Speaker 1: Most people think search and rescue is all adrenaline and helicopters.
Truth is, ninety percent of the job is boredom, checking radios,
re stocking gear, driving home. Because the missing hikers showed
up at a gas station before we even laced our boots.
I signed up as a volunteer after moving back home.
I figured it was a good way to give back
and maybe feel useful again. R SAAR unit covers a
massive stretch of mountain forest crags, all trails, floodplains, abandoned
logging roads. Beautiful if you're just hiking it, deadly if
he gets stuck overnight. We're based out of a small
depot near the ranger station. It's mostly paid staff. The
volunteers like me are floaters filling gaps. When numbers get
low or terrain's too rough to cover fast, they pair
us up. There's always one experienced with one volunteer. My
guess is that we don't cause another rescue while out
in tricky conditions. Regard an alert. At four seventeen p m.
A heavy winter storm was rolling in fast, soon to
slam the region with snow, wind and zero visibility. Multiple
hikers had reported seeing a little girl in a red
coat near the ridge trail, wondering alone, no adult in sight,
No one knew where she came from. No reports of
a missing child matched the description. The Sheriff's office kicked
at the essay r immediately when I checked in. I
prayed to be pared with any one except Riker, the
oldest guy there by at least two decades. He looked
like someone who had carved a man out of rawhide
and bad memories, talked less than any one, and was
apparently a nightmare to work with. And my timing must
have been divinely unlucky, because he was the only senior
left for me to partner with. We gathered gear from
the supply trailer radios, thermals, maps flares. As I clipped
on my head lamp, Braiker handed me something I hadn't
seen anyone else use, a brass whistle, worn smooth from
years of handling. Only use it if you get turned around,
he said, very slow, and only head toward the returning whistle,
he added, brandishing his own whistle that he had tied
around his wrist. I stir did it? What else would
there be to head towards? I asked? He paused, looked
up at me for the first time. If you hear
another whistle, he said, just follow the sound, never the voice.
He never elaborated and walked off, adjusting his pack. That
stuck with me more than it should have. The storm
hadn't broken yet, but the air was dense with it,
like something holding its breath. The light was already going gray,
bleeding out behind the thickening clouds. As our team leader
handed out the search grids. Most units were assigned to
the western trailheads, where hikers might have had a better
chance of surviving a cold night. But when my name
was called and I saw I was with Riker, he
spoke up before I could even step forward. We'll take
Grid E. That wasn't where the girl was last seen.
It wasn't even near the usual trails, But no one argued.
Riker had seniority, a lot of respect, even if he
never talked much. We geared up with thermal layers, waterproof jacket, radios, headlamps,
and GPS. I carried a PLB in case of signal failure,
a map and a digital compass with storm calibration. Ryker
didn't bring a map, he never did. They loaded us
into snow appeals and trucks then split us into grid
pairs along the ridge's perimeter. By the time Ryker and
I got to our drop point, Grid three E, the
sun had already dipped and the tree line looked like
a black mouth yawning open. Ryker said nothing, just clicked
on his light and stepped into the woods. I followed
behind us. The last trace of daylight vanished ahead the
trees and frost, and somewhere out there a little girl
who wasn't supposed to be here. As we entered the
tree line, the wind shifted hard, snapping across the branches
like warning cracks. The dirt trail dissolved quickly into rock
and dead fall. I marked opposition with orange flagging tape
every thirty meters. Visibility dropped. Fog didn't roll in so
much as rise from the earth, like steam, curling around
her ankles and thighs. This grit's a mess, I said,
trying to sound casual. You really think she came this
way not recently? Raker muttered, but she always circles east. Eventually,
that stuck with me. I almost asked what he meant,
but he was already moving again. The forest was loud
in a strange way. Raykers seemed more distracted with every
step he stopped, sometimes turned his head slightly and just listen,
like the woods might say something if you were patient enough.
I called it in a location pace visibility. I kept
lugging time stamps on our GPS to make sure we
could double back, But something about the terrain felt slippery,
like we're always veering a few degrees off course. After
half an hour, Riker finally spoke again. What would you do?
He said? If you found her and she asked for help?
What do you mean if she was scared, bleeding, looked
you in the eyes and asked you to take her hand,
would you I thought he was joking. Yeah, I said,
that's literally why we're out here. But he didn't laugh
it off, just kept moving. I started watching him a
little closer, keeping mental track of how he walked too quietly,
how he didn't react to the windchill like I did,
how his boots never left deep prints, even in the
soft moss. I was about to ask how long we'd
stay out before heading back. When we both stopped. There
was a voice farther in Hello. No crunch of movement,
just that one word, drifting out from deeper in the woods.
We scanned the direction, our headlamps flickering across tree trunks
slick with mist. Then Riker pointed at eye level, snagged
on a broken limb of pine sapling, was a mitten, red, small,
and woolen. It was too bright and clean. The storm
had already dusted the tree with frost and debris, but
the mitten was untouched, fresh, as if some one had
just placed it there. Riker silently stepped forward, ducking under
the limb. I followed, but the unease I'd felt earlier
had crawled up into my throat. Now it wasn't the
storm that scared me. It was the idea that maybe
Riker wasn't looking for the girl at all. We kept moving.
The ground beneath us began to angle upward into a
slow but constant incline that turned our boots into dead weights.
My thighs burned, breath fogging in tight bursts. The wind
had picked up, pushing sideways, now sharp enough to sting
the skin. Snow had begun falling in dry, whispering flakes,
collecting in the folds of my hood and glove seams.
The radio crackled uselessly every few minutes, too much interference.
We hadn't heard from Bay since the first mile. Visibility
dropped to maybe thirty feet. Trees loomed closer together, the
bark slick with wet. My map showed we were near
the ridge line, but nothing about the place felt right.
I kept one hand on the compass, watching it twitch
like a dying insect. Then Raiker stopped. He raised her
hand silently. There, just beyond a thicket of bare brush
and frost laced undergrowth, a small figure stood between two trees,
red coat hood up. She was facing us, watching. Even
in the snow dimmed light, I could see how bright
the coat was, clean and untouched, like it had never
brushed a single branch or patch of mud. She didn't
even look hurt or scared. I lifted the radio, but
Riker grabbed my wrist gently before I get pressed the
call button. Don't he whispered, what, don't engage? Let her go?
I stared at him, trying to read his face, but
he was as blank as the tree line. That's what
we're out here for, I said, stepping forward. She's not alone,
he said. You follow her, you'll find out what she's with.
I hesitated. I told myself he was just being paranoid,
that maybe all these years in the woods had made
him see ghosts, whether or none. He was just a
scared girl, maybe in shock. That's why she wasn't crying,
why she didn't move. I stepped past the thicket, docking
through brittle branches. My boots crunched loudly, and the sound
made her head tilt slightly. And then she moved. She
turned and walked. She weaved between trees, red coat flickering
between trunks like a thread being pulled. I followed, and
just before she slipped behind a thicker cluster of pines,
she turned her head and smiled, like she knew something
I didn't. I kept pushing forward, but she kept slipping away.
Every time I thought I'd close the gap, she'd dart
behind another tree or vanished behind a cluster of brush.
She never ran, just moved fast enough to stay out
of reach. I contemplated why she was moving away from me,
Geared with the familiar colors of search and rescue in
the beginnings of a heavy storm. The only reasonable explanation
would be that she was leading me to someone who
she came with her parent or guardian stuck somewhere nearby.
This only added urgency to the situation. The snow fell
harder now. My boots punched through crust and sank into
the earth beneath. Wind howled through the pines, giving the
illusion of voices cries that almost resolved into words, then
vanished again. My radio was hissing with static. I filmed
the call button anyway, Braiker, I'm tracking her. She's moving
east northeast. I'm going to try, and the signal cracked
and then dropped entirely dead. I stopped for a moment,
fighting the urged to panic. I wasn't trained for solo tracking,
and if something went wrong now, there'd be no one
to triangulate my location. But I'd just seen her clear
as day. If she were injured, confused, or worse, I
couldn't just turn around, And I didn't want to come
back and admit I left a child to die alone
in the cold. So I pressed on the trees, closed
in tighter. Visibility dipped again. My breath came in hitches.
Now then she was gone. I turned in a slow circle,
scanning for movement. Nothing. I checked the ground, but there
were no prints. The air went still, no wind or sound.
I reached for the whistle Wriker had given me and
raised it to my lips. One sharp blast. The sound
bounced through the woods and varnished. I waited. Then an answer,
same pitch, same duration. I exhaled in relief. Riker must
have heard me. He'd be coming now. But then before
I could call again, her voice followed the whistle. It
wasn't Riker's. A soft, lifting voice, clear as day, floated
through the trees. Hello, it was her. I froze. My
brain scrambled to rationalize it. What if I hadn't lost her,
but she lost me, guiding me to somewhere that needed
my attention. I thought about the direction of each sound.
The returning whistle came from behind, where I could only
assume Riker was, but the voice was from her head,
roughly the way I was being led. If she answered,
she was close. I had to reach her, And if
Riker had heard me, he'd be heading my way anyway,
he'd know the grid pattern, he'd catch up. So I
turned toward a voice and moved carefully but quickly. My
compass needle spun once, then stuck, But I pushed forward.
The slope changed under foot, the snow deepened, the trees
grew denser, limbs gnarled and reaching, some wrapped to the vines.
I swore hadn't been there. Minutes ago. I passed under
a natural arch of branches and realized I no longer
recognized the landscape, completely lost. And then I saw her.
A break in the trees revealed a shallow clearing. The
girl in the red coat stood in the middle, hands
set aside, waiting, but she wasn't alone. Behind her, something
tall and gray loomed still as a statue. At first
I thought it was the shade of a tree, but
then it blinked. Its face was wrong, not shaped for eyes,
not made for locking, but it had seen me, and
the girl smiled again. For a heartbeat. None of us moved.
The girl and the red coat stood perfectly still in
the clearing, her boots planted neatly together, her chins slightly lifted,
waiting almost politely with the thing behind her. That's what
froze my breath in my throat. It was hunched low
to the ground, long limbed, like a starving animal, its
joints bent at angles that shouldn't exist. Its skin was smooth,
sickly gray, stretched too thin, like wet paper. Over Stick's
head tilted in my direction as though it was sizing
me up. It didn't move, not an inch, but the
girl did. She turned a little toward me, and then
she spoke, help me, it's so cold. Her voice was soft, warm,
and disturbingly calm, but her mouth didn't open, not even
a twitch. The words just slipped into the air between us,
as though the space itself had spoken them. The thing
behind her shifted, only a tremor, like something contracting unseen muscles.
