odd moist quality, like the kind of steamy air that escaped from the dryer vent in the back of the house. I looked around for the source of the breeze and spotted the hole. When I waved my hand in front of it, the hot air left tiny beads of condensation on my fingers.

The missing brick was a few inches above my head. I grabbed an egg crate from under the stairs to use as a boost. The small dangling light in the middle of the room wasn’t enough to illuminate the inside of the chimney, so I took a flashlight from my father’s work bench. The air coming from the hole had no smell, which was good. I’d expected something foul, but didn’t hesitate to put my face directly in front of it.

What I saw when I shined the beam into the hole was not surprising: more red bricks on the opposite side of a narrow shaft. It was pristinely clean on the inside; no trace of ash dust or corrosion. Even the space where the brick had been showed no sign of cracked mortar debris left behind. Not only was the brick missing, but it appeared to have been removed carefully and cleanly. There were no chisel marks, no brick dust, and no sign of the brick in the basement.

I’d asked my father once why we had a chimney in the basement. He explained that it was an ash chute to make cleaning easier. The burnt ashes from the fireplace in the dining room fell through a grate into the basement; that way someone could clean everything out in the basement where making a mess didn’t matter as much. It made sense, or it would have, except there was no door in the basement portion of the chimney, so there was no way to get at the ashes. Dad didn’t seem bothered by this, and I never gave it another thought until that day.

My arm was thin enough to fit through the hole. I reached in, curious which direction the breeze was coming from. I figured with the grate upstairs and an open chimney above it, the air must be coming from that direction. It was summer after all. Warm air wafting in from outside was something I could imagine. But the wind was coming from below. I pulled my hand back, suddenly very nervous about getting it stuck inside.

How deep did it go? That was something I could test.

I got down from my crate and walked back to my father’s work bench. He had little drawers that were filled with nuts and bolts, screws, and other little bits and pieces. I grabbed three of the larger bolts, went back to the hole, and lined them up on the edge. With the flashlight raised, I flicked one of the bolts over the edge. It clacked and clattered, bouncing back and forth against the walls of the chimney shaft as it fell. I waited for the final clatter when it hit the bottom. It didn’t come. The sound, that light tapping, continued until it faded into silence.

For the second bolt, I picked it up and reached in through the hole. I tried to reach as close to the center of the chimney as I could, and dropped it. I wanted this one to fall without hitting the sides. Possibly there was a pile of ash or something that cushioned the fall and eliminated the sound. Or maybe the chimney extended below the foundation into the dirt. I thought if I listened more carefully I might hear thud that wasn’t metal on stone.

I released the bolt, and turned my ear to the hole, holding my breath, waiting. No thud. Only a distant sound of one quiet click, followed by another much later, then silence. It was deep. Very deep. And there was no sense of how far down the bottom was.

Inspiration struck me and I returned to my father’s workbench. There was a ball of twine sitting on in one of the larger drawers. It was still wrapped in plastic, and the label said that it was fifty feet in length. I tied the string around the last bolt and lowered it through the hole.

When I reached the halfway mark on the ball of twine, I began to get nervous. The hole, the shaft of chimney that extended under our house, was deeper than our house was tall, and the tension on the line meant that it was deeper still. A chill went up my spine as I imagined a deep cavern below our house, filled with who knows what, sending hot fumes up into our home. My mind conjured up monsters roiling in the depths, insect breeding grounds deep within the earth, lava flows bubbling upward and threatening the whole neighborhood. Lost in thought, I almost didn’t notice that I was running out of string.

It was nearly fifty feet, and still when I tugged on the twine I felt the light bounce of the bolt on the end of the line. When mom and dad came back, I’d tell them about the missing brick, and let them worry about it. I began to reel the string back in, but after only a foot or two, the line went tense. I pulled on the twine and it didn’t budge more than an inch or two. I tugged harder, no luck, it didn’t move. The bolt must be stuck, I thought, but on what?

A loud slam came from upstairs. Mom and dad were home.

