Writing What I Want to Read

Determined to prevent the rip from spreading further, Wyatt batted the sheets aside enough to stand on the mattress. “Secrets can be good sometimes. You have a secret identity, so you should understand. How would I even explain the mice issue?” He started plucking out the tacks one-by-one. “Hey Mom and Dad, there’s a chance I’ve been hallucinating for the past month. I didn’t tell you because...well, it doesn’t matter because I’m all good now!”

Wyatt’s fingers slowed. “They’re just always so put together. Every moment planned and polished. Every disaster prepared for. They don’t get it.”

One of the tacks slipped through his distracted fingers and down into the crevice between his bed and the wall. He scoffed. “That will probably be there until I move.” He stared at the spot it disappeared, imagining the tack rolling in a slow circle on the wooden floor. A future version of him likely will find it with a heel or a toe, and then worry about the last time he had a tetanus shot. Reddening, he thought about how his mother would have caught each tack in a small box, careful and precise. They’d end up on a perfectly labeled shelf, ready for the next time her child wanted to play pretend with Batman. With a shake of his head, he tipped his hand, letting the rest of the tacks clink and patter down, chasing after their leader. His eyes burned with the threat of tears.

Finally, he yanked hard on the fabric, sending the last few tacks clattering around the room. Batman didn’t survive the encounter, a jagged rip across his face. Wyatt threw the sheets into his closet before storming off to get ready for bed.

His mother’s cooking sat uncomfortably in his stomach. He was grateful for it, of course, but he couldn’t forget the look of worry that was served along with it. With a cringe, he thought of his mother piling more food onto his plate, her mouth pressed into that familiar thin line.

When he did manage to drift off, the strange mouse-infested dreams continued to plague him. He jolted awake several times from dreams of them sneaking under his covers and skittering across his sleeping face, dive-bombing him from secret passages in the ceiling, chewing on his hair. Finally, after tossing and turning for what felt like hours, he rolled out of bed. Too dark to see anything anyway, he left his glasses on the bedside table and wandered toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

Rounding the corner, he froze. Illuminated by the light of the open refrigerator, a woman stood hunched over, peering at the contents. Through his blurry vision, he couldn’t make out any details about her face other than how quickly her head snapped to look at him. With a flat, almost accusing voice, she said, “Why are you awake?”

He blinked a few times, as his slow thoughts attempted to make sense of the situation. His eyes floated around the room, looking for mice. Was she holding a pineapple?

The woman rose to her full height, a head taller than he was. Shadows swallowed her eyes, transforming them into empty black sockets. “Why. Are. You. Awake?”

This was real. It had to be.

He took a small step backward. His mouth opened and closed a few times, his scream stuck in his throat. She sighed, setting the pineapple on the counter.

Suddenly, she flew at him, slamming the fridge door so hard that it bounced back open. He shrieked and scrambled away, but her arms wrapped around him, gluing one of his hands to his side. They crashed to the ground, the woman on her back, her breath whooshing across Wyatt’s face from the impact. Wyatt’s free hand braced against the woman’s neck as he yanked on his trapped arm. She shifted, and for a moment, Wyatt was free. He shoved off of the woman’s chest, getting up to half-standing. “Help! Call the police! HELP!”

The woman caught Wyatt by his wrists and pulled him back down to her. Her fingers were like manacles, unbreakable. With a quick twist of her hips, they rolled across the floor, her shoulder banging into the coffee table. Wyatt’s voice raised in pitch, a desperate shrieking. Unbothered by his efforts, the woman gathered both of his wrists into one of her strong hands, pressing them firmly into his stomach. Her other hand slapped down over his screaming mouth, her thumb pressed against the underside of his jaw, keeping his mouth from opening against her cold palm.

His struggles didn’t seem to faze her at all. He tried to wrench his arms free, buck his hips, turn his head, anything at all to get leverage. She didn’t budge.

He fought until he was exhausted. Each breath was a small rapid burst, gusting through his nose along the back of her hand. His heart pounded on the inside of his rib cage like it was determined to escape without him, leave him here to die.

The captor’s face hovered over the captive’s. Wyatt took in her unreadable expression, the ghosts of frown-lines on her pale skin, the graying blonde hair pulled into a careful braid. Her stony eyes stared down at him. A fox considering the best way to devour a rabbit.

The hand over his mouth gently shifted his head to the side, breaking him from his stupor. He struggled again, his muscles burning with the effort, but she ignored him. Slowly, she lowered her face toward him. Closer, and closer. Her nose was cold where it brushed against the side of his neck. She inhaled deeply against his skin.

Tears wet his face. He begged her to let him go, pleading, all of it muffled by her icy fingers.

Her lips opened, his heartbeat drumming under her teeth. When she bit down, he felt the sharpness, the pain. Quickly, it was replaced by a pleasurable wave, flowing from his neck and down his chest. It was like a spell, almost. He went quiet. Another wave hit him, blissfully warm like the first, making him shudder under the force of it.

Something was happening. Something wrong.

He tried to pull his head away, but the woman adjusted her grip, sliding her hand down from his mouth to the other side of his neck. “Stop,” he gasped, “please.”

She hummed against his skin, pulling him closer, her teeth sinking in deep. Warmth flushed through his entire body, tingles shooting through every molecule, every cell. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Another wave quickly followed. And then another, and another. Every muscle in his body relaxed, like he would melt through the floor any second now. And then, there was no floor to feel, no body. There was only wave after wave after wave.

The next thing Wyatt remembered was lying on his side in darkness, his feet soaking wet and buzzing uncomfortably. Wiggling his toes, he discovered that he was only wearing his socks, and some large chunks of what seemed to be snow clung to the fabric. Something was tangled around his ankles. He tried to reach down to feel what it was, but found his hands were also restrained. The ground lurched under him, making his stomach dip. Immediately, he sobered up.

“Help!” he yelled, the sound painfully loud in the enclosed space. “Help me!”

He thrashed against the ropes, pulling with all his might to no avail. Bruises from his earlier struggles complained as he knocked them again on the much too close walls. Trapped in this cramped coffin of a place, tied up, he couldn’t breathe. He needed space, air, light. Freedom. He kicked out his legs quickly, launching himself into the opposite corner of his prison, headfirst. His forehead burned from where he made contact, a warm wetness forming around it, threatening to drip downward. In some ways, it knocked some sense into him, like dunking his head in cold water.