Looks like you'll be the next one, she said, although
I couldn't make sense of it. My stomach dropped so
hard my knees almost went with it. Then it started
slinking toward me. That was when I realized the girl
wasn't separate, she wasn't herself. They were both sides of
the same coin. She was a luwer, a mask, something
the creature used to draw people in, and the creature,
the real creature, was the thing behind her, the horrifying
mass watching me, breathing without lungs, speaking without a voice.
My heart thundered against my ribs. I stumbled backward, boots
slipping in the snow. My throat tightened, but I couldn't scream.
Panic rose so sharp it felt like electricity. All I
could think was get out. I turned and ran. Branches
slapped my arms, My breath tore out of me in
sharp bursts. The trees blurred and twisted around me as
I sprinted, not caring where I was going, just away
away from that thing, away from its voice inside my head,
away from the smile on her face that shouldn't exist.
But the forest didn't cooperate. Every direction looped back in
on itself. No matter which angle I turned, I hit
the same gnarled birch, the same rot and stump, the
same fork in the path. It was like the woods
were squeezing me inward, nudging me back toward the clearing.
Every shadow felt too close. Every creak of a branch
sounded like a step, and then a wet, scraping sound
behind me, fast getting closer. I stumbled, hitting my knee
hard on a route. I twisted around. The girl stood
five feet away, head tilted behind her. The creature unfolded itself,
rising taller, too tall, its limbs uncoiling like ropes soaked
in oil. It reached toward me, and, if you could
call it that, stretched out fingers like brittle twigs. I
froze in absolute terror as it neared inches away from me.
Then something slammed into me from the side. An arm
hooked around my chest, a hand clamped over my mouth.
I didn't even have time to react. My body was
hauled backward into the brush as the creature's reach slice
through the space where my face had been. My head
hit earth, breath knocked out of me. I thrashed instinctively
until I heard a voice in my ear, quiet riiker.
He dragged me behind a fallen log, keeping one hand
over my mouth and the other gripping something, maybe a knife,
maybe at all. I didn't know. My vision blurred with panic.
I couldn't speak, breathe right, or think. Everything was shaking.
The creature moved into the clearing, searching a shape shifting
in the dark. Its blank head tilted listening. I barely
unders what happened next. I heard a crack of something
metal hitting wood, riker pushing dirt a distraction throne. It
was a scuffle too fast and quiet for my panic
mind to track, but it worked. The creature moved away,
its long limbs folding into the trees, melting into the
darkness without sound. Riker didn't let me move until a
full minute of silence passed. Only then did he whisper,
voice shaky in a way I'd never heard from him.
Don't ever let it near you again. We tumbled down
an embankment, sliding through frost hardened leaves and loose mud
until we crashed through a curtain of pine bows and
into a hollowed out shelter. It wasn't natural canvas, splendid
with dirt, old brush stacked to hide an outline inside.
He was just tall enough to crouch a rusted lantern,
burned low supplies lined the corners, flares, cans of food,
torn mats with years of notes edged in redd ink.
Ryker shoved the flap closed and pressed a hand to
my chest to keep me still. I could feel his
heart beat pounding through his gloves. You okay, he finally asked.
I couldn't speak. I just nodded. He looked me over,
then let out a breath that shock more than it
should of. He sat, leaned back and wiped a hand
down his face in the flickering lantern light. He looked
older than I realized, worn out from a hard life.
You saw it, he said the girl. I nodded again.
He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. She gets better at
pretending every year. I swallowed. What what is it? He
didn't answer right away. Instead, he opened a thermos and
poured two small cups of black coffee. I took mine
with shaking hands. It waits, he said, finally, out there
in that tree line. I've never found any information on it.
I don't know what the hell to call it, but
it takes the shape of something innocent, I said. He
looked at me. She's not innocent, though anything, but she's bait.
It lures with hope, the kind of hope only a
good person would follow. He tapped his chest. You chaste
because you thought she was real, Because you cared. He
leaned forward. Now, eyes wet, voice tight. That's why I
joined Search and Rescue. That's why we all do it,
because we want to help, and it knows that it
waits for people like us. I remembered her smile, the
way it hadn't reached the eyes, and the things standing
behind her. How it didn't speak, but I heard it.
I heard a voice in my head. I whispered, but
it wasn't her talking. Riiker nodded slowly. She's not real.
A rubber worm on the end of a fish huck,
showing whatever it is you need to see so it
can hook you in. I thought about this. If there
are reports of an injured animal or something menial, it'd
be pushed off until after the storm. But the reports
were perfect to get a whole team sent out, a
plethora of victims to choose from. But this also raised
more questions. What does it want? What happens if it
catches you? I asked. Raiker paused, thinking of the best
way to word his response. It wasn't always a girl
when I first saw it, who was a nice old man.
We're on a family trip. I was showing my family
the world. All it took was one touch. It marks you,
curses you. Once you're tagged, you belonged to it. There
was something hollow in his voice. He was cryptic, but
I started piecing it together. Having calmed down somewhat, I
looked around the bar anchor again, the maps, the supplies.
This wasn't a rescue cash, this was a hunting blind,
A war room. You've been tracking it, I said, for years,
he said, before you were ever brought in. He laughed again,
but not humor darker. I've seen others go missing. I've
tried marking its movements, testing how it chooses. I even
tried baiting it once. He didn't elaborate. I didn't ask.
He stared into the corner like it held answers he
hadn't found. I'm slowing down, he admitted. I don't move
like I used to. Visions worse handshake sometimes. You know
how many years I've prepped this place, how many storms
I've waited, hoping i'd find a weakness. He looked at me,
then really looked at me, you know, he said, staring
at the dirt floor. I once heard her say something
to me. I looked up what he swallowed, I forgive you.
The words lingered in the stale air, like a breath
and cold glass. I've been trying to figure out what
I'm being forgiven for ever since, he said. I don't
think she meant it, but god, it almost sounded sincere
I watched him. I'm sure if I should respond. He
seemed lost in the memory, haunted by something. Only he'd witnessed.
Then he straightened up and reached under a tarp in
the corner. He pulled out a weapon, a compact rifle,
lovingly maintained its barrel wrapped in cloth to keep the
cold from seizing the metal. My chest tightened. What are
you doing, Raiker lifted the gun, checked the chamber, and
nodded to himself. This is the best chance I've had
in years, he said. Storm's covering movement. It hunts better
in clear air. You're not going out there, I said,
you can barely. He rolled up his sleeve, and my
words died. His forearm was pale as candlewax, mottled with
deep blue patches. Streaks of white frostbites spied it beneath
the skin, but worse at the center of it, with
the clear impressions of fingers curved inward like hooks, a
perfect handprint. I'm already gone, Reiker said, marked it touched me.
When I hauled you out of the clearing. My stomach dropped. Reriiker,
you didn't feel it. That's good, he breathed out a
shaky but relieved sound. Maybe you'll last longer than I did.
I'm not letting you go alone, I said, rising to
my feet. We can raid you in. Help call the state. Call.
There's no one left a call. He actually smiled at that,
a real smile, the first I'd seen from him, A
small sad thing. You think I haven't tried, he said.
I've done this longer than you've been shaving. I've chased
her for years, hoping i'd find the loophole, a weakness,
a pattern. His hand tightened on the rifle. I never did.
But if I'm going to die anyway, he shrugged, might
as well go out swinging. It's the best excuse I've
ever had. Breaker. Please. My throat was tight, and not
of guilt, helplessness, and something like grief twisted inside me.
This man had saved my life, and it had cost
him his, and now he was walking into the dark
to pay the rest of the price. Alone. He put
a hand on my shoulder. Stay here, no matter what
you hear. When the storm breaks, wait for the team,
walk out when the sun's up. Don't run, don't follow her.
He pulled the flap open. The cold wind slapped my face,
and then he stepped out into the black. I scrambled
toward the exit riker with a flap drop shot. For
a moment, there was only the roar of the storm,
then a gunshot, sharp echoing another, then a scream, raw
torn from someone who had no hope of surviving what
they were facing, and then silence. The storm swallowed everything.
To honor Riika, I did as I was told. I
stayed in the shelter. Hours passed, the lantern dimmed, my
breath fog in the cold, but I had time to
look around see what he'd really been doing. There were
notes everywhere, wrapped in protective film to stop the elements
at eating the pages. Notes on locations hot and cold,
areas of sightings, unexplained disappearances. It was a clinical detail,
and assimile of the way he presented himself. However, like
I had witnessed something no one else in the Essaar
team had seen besides me, I found his heart, something
so dear that I could almost feel it beating in
my hand. A small square that told a biblical size story,
A worn out polaroid of a happy family with a
snowy backdrop. Riiker, young and full of energy, surrounded by love,
and between him and his partner, a joyous little girl
in a red coat. It must have been taken. Not
long before she was taken, absorbed by the thing that
became his obsession, an incident that turned his story from
growth to loss. Riker never came back. When the blizzard
eased at dawn, I crawled out of the bunker, half
expecting to see him slumped outside, But there was nothing.
Only one thing sat in the mud, untouched by snow,
his old brass whistle. They found me in the early morning,
slumped against a pine stump, with my radio dead and
my coat soaked through. I don't remember what I said,
just that I was called disoriented and alone. Search and
Rescue huddled around, full of panicked questions and relief. I
told them Riker and I got separated in the storm.
I tried to keep to the trail. I must have tripped,
lost my bearings, fell down a slope. I don't remember.
I don't remember. I don't remember. They didn't press further.
Riker's absence said enough. I took a break from essay
r after that, said I needed time. They didn't argue
for a while. I tried to live normal, sleep, work, pretend,
but every creek outside made my breath hitch. I started
watching the tree line through my window, started keeping a
flashlight next my bed started waking up with a sense
that some one had just left the room. A month
passed then too, but I couldn't stay away. It felt
like a compulsion. I signed back up. Some of the
same faces were still around, Carl, Dana, the Captain, but
a lot of new ones too, college kids, drifters, hopefuls.
I kept to myself, did the refresher's course past the
new field drills. I didn't talk about Ryker. Then one evening,
during gear check, the call came in a hiker and
reported seeing someone limping near dear Hollow trail mail mid forties,
walking with a pronounced drag like an injury. Every time
they got close, he slipped out of view. The report
said he kept looking back but never called out. Bad
weather was coming in overnight, too cold for someone to
be wandering alone injured. We were mobilized. They split us
into search grids. I was assigned west, just like before,
but talked them into letting me go east, just like before.
They were confused by this, but still unsure of how
to handle me, so let me do my own thing.