It took me by surprised and I practically jumped out of my skin. Before I realized what happened, I opened my fingers, and what was left of the twine fell out of my hands. I could have sworn it was pulled out of my grasp. It slipped through the hole and disappeared down the chimney. I reached after it, stuck my hand into the open hole to try and grab the roll. That waft of hot air hit my fingers again, but it was even warmer than before, as if what was creating the heat was closer. I yanked my hand out and ran upstairs.

I threw open the basement door and found my parents standing there.

“What were you doing downstairs?” asked my father.

“Dad you have to come see. There’s a hole in the chimney,” I said.

“A hole?” he looked at my mom. “What did you do? I told you not to throw your ball around down there.”

“No I didn’t do anything. It was just gone. Come on and look.” I turned around and headed into the basement.

He sighed and followed after me. When we got downstairs I pointed at the chimney while I watched my father descend the stairs. There was palpable warmth in the basement, and a humidity that made be break out into a sweat almost instantly. I looked at the chimney, and felt my stomach clench up.

The man seated across the desk from Trey was Arlin Lange, and he was the business manager for Pharaonic Cruise Line. Lange had the corporate look down to a science. His suit was sharkskin, his fingernails were shining and manicured to a perfect white curve. His teeth gleamed white from behind dark lips. His hair was pushed back in a sculptured slick; golden rimmed pince-nez were clipped to his nose. He had a smile on his face that was equally amused and pleased at Trey’s lack of a poker face.

Trey had applied for a job in maintenance, something that was in line with his experience. Eight months at sea was tough, but all of the money filtered back to his husband and their daughter, and that was all that mattered. He could go the distance without seeing them if it meant a steady stream of income. Plus Reese could quit that shitty accounting gig and focus on finding something better. They could send little Nina to private school. The maintenance job for the cruise line was offering more than anything he could find on land, plus there was the added bonus of one less mouth to feed in the house while he was away. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have helped quite a bit. What was being offered to him now was something completely different.

It wasn’t so much an interview as it was a cattle call. There were a hundred men and women in a large conference room, all of them applying for the same twenty positions. Arlin Lange made an appearance, gave a speech about the new revolution in luxury ocean travel, and walked around the room introducing himself to all of the applicants. Trey didn’t think anything of the way Arlin seemed to linger on him when they shook hands. He had seen guys like this before. He’d worked for plenty of companies over the years and experienced executive staff who pretended to be your friend and thought of themselves as just one of the regular people. After they shook hands, Trey returned to his application. His head was down, so he didn’t notice the exchange between Arlin and the recruiter for the event. They whispered and pointed in his direction. Something about Trey caught Arlin’s eye.

Trey got called back for a second interview. This was more formal. He even wore a suit that he dug out from a forgotten corner of the closet. He was happy it still fit.

The second interview was one on one with the recruiter, a woman named Besda Mainyu. She had an accent that Trey couldn’t quite place, something Middle Eastern. Almost as soon as he sat down, she began asking him very personal questions about his health, his sexual history, his relationships, and his physical fitness. Trey was pretty sure recruiters were not supposed to ask those types of questions. Maybe it was something to do with working on a boat for an extended period of time? Maybe not. But he didn’t care. He was desperate to get to work and he wasn’t about to report a potential employer.

She ended the interview with an odd question. “Do you feel you are an attractive person,” she asked.

Trey didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t think he was bad looking or good looking. He was pretty average, in decent shape, had all his hair, straight teeth, he might have had the potential to be attractive, but he rarely put in any effort to clean himself up in that way. Besides, he was married, and since the wedding a few years back he had let himself go a little. He shaved once every two weeks, his hair was probably too long, and he hadn’t bought new clothes in almost a year. He probably needed to lose twenty pounds.

“I don’t know,” said Trey. “I guess I’m okay.”

“You guess?” she wrote something down.

“I mean, I’ve been told I’m a good looking guy,” said Trey. He wasn’t entirely lying, but the last time someone complimented him on his looks was a long time ago.