Turning over onto his back, he tilted his head up to redirect the blood away from his eyes. His hands pressed uncomfortably into his spine while he listened to the sound of his own breathing for a few beats. He counted to ten aloud, slowly, allowing his racing heart to recover. The car, or at least he assumed it was a car, continued to drive him further from home.

“Okay.” He forced a smile onto his face, gritting his teeth. “Think it through.” Clenching his fists under his back, he felt the large knot on the inside of his wrists. He nodded once. “Good. You can do this.” Awkwardly, with what little room he had, he shimmied his arms downward as far as they could go. It still wasn’t enough. He wasn’t meant to bend this way, but he knew his time was limited. His shoulders screamed, and he along with them, as he extended them further, just barely slipping his feet through his looped arms. The car swerved to the left, knocking him into one of the walls. Finally, his hands slid up and over his knees in front of him.

Wasting no time, he brought the ropes to his mouth, pulling on the knot with his teeth. The rope splintered into tiny shards as he gnawed on it, stabbing his tongue and gums. The tang of blood quickly overtook the dusty flavor of the rope. With one last yank, the rope fell away. He wondered how bloody his grin was.

The car slowed to a gentle stop, the rumbling of the engine following suit. Wyatt quickly busied his fingers, working at the knot around his ankles. A loud grinding noise filled the air, followed by silence. The car swayed as two of its doors slammed one after another. Wyatt felt the knot start to give. He pulled hard. Another door shut, further away. The ropes started to unravel just as the trunk opened over his head.

Wyatt launched himself at the opening, colliding with someone who called out, “Oh, heavens!” The person’s hands tried to grab onto him, but he pushed them away, sending them toppling to the floor. The overhead lights were blindingly brilliant, much too bright after the darkness of the trunk, but through his squinted eyes, he saw a door only a few feet away. Desperately, he rushed toward it. Just before his hand hit the doorknob, something pulled on his ankle, making him trip and thud his aching shoulder into the wall.

The rope. It hadn’t come all the way off of his left ankle. “Shit.”

Still without his glasses, Wyatt couldn’t make out much of the man’s appearance, other than the fact that he was still lying on the floor from Wyatt’s attack. The man gasped, voice edged with concern. “Master Wyatt, what happened to your face?” His second pull had enough force to sweep Wyatt’s feet out from under him. “Allow me to assist you.”

Wyatt crashed to the floor ungracefully, scrabbling to free himself. His voice was shrill. “Stay away from me!”

“Please stop resisting.” The man rose to standing. He tugged Wyatt halfway across the floor toward him before the rope finally snapped. “Oh, bother. This is unpleasant.”

Wyatt jumped to his feet and bolted for the door again, wet socks slapping against concrete, but but one of the man’s large hands wrapped around his bicep, stopping him in his tracks. Wyatt clawed at the grip, but just like the woman, he couldn’t get the man to let go. Out of options, he yelled at the top of his lungs before sinking his teeth into the meaty part of the man’s thumb.

The man howled and shoved Wyatt down. On his hands and knees, Wyatt scrambled toward the exit, drool and blood spilling from his lips.

The door flew open, missing his face by inches. When he saw the woman, Wyatt wailed like a wild animal. He pushed off the ground and charged her. She let him attack, catching him by his throat.

He was wrong before. The woman’s grip was tighter.

Kicking, clawing, spitting, he threw everything he had at the woman, but she held him safely out of reach. She tightened her hold, his breathing going from gulps to sips. Shadows colored the edge of his vision. Wyatt’s fighting spirit abandoned him all at once as he looked up into her dull eyes, pressure building in his head. This woman was going to kill him and there was nothing he could do.

She focused her gaze over Wyatt’s shoulder, at the man. “Quinton, are you alright?” Her voice and expression showed no sympathy, no concern. A flat, dull nothing.

“Yes, my lady. I shall heal.”

“Come here.”

The man obeyed. His injured hand came into view, held out like an offering, the other hand supporting it from below. Clear teeth marks deep in his flesh, still bleeding. Wyatt pulled helplessly at the woman’s fingers. The world began to muffle, covered in a cottony blanket.

One of the woman’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Did he do this?”

“Yes, my lady.”

The full intensity of the woman’s gaze returned to Wyatt. The spots in his vision darkened and swarmed. Distantly, he worried about brain damage. His mouth gaped open, not enough air, not enough.

Gently, she brushed her thumb across his chin. She licked the contents off of her finger. The corners of the woman’s lips raised. Through the loud ringing in his ears, Wyatt heard her say, “Interesting.”

And with that, the darkness took him.

Chapter 1 ----- Masterlist ---- Chapter 4

And so it begins. Next week, learn more about the mysterious woman and Wyatt's place in his new home.

“Hey, Mr. Nestor, I just wanted to call you back and apologize for yesterday.” Wyatt sat stiffly at the kitchen table, two separate cups of coffee and a half-eaten, fully forgotten PopTart in front of him. “I hadn’t been getting a lot of sleep, so my head wasn’t quite on straight.”

The landlord cleared his throat. “Yup, yup, happens from time to time. No hard feelings, Mr. Crum. Most people aren’t calling their landlords for happy reasons.”

“Well.” Wyatt’s leg started bouncing under the table. “I also wanted to thank you for booking an exterminator last night. I know that it was short notice, so I really appreciate it.”

Mr. Nestor said nothing for a second. “I think you’re losing me, kid.”

“So you didn’t send someone over last night?”

“On a Friday night? No one’s open.”

Wyatt’s leg increased in tempo. “Okay, well...the mice are gone.”

“A Christmas miracle, then.” Mr. Nestor seemed unsurprised, but then again, every time exterminators had visited before, they claimed there wasn’t a mouse to be found. He probably thought Wyatt was a nut. Impulsively, Wyatt hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

The silence in the apartment closed in on him, reminiscent of a padded cell in an asylum. He imagined the cloud of germs surrounding him again, covering every surface with a thin layer of feces. Unacceptable.

After flicking on the radio for background noise, Wyatt got to work. He started in the kitchen, emptying out and sanitizing every drawer, dish, shelf, and utensil. The mop water quickly turned a horrid shade of brown. When he went to dump it into the bathtub, he got distracted by the grime lining the shower curtain, so took the time to scrub at that. His elbow knocked over the bottle of shampoo onto the floor, but without a clean towel in sight. Wandering into his bedroom to grab one out of his laundry basket, he found it full of dirty clothes instead. He spent a good part of the day like this, june-bugging from room to room, partially completing tasks.