My partner this time was Lucy new Girl nervous energy,
but capable. Didn't talk much, which suited me fine. We
hiked through thick frost and bramble, radio's crackling as the
wind picked up. Snow was coming fast, the air already
sharp enough to bite. Then, just like before, a voice
cut through the woods. Hey, it's someone there. My feet
frozen place. It was Raiker's voice. Hey, I am hurt,
need a hand over here. Lucy perked up. That must
be him, But the tone was wrong, the urgency too measured,
too performative, compared to the reserved way Riker always presented himself.
I turned slowly between the trees, maybe thirty feet out.
I saw him or the thing wearing him, just the
edge of a figure half hidden behind a birch head
down coat torn at the shoulder, like he wanted me
to come closer, like he didn't think I'd learned. Lucy
started forward. I grabbed her arm hard, don't She looked
at me. But he's he's not not anymore, Lucy shook
me off. What the hell are you talking about? Answer?
My hand instinctively went to my coat pocket, felt the
weight there the whistle. A minute passed, then another. The
figure stayed still too still seem the fishmen didn't want
to scare the fish away by tugging the string too much.
I turned back to Lucy, come on, we're heading back.
She started to protest again, but I spoke before she could.
Storms coming in fast. Anyone in that condition wouldn't have
made it this far without shelter. If he's real, he's
already dead. I don't know if she bought it doesn't matter.
She followed. We regrouped with the team. I made my report,
referred to the snow, the wind, the lack of tracks.
I said it didn't match up. I said, we need
better weather, infrared and maybe a drone sweep in the morning.
They logged it, called off the search until the storm passed.
Back at base, I stowed my gear. Then I went
to the locker room. There in my personal bag, beneath
a medical pouch and my backup radio, was the thing
I hadn't dared carry until now, a firearm, Riker's old
side arm. I'd found it hidden in the bunker after
the storm passed, along with his journal, his maps, his mission.
I signed back up for search and rescue because it
was what I knew, but I stayed because it was
what I had to do. I don't know if the
creature can be killed, but I can try. I know
Ryker tried, and now it's my turn. My mom's flight
was at six am, and she was already running late.
I was half asleep in the passenger seat with a
backpack crammed between my knees. She sped down the dark
back roads like the sky was on fire. Her phone
kept buzzing with work emails lighting up the dash. She
didn't even glance at them. Just a couple of nights,
she said, for the third time, more to herself than me.
I'll be back Monday. Be good for Grandma. Okay. I
granted I was sixteen, not exactly in need of a babysitter,
but apparently Grandma insisted. She said he was important. If
she misses you, her fingers tightened on the wheel, and honestly,
I didn't have a lot of other options. That last
part rang truer. Since the divorce, it had just been
the two of us, mom juggling two jobs and a
thousand stress headaches. Grandma's place had always been the fall back, quiet,
old out in the sticks. My biggest gripe was no
Wi Fi, just trees and the sound of wind that
never quite felt like wind. We pulled into the gravel
driveway just after dusk. The porch like buzzed above the steps,
flickering once like it always did. Grandma's house hadn't changed
from the outside. It had the same old wooden siding.
The paint faded to a memory of blue. The wind
chimes clinked on a breeze that didn't touch the trees.
Mom sat in the car a moment longer than usual.
She's been acting a little different lately, she said, not
looking at me. Probably nothing, just humorer. Okay. I raised
an eyebrow, like dementia different or emminent death different. My
mother gave me a sour look. Be nice, was all
she said. We didn't bring much, just a backpack with clothes,
my toothbrush, and my charger. When Grandma entered the door
in her usual house slippers, cardigan, and her hair in
a loose bun. She hugged me tight and smelled like
mothballs and lavender, as expected. But when I stepped into
the living room, something felt wrong. I couldn't place it.
At first. The furniture was all where it belonged, though
maybe shifted side, like someone had tried to memorize the
layout but got a few inches wrong. Then I saw
the wall above the fireplace was a square outline, paler
than the surrounding paint. The mark something leaves after hanging
in one spot for years. Weird, but not alarming. When
sitting down to eat, I went to get some cutlery.
The kitchen had plastic forks in the drawer, no spoons.
Anything metal was gone. Even the sink forest was wrapped
in tape, dulling the shine. The knob on the cabinets
had been replaced with these strange wooden ones, screwed and crooked.
I asked if she needed help finding a forks. She
just looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.
These work fine, she said, handing me a bent plastic spore.
I waited for her to laugh or smile some kind
of joke, but she just went on preparing tea, humming
tunelessly under her breath, like this was a normal behavior
over a quiet meal. Dinner was edible, something gray with
peas in it, not the usual home cooked meal made
with love. She asked me questions about school, but kept
forgetting the answers. I'd just given. She called me by
my uncle's name once, even though he'd been dead for years.
I let it slide. I figured she was just getting
old or tired. But that night, after brushing my teeth,
I looked up, expecting to see myself in the bathroom mirror,
except there wasn't one. A wooden board had been nailed
over it, cleanly cut to fit the frame, smooth and sanded,
no sign of damage. It stared back at me, flat
and blank, as if daring me to ask questions, and
I did, just not out loud, not yet. I woke
up early the next morning, the way you do in
a house that isn't yours, disoriented automatically, trying to figure
out where the creaky spots and the floor are so
you don't wake anyone. The sun was just barely leaking
in through the blinds, casting a sickly yellow tint over everything.
I wondered the house a little, half out of boredom,
half looking for breakfast. After that mission proved fruitless, I
flopped on the old living room couch, flicking through my phone,
trying to ignore the growing on knees in my chair.
I thought about taking his Selfie just to send a
mom proof of life, but I didn't. I just couldn't
bring myself to like i'd be lying if I said
things were all right. Instead, I tried to entertain myself
with whatever I'd saved in my camera roll. Since all
the apps were just spinning circles without Internet. My brain
must have been numbing from boredom, because when I rolled over,
my phone slipped from my hand. It bounced on the
soft carpet and slid partly under the couch. I lay
down to try catcher's edge in the gap, hoping my
fingers would be thin enough to slide it out, but
I ended up just pushing it further in each time
I tried. I didn't want to move the whole thing,
so I found a long, thin stick to sweep under
and scoop it out. However, alongside my phone, a penny
and a few odd pieces of stale popcorn popped out.
I pulled out a small shard of something curved and dusty.
It was the corner of a smashed mirror. The reflection
in it was warped and smeared. It must have slid
under there when the living room mirror was removed and
stayed hidden, but I could see myself in the reflection,
and just for a split second, I thought I saw
something else behind me too, something standing in the hallway.
But when I looked up, the hallway was empty. I
decided to hide the shard just in case. That afternoon
she made lunch, if you could call it that. It
was a bowl of pale broth, thin and gray, like
something strained from boiled bones. The floating in it looked
pink in place, as it shouldn't be. I poked it
with a spark and asked what it was. She just
smiled and said the usual. I didn't push, just pretended
to eat, and flushed most of it when she wasn't locking.
The rest of the day passed slowly quiet. I tried
texting Mom, but she didn't answer, probably busy. Still, I
caught myself checking every Fifteen minutes later, we sat together
in the den. The TV was still covered, and when
I asked if we could watch something, Grandma just shook
her head. Oh, Jerry, I thought you hated television, She said, Jerry,
it's not my name. That was my father. I blinked,
you mean me, I'm not She tilted her head. Of course,
of course, you're not. Her eyes stayed on me too
long after that, like she was trying to remember something
she never really knew. That night, at dinner, she said,
Maum had just been by yesterday, dropped off a basket,
she told me, motioning toward a countertop that was very
obviously empty. You didn't see her. I didn't say anything,
just nodded and looked at the dry tile where the
basket definitely hadn't been, not to mention the fact that
my mom had flown away. She couldn't just drop by.
I started watching her more carefully, notice the way she
shuffled down hallways, like she was tracing steps she'd memorized.
It was around eleven p m. When I finally turned in.
I locked my door, just being cautious, That's what I
told myself. But at some point I woke up where
you're still mostly in a dream, but I heard something
breathing right outside my door. It was steady and slow,
like someone waiting. I didn't move. The sound stayed for
a long time. Then the floor creaked once and it
was gone. I slid the cracked mirrorchard from where I
hid it, wrapped it in a shirt, tucked it under
my bed. I waited until she was asleep. At least
I hoped she was asleep. I crept through the house
with a mirror shard hidden in my sleeve, careful not
to let it catch too much light. Every floorboard grown
louder than I remembered, and every shadow stretched too long.
When I moved, the living room was first. I stood
in the center and slowly tilted the shard to glance
over my shoulder. The air shifted in the shard. The
room locked wrong, same layout, same furniture, but it was
like someone had redrawn it from memory badly. The angles
didn't add up. The wallpaper curled in ways that defied gravity.
The ceiling van hung limp unmoving, even though I could
feel it turning above me. No sound came through the glass,
like the reflection was holding its breath. In the dining room,
the chairs were all facing the wrong direction. I spilled
glass of water, sat frozen mid splash on the table.
The windows were smeared with something dark. I kept moving,
checking each space quick glances into the shard. As I moved.
The hallway was narrower in the reflection, lined with doors
that weren't there before, stacked and stacked and stacked, some
of them slightly ajar. I never dared to look too
long at any of them, unsure of how I'd even
do so. In the upstairs guest room, the reflection showed
all the toys in the closet turned toward the door,
as if waiting. The bathroom had no mirror, of course,
but in the shard the wall where the mirror used
to be pled light from behind the wood, as if
it was straining to come through. The entire time. I
moved quietly, listening for her, but the house was dead silent.
That only made it worse. There was only one place
I hadn't checked, the basement. Grandma never went down there.
The door was always locked, and the key, a rusted,
old skeleton key, hung above the fridge. I waited until
I was sure I wouldn't be heard, then slid it free.
The door creaked louder than anything else in the house.
I winced, waited nothing, I opened it and slipped down
into the dark. The basement was cold, it smelled like
wet wood and mildew. But more than that, it fell
off in a way the rest of the house hadn't
wrong in the way it felt arranged very similar to
the eye I saw in the reflections around this house,
but now I was standing in it. There was a
wooden chair in the center of the room, with nothing
else around it, just the chair and frayed ropes still
wrapped loosely around the arms and legs. Deep grooves scratched
into the floor beneath it, like someone had been struggling recently.
But in the mirror shard, an ordinary looking basement. Boxes
were stacked neatly along the walls. The paint wasn't peeling.