“I wonder if you can guess that this is not an interview for the maintenance job,” said Besda. “Mr. Lange singled you out at the job fair for a special position on The Osiris. Apparently he feels you have potential. I’m not convinced, but I’m not the boss.”

He didn’t like the implication of the special position. All these questions about health, whether he is attractive or not, his sex life; it made it sound illicit.

“What is this special position?” he asked.

“Just one moment,” said Besda. She scribbled a few notes on a file, closed it, and then turned to the computer. She typed for what seemed like an eternity, entering his personal info and the notes she took during the interview.

“I’m going to set you up with a final interview with Mr. Lange himself,” said Besda. The printer beside her buzzed to life and spit out a sheet with a small map and a list of items on it. “He will be able to explain the position to you in better detail.”

She handed him the slip of paper. There were directions written there that led to a part of the city Trey knew of as an industrial area near the bay. A start marked a building and an address. He was to report there tomorrow at ten in the morning.

When he arrived at the final interview, he was escorted to Mr. Lange’s office. The space was in a converted shipping dock that had been modernized and retrofitted to look almost futuristic. Everything was chrome, white tiles, glass desks, and gray ergonomic mesh chairs that looked uncomfortable. The other employees that filled the open office space were all hard at work, taking calls, entering data. Lange’s office was no different. It was a glass walled room, no computer, glass top desk, very Spartan, very simple.

When Trey entered the office, Mr. Lange pressed a button on his desktop and it caused the clear windows to fog up. The contract was already on the desk when Trey sat down. Mr. Lange slid it across to him without saying a word.

“I don’t think I can go forward with this without understanding exactly what I would be doing,” said Trey. It hurt him to say anything other than “yes” at that moment.

“Of course,” said Mr. Lange. “Have you ever heard of living art? It is the idea that the human body itself, alive, in all its glory, is more beautiful than anything created with brushes and paints?”

Trey hadn’t heard of that, but he supposed he got the concept.

“So what, you want me to like, just stand around in a costume or something?” asked Trey.

“Something like that,” said Mr. Lange. “I have an eye for this sort of thing, and I have to tell you that you have a lot of potential beneath your shabby exterior. You have excellent skin, good bone structure. With a little attention and the right training, you could look like one of the kings of old.”

It was flattering, but it made Trey feel uneasy. “Look, this is generous, it’s too much. I don’t know if I could-“

Mr. Lange cut him off. “Where is your sense of adventure? When was the last time you took a risk? Never mind how much money it is. When was the last time you did anything to put yourself out there? I’m offering you the chance to be seen and adored by nearly two hundred thousand people over the next eight months.

This wasn’t a concern of Trey’s. He’d never wanted to be famous or in the public eye. His husband might be a better candidate for something like that. And yet, so many compliments and ideas thrown at him all at once, somehow the allure was starting to take hold.

“Well, I guess it just isn’t something I’ve ever considered before,” said Trey.

“Of course you haven’t, but you should have,” said Mr. Lange. “It is not a realistic life for most people, but when you get discovered, you have to just go with it. How many of the glitterati you are familiar with started as maintenance men, shop girls, gas station attendants; more than you know. All it took was someone with the right eye for potential to come around and their old life is over, their new life begins. This is where your new life begins. For eight months anyhow.”

“I would have to consult with my husband,” said Trey. “And I’d have to read through this very carefully.”

“Of course you should,” said Mr. Lange. “Please make sure you read it very carefully. But also note the expiration date. Three days is, I think, ample time for you to make a decision. You are not the only applicant and there are procedures if we are going to make our embarkation date. Any longer than three days, and I will need to move on. I hope you understand.”

He took the contract and sped home. It took all of his resolve to not run every red light along the way. When he was home, and he had the chance to sit down and discuss everything with Reese, it didn’t take them very long to come to a decision. It would hurt to be apart for so long, not to mention the unusual aspect of a job modeling for passengers on a cruise ship, but the gains were too great to ignore.

Reese flipped through the contract, examining every passage for loopholes of catches. There were small angular flags indicating all of the places where Trey needed to sign and/or initial. He stopped somewhere near the middle at a section that was marked Physical Preparations.