When, hours later, “Run Run Rudolph” came on, he had all but forgotten about his stresses. He skidded through the kitchen on his socks, jumped up on the couch, and spun through his bedroom. An unstoppable dancing machine.

At the height of the guitar solo, someone knocked on his door. He almost didn’t hear it, but passed through the kitchen at just the right time. Once the radio switched to off, his ears rang. When he checked the volume dial, he saw that he had it cranked up all the way.

The knock came again. He expected an unhappy neighbor, ready to scold him for all the racket. Instead, he found a short woman wearing a white dress in red trimmings, mostly covered by a stylish long coat. She wore a white knitted winter cap slightly askew, but her hands were too full to fix it. Bags dangled from the crooks of her elbows and a humongous crockpot filled her arms. The air quickly was overtaken with the smell of savory spices. “Mom, what are you doing here? How did you get in?” Wyatt took the pot from her and plugged it into the best outlet.

“I just came by to check on my favorite genius.” She abandoned the rest of her load, filling almost the entire kitchen counter, then whirled around to wrap Wyatt in a hug. “One of your neighbors saw me coming with my arms full and held the door for me.”

“And you brought the whole grocery store with you?”

She looked at him pointedly. “When’s the last time you’ve been to a grocery store?” Opening some of the cupboards, she gestured at each empty shelf. He was secretly grateful that he cleaned them before she came over. “It’s like you never moved in.”

“Well I—”

“And this is what you choose to wear?” More gesturing, but now at the holes in his t-shirt and the fresh stains on the knees of his pants. She clucked her tongue and shook her head in exaggerated disappointment. “My adult son. Practically a vagrant.”

Before he knew it, she was shooing him off toward the bathroom. “Go get yourself cleaned up. Dinner will be ready by the time you’re out of the shower. Oh, and Wyatt?” She turned him around by the shoulders so he was facing her again. Rising up on her tip-toes, she kissed his forehead. “Do a good job, won’t you?”

His mother always made good on her promises. Exiting the bathroom wearing his least wrinkly button-up, he found that his mother already had the table set. Perched on the end table she dragged in from the living room to act as a stool, she looked like a member of the royal family visiting the slums. When she saw him round the corner, she rose to usher him into his seat.

The table was filled with dishes: bibimbap from the crockpot, cucumber salad, rice cakes, fried zucchini, and a covered container that looked suspiciously like his dad’s favorite chocolate pie. Wyatt’s mouth watered. He realized that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and nothing beat his mom’s cooking. “Wow, Mom. You’ve really outdone yourself.”

“Don’t just admire it. Eat!” She shuffled the dishes closer to him.

He filled his plate eagerly, but his unsatisfied mother reached across the table to add more to it. He laughed. “Mom, really? I’m practically thirty.”

“It’s not good for you to be starving yourself all the time. Bad for your brain.” She watched him take a monstrous bite and melt from the taste. “And I can tell you’re starving because you’ve forgotten some very important words.” Her eyebrows floated higher on her forehead.

“Um…” He covered his mouth with his hand, remembering his manners a little too late. “I love you?”

“Try ‘thank you,’ to start.” She took her first bite.

Wyatt winced. “Thank you.” He bowed his head over his food. “Seriously, I really needed this.”

“That’s partly why I’m here.” She waved a hand toward his phone. “Your father and I keep catching your machine. That’s unlike you.”

Lately, it felt like his parents never called at the right time, always when he was getting back from the library, or running on too little sleep, or heading out the door for one reason or another. The answering machine was probably filled with their messages. He always meant to call them back, of course, but it just...didn’t happen. He was always dealing with one problem or another, and he didn’t want them to worry. They didn’t know that he forgot to pay his electric bill last month, leading to steep late fees and no power for almost a full week. They didn’t know that his car had a mysterious noise that he was choosing to ignore. And they had no idea that his house had been mouse-infested for the past several weeks.

But, here his mother was, worrying anyway. “So, I thought I’d just stop by, make sure my only son was still alive and not withering away like he has a tendency to do.” Her eyes drifted around his face and down his body, taking in how the clothes hung on him. Concern etched another line into her forehead. “You can always come home, you know. Even if we’re not there, you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. I’m sure your dad would let you borrow his pass if you wanted to bus to and from classes.”

Wyatt set down his fork. “I’m fine, Mom. It’s just been a stressful few…” He paused for slightly too long. “I’ve just been stressed, which makes me forgetful. As you know. But things are starting to turn around. I have it handled.”

She looked doubtful, but mercifully didn’t comment, merely gesturing for him to pick up his fork again. “I also wanted to discuss plans for the holidays with you.”

“Oh?”

The worry line between his mother’s brows deepened. “Your father and I have been discussing...well…” She watched him take another mouthful before smoothing down her skirt.

“Maybe now isn’t the best time.”

Wyatt furrowed his brow. His mother was not the type to hold back what she was thinking.

Finally, she sighed. “Wyatt, do you have anyone you’re spending the holidays with? Besides your father and me, that is.”

He blinked. “Um, why?”

“We – your father and I – have been invited to assist a client in revitalizing a gallery in San Francisco.” Stars danced in her eyes. “They heard about the work we did a few years ago with the art museums here – especially the Chazen – and thought we’d be the perfect people for the job, but we’d have to leave early next week.” She looked him over again. “Never mind. I think it’s more important that we’re here for the holidays.”

It finally clicked, what she was silently asking. Wyatt discreetly wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I’m happy you’re bringing this up, actually. I might be out of town for Christmas this year, myself.” The lie felt awkward in his mouth.

The worry line disappeared, quickly replaced by surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. A friend asked for a ride out of town for Christmas and offered to let me stay for the festivities.”

“A friend?” His mother leaned closer, gaining back some of her trademark intensity. “Just a friend?”

“Yes. A friend.” Wyatt’s face burned under her spotlight gaze.

“And what is this friend’s name?”

“Rodney Bickers,” he blurted. “He doesn’t have a car. Needs a ride. Like I said before.” Wyatt stuffed the last of his food into his mouth with one messy bite.