It was a quiet, normal basement, a version of the
room that should have been. I pulled the shower down
and looked again, still the same rotted room. The reflections
had all been twisted versions of my world, for the
basement was the only one where the reflection looked real
like this version of the pace, but when I was
standing in was the fake. I stuffed the mirror shard
into my pocket and quietly made my way to the
front door. I didn't even bother with my shoes, just
wanted air space, a normal tree, something that didn't twist
when I wasn't looking at it. I gripped the handle,
turned it and nothing. It wasn't locked. The mechanism clicked normally,
but the door wouldn't move, like something was holding it.
Shot from the outside, it didn't even rattle. When shaken,
I locked out the side window. The world beyond the
glass rippled faintly but unmistakably, like heat haze, only thicker.
The tree trunks shimmered, warping at their edges. The leaves
fluttered in loops that didn't match the wind. I couldn't feel.
It looked exactly like the house did in the mirror. Shard.
I pressed my forehead to the glass and looked up.
The sky was wrung too, slightly off collar like it
had been painted just the shade too gray, and the
clouds had forgotten how to move. I realized I hadn't
heard a single bird, no passing cars, no wind, just
the house and her. Grandma had started humming again. She
was in the kitchen, standing with a back to me.
I hadn't heard her wake up. She was stirring something
that smelled like burnt honey and rust. The song was
slow and broken, half melody, half moan, a tune that
worms into your head and makes your teeth itch. She
didn't move like she had the other day. Her limbs
were stiff, swinging wide like a puppet trying to remember
how to walk. Her feet dragged scoffing hard against the floorboards.
The back of her neck twitched every few seconds, like
she was suppressing a shudder. She hadn't asked me how
I slept, hadn't asked if I was hungry. It was
like she didn't need the act anymore. She knew I
was stuck. So now it was letting the mask slip,
letting me see the wrongness that had been growing the
whole time. I bagged away, slowly, careful not to draw
her attention. Whatever that thing was in the kitchen, it
wasn't my grandmother. I went back to the basement as
quietly as I could, because I couldn't stop thinking about
what I'd seen. Every other room in the house twisted
in the sharp reflection. The basement was the only place
that felt like an opposite to me. This meant something,
I hoped, the finest solution, who read the very least answers.
Just standing at the top of the basement stairs made
my stomach clench. I crept down slowly, one hand gripping
the rail, the other wrapped tightly around the mirror shard.
When I reached the bottom, the air hit me and
it was worse, damp and metallic. The chair was still
there in the center of the room, empty ropes hanging
off the arms like wilted vines. I stood there for
a long moment, steadying myself, lifted the mirror shard and
angled it toward the chair. My breath fogged the glass.
Within the normal looking basement in the reflection, a woman
sat tied to the chair. Her hair was a little
shorter than I remembered, her face thinner, but there was
no mistaking her. It was my grandmother, the real one.
She wasn't screaming, or if she was, the shaher didn't
carry sound. Her head drooped forward, like she'd exhausted herself
hours ago. But when I stepped closer, she lifted her face.
Her eyes locked on mine. I didn't know how that
was possible, how could she see me from that place?
But she did, and she tried to speak. Her lips
strained against the invisible ropes of silence, forming a single
word again and again. Break. Her mouth formed it with
desperate precision. Break, break, Break. A chill ran through me,
so fast. It felt like my bones correcked. I lowered
the shard and looked at the basement. I was in
the failing, dusty one around me. The ropes on the
empty chair hung in the exact positions they wrapped around
her wrists in the reflection. I raised the shard again.
Her eyes didn't blink. She kept mouthing the same word,
urging me, but to what I didn't know. I swallowed hard, Grandma,
My voice sounded tiny. Can you hear me? No answer?
Fresh and tightened, urgency sharpening her features. Her eyes flicked
towards something over my shoulder and widened. I froze. Footsteps upstairs, slow, heavy,
like someone placing each foot intentionally, carefully, as if savoring
the sound. My heart hammered in my throat. I ducked
behind an old shelving unit stacked with dusty paint cans
and Christmas ornaments from decades ago. I curled in tight,
trying to steady my breath. The footsteps reached the top
of the basement stairs. The door groaned open, and then
she came down. Her silhouette stretched along the wall before
her body did, slightly bent at the joints, like she'd
been rearranged and hadn't quite settled. She hummed that awful
almost lullaby again, each note bending upward at the end,
like a question in the reflection. She wasn't there. The
basement was still empty except for my grandmother, tied to
the chair, silently pleading with me. Two basements, two truths
out of sync with each other, and I was stuck
in the wrong one. I pressed the shower to my chest,
praying it wouldn't catch any stray light. The fake Grandma
drifted past my hiding spot, humming, tilting her head left
and right like she was smelling the air for me.
She paused so close I could have reached out and
touched the nightgown, but I didn't dare breathe didn't dare think.
After a long moment, she turned and climbed the stairs again,
the door click shut behind her, firm and final. I
didn't move for a full minute, maybe more, just listening
to the thudding of my own heart. Trapped there was
no way out, just the shard, the cold, and the
chair in the center of the room, and the knowledge
that something real was still in there somewhere. I forced
myself up, legs shaking and looked again through the shard.
The chair and the reflection was whole, upright clean. The
rope still tied tightly around my grandmother's wrists and ankles.
My grandmother was still staring at me, tears streaking down
a face. Break, she mouthed again. Break. I stared down
at the empty chair in front of me, empty flakes
of old, frayed rope still curled around the arms like
a memory. I pulled out the box cutter that was
lying in the storage bin. My hands were sweating now.
I turned back to the shard, lined it up just
right so the mirror version of the chair overlapped the
real one. Heart pounding, I brought the blade to the
ropes and the reflection. It was hard to cut because
of the angle. I had to work her more often
than not. I found myself scoring the side of the
chair's arm or slipping across the top. But eventually I
cut through the fraying rope. I did this three more
times before it all fell loose. I didn't know what
I expected, a sound, as shift in the air, magic,
Nothing happened. I stood there like an idiot, feeling sick,
the shard fogging with my breath, and then movement. The
ropes and the reflection loosened. She was standing shakily. Tears
were in her eyes. She mouthed something again, too fast
to catch. I leaned closer. She looked past me and
pointed behind me. I spawn instinctively, raising the shard, and
came face to face with her on all fours, elbows
bent wrong, neck twisted like a broken hanger, face split
by that same smile, glinting even without light. Her voice
came out like a purr and a rasp. Layard together,
looks like you've found her. She didn't scream. That somehow
made it worse. Her jaw just split open too fast,
unhinging like wet paper peeling away from bone. No sound,
just avoid where a face should be, and a neck
that twitched like a marionette string had just snapped. She plunged.
I didn't think. I threw myself backward, ducked under a
reaching arms, those long, vainy things, and sprinted for the stairs.
Her hands scraped the floor behind me, the nails clacking
on the concrete like hoofs. I reached the top step
just as she let out a noise like a drain,
choking on blood. I burst into the hallway, grabbed the
door and slammed it shut behind me. I yanked over
a nearby chair and jammed it under the knob. Something
hit the door a second later, hard enough to rattle
the hinges. The chair groaned but held. I bagged away hard,
jack hammering in my throat. The hallway was wrung. The
wallpaper patterns had shifted into jagged shapes. The family portraits
on the wall were crying, black oily streaks dribbling from
painted eyes. One of the frames bubbled like it was boiling.
Every window pulsed in and out like lungs breathing. I
staggered into the living room. Everything was worse here. The
furniture sagged inward, the floorboards curled slightly at the edges,
as if trying to turn themselves over. I needed something real,
something to ground me. My hands fumbled for the mirror
shard in my pocket, fingers trembling as I angled it
just right. It took a second to focus. The glass
was smudged, but I saw it the real living room.
The warped wallpaper, the melting windows, all gone in the reflection,
just the quiet house, my grandmother's real house, and then
my Grandma, the real one. She was standing in the
hallway of the reflection outside my bedroom door. She wasn't
tired anymore. It looked like my cutting had worked, though
looking at the red seeping across the sleeves, I was
horrified at the ramifications of my miss cuts. I had
no time to dwell on that though. She looked at
me through the shard, straight into my eyes, and then
she mouthed something I couldn't hear, but I felt it.
There's still time. The moment she pointed, I moved. I
didn't hesitate. I couldn't. The house was breathing too loud now,
the shadows bending in strange directions. The slamming on the
basement door rattled the chair loose with each bang. I
ran for the hallway closet. The mirror shard gripped so
tightly in my hand that the edges dug into my palm.
I yanked the door open. Just coats, dusty limp things
hanging from plastic hangers, a clapsed umbrella, a floor scattered
with old shoes, nothing else. A stairwell, wooden narrow leading
down into shadow. No way. I whispered and pressed the
shard closer to the gap between the coats in the glass.
The coats didn't exist, just a hollow, like the closet
was never used for storage at all. I reached inside.
My fingers touched the back panel, solid, no way through,
but I turned to look at my Grandma, trying to
see if I was missing something, and she was insistent.
So I turned around, pushed my back into the back panel,
navigating with the shard, and slipped past it. A faint
hiss of cold air rushed out, dry and stale, like
a crypt. The coats rustled on their own. I pushed
them aside and dugged in. It was tight, barely enough
room to crawl. The woods scraped my shoulders. Yes, smelled
like wet stone and rust. But I kept going, guided
only by what the mirror showed. No more normal, just
that staircase and the strange quiet that with it. The
further I went, the colder it got cold. You feel
in your bones, not your skin. I turned the shard
to check behind me. The fake house still walked and snarling,
but ahead the stairs were getting clearer. Halfway through the passage,
the mirror started matching what I was seeing. The house
and the shard became the real house again, reality snapping
back into alignment like I stepped out of a lie.
Finally I emerged, wooden steps beneath me, smooth concrete floor ahead,
the real basement. I could feel it, still damp, cold,
but real. And there it was, the chair, empty, frayed
rope ends hanging up off the arms, red smeared along
the wood, the seat indented, faint marks of dust, shoes
smaller than mine. She'd been here. The last place I
saw her was the hallway, so I had to make
my way back up. The stairs creaked under my feet
like they hadn't been stepped on in years. I moved slowly,
breath shallow, expecting the walls to shift again, for the
floor to fall out beneath me, but everything was still.