“Take a look at this,” said Reese. “Looks like you’ll have to leave three weeks early for physical fitness training.” Reese laughed. “Bet you wish we had started going to the gym like I suggested.”

“So what I have to work with a trainer or something?” asked Trey.

“Looks like it. Trainer, special diet, daily skin treatments; the works. Basically a job and a makeover. That’s a pretty sweet deal on top of everything else.” Reese grinned and hugged his husband from behind. “Now I’m starting to get excited about when you get back from this job.”

The next day Trey returned to Mr. Lange’s office with the offer letter and contract fully signed. By the following week, he was living at the training facility and dormitory for future Pharaoh Cruise Lines employees.

The training, the Physical Preparations, was grueling. Running, lifting, climbing, jumping, and constant stretching. They did yoga, sometimes inside rooms that were so hot that Trey felt like he might die of heat stroke. The food was, in a word, disgusting. It was a sludge that was optimized for nutrition alone. It was supposed to limit the intake of unnecessary substances, and focus only on calories and protein. The skin treatments felt like they were burning every wrinkle and imperfection from his face, chest, ass, legs, everywhere. They had a menthol-like eucalyptus scent that was overpowering to the point of nausea at first.

He got used to it. He got used to all of it.

By the end of three weeks, Trey was in the best shape of his life. He was running five minute miles, lifting hundreds of pounds with ease, and he looked ten years younger. He sent some photos back to Reese who returned them with photos of himself swooned over on the floor.

On the final day of training, Mr. Lange himself came down to the training facility to survey the group of new hires. Trey was one of twenty other candidates for the living art job. They were all lined up so that Lange could do a final appraisal. He walked down the row of assembled employees and gave each a thumbs up. Once this was given, the indicated person was led off to their room to gather their things. The next stop was the boat, and their assigned position therein.

When Mr. Lange got to trey he gave him a quick look from head to toe, reached out, and rested his hand on his shoulder.

“I’m so pleased to see how far you’ve come Trey,” said Mr. Lange. “You look amazing. How do you feel?”

“I feel better than ever,” said Trey.

“Do you feel strong?” he asked.

“Yes sir, I do,” said Trey.

“Perfect,” said Mr. Lange. “You’re going to be my centerpiece Trey. We’ve got one more skin treatment before you head to the boat. Head back to your dormitory and we will be along for you shortly. There won’t be much time between now and the sailing date for you to chat with your family, so you may want to take some time this afternoon.”

“I’ll be able to talk to them when we’re in some of the ports though, right?” asked Trey.

Mr. Lange smiled. “Of course.”

When he got back to his room, Trey called Reese and said his goodbyes.

“I looked at the itineraries and it looks like the first stop will be in Fort Lauderdale down in Florida. I’ll call you when I get there,” said Trey.

Reese looked somber, more so than he would have expected. “Okay,” he said, but that was all.

“Are you having second thoughts?” asked Trey.

“Are you?” asked Reese.

“It’s too late. Do you know how much I would have to reimburse them if I quit right now? It’s a quarter of the salary. A quarter. I won’t make that in fifty years doing odd jobs.”

“I know, I know,” said Reese. “I’m just worried. Eight months is a long time. I just hope you come back in one piece, you know?”

“Of course I will. Can I say bye to Nina?”

Nina’s voice echoed through the room. “Bye daddy,” she shouted, and then she wandered away.

A knock came to Trey’s door.

“Reese, sweetie, I’ve got to run. They’re here for my last treatment.”

“Love you,” said Reese.

“I love you too.”

Two of the trainers that Trey had been working with escorted him through the facility to a room that he hadn’t been to before. The room had white walls, a white floor, and in the center there were two large metal frames, each with a clear surface suspended in its center. A short pedestal was set in between them; it had to spots that were foot shaped, perfect to stand on. On the inner edges of the frames were a series of tiny nozzles that were pointed inward. The two trainers led Trey over to the pedestal.

“Please remove your shoes, socks, clothing, and underwear,” said one of the trainers.