“Well...okay then.” His mother studied him for another few seconds. She leaned back and crossed her arms, giving him a look he couldn’t quite read. “Will you be back before New Year’s? Maybe we can have a big celebration then.”

He forced a smile. “Perfect.”

“And you can bring this Rodney, if you’d like.”

“I’ll see if he’s free.” Wyatt tried to picture Rodney at his childhood dinner table listening to his parents talk about their art collecting adventures, but the scene kept ending with Rodney complaining about his mother’s cooking or his dad’s choice of music.

She stood and collected the dirty dishes and deposited them in the sink. “Hopefully you’ll have these dishes washed before then, but you can wait until the party to bring them home.” She kissed Wyatt’s forehead again, and started pulling on her jacket. “Pie goes in the refrigerator. Leftovers go in the Tupperware. I bought some new ones for you, in this cabinet here.”

Wyatt smiled genuinely this time. “I love you too, Mom.”

She pulled on her hat, her own smile widening. “Oh, and one more thing? I think it’s time to retire the Batman sheets.” She glanced toward his bedroom. “I think you’re getting a little old for forts.”

Chapter 1 ----- Masterlist ---- Chapter 3

I hope you enjoyed meeting Wyatt's mother. This will be the last time he sees her alive.

Story will update biweekly on Mondays. Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist!

Wyatt tried to sound friendly as he answered. He wasn’t successful. “Hello.”

Laughter bubbled in his ear. “Chillax man, I’m not a bill collector.” After a pause, he continued, “This is Rodney Bickers. From the study group?”

“Oh, hey. Now’s not really a good time.” Rodney was the last person Wyatt wanted to talk to. He was the type of person to bring beer to a study session, crack more jokes than books, and leave feeling satisfied. It’s a wonder he lasted this far in med school, but as he’s proudly proclaimed before, he ‘puts the C in doctor.’ “Can I call you back later?”

“Well actually, the group kind of wanted me to check in on you. We haven’t seen you in a bit, so everyone’s worried you’ve gone mental.”

“I’m fine. Really.” The mouse quirked its head slightly. Wyatt glared at it. “Peachy.”

“Glad to hear it. So we’ll see you in an hour?”

“What?” Wyatt rose from his chair and took a menacing step toward the mouse. It skittered away.

“Dude, come on. It’s the second Friday. Monthly movie ringing a bell?”

The thought of spending the rest of his evening pretending to be well-rested and sociable sounded as enjoyable as cleaning out the sink drain with his tongue. He opened the closest cabinet, hoping he still had a can of Spagetti-O’s or something else easy to warm up. Instead, he shrieked as two mice flew at him from inside, only narrowly missing him.

“Are you good over there?”

Wyatt watched the mice take off toward his bedroom. He forced a smile on his face, though Rodney couldn’t see him. “Yup, fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Rodney didn’t sound convinced. Maybe he could hear how tightly Wyatt was gritting his teeth. “Well, if you’re interested in getting out of the house, you know where to go.”

“Right, thanks.” Wyatt hung up the phone and stared deep into his mostly-empty cabinet. The brand-new roll of bagels had a hole torn – or chewed – in the bag. He defeatedly relocated it to the trash.

The apartment rustled, pattered, and squeaked seemingly from every direction: around every corner, above every cabinet, under all the furniture. He imagined a cloud of spores, wafting from the hundreds of pounds of mouse droppings that must be in this one-bedroom apartment and filling his lungs with plague-ridden air. A mouse, very similar to if not the same as before, peeked at him from under the couch. It nibbled on a chunk of bagel, making unyielding eye-contact.

Wyatt yanked his winter jacket off the hook so forcefully that the rack clattered to the ground. He didn’t bother to pick it up, already halfway out the door.

The insistent Wisconsin winter wind ushered Wyatt into the movie theater, where the heat of the lobby immediately fogged up his glasses, making the small crowd inside look almost like a collection of specters. Suddenly, Wyatt’s hat was snatched off his head. “Hey!”

“Hey to you, too, homeboy.” Rodney tossed Wyatt’s hat back in his face. “Glad to see you’re still among the living.”

After a second of fumbling, Wyatt used the inside of his hat to clean off his glasses, but the fabric wasn’t quite right, merely smearing around the water. As clean as he was going to get them, Wyatt slid his glasses back on to find Rodney standing alone, face rosy in the warmth. “...Where is everyone else?”

“Yeah, about that.” Rodney’s smile took on a slant. “Sherry and Diane dipped last minute to get some early Christmas shopping done. I guess Sherry’s brother’s birthday is like a week before Christmas so she’s spazzing out about it. Eddie said he’d be late, so we’ll have to save him a seat. And I...sort of forgot to remind Anthony, but he’d probably say no anyway. Too busy studying.” Rodney started drifting toward the ticket line.

“Okay.” Wyatt blinked a few times. He pictured Anthony in the warm glow of a library lamp, books piled high around him as he wrapped up a research paper that Wyatt only half-finished. “What movie?”

“Havana.”

“Hm. I’ve never heard of that one.” He skimmed over the other movie posters. “Why not that new Stephen King one? I haven’t seen it yet. Misery?”

“Nah, then Eddie will go to the wrong theater. And this one is perfect for you.”

The movie was awful and dragged on forever. The only thing that saved the experience for Wyatt was his mega-sized bucket of popcorn, but even with that, Rodney kept stealing inconsiderately large handfuls. When the lights came back up, Rodney brushed the crumbs from his lap. “Man, that was heinous. So not worth the four bucks.”

Wyatt laughed half-heartedly. “And here I was, worried you were about to tell me it was your new fave.”

“You’re kidding, right? It was as exciting as a documentary about payphones, or nickels. In fact, I think I’d rather take another class with Putress than watch it ever again.”

“That’s bold.” Dr. Putress’s pop quizzes were difficult and unpredictable, a cornerstone of her harsh reputation on campus. Wyatt cringed at the memory. “But fair.”

“Remind me to get Eddie back later for ditching us. Maybe at the next study group?”

“Fine, fine, I’ll be there.” Wyatt shook his head at Rodney’s triumphant grin. “But it better be more than just you next time.”

“You bet.”

Rodney’s long legs set the pace back toward campus slightly too fast for Wyatt’s comfort. “So, what’s been keeping you holed up? Get sick of us or something?”