When I reached the top, I smelled something familiar, pine cleaner,
coffee grounds, dry air warmed by a radiator. Home, And there,
standing in the living room, blinking like someone pulled her
from a deep sleep, was Grandma. She looked different, smaller,
fragile in a way I didn't remember. Her sweater was
on backwards, her hands were shaking, blood still fresh on
her wrists and ankles, sweetheart, she said, her voice rasping,
Are you okay? Never mind me, I shot back, tears
welling in my eyes. I stepped closer, heart pounding. She
looked up at me and smiled the way I remembered
true sincerity. But I didn't get to approach because I
heard the sound, a dragging, wet scrape from the hallway
behind me. I turned and he was halfway through the closet, crawling,
pulling itself forward like a spider forcing its way through
a crack in the wor world. Its skin shimmered like tar.
Its face flickered between her face and something unfinished. Its
hands gripped the frame, long thin fingers, splintered nails, jaw unhinged.
I got back up. Grandma clutched the arm of a chair.
It's back, she whispered. I didn't answer. I reached into
my pocket, the mirror shard, still warm from gripping it
in the crawl space. I couldn't get the thought out
of my head. How I noticed all the reflective surfaces
were removed from the house. How I'd got this far
only by the shard that I'd found. Reflections were the key.
So I did the only thing I could think of.
I held it up towards the thing. It hissed, a pressure,
a shriek behind my eyes. It recoiled, arms cracking backward
at wrong angles. Its eyes locked on the shard, a
blur bouncing from it to the shard, like a recursive loop.
It opened its mouth wider than it shut of. It's
more a tunnel of static. It reached again, so I
stepped forward, held the shard higher, and things intensified. It
wasn't light that came out, more like the absence of
everything behind me, Like it was staring into a doorway.
It wasn't meant to see. Air searched backward, photos fell
off the wall. The hallway twisted. It clawed at the floor,
trying to stay, but its limbs started folding backwards inward undone.
It turned to ash in slow motion, like paper burning
without flame. Then silence. The mirror shards split down the
center hairline. Cracks wept through it, and then it crumbled,
finer sand through my fingers, gone completely behind me. Grandma
started to cry. The house was still, The hallway was quiet,
The mess from the encounter was strewn about. The mirror
was still missing from the wall. The kitchen full of
plastic forks, that blank wooden boards still bolted to the
bathroom wall, like the world had snapped back, but the
echo of her choices remained. Grandma was there, standing where
I'd last seen her. Her eyes flicked to mine as
I entered, and for a second I saw something recognition, grief,
then relief, sharp and overwhelming. I quickly rushed to get
a first aid kit I knew she had in the kitchen,
and when I came back, tended to a wounds lines
cut on her wrists and ankles when my slicing went awry,
But she didn't seem to hold it against me. Oh,
she whispered, like she'd been holding her breath for years.
Thank God, it's over. I nodded, tried to answer, but
it caught in my throat. It was like a bad dream,
she said, voice barely louder than the wind outside. I
remember going about my daily business, cleaning up for when
you arrived, but my reflection caught funny. Next thing I know.
I couldn't move, couldn't speak, But then I saw you
in the mirror. I knelt beside her, unsure of what
to say. Her hand found mine. You were so brave,
she said, I always knew you would be. I swallowed hard.
The lump in my throat didn't budge Grandma. I said, quietly,
you're safe now, that's all that matters. She nodded, eyes glassy.
You saved me. We sat there for a long time,
just breathing, relishing the quiet while the sun kept rising.
The days after it all ended were quiet and away.
I'd never noticed before. Grammar and I didn't talk about
what happened, not directly, but something unspoken passed between us.
Every time I handed her a new mirror to hang,
or helped peel the privacy film from the windows, She'd
watched the sunlight come in, like it was a guest
she hadn't seen in years, Like she didn't trust it
to stay. But she hugged me more. Made real food again,
still a little overcooked, Still too much dill, but I
didn't mind. I swept out rooms that hadn't been opened
in years, helped to replace knobs, scrubb tape off old faucets,
and rehang a new mirror in the hallway. When I
stepped back and looked to the glass, I didn't flinch.
I saw myself, just me and behind me, She smiled,
the real one. On the last morning she made me pancakes,
real syrup, real butter. She didn't call me the wrong name.
Once life was back to normal. When Mom pulled up outside,
I loaded my bag into the trunk and hugged Grandma
a little longer than I ever had before. She whispered,
you come back soon, okay, I nodded, I will. My
Mom noticed the bandages on Grandma's wrists, but we both
stuck to the story it was a kitchen accident, nothing more.
We were halfway down the road when Mom glanced at me.
Thanks for being good for her, She said, I know
it's your favorite place, but I appreciate it. Maybe next
time I'll see if one your friends can have you
over instead, you know, let you do something fun. I
looked out the window. Trees blurred past, ordinary and soft,
no oil, slick, shimmer, just the world. No, I said,
I'm okay with staying at Grandma's. Mum raised an eyebrow.
Really yeah, I said, Plus she could use the help.
She smiled, surprised but pleased. Well that's really kind of you.
I nodded, but didn't say anything else, just kept looking
out the window, watching the woods roll by. I felt
a new fan responsibility for Grandma, and if anything ever
happened again, I'd be ready. I moved to Bellweather three
years ago after my mother passed. It wasn't a decision
so much as inertia. Her house was paid off, and
I didn't have anywhere else to be. It was one
of those towns where people wave when they drive past,
even when they don't know you where. The dinerstaffs still
remember your order, even if you've only been there once.
I'd been picking up work where I could substitute teaching,
mostly sometimes weekend shifts at the library when the high
schoolers flake. No one asked many questions. They liked that
I was dependable. I liked that they didn't pry. There
was a quiet stillness to this place, a hush that
settled behind the curtains. Half the houses were empty, The
other half held people who seemed to have calcified their routines.
Church on Sunday, groceries on Wednesday, yard work until the
first frost, and then radio silence until spring. Sometimes I
think the town is like a snow globe. Someone shock
a long time ago, now or the glitter had settled
and we were just sitting in the stillness pretending it
was still beautiful. That's what made the paintings so strange.
They held the town's art competition in the converted church hall,
same place we used for weddings, funerals, polling days, and
bake sails. You could still see the old crucifix outline
on the far wall, faded where the sun used to
hit it before someone painted over it with a coat
of beige. Wh I wasn't supposed to be judging. I
filled in because the usual guy came down with shingles,
and someone remembered I taught high school art for one
semester before they cut the budget. They said I had
a good eye, which is a polite way of saying
I'm quiet and not prone to arguing. Most of the
entries were what you'd expect, oil landscapes of fields following
a Bob Ross's tutorial, watercolor portraits of dogs that all
looked like they were melting. A kid submitted a clay
sculpture that collapsed in the box on the way in.
I liked that one best, at least it was honest.
Then I noticed the butterfly just hanging there. It hadn't
been there before, Maybe it was snuck in during the
bustle of the event. It was dead center, no name
or frame, just canvas and a butterfly. I've seen photorealistic
paintings before, hyperrealism, surrealism, digital rendering. This wasn't that. It
wasn't just real looking. It was real feeling. That's the
only way I can describe it. It looked like it
had been pinned there while breathing, and the instant the
brush touched it, it forgot how. Its wings were open, blue,
so deep it made black look loud. The body was
textured in a way that made you think about words
he hadn't used in years, velvet, bone, oil, Nothing behind it,
just a blank, white void, like it had been painted
under the idea of a canvas instead of the thing itself.
People started crying, not everyone, but most, just here and there.
People sniffled behind me. A woman put a hand over
her mouth. Even the mayor, the one who always made
a point to say how he didn't get art, stood
with his hat in his hands, nodding. I stood in
front of it for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, trying to
see what they saw, but nothing came. I felt fine.
I wasn't moved like the others were. I felt outside it,
like I never got the memo. Eventually I muttered something
I think it was incredible work or nice peace, and
drifted back toward the refreshment table to get some mayor.
That's when I saw Alice. She was standing a few
feet from the painting, Pale, maybe seventeen, hoody, with stretched sleeves,
scuffed sneakers. She was motionless, eyes locked onto the butterfly.
She looked like she'd forgotten how to blink. I watched
her longer than I should have. At first I thought
she might have fallen asleep standing up. Then I thought
she might be crying. She wasn't doing either, just staring
with the same expression I'd seen on a man at
his wife's funeral. Not grief exactly, but reverence, like something
old was ending and she'd finally accepted it. I cleared
my throat as I approached. Hey, you're right. For a moment,
she stayed silent, blinking slow. Then she looked at me,
really looked, and said softly, I didn't know it could
feel like this. I thought I missed my chance. Then
she turned back to the butterfly, and I just stood there,
not knowing what the hell to say. In the days
after the art show, the town fell lighter. That's the
only word I could think of. There was no energy
in the air, as if someone had gone around in
the night and loosened some invisible notot in everyone's chest.
People who spent years avoiding each other were suddenly talking again.
I saw two brothers, the Witcomb boys, hugging in the
middle of Main Street, like one of them had come
back from war. Missus Halpin brought a pie to her
ex husband's place, and he cried on the porch until
she hugged him. The Hendersons, who'd barely spoken since Christmas,
were holding hands at the grocery store, smiling like teenagers.
Everything felt softened. The whole town had been washed in
warm water, kindness blooming everywhere, fast and quiet, like the
way mold creeps into dry wall, spreading before you notice
it's there. But I wasn't feeling any of it. I
kept waiting for whatever hit everyone else to catch up
with me, some sense of clarity or relief, or even
just a nudge. Instead, it all passed through me like
I was made of glass, even Jacob was different, and
he's about as stubborn as they come. I stopped by
the garage one afternoon to say hi, and found him
leaning back in a lawn chair outside the bay door's
eyes closed, smiling at the sky as if someone was
telling him a story only he could hear. Hey, I said,
nudging his boot. You're right, He blinked, like I pulled
him out of a dream. Never better. He said, feels good,
you know, like something finally broke loose. What did I asked?
He just laughed, a small private laugh that made me
feel like I'd missed the joke. When I asked him
about the painting, he smiled again and said it was something,
wasn't it. He looked past me, like something across the
street was calling him. I turned to look, nothing was there.
I walked home feeling hollow. It wasn't just the painting
that bothered me. Now, it was me. Why hadn't I
reacted like everyone else? What was wrong with me that
I could look at that thing, a thing everyone else
treated like a revelation, and feel absolutely nothing. That question
kept bothering me long after I got home. Later that evening,
as I was locking up the school after a PTA meeting,
I heard footsteps echoing down the hall. It was Alice,
wearing the same hoodie with the same distant stare, but
this time her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had
that shimmering look I'd seen on half the town. She
stopped in front of me, breathing like she'd run all
the way here. I didn't think you would choose me,
she whispered. Her hands were trembling, but she didn't seem scared,
more like she was overwhelmed. I haven't even told her
I love her yet? Who I asked? She glanced past
me toward the doorway. Another girl, tall blonde, one of
the basketball kids, was standing there, staring into the dim
hallway with the same dreamy, softened expression most of the
town I'd been wearing. Alice didn't answer my question. She
didn't need to. She just smiled, small and shaking, and
said again, I didn't think it would choose me. I
started noticing the gaps. That's how it felt like blank
spaces in a song everyone else had learned the lyrics to.