“What? What for?” asked Trey.

An intercom buzzed from above. Mr. Lange’s voice rang out in the room.

“Tanning,” he said. “This will give you that bronze look that we need from our art pieces. Don’t be bashful Trey. If you prefer we can have everyone leave the room first. You just yell when you’re ready.”

Trey looked at the trainers. “No it’s fine,” he said. He removed all of his clothing and set it aside.

“Step up,” said the trainer. Trey did as he was told. The machines started to make a whirring sound the moment he stepped up onto the pedestal.

One of the trainers lifted his arms and crossed them over his chest so his fingers rested on his collar bones. “Hold your arms like this, Trey,” said the trainer.

Trey did as he was told. “Like this?” he asked.

“Perfect,” said the trainer. “Now we’re going to step out of the room. Stay just like that.”

After they left the room, Mr. Lange’s voice came over the intercom.

“There is one more thing,” said Mr. Lange. “See that red dot on the wall in front of you?” he asked.

“Yes,” called Trey.

“Good. Keep your eyes on that dot.”

Trey watched the red dot, which looked like the light from a laser pointer. It traced left, right, up, down, and then returned to the center. There was a sudden burst of air that hit Trey from all sides. He tried to blink, afraid of getting tanning solution in his eyes, but he couldn’t blink. His eyes burned with pain. He tried to lift a hand to his eyes to wipe them clean but his arms didn’t move: they were stuck to his chest.

The two metal panes rushed toward him and he felt the substance that was suspended inside them pressed and mold to his body shape. It was hard, but flexible, like a thick plastic. Air rushed out around him and the plastic vacuum sealed against him, slipping painfully into every angle and crevice of his body. Trey became aware that he couldn’t breathe. He shook and struggled inside the plastic. Then he heard a light clinking sound coming from above him. Sand poured into an opening at the top of this prison. As soon as it startle to trickle onto his head, the pain became unbearable. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t breathe; all he could do was grit his teeth. It felt like he was being devoured by acid.

The tiny sand crystals started to fill in a minute space that was left between his body and the plastic surrounding him. Each tiny stone burned his skin to a dark grayish black. Where skin broke and split, more granules filled in the space. Even his eyes, which were still trapped open from whatever the initial blast was, filled up with the sand and burned until they were as dry as a desert. Some of the sand snuck into his mouth, and he instantly felt what its purpose was as every last drop of saliva was absorbed.

His mind turned to Reese and the dehydrator he used to make his smoked jerky at Christmas. He was being desiccated. Pharaoh Cruise lines, Trey thought as the pain threatened to knock him out, arms crossed, living art.

He felt his teeth crack; muscles tighten in instant atrophy, skin feeling as though it were going to tear like tissue paper. All the while he stared at the blurry white room and watched. The pain became too great to even feel any longer. His fear, his only remaining fear, was that he might survive. There was a draining sound, a sucking of liquids to remove whatever the pebbles hadn’t dissolved.

White blurs moved to orange and reds as he was moved to his place on the ship. His enclosure was glass, his position a place of non-prominence: one of the stairwells on the seventh floor, not even a promenade deck. He stood for eight months and watched blurry figures pass by. He heard the muffled conversations. Tried desperately to blink as the camera flashes went off around him.

“Beautiful art.” “Looks so real.” “So creepy.” “So gross.” “Where did they get that thing?” “When’s dinner?” “Is this our floor?” “Why don’t you go back to the room then?”

“Oh no,” Shel whispered to herself. She had sneezed on a plane from Brazil that was packed with people.

It was with this realization that she noticed the passengers around her were all staring at her with a mixture of disgust and concern.

“Is she sick?” they murmured. “Does she have it?” they asked one another. One by one the passenger hit the call buttons above their heads.

The two flight attendants, an older woman with a ribbon tied up into her blonde hair and a man wearing a bow tie, were at the front of the plane. They were arguing, staring in Shel’s direction, and donning protective gear. They pulled on full body suits that crinkled like paper, snapped blue surgical gloves onto their hands and placed a ring around their heads that had a large plastic shield attached which covered their faces.