Wyatt thought back to the last study session he attended, where Rodney had suggested they invent a drinking game out of a study guide Diane had made. “No,” he lied. “I guess I just got busy with some personal stuff.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Rodney’s voice softened. “How’s your sister doing?”

“Great...considering she doesn’t exist.”

“Say ‘psyche’ right now! I could’ve sworn you had a sister in the hospital.”

“That’s Eddie. Probably why he wasn’t here tonight. She’s been in and out of the hospital since October.”

“...Maybe I won’t say anything to him on Tuesday then.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

They settled into a comfortable quiet. Rodney lit a cigarette. Wyatt mentally replayed the night’s conversations, breaking the silence after a few minutes. “Hey, why did you think I was going to like the movie? I try to be open-minded, but that doesn’t mean I’m down for every movie ever.”

“Oh, I just thought you’d get a kick out of all the Spanish.”

Wyatt furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of the statement. The quiet returned, but heavier this time, the crunching of the snow under their feet the only sound.

“What?” Rodney elbowed him, and Wyatt put more distance between them. “What’s your damage?”

“Confused. I’m confused.”

Rodney’s face mirrored his. “Why?”

“Because I don’t know Spanish. I speak Korean.”

Rodney’s laugh was covered in a teasing disbelief. “Korean?”

Wyatt slowed and then stopped, forcing Rodney to follow his lead. “Yeah, man. My mom’s Korean and my dad’s Black. There’s no way you didn’t know that already, it’s one of my go-tos for Two Truths and a Lie.”

“Yeah, and?”

He stared up at Rodney, something burning in the pit of his stomach.

Rodney scoffed. “Take a chill pill. It’s not a big deal. People are allowed to make mistakes, right?” With a shrug, he continued walking at his usual pace.

Wyatt hurried to catch up, but stayed a step behind. Rodney finished his cigarette. When they arrived at the intersection where they’d be splitting ways, Wyatt turned up his street without a word. Rodney called after him, “See you on Tuesday!”

Wyatt threw a noncommittal wave over his shoulder, but said nothing.

The call button on the apartment building’s elevator didn’t light up under Wyatt’s thumb. He pressed it again. And again. He slammed it with the side of his fist. The button stayed dark. On the way to the stairs, he gave the elevator a firm kick. A loud clang rang through the hollow shaft.

At the bottom of the stairwell, Wyatt gazed up at the slate-gray square platforms floating above him. Only five floors away from his infested apartment and a restless night’s sleep. After a deep breath, he started the trek, ignoring the pain still lingering in his foot. The sound of his trudging footsteps echoed all around him, bouncing off of the walls and back to him.

When he reached the second floor, he straightened his shoulders and engineered another false smile. “Everything is fine. Good, actually. Because I’m going to get back to my apartment and see that all the mice left. Completely gone. Decided it was time for a change in scenery. Got bored of my cupboards.” In his mind, several dozen mice filled small suitcases with breadcrumbs and scampered out the door. He picked up his pace, but the speed reminded him of his walk with Rodney. “And, I’ll see I have a message on my answering machine from the American Heart Association, saying they want me to intern there, regardless of my grades. When I call them back to accept, they’ll be so impressed with me that they’ll offer to cover my tuition, too.” He picked up the pace again. “Oh, and a message from Publisher’s Clearing House, saying I won twenty—no, fifty!— thousand dollars even though I never entered the contest.”

By the time he reached his floor, he was practically running, taking the stairs two at a time and occasionally smacking his shin. At some point, he had started laughing, making it even more difficult to breathe than it already had been. His winter coat clung oppressively around him, practically suffocating.

He fiddled with his keys at his front door, dropping them once. Only when he had the key in the mechanism did he realize he had forgotten to lock the door in the first place. He swung it open to reveal his dark apartment. “Hello, reality.”

Wyatt stripped off his sweaty jacket and threw it over the top of the coat rack, making it wobble slightly on the uneven floor. The air was icy, even blowing a cold breeze in his direction. The light from the hallway only traveled so far, but it was enough to make sure the way was clear to the nearest light switch, inconveniently located over the kitchen sink. Click. With everything illuminated, Wyatt realized he could see his breath.

“Uh, hello?” Voice wavering, he sounded more afraid than strong. He cleared his throat and pitched his voice down a bit. “Is there anyone here?”

There was no answer, but he saw that his bedroom door was closed. Carefully, he pulled a knife from a pile of dirty dishes. His mind filled the space behind the door with robbers, kidnappers, and monsters. If he waited any longer, he’d lose his nerve. In three quick steps, he threw the door open.

Movement.

He yelled out in surprise and slashed the knife wildly through the air, not hitting anything. Panting, he lowered his weapon and flicked on the light. The curtains flapped in the wind again, snapping in the air like they just had a moment ago. Wyatt ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath, a shaky laugh bubbling to the surface. He watched the curtains dance, willing his heart rate to slow down again.

Finally, he crossed the room and pushed the curtains aside. The window sat wide open, the screen was completely gone, fully exposing the room to the snowy air outside. Another jolt of fear zipped up Wyatt’s spine. He closed the window tightly, sliding the lock into place, then hurried to the front door to secure that, too. In his paranoia, he bolted the door shut and moved the coat rack to block it for good measure.

That’s when he realized: when he had left earlier, the coat rack had been lying on the floor. The door had been locked. The window had been closed. But the biggest difference that Wyatt only now noticed was the quiet. The whole apartment was quiet. Quieter than it had been in weeks. There was no scrabbling, no crunching, no tapping of tiny feet.

The mice were gone.

It seems that Wyatt's wishful thinking came to fruition. Be careful what you wish for.

Soon to be a multi-part series. Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

Something in her broke that night as she watched the ink consume what was left of the mainland. A wave of rage surged through her, and before she knew what she was doing, she was on her knees, ripping the paper into a pile of wet scraps. With a final shout, she threw the pile at the wall. Some of the drier pieces floated down like ash, scattering around the room.

A gentle knock tapped on the door. “Captain?”

“Not now!” The captain clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. Miranda, the ship’s chef, always had the worst timing.

The door opened anyway. “You won’t be doing much work if you’re hungry.” The young girl held up a full tray. “And by the sounds of your shouting it’s about time for a break anyway. I could hear you griping from two levels down.” When Hazel didn’t move, Miranda placed the tray at the desk.