People would speaking low, tender toes, like they was sharing
something sacred. But every so often I'd see someone watching
from a distance, unmoved out of step like me. The
first was the man in the rusted car behind the
hardware store. I'd seen him before, sure, just one of
those forgotten fixtures you stopped noticing until you have a
reason to. He never begged or spoke, just sat in
the front seat of that sun bleached buick, windows fogged
from the inside, watching the world pass. After the painting,
the town shifted, softened like overripe fruit. But he didn't
change at all. He just sat there, a statue in
denim and dust. Once I passed close enough to catch
his eyes through the glass, he was staring straight ahead, unblinking,
as if waiting for a radio signal only he could hear.
I raised a hand in an awkward half wave. He
didn't return it, just kept staring. Then there was the widow,
missus Laurie, who walked the cemetery each morning before dawn,
always the same path, the same three headstones, her husband,
her son, and someone else I didn't recognize. Most mornings,
I saw her from my kitchen window, dark coat trailing
behind her like smoke, hands buried deep in her sleeves.
After the butterfly showed up, I started watching more closely,
wondering if, like everyone else, she'd stop to stare at
strangers with those new gentle smiles. But she didn't. She
moved the same way, slow and rigialistic. She never looked
top I tried catching her eye one morning, brought a
coffee in a paper cup. She didn't take it, just
looked at me like I was interrupting a conversation I
couldn't hear. And then there was Nathan.
Speaker 2: He ran the.
Speaker 1: Post office, usually polite, efficient, and dry as toast. I
didn't know much about him beyond the story. Everyone knew
he had been alone his whole life, never found a
partner in this small town. In the week after the painting,
when couples danced barefoot in the park and strangers confessed
decades of buried affection, Nathan still walked his usual loop,
with mail tucked tight to his chest, jaw lock shot,
like he was keeping something from escaping. I thought, for
a second, there might be something between us, some shared understanding,
like warvette who never served in the same war but
still recognize the look in each other's eyes. I tried
to speak to him once, I throw a line about
how strange everything had gotten. He paused, nodded once, and
walked away. The others didn't speak at all, barely above
the bare minimum for conversation. I wondered if this is
how I looked the whole time I was here? To me,
I was laying low, being inoffensive. Was I just as
sour as the others not chosen? I kept wondering if
it was a coincidence, or if we were all missing
the same piece, something simple, something everyone else had that
made them worthy of whatever this was. Eventually I stopped
one morning when I saw missus Lourie sitting in the
church pews. She wasn't praying, just sitting facing the blank
wall where the painting had been. I sat a few
rows behind her, let the silence stretch between us until
I couldn't take it anymore. Why aren't you like the others,
I asked, my voice barely carried across the empty room.
She didn't look back, just shifted a gaze slightly upward
toward the ceiling beam, because she said softly, there's no
one left for me. It wasn't bitter, wasn't sad even,
It was just the truth. And suddenly the space since
I my chest felt colder than it had all weak.
It started with the lights, people standing on their porches,
faces lit by candles they hadn't held seconds before. I
saw the first group from my window around midnight, six
of them walking single file down Main Street. They weren't speaking,
but they were humming something low and wordless, not a
melody I recognized. It sounded more like a memory past
mouth to mouth. The next night, there were more couples
holding hands, parents with children, teenagers moving like they'd rehearsed
the steps in some school auditorium long ago and just
now remember the choreography. They didn't look possessed. That's the
part I kept coming back to. There was no glassiness
in their eyes, no twitching or convulsing, no signs of strain.
They looked grateful, calm, like they were doing exactly what
they were meant to do. Alice was with them. She
walked barefoot through the grass, arms loose at her side,
her face tilted up to the stars, like she expected
to be lifted at any moment. She looked so alive,
in hurt to watch her. I followed some nights, stayed
far enough back to pretend I wasn't spying. They never
turned around, never acknowledged me. Then on the fourth night,
I saw the dancers middle of the town square, a
man and a woman twirling slowly in the pool of
light beneath the lamp post, the bodies close enough that
you couldn't tell whose feet were leading. The man's shirt
was soaked with something. I thought it was rain at first,
but then I saw the dark streak trailing down from
his eye blood, a slow, steady trickle, like a tear
that got tired. No one seemed alarmed. People walked past
without blinking. One man even clapped, as if it were
a performance. That's when I started writing it all down,
not for posterity, for sanity. I needed to make it
make sense. Dates, names, times, descriptions, how many people, what
they did, how long it lasted. But the more I
tried to track it, the worse it got. It was
like trying to trace smoke with a pencil. I gathered
all my notes, thoughts and theories and went straight to
the authorities. But no matter how much I urged them
to action, the sheriff just stared through me, a soft
smile on his face. I think what angered me was
how sincere it was. He wasn't mocking me gone to
whatever was going on, Nothing added up. I stopped writing
and just watched. One night, I saw Alice sitting alone
at the edge of the pond, her reflection trembling in
the water. I decided to speak to her. She looked
up when I got close, smiled soft and tired. Why
are you doing this, I asked her. Smile didn't falter.
She stood gently. Then she reached out and touched my cheek,
not with pity, but with something that felt like an apology.
It must be so lonely, she whispered, to have no
one worth blooming for, And then she walked into the dark,
and I just stood there, still, not understanding whether she
was trying to comfort me or mourn me. I went
back to the church looking for missus Lorry. I don't
know why. Maybe because she's the only one who ever
answered me without smiling, like she knew something I didn't.
Or maybe because I still believed stupidly that there were
a few of us left who hadn't changed and were
still sane. The doors were open, candles lined the pews
like sentries, wax pulled onto hymn books no one was reading.
I found her sitting in the same spot she always did,
back straight, hands folded. I sat beside her, close enough
that I could hear the quiet creak of her breath.
She didn't look at me, not right away, just kept
a gaze fixed on the far wall. I turned toward her.
What is it? I asked? What does it want? She smiled.
That was the first thing that told me something was wrong.
It wasn't bitter or distant or hollow. It was radiant,
lit from within the way they all were once it
touched them. Then she said, so softly, I almost missed it.
It finds what still aches. She whispered, that's all it needs,
a wound. You've grown used to holding. Her voice had
changed to in cadence, like it had been set to music.
I couldn't hear. She finally turned to look at me,
and for a moment I thought she might take my hand,
but instead she just said, you never learned how to ache,
did you. Then she stood slow and graceful and walked
up the center aisle, her fingers brushing each pew like
a rosary. She had found the ache, and I was
alone again, and now I couldn't even trust the silence
I shared with her. The others the ones like me
had thinned out. The man in the buick was gone.
His car sat empty, door left ajar like it stepped
out for a moment and forgotten where it was going.
Nathan had closed the Boast office early three days.
Speaker 2: In a row.
Speaker 1: No one complained. I stopped by once and saw him
through the back window holding something small, but I couldn't
shake the fact that it looked like a weapon. I
kept wandering around like a tourist in my own life, watching, listening,
wondering if it was too late to be chosen, wondering
if I'd missed whatever subtle invitation had passed through everyone
else's blood. One night, I found myself at the edge
of the park, just beyond the lights. Couples walked barefoot
in the grass. Teenagers sat in circles, head bowed, foreheads
pressed together. You could hear quiet songs, not full melodies,
just threads of harmony, rising and falling in time with
the breeze. I sat alone on a bench and tried
to mimic it, the closeness, the warmth I imagine someone
sitting next to me. I tried to picture what it
might feel like to have a memory that made your
chest hurt in that beautiful, horrible way, but there was
nothing there. It was like trying to start a fire
with wet wood waiter cafe, I ran into Maya. I
hadn't seen her in years, not since she graduated. She'd
drawn quiet, strange things that made the other students nervous.
Now she was older, settled, but still had that look
like she was always five seconds ahead of the rest
of us. She offered me a seat. We talked lightly
at first, then slower. At some point I told her everything,
not just about the painting or the others, but the hollowness,
the fact that I've been watching all of it from
the outside, like a man pressing his face to the
glass of her house he used to live in. She listened,
really listened. Then she looked at me with something like sympathy,
something like pity. I think you want to be in love,
she said, But you never learned how. I didn't argue,
she said to coffee, set it down, and added, and
I think you don't want to be alone when it happens.
When what happens? I asked. She silently looked out the
window at the people walking in pairs bathed in amber light.
Faces turned up toward a sky I hadn't been able
to look at directly in days. It wasn't quiet anymore,
not in the way it used to be, the stillness
of a town half forgotten, with dust settled in windshields
and dogs barked at nothing. Now the silence felt intentional, sacred,
like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next
note in a song they'd only heard in dreams. They'd
started looking up more. It was subtle at first, heads
tilted just slightly toward the sky, as if something faint
was humming above the clouds. But now people sat in
fields at night, eyes wide open, mouths parted, Couples lay
naked on blankets, fingers threaded together, whispering things I couldn't hear.
They said they were ready. I found drawings scratched onto
the bark of trees, crude spirals, insect wings, cymbals that
looked like musical notation but didn't follow any rhythm. I
knew behind the library someone stacked bones in a perfect spiral.
Bird bones maybe, or squirrels or something that once spoke.
A few houses at windows open, and candlelight flickering, like
hearts beating, and sink. I passed one porch where letters
were being burned one by one into a metal basin,
love notes, I think, or maybe confessions. No one seemed
afraid except me. I found Jacob outside the old grocery store.
He was standing still, head tilted back, his hand resting
gently on the car handle, like he'd forgotten he was there. Jacob,
I said, too loud, Come with me. He blinked slowly,
then smiled that same warm, distant smile everyone wore. Now,
come where away? I said, just out of town, anywhere,
a day even, just to see if it breaks whatever
this is. His smile didn't falter, but his eyes showed
signs of mourning. Please, I said, I don't know what's happening,
but it's not right. It's not He stepped forward and
put a hand on my shoulder. There was real pain
in his face, sorrow of something I had no knowledge of,
like I was in the wrong for thinking this. You're
not being punished, Darren, You're just not part of it.