The flight attendants turned to the aisle and walked toward her seat. The passengers were gazing back at her to see what was going on. Shel felt panic tug knots into her stomach.

“It was just a sneeze,” said Shel. She implored the people around her, all of whom shifted away as she spoke. “I feel fine. It’s nothing, probably just allergies.”

With every word out of her mouth the other passengers scrambled away as best they could and pulled their shirts up over their faces. The people in the immediate rows beside her all started to clear out before the flight attendants could calm them down.

“Everyone stay where you are,” said the woman. She had removed her name tag from her jacket and pinned it to the outside of her body suit. Her name was Flo.  “We’ve started circulating a neutralizing agent that will eliminate communicability.”

“It’s nothing, I swear,” said Shel. “I don’t feel sick.”

“Calm down ma’am,” said Gary, the male flight attendant. He reached into a zipped pocket and pulled out a thermometer wrapped in plastic. He tore it open and tapped the screen. The tiny tube beeped to indicate it was ready to take a reading.

“Keep that thing away from me,” said Shel. She was starting to panic.  “I’m not sick,” she shouted. “I’m not sick.”

She was so focused on Gary and his thermometer that she didn’t spot Flo sliding into the row behind her. Suddenly an arm was around her throat, a gloved hand clamped over her forehead. Shel shook in her seat, trying to pull free. Gary grabbed her jaw in one hand and squeezed until her lips spread open. He jammed the thermometer into her mouth and under her tongue. It bit into her flesh. She felt a rush of blood fill her mouth.

“Hold her still for Christ’s sake,” said Gary.

The thermometer beeped rapidly after a few seconds. Gary pulled it back and looked at the display. His eyes widened and he looked at Flo. “Ninety nine point eight,” he said. His voice trembled. “God she’s feverish.”

Flo stood up and turned to the rear of the plane. “I need all passengers to clear the aisles immediately,” she yelled, loud enough for all to hear. “Remain in your seats until we give you the all clear.”

The passengers had been leaning out from their seats to watch the commotion, but with Flo’s words they all moved back into their seats.

Gary wrestled Shel to her feet. He was much stronger than he looked. She was kicking and squirming in his grip, yelling, crying, and denying what the thermometer had confirmed. Flo reached down and grabbed Shel’s legs. There were gasps from the other passengers as the two flight attendants carried Shel down the aisle.

“I’m not sick,” she cried, over and over again.

When they reached the rear of the cabin, Gary and Flo wrestled Shel into the chamber beside the restroom. It was the quarantine room; every plane had one these days. No one talked about it. When people used the bathroom, they avoided looking at it. But it was necessary.

They shoved Shel back and pulled the straps around their arms and locked them in place with heavy metal buckles. They pulled the belt around her waist and pulled it tight. It was a safety procedure to keep her from damaging the inside of the chamber, and to keep her from escaping while the locked it down.

“You can’t do this,” said Shel. “My wife is meeting me. She’s going to be waiting for me when we land. It’s just a cold, I swear. I don’t have it. I haven’t been around anyone who has it.”

But Gary and Flo didn’t listen. That was something they taught you in the training. They needed to block out the infected ones. It was too easy to fall to sympathy; to make them comfortable, help them. That’s how outbreaks started.

Gary closed the quarantine room door and turned the locks on either side. Shel screamed from behind the heavy metal door. Flo pressed the button on the intercom to the cockpit.

“Captain, we need to do an evacuation,” she said.

“Roger that,” said the captain.

Sam knew that. The senior class rented the retreat house for the weekend, but it was clearly indicated which areas of the house they were allowed to explore. The whole third floor was completely off limits. All of the doors were supposed to be locked. But when Sam, drawn by some unknown impulse, ascended the stairs and started trying the doorknobs, he found one room that was not locked.

Inside, all of the furniture was covered with dusty white sheets. The bookshelves that lined most of the right hand wall were covered over with thick plastic sheeting. The standing lamps looked ghostly, tall and narrow, the shade under the sheet creating a disturbing head shape. Cobwebs covered the filthy windows. The sun was out, but the grime of years of neglect made it feel overcast.