“Food isn’t going to help,” Hazel snapped.

Miranda joined the captain on the floor. “The same as last time?” She dabbed at Hazel’s hands with the bottom of her apron, ink staining the cloth in splotches.

Hazel watched her hands go from black to gray. “I’ve tried everything. I followed every hint, every lead, even if I knew it was wrong. Because—”

“—Because it could be right.”

“Exactly! No matter what I try, nothing works! Sailing in one direction, sailing at random…we’ve probably circled the globe two dozen times!”

Miranda’s mouth tilted up on one side. “Well, maybe not that many.”

Hazel’s face went stony. After a moment without a response, Miranda stopped scrubbing and looked at her. “You want me to remind you again of all those ships we stopped? All the gold we got? You’re not a failure because you didn’t find some island.”

“We’ve had this conversation before. This time that’s not good enough. It’s not just some island, and you know it.”

Miranda dropped Hazel’s hands and rose to her feet. “You should eat. Your stew is getting cold.” When Hazel still didn’t move, Miranda tilted her head, trying to catch the captain’s eyes. “Hazel?”

She ignored her and drew her signature dagger. “I’ve been searching for over twenty years now and I’m no closer than I was at the start.” The knife was cold against her throat.

Miranda reached both hands out in a soothing gesture, as if Hazel were a wild animal. “This won’t help you reach the island, either.”

“It’s one thing I haven’t tried.”

Miranda seemed frozen, not even blinking. The captain took a deep breath and applied pressure to the blade. A warm drop of blood trailed down her neck. Miranda broke from her stupor. “Wait! I have something that will help!” Hazel didn’t lower the blade. “My mother was a witch on the mainland. She gave me a spell before I ran away.” She slowly knelt next to Hazel again. “It’s good for one wish. I’ll give it to you if you please, please stop.”

“Why didn’t you use it sooner? For yourself?”

“Mother said it was dangerous, to only use it for emergencies.” She gently pulled Hazel’s knife away from her neck.

Hazel wiped her hand across the cut, blood mingling with the remaining ink. “Fine. But if this doesn’t work, I’ll rip your tongue out for lying.”

“Yes, captain.”

*****

Once the sun had set, Miranda snuck into the captain’s quarters, a scroll twisted in her hands. Hazel snatched it from her before the door was could even fully close. She untied the ribbon and unfurled it quickly, pinning the corners down with objects on her desk. The page shimmered gold and reflective in the candlelight.

It was blank.

Hazel whirled on the Miranda, still standing hesitantly by the door. “You dare mock me?!” She launched her dagger at Miranda, missing by inches. Miranda fumbled for the doorknob, but the captain stopped her by the hair. Hazel yanked the dagger out of the door and threw Miranda at the desk. “After all of that, you bring me a blank page?!”

“Hazel, what are you talking about?!” She looked between the paper and Hazel’s furious face. “The spell’s right here!”

Hazel threw her dagger, missing again.

Miranda hurried through words in a mystical language full of T’s, J’s, and S’s. The room’s two lanterns snuffed out at the same time, leaving the only Miranda’s eyes, now glowing purple, to pierce through the dark. She finished with a shout, collapsing on the desk. The light of her eyes dribbled out like tears, landing on the scroll in splatters of brilliance. The droplets hissed, disappearing like water in a hot pan.

In the complete darkness, only the creaking of the ship interrupted the silence. “Did it work?” Hazel asked, searching her pockets for matches. “Miranda?”

A child’s laughter, loud and bell-like tinkled down from the ceiling. “Hello, hello.”

“What the hell?” Hazel stopped looking for her matches and reached for her dagger. Her sheath was empty. “Damn.”

Nails of far too many hands scrabbled on the wooden ceiling. The thing stopped just above her. “Hello, hello.”

Something thin and slick brushed against her ear. She ducked, wiping the slime with her sleeve. “Are you here to grant my wish?”

“Wi-ish, wi-ish.” The voice sang like a child who knows a secret. “Wish.”

“Let’s get this over with. I already know what I want.”

It laughed again. “Wish not for you…wish for witch.” The creature scurried over to Miranda’s side of the room. “Hello, hello.”

Miranda gasped. “Please keep your hands to yourself.” More laughter from the ceiling. “Hazel, are you sure this is what you want? I can probably still dismiss it if I have to.”

“This is the only way.”

“Fine.” Miranda blew out a shuddering breath. “I wish that Captain Hazel Flaxenthorn had a spirit from the Isle of Good Fortune as her servant, chained up in the hold of this ship.”

The creature laughed again, the tone deepening. With the voice of a grown man, it said, “What an interesting wish. Are you willing to pay?”

“How much gold do you want? I’ll give you all we have,” said Hazel.

“Oh, but a wish like that is worth so much more than gold.” The creature dropped to the ground with a thud. “What I desire is the kindness from a loving heart.”

“Take it! Take my kindness!”

“Oh, Hazel dear. Has anyone ever called you kind?” The creature’s chuckle was like a growl. “No, I would need it from the heart of this one.”

A purple glow bloomed in Miranda’s chest. She clasped her hands over it. In the ghoulish light, she locked eyes with Hazel. “You became my family, all those years ago. I love you more than my own mother.”

Hazel looked away. The creature drew closer but stayed out of the light’s reach. “I’m waiting…”

A tear spilled down Miranda’s cheek, her eyes never leaving Hazel's. “My kindness is yours.”

The creature disappeared with a burst of wind, reigniting the lanterns. Miranda collapsed, Hazel barely catching her in time. She laid the girl on the bed, propping her up with pillows and folded blankets.

Thunder boomed in the distance, still loud enough to be heard through the ship’s walls. Footsteps pounded outside. Stephen, Hazel’s first mate, burst into the room. “Sorry for the interruption, Cap.” His hands were covered in blood. “We have a bit of a situation down in the hold.”

Stephen told her what happened on the way.

“You stabbed it?!”

“More of a slash, but yes.” He turned around to face her. “When you’re doing inventory and someone appears in front of you, floating—"

“You’d better hope you didn’t kill it, Stephen.”