That hurt more than I expected, because there wasn't a
drip of malice. It was pure truth, and truth doesn't bruise,
it carves. He turned and walked back inside, leaving me
with nothing but the sound of inner ex buzzing in
rhythm I swear i'd never heard before. That night, I
walked to the edge of town. There's an overlook where
the grass gives way to gravel and you can see
the train tracks disappear into nothing. That's where I saw them.
Two people, a man and a woman, sitting on a guardrail.
I recognized them. Both. Neither had changed. They were like
me always had been watching things from the outside. They
weren't speaking, just holding hands like it was the last
rope tying them to something real. Then the woman began
to cry, not from pain or fear, from relief, and
the man he smiled, just barely, but it was the
start of a smile that comes from surrendering to something
beautiful you were once terrified of. I watched heart hammering
as they began to succumb to the phenomenon, and for
the first time since this all began, I felt something
split in me, grief, because whatever they were becoming, it
was never meant for me. It happened just before dawn.
I hadn't slept, not in days, really, just drifted in
and out of hours, like a body floating on cold water.
I've been walking the town again, hoping the movement would
give my mind something to grip. But when I turned
onto Main Street, I knew something had changed. They were
standing still, all of them. The changed frozen midstep, mid conversation,
mid breath. A couple sat on a bench, foreheads touching.
A teenager stood on a porch of the book half
open in a hands. The mayor was parked at a
stoplight door ajar, his head tilted toward the sky. None
of them moved. Their eyes were wide and wet, the
expression you see in old church paintings. Mouths parted just slightly,
as if they were hearing something so beautiful they couldn't
survive the sound. I stood in the center of the square, surrounded.
The air felt thick, like it was vibrating, just out
of tune with reality. My ears rang from the pressure.
Something was happening, Something was here. They looked up, every
single one of them, in perfect unison, tilted their heads
toward the sky, not in panic, but in recognition. Whatever
they'd been waiting for had finally arrived. And then they
began to bloom. It started with a shiver, a ripple
through the crowd, like a breath held and released at once,
shoulders loosened, mouths parted, I softened something pulling at them
from somewhere very far away. Then the first tear opened.
I saw it happen to a man near the fountain,
a thin, perfect line splitting down the center of his chest,
as gentle as if someone had unsipped a coat. There
was no struggle, no gasp. His skin just parted. The
flesh eased back on its own, curling outward. Muscle followed.
It slid out in long, warm ribbons, thick glistening strands
peeling away from bone, like silk loosened from a spool.
Each sheet slowed downward, with soft, wet sounds, layering itself
at his feet. His heart sat exposed for a moment,
pulsing like a bright stone. Then it softened too. Around me,
the rest of the town began to open. I could
hear it, that quiet peeling, that almost tender separation of
skin from the living thing inside. It didn't sound violent,
more like fruit being opened by steady hands. The woman
face split along a jawline, A child's spine pussed free
in a slow arc, vertebra by vertebra, and men's arms,
shed their muscles in draped sheets, leaving the pale gleam
of bone beneath. None of them screamed. They didn't even flinch.
Their tendon stretched like strings being pulled taut, then snapped
with little pops, playful in how small they sounded compared
to the enormity of what was happening. Fingers loosened from knuckles,
cheeks peeled from skulls, ribs unfolded like petals. There was
no blood, not a drop. Everything emptied itself cleanly, quietly,
as if their bodies had been waiting for this, as
if the machinery of being human had turned off its
alarms and unlocked all its doors, and through all of
it their expressions. God, they looked euphoric. A woman whose
eyes were already clouding over smiled like someone had just
told her she could finally go home. A teenage boy
leaned into his friend as his sternam opened, and they
both laughed, breathless and relieved. Before their laughter dissipated. Couples
held hands as their bodies melted. Parents stroked their children's
hair even as their own faces fell away. Some closed
their eyes, others raised their arms to the sky. As
if embracing something descending toward them. No one ran, no
one begged, no one tried to stop it. They welcomed it.
Spines collapsed into soft white powder, Skulls folded inward like
drying paper. Bones rumbled at the slightest breeze, becoming dust
before they even touched the ground. I stood there and
watched it all, watched the town peel itself open and
spill into the air, like light escape in a cracked shell.
And something in me twisted painfully, not from the horror,
but from the unbearable truth threading through every smile, every sigh,
every peaceful surrender of the body. They were happy, every
single one of them, happy in a way I had
never been. And suddenly I understood I never could be,
And that, more than the skin and the bones and
the dust swirling in the dawn light, was what shattered me.
Then something rose from the center of the stillness. A shimmer,
at first like oil and water, like air warping over
pavement on a hot day. Then wings, massive, translucent, veined
like stained glass, a body that flickered between forms. I
couldn't hold on too, not long enough to name, eyes
like multifaceted mirrors, a head that never stopped turning. It
wasn't the butterfly from the painting that had just been adoor.
This was what had been waiting behind it. It rose
from their remains, built from them somehow, not their flesh,
but what had been inside it. Love, familial, partnership, desire,
all of it, shaped and refreshed, did into something too
beautiful to be real. It flew soundless, weightless. It drifted
over rooftops, trailing sparks of gold behind it, like the
last light of a dying sun. It passed above me
and did not touch me, didn't even pause. I stood,
I shouted, I'm here. I said, I'm still here. It
didn't slow. I saw them, I watched, I understand, now
still nothing. I dropped to my knees, coughing in the dust.
My hands trembled, flecks of bone and ash clinging to
my skin like snow. I tried to cry, but the
tears didn't come. I tried to pray, but my voice
was hollow. I tried to plead, but I had no
one to plead for, just me, And for the first time,
it hit me all at once, all the quiet years,
all the nice dinners, all the polite, acceptable small talk,
all the chances I'd had to love, someone, to ache for,
some one to need, and how I'd missed every one.
I collapsed into the ash, completely from emptiness. I whispered
into the remains of a thousand open hearts, I'm still here,
I'm still me Why? And the dust stirred around me,
just faintly, and I heard it from inside, like something
had cracked open in the back of my skull, just
wide enough to let the words in, because there's nothing
in you to transform. And then the wind blew, and
the ashes of the ones I never knew how to
love scattered into the morning. They found me three days later.
I was still sitting there in the square, half buried
in ash. It had settled into my hair, into the
folds of my clothes, into the cracks of my palms.
I don't think I moved the entire time. Maybe I slept,
maybe I didn't. The days blur when there's no one
left to tell you that time is passing. When the
rescue crews arrived, boots crunching through what used to be
neighbors and classmates and people I borrowed jumper cables from
I didn't react. A man in front of me asking questions,
my name, if I was okay what I remembered, but
his voice was muffled, sounding like he was speaking from underwater.
I kept staring at the ground. The dust shifted every
time I breathed, little clouds lifting, swirling, falling again. If
I stared long enough I could almost imagine faces in it.
Not their faces, just the impression of all the love
they carried, hovering for a moment before dissolving again. Eventually,
someone asked what happened here. I thought about lying or
saying I didn't know, but the truth rose in my
throat before I could stop it. They were loved, I said.
My voice cracked. That's why they got to leave. The
man frowned at me. To him it was nonsense, and
maybe it was, but it was the only thing that
made sense to me anymore. They weren't killed. They became
something they had always been reaching toward, and I didn't.
In the days that followed, they kept me in a
hospital an hour out of town, clean sheets, tiled floors,
a window that looked out over fields that had never
known what happened in bell Weather. Nurses came and went.
The psychiatrist sat by my bed and tried to get
me to talk about trauma and mass hysteria. But every
time I closed my eyes, I saw them alices, smile
opening like a second in sunrise, Jacob lifting his head
to the sky as if greeting an old friend, the
way couples held each other as their bodies unspooled into light.
They weren't afraid, they weren't alone, they weren't left behind.
That last one hurt the most, because somewhere, beneath the
horror and the dust and the quiet, gnawing loneliness, something
else had taken root to me, something I didn't want
to name. I was jealous, jealous that they had someone,
anyone whose love reached deep enough that it could echo
into whatever came next. I didn't, and that was why
I remained. People keep calling me lucky, They say I survived,
that I was spared. But every night, when the lights dim,
I lie awake in that hospital bed and wonder about
the truth of it, the sharp aching contradiction. If they
are gone and I'm alive, I have another chance at love.
But if I never had it to begin with, if
no one ever felt that way, about me. If I
never felt it toward anyone, then is it even possible
with this second chance? And if I did somehow learn
to live this feeling, would I be whisked up into
the sky or was that all just the one off?
Some mornings, I hope the answer will come. Other mornings,
I hope it won't, because the world feels wrong with
this knowledge, too quiet, too flat, like someone drained all
the color or turned off off the part of the
sky that used to watch back. And sometimes, when I'm
honest with myself, I wonder whether they were the lucky ones,
the ones who got to bloom, the ones who got
to go, the ones who weren't left behind to figure
out how to start loving in a world that suddenly
feels too big, too empty, and too late. But I'm
still here, I'm still me. Maybe that means something. Maybe
it means nothing at all. When my uncle, who I
hadn't seen in years, called, I was surprised. He asked
me to come and visit. He didn't say it outright.
Speaker 2: He was never the.
Speaker 1: Sentimental type, but I could hear it in his voice.
The spaces between his words were slower, heavier. His name
was Raymond, but Everyone in Grafton just called him Ray.
He was a quiet man, a woodworker who lived on
the edge of town since my aunt passed. He never
remarried and didn't move away either. He built things, fixed things,
and let life pass around him. I was his only
living family, and now he was dying. So I drove
back to Grafton, a town so small he after zoom
an extra on Google Maps to see it. But once
it had you, it never let go. I thought it
would feel strange after ten years, but everything it was
exactly where I left it. The rusted grain silos, the
one bar with three names, the same old paper taped
to the church door announcing pot looks that happened weeks ago.
Ray was thinner than I remembered shake here too, but
his eyes were sharp, and when I hugged him, he
held on longer than I expected. The word cancer lingered
in the air, but we both refused to acknowledge it.
We both knew what kind of visit this was. From
the looks of things. He didn't have long left. On
the second morning, just before dawn, he woke me up
with a thermus of black coffee and said, it's the
day I knew what that meant. Hollow Lake, sits just
past the tree line east of town Grafton, was built
of round it literally, the first settlers stopped here because
the lake never ran dry, even during droughts when rivers
upstream shriveled a dust. Hollow Lake held a mirror in
the woods, cold, clear and deep, except every seven years
it vanishes completely. One day it's full, the next it's gone,
like someone pulled the plug at the bottom. No one
knows why, or how many have studied it but found nothing.
The ground underneath didn't make sense, geologically impossible, structurally hollow.