Against the left wall, on either side of an odd looking two-panel mirror, were wall mounted display boards made of dark wood. Inside the frames of each board were dozens of knives of all shapes, styles and sizes. Most were pretty normal, but there were several intricately engraved daggers with curvy blades. It was clearly a prized collection, but they were not under glass, which made it feel terrifyingly functional. Each knife looked sharpened and ready for use.

The floor length mirror that sat in between the two display boards had two panes, cocked at odd angles. It was six feet tall was, and set on pivots with the two panels turned in different directions.

It was the mirror that Sam was there for. He knew it the moment he stood in front of it. He had an impulse to straighten the mirror. The narrow wood frame was so cold to the touch that it caused Sam to jerk his hand away. He tucked his hand into his sleeve and reached out again. He pushed the left pane so that it faced front. When he saw himself, reflected in half by the one pane, he was surprised at how pale he was. He was scared, but he didn’t even realize it. He pushed the right pane to set it in line with the left.

Sam felt the blood drain from his face. The right pane had a reflection in it, but it wasn’t his. It was close though. Three years had passed since his twin sister Laura died in the bus crash. He hadn’t grown much in those three years. She hadn’t grown either. Her hair was longer than his, but it had the same soft straightness. Their eyes, the curve of their chins, their nose and mouth, were always so similar that they could nearly pass for one another. The reflection of his sister was wearing Sam’s clothes. She had a familiar, happy, welcoming smile on her face.

Sam was reaching out for the mirror, and Laura was reaching back, when Brother Andrino interrupted.

Brother Andrino stepped toward Sam. He was a big, bear of a man, with a huge black beard and a gut that strained out against what were supposed to be loose Franciscan robes. He raised his thick hands and grabbed Sam by his shoulders.

“This is the problem with children today,” he said. “You have no discipline. So it is up to us to give you discipline.”

Before Sam could say anything, Brother Andrino shoved him. Hard. Sam stumbled back and his heel caught the corner of a throw rug. The room turned upside down as Sam fell to the ground. The back of his head cracked against the floor and he saw splotches of black. It didn’t even hurt, it just felt numb. Then Brother Andrino was on top of him, and the pain started to sink in.

Sam squirmed, tried to pull away, but the man was too large. He was expecting to get beaten up. That was something he was used to. Angry bullies shoving him around every day was a part of his life. This was something else. He felt the man’s large fingers pulling on the waist of his pants, trying to pull them down.

“Hel-“ he started, trying to call out, but Brother Andrino slapped a free hand over Sam’s mouth.

Sam’s eyes widened as he felt cool air on his hips. He struggled and kicked, trying whatever he could to stop this from happening. He suddenly went completely still, because he saw something move behind Brother Andrino.

A figure stepped silently around behind the two bodies on the floor. It was a girl, and when she stepped into the light, Sam noticed that she wore the same sneakers that he wore.

Brother Andrino froze when he felt fingers slide into his hair. The girl yanked his head back and her other hand came around holding one of the curved daggers. Sam closed his eyes, but he could hear the sound of the knife piercing flesh, the gurgling of Brother Andrino trying to breathe.

He opened his eyes briefly and saw the knife sheathed in the man’s neck and poking through the other side. Blood dripped down onto Sam’s chest. The girl lowered herself and pressed her cheek to Brother Andrino’s face. She looked down at Sam. Laura.

“I miss you, little brother,” she said. Then she sliced the edge of the knife out through the front of Brother Andrino’s throat.

Sam snapped his eyes shut. He felt the blood, hot and sticky, pouring down onto him. The man’s body fell fully on top of him and pinned him to the ground. Sam wept in pain and fear, but kept his eyes closed. He didn’t want to see Laura again, but he could feel her nearby.

She whispered. Her voice filled his head.

“I’m coming home with you,” she said.

Her fingers dug in. It felt like she was crawling in through his skull.