They reached the door, Hazel yanking it open without hesitation. Stephen’s lantern was still lit but knocked over, the flame struggling to stay alive. The creature hung from the ceiling by shackled arms. Blood dripped from its calf into a sizable puddle on the floor. Its face was partially obscured by a waterfall of black hair, and it wore a cloak the color of sand, peppered with tans and browns. It could have passed for a normal man if not for its luminous blue skin, like the plankton they’d sometimes see glowing amidst the waves.

When Hazel entered the room, the creature’s eyes immediately locked on hers, a hurricane churning in its gaze. “He seems to be doing okay,” Stephen said, hanging back in the doorway and letting Hazel take the full brunt of the glare. The ship shuddered as a large wave hit it.

“Leave us.”

“Yes, Captain.” He shut the door.

Now just the two of them, Hazel scooped up the lantern and circled the creature, taking in every inch. “Wow, look how beautiful you are.” She approached it, reaching out to touch its foot.

It kicked at her, but she danced under the swing. It kicked again, knocking over a stack of boxes. It swung wildly back and forth from its chains. “Release me at once!”

“Don’t move,” Hazel said. The creature froze mid-kick, the momentum of the chains causing it to knock over another box. Hazel’s smile widened. “I’m giving the commands here.”

*****

Hazel spent a few hours every day with the spirit. She discovered that he healed far faster than normal, the wound on his leg closing up after only a few minutes, and that she could let him down from the ceiling as long as he was shackled. She also discovered that he refused to perform any magical feats. On the fourth day of this, she caught Miranda alone in the kitchen for the first time since the creature’s appearance. “I don’t get it. Isn’t he supposed to obey my every command?” Miranda didn’t respond, keeping her back to Hazel, so she went on. “I can get him to hold his breath until he faints, but he won’t even calm the storm outside!”

“Go bother Stephen. I’m busy.” Miranda rolled out some dough on the countertop.

“Stephen’s not much help. He won’t go in there after he cut the thing’s leg.”

“You’re the captain. Make him.”

“I’ve tried, but I think he’d be too afraid to do anything.”

The ship jolted to the side. Miranda caught a mixing bowl before it slid off the counter. “Obviously you are too.”

Hazel stiffened. “That’s not how you talk to your captain.”

“It’s not like you’ll do anything about it. You won’t make Stephen uncomfortable, and I recall you threatening me earlier this week.” She turned around to face Hazel for the first time. “You make an awful lot of threats, Cap.”

“Watch it.”

“Why? What are you going to do? You wouldn’t kill me. Because we’re friends, aren’t we?” Miranda batted her eyelashes at Hazel, then scoffed. “And now you’re letting the spirit walk all over you.”

Miranda stepped closer. Hazel glared. “I know you’re different now, but you’re still a member of my crew. My crew needs to respect me.” She gripped her dagger, partially drawing it.

“Oh, good, another threat. Just think for a moment, is this because of the deal, or am I just finally being honest? I guess you’ll never know. But I know one thing…” She tapped Hazel on the nose with her finger. “You were not worth the sacrifice.”

A shove. A fall. A flash of a blade. Miranda held a hand up to the slash in her cheek, then examined her fingers covered in fresh blood. She laughed, propping herself up on her elbows. “I guess you do have it in you somewhere.”

“Get up. We’re going to talk to the spirit.”

The spirit rose to his feet when they entered the room, his eyes flicking between the two women. “Hello again,” Hazel said, smiling. “Don’t move, but you may speak if you wish.”

“Wow, it’s definitely…blue.” Miranda took a seat on a crate.

“A spectacle, am I?”

Hazel approached the creature. “Hold out your hand.” She pulled out a box of matches and struck one. “Calm the storm.”

*****

“Calm the storm!”

Sweat beaded on the spirit’s forehead, every muscle strained. “I can’t.”

Hazel lit another match, holding it under the spirit’s now blackened hand. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, but just as before, he couldn’t hold back the screams. His breathing was ragged once the match finally burned out.

Miranda yawned. “That was your seventh match. Still no results.”

The creature spoke between heavy breaths. “That is because I cannot do anything about the storm. I do not possess those powers yet. As I have said many times.”

Miranda leaned forward. “The legends say nothing about you spirits being truthful. They say you can calm or create storms. How do we know that you’re not the cause of this one?”

He caught his breath. “I may be the cause indirectly, but—”

“Oh, so you are the cause.”

“In some ways, yes, but if you would just let me go then—"

“No, stop talking,” said Miranda. The spirit’s mouth clicked shut, eyes widening. She paused for a moment, staring into his face. “Sit down,” she commanded. The creature obeyed. “Looks like you’re not its only master, Captain.” She rose and steered Hazel away by the shoulders. “It’s my turn.”

“Fine, you fix him.”

Miranda rummaged through a box and pulled out a small, dull hatchet. She held it out to the spirit. “Cut off your finger.”

His hand gripped the handle involuntarily. His hands shook as he lined up for the swing. Bones crunched when the hatchet cleaved down, snapping the finger into an unnatural position and spraying blood. It took multiple swings to fully sever it, the spirit letting out strangled cries through closed lips.

“Calm the storm.”

Tears ran down the spirit’s face. He shook his head.

“Cut off another.”

The next finger went with more blood and cries. “Still think you can’t do it?” Miranda stepped down on the head of the hatchet, pushing it the rest of the way through the flesh. “Speak.”

His eyes stayed locked on his severed fingers. “…I am far too young to have the powers you believe me to have. Why would I not stop the storm if it were possible?”

Hazel joined Miranda, looking down at the spirit. “Tell us the truth about the storm. Don’t leave anything out.”

“The other spirits created the storm.” Thunder boomed as if in agreement. “They are only reluctant to come to my aid because of these.” He nodded to his chains. “They don’t want to kill me in the shipwreck.”

Hazel looked him over again. His hand was no longer dripping blood, the wounds already partially closed. A look of desperation sat deep in his eyes, though he tried to hide it, Hazel could see it clearly. “The legends never mentioned anything like you.”

Miranda stole the dagger from Hazel’s sheath. “Kneel.” The hatchet fell from the spirit’s limp fingers.

“Miranda, what are you doing?”

“If the legends are wrong, wouldn’t it be about something that made more sense? Like the chains…why would shackles hold a god?” She grabbed his free hand, watching as the missing fingers began to bud into new ones. “He probably doesn’t even feel pain or fear. It’s all an act.” He opened his mouth, but she commanded him to be quiet. “But, if what he says is true, then he is useless to us. Just another mouth to feed.”

“Are you saying we let him go?” The spirit nodded at her vigorously, but Miranda shook her head.

“Not at all.” Miranda replaced the hatchet with the dagger. “Slice your throat.”

The knife rose. “No! Stop!” Hazel called, and the spirit obeyed, shaking all over. “Miranda, he isn’t yours.”

“I’m the one who gave something up for this.” She kicked the spirit in the ribs, and he gasped. “Slice your throat!”

“Stop! If what he says is true, then once he dies then the other spirits will sink us. Did you think of that?” The boards above them groaned and shook in the wind.

“And if he’s lying and created the storm, it will stop once he’s dead. Slice your throat!”

“Stop!”

“Slice your throat!”

“Stop!”

“Fine! If you’re going to be a gullible coward, I’ll do it.” Miranda ripped the blade from the spirit and went around behind him. Hazel lunged at her, but Miranda got a good cut in before being tackled to the ground.

The spirit gurgled through the hole in his throat, dark blood immediately dribbling down his chest. His head moved back and forth, the only thing free of command.

The women fought for the knife. Hazel pinned Miranda to the floor but didn’t move quick enough. Miranda plunged the blade into Hazel’s stomach, ripping into her gut with twists and jolting cuts. Hazel fumbled for it, but Miranda got her off balance and rolled until she was the one on top. “X marks the spot, doesn’t it, Hazel?” Miranda carved a large, jagged X into the captain's chest before climbing off of her. Hazel gasped for breath and curled around her wounds, her blood mingling with the spirit’s on the floor.

The air was filled with the sounds of dying. Miranda rose, covered in blood, and sauntered over to the spirit. From her lopsided viewpoint, Hazel could see his skin threading itself back together. Miranda went behind him again, pulling back his head by his hair. She sliced the wound back open. Then again. And again. She cut until the choking stopped. Hazel coughed, spitting something bitter and metallic onto the floor. Miranda came closer and squatted down, filling Hazel’s entire field of vision. She readjusted the knife in her hand. “You weren’t much of a captain, anyway. Couldn’t do what needed to be done.”

A loud boom from above rattled the entire ship. A box slammed into Miranda, toppling her over as the room rearranged itself, the ship swaying harshly one way then back the other. Stephen thundered down the hall. “Abandon ship! Abandon ship!”

Miranda scurried away from Hazel, backing up against a crate. She sliced shallowly into her thigh and arm before reopening the cut on her cheek. She constructed a fearful expression just as Stephen burst into the room, eyes sweeping over the carnage. “What the hell?!”

“Stephen! Get me out of here!” Miranda’s voice quavered. She dropped the knife and flung herself into his arms. “The captain used the spirit to attack me!” Stephen whipped his head between the two women, his brow furrowed. Miranda pulled him toward the door. “She almost killed me!”

“We don’t have time for this.” Stephen pushed her into the hall. “Get on a lifeboat, now!”

Even before Miranda’s footsteps could disappear, Stephen rushed to Hazel’s side. Hazel shook her head. “Stephen, go.”

He glanced at the spirit, bent backward with his throat open to the sky. He pulled back her hands to expose her wounds. He looked back at the open doorway, clenching his jaw. “That little bitch.”

Without warning, he hoisted her up by her arm. Spots punched through her vision, but he kept her standing. “Sorry, no time to be gentle.” He wrapped her arm around his shoulders, taking on most of her weight. They climbed the ladder, Stephen practically carrying her. They went through the bunkroom, a few men there wrapped in blankets or with hands over their faces.

As Stephen reached for the rungs of the final ladder, one of the other men stopped him. “You won’t find what you’re looking for out there. All the lifeboats are gone.”

Another said, “They left in a hurry, not that a lot got very far.”

“The sea’s a hungry beast. At least I’m dying in my own bed.”

Pillows, blankets, and personal belongings slid around on the floor. The bunks stayed put, bolted in place. Stephen helped Hazel lie down on an unoccupied one. “I’m just going to check, to be sure.” He climbed the ladder and pushed open the trapdoor. Cruel wind poured in, covering Stephen in rain and ocean spray. Hazel could only see his boots as he reached the top, looking around. He quickly latched the door shut again and retreated to the edge of Hazel’s bed, head in his hands. “I guess we’re not going anywhere. The mast is broken clean in half. Not a lifeboat in sight.”

“This is all my fault. I’m so sorry, Stephen. All of you.”

Stephen looked at her. “Does this have something to do with the spirit?”

She told them an abbreviated version, speeding up every time the ship shuddered or jolted. “Miranda called me soft, and I punished her for it.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “But I sure feel soft now.”

“The great Captain Flaxenthorn has fallen. What does that mean for the rest of us?” Stephen chuckled darkly. The ship tilted sharply to the side and stayed there. Everyone gripped their bedframes, Stephen supporting Hazel with one arm.

“I damned us all, why are you still helping me?”

“I’m your first mate and a member of your loyal crew. I’m loyal to the end.”

Another crewmate joined in. “Ya made some stupid choices, but you’re the only captain we got.” The remaining men murmured in agreement. “We’ll be dead in a few minutes, anyway. Doesn’t pay to punish ya.”

Water rushed in, bubbling up from below deck and creeping across the floor. Hazel looked around at her remaining crew, her friends. Her family. “Won’t be long now.”

They sat in somber silence for a moment, listening to the screaming wind. Finally, someone started to sing. It was a joyful drinking song, a common one around the Rusty Bell.

We all know the story of the spirits of the sea,

We’ll search long and hard for wherever they may be,

If one day the way to their Isle shall we find,

All the glory, gold, and riches, we can get behind.

More voices joined the chorus. The icy water rose higher, some of the men climbing up the sloped floor to get away. They helped Hazel to her feet.

O Isle of Good Fortune, my love, my sweet, my quest,

Only show me where you are, I’ll gladly be your guest

Surrender your spirits, I’ll chain them up with brass.

Tie them up and tie them down, they’ll heed my every ask.

The water was burning cold and stung in her wounds. The last verse they sang slower, the water suffocating the lanterns and leaving them in the dark.

If I never catch a spirit, it’ll be the end of me,

Won’t settle down or marry, my bride’ll be the sea,

We’ll say our vows, show our love, and make our wedding bed,

She’ll hold me close, hold me under, until my breath has fled.