Nothing should be able to hold that kind of depth
without collapsing, but it does. And since it always comes
back four days later, every time the town stopped asking questions.
People just call it the Hollowing like its weather. Ray
had seen it happen five times in his life. He'd
always gone alone. This time, he said he didn't want to.
We parked on the overlook ridge before sunrise. I sat
in the passenger seat, shivering under the quilt he kept
folded in the back of his truck. He sipped from
his thermos in silence, looking out over the tree line.
The sun rose slow, fat and red. I expected to
see missed, maybe frost and the tree tops. But when
we reached the ridge, the lake was already gone. It
didn't look dry, it looked scoured, like something had scraped
it clean. Just pale, fractured earth that seemed too smooth, wound,
not a lake bed. And in the very center, maybe
fifty yards across from the shore, something new. It looked
like stone at first, a circle cut clean into the ground,
perfectly round the morning light or the edge, and I
saw depth, a depression, no stairs, a spiral descending into darkness,
no railings or moss, just smooth, dry stone leading into
the earth. My stomach turned. Ray stared at it silently,
gripping the steering wheel hard with both hands. It's never
left anything behind before, I said. He shook his head slowly,
eyes fixed on the spiral, not where we could see it.
He sat there for a long time, the silence between us,
stretching across the lake bed like a second horizon. Raised
breath whistled in and out of his nose, shallow and uneven.
I thought he might be crying, but when he turned
to look at me, his face was dry, just hollow
in a way I'd never seen before. I never told you,
he said, But I used to come here every cycle,
even when I said I wouldn't, even when it scared me.
Speaker 2: Why.
Speaker 1: He looked back toward the stairwell. The wind shifted, and
for a second I thought I smelled something old, air,
stale and waiting, because I thought maybe one day it
had shown me something, he said, And now I think
it finally will. We didn't speak much on the drive
home from the lake. Ray seemed somewhere else entirely. He
kept glancing back in the rear view mirror, like something
was following us, but it didn't feel like it was
out of fear. It was almost hope. Back at the house,
he made tea, sat in his old chair and stared
at the window until he nodded off. I didn't press him.
He looked peaceful. I slept hard that night, harder than
I meant to a mix of travel fatigue, the cold
mountain air, and the weight of silence that filled Ray's
house like insolation. When I finally stirred, it was almost noon.
Sunlight carved rectangles across the kitchen floor. The house was quiet.
I called out to him. Nothing. I checked the workshop,
the shed, the truck was gone. On the kitchen table
sat two things, an envelope with my name on it
and a leather bound journal with a cracked spine and
a heavy feel, like it had soaked up years of
smoke and sweat and time. The note was short. Ray's
handwriting was thin, rushed. I think this is my last chance.
Don't follow unless it calls you, but if it does,
read this first. Ray. The back door was unlocked. He'd
taken his coat and I assumed the keys. I sat
down with the journal and started to read. He'd been
writing in it for over thirty years, always after a cycle.
The entries were fragmented, some half finished, others crossed out,
entire pages torn, but patterns emerged. Drawings of the lake bed,
measurements of its depth, lists of people who disappeared over
the years, during the hollowings, and then that word, over
and over written in the margins, circled, underlined, wrath beneath
it in one scrawled note, A wound that doesn't bleed.
Ray hadn't just been visiting the lake. He'd been waiting,
but for what. I didn't know. Something inside me shifted.
Grief hadn't hit yet, not properly. This felt more like
an ache with no edges. I wanted to respect his
choice to go out on his own terms into the
place that was his obsession. But I couldn't leave it there,
not with so many pages unanswered, so I started asking around.
The only person in town who didn't look at me
like I was talking nonsense was Lester, a wiry old
man who ran the bait shop down by the railway tracks.
He smiled like old leather and menthols, and when I
mentioned ray, he poured two bourbons. I saw it once,
he said, after the second glass the stairwell. When I
was a boy, thought it was a sinkhole, until I
saw some one walking down in a hurry. Who He
shook his head. No one, you'd know. No one we
saw again either. I mentioned the word wrath, for his
hands froze mid poor. Where'd you hear that raised journal?
His face tightened. My grandfather used that word. Said he
was older than English, not Latin either. Thought it might
have been local tribe. He said. The ground there isn't land.
It's a scab. It translates to a wound that doesn't bleed,
But what it truly means is a mystery. What did
he find? Lester tapped the side of his head, never said,
but he came back different, like something was missing or added.
We stopped letting him, baby said. After that he got quiet.
After that I pressed him gently, then harder, but he
only muttered, if you're serious about this, go check the
church basement. That's where they kept the record and the
ones who came back wrong. I didn't want to believe him,
but curiosity, guilt, grief they pull harder than logic when
you're unmoored. So that night I went to the church.
I didn't expect the side door to be unlocked, but
it was. The basement smell like mildew and all candle wax.
I had to break the lock on an old storage
cabinet behind the water heater. Inside were boxes stacked like graves,
brittle folders, dusty ledgers, and hand drawn maps of the
town and lists, dozens of them, names of residence from
previous hollowings, annotated with dates and little notes in the margins,
things like rejected, sent away, and sometimes just uninvited. There
were photographs too, faded polaroids and black and white group shots,
but one stood out. A crowd of townsfolk standing at
the lake's edge, holding hands back to the camera, head
bowed like mourners, and barely in the frame was the
edge of the stairwell already there, already waiting, someone sickly looking,
heading towards the entrance. I tried to leave it alone.
I really did. Ray made his choice, He left the journal,
left the note. It should have been enough. It was
his life, his perfect ending. For the next two days,
I stayed in the house. I chopped word, boiled coffee.
I never did, drank, read the same sentence in a
book twelve times and couldn't tell you what it said,
I having folded his clothes just to move my hands.
But silence as a way of stretching when you're grieving.
It doesn't scream, It just hangs heavy, pushing me forward.
And at night I'd wake up thinking I heard footsteps
on the porch, always soft, always fading, before I reached
the window. Once I swear I saw the truck back
in the drive, just for a second. The journal sat
on the kitchen table the whole time. I tried not
to look at it, which meant, of course that I did.
It was full of half thoughts, scratched out diagrams, dates, names,
some crossed out, others circled. One margin just read it
only opens for the broken. The word broken was underline
so many times the paper had torn. I kept asking
myself why Ray left it for me, Why did he
want me to see the lake before he went, Why
he thought this was something I should understand. I didn't
grow up broken, not really, no trauma, just the normal
quiet life. I went to college, moved away, tried to
make something of myself, never quite did. But I didn't
fall apart either, just drifted. Isn't that enough? Eventually I
gave up pretending. I packed a bag, took the journal,
locked the door out of habit though know one Grafton
ever does, and I went back to the lake. The
sky was overcast, and the basin looked different in that light.
It felt flatter, like it had been painted on, just
that wide open mouth in the center. Waiting from up close,
The structure didn't look ancient, It didn't even look men made.
It looked like the earth itself had decided to open.
I walked to the edge. The stairs spiraled down farther
than I could see, tight like a drill bit turning
slowly into the ground. I dropped a small stone and
never heard it land. The stone smelled faintly of wet copper.
There was no moss or moisture, and strangely, no signs
of weathering. Yet the stairs felt worn, as if hundreds
of people had walked them, always in the same direction.
You're not the only one who hears it. I turned
a woman stood a few yards off. She was maybe
in the mid forties, boot scuffed, hair pulled back, with
a red scarf that looked handmade. She didn't look like
a local, but she didn't look lost either, more like
someone who'd returned from a long detour. I'm sorry, I said.
She stepped closer the lake, the timing, the pull. You
feel it too, don't you. Her name was Grace, she said.
She grew up in a town near here, long since
emptied out and folded into Grafton's sprawl. She moved away
when she was seventeen, married, divorced, a few dead ends
in between. She said. The dream started six weeks agover night,
she said, same thing. A dried out lake, a spiral
in the earth, and someone waiting at the bottom, someone
I used to know, calling me. Do you think it's real.
She looked out over the basin like she was trying
to remember something. I think the land remembers who we are,
she said, and sometimes it calls in the debt. Before
I could ask more, she started walking toward the stairwell.
Her movements were slow. She didn't act hypnotized. She moved
with intention. Wait, I said, you're just going in. Grace
glanced back at me, smiling. Isn't that why you're here?
She stepped on to the first stair, then the next
was gone in the spiral. I stood at the edge
for a while, torn between two instincts, the one that
wanted to run and the one that wanted to follow
her to see what was inside. Ray had gone in,
Grace had gone in, so I told myself I'd just
follow a little, just enough to see what they saw.
I felt more comfortable doing it with someone around, so
that's exactly what I did. The air changed after the
sixth step. I was only going fine enough to find
Grace and maybe a bit further to see what she
was looking for. But after the first few turns, I
realized how quickly distance started to lose meaning. The stairs
twisted and tied to spirals, each step worn but solid.
There were no marks from tools, just seamless cold stone
beneath my boots and silence. I called out once. My
voice didn't echo, it didn't carry at all. It just
stopped like it had hit a wall. Grace didn't answer.
I kept going, despite my footsteps thundering in my ears.
Whenever I stopped, things were silent. I couldn't hear Grace's
trail at all. I felt like I should have, knowing
her lead wasn't that far ahead, but it felt like
I was utterly alone. So I sped up a bit
to see if I just lagged behind. The walls began
to change in presence. I passed carvings, but they weren't symbols,
not letters or runs, arrangements, human shapes, some kneeling, some
stretched upward, some folded into impossible poses head to feet,
like collapsing in prayer or pain. Were they meant to
be worshiping or were they being reshaped into worship? I
kept going. Eventually I came to a landing, the first
flat surface since I entered a wide chamber with a
ceiling too high to see. In the center was a
monolith about shoulder height stone smooth, slightly taboored toward the top,
not carved or edged, but stained. Faint handprints marked every side,
hundreds of them, some fresh, some were so old they
looked fossilized into the rock. I placed my palm over one.
It was still warm. Nothing happened. However, when I looked
over a few of the handprints, I got a strange feeling.
Two of the fresher looking imprints felt familiar. I could
only think of Ray and Grace. I obviously couldn't recognize
them by their fingerprints. Still, just looking at them, I
felt a familiarity, like I was looking them in the eyes.
It was strange. I don't know why, but that was
the moment I wanted to leave, out of the sense
that I was intruding on something that had waited too long,
too patiently to be understood. I turned back toward the stairs,
and that's when I saw Grace stood three steps up,
just out of reach. Her eyes were calm, her expression unreadable.
I didn't hear you come down, I said, I was
already here. How far did you go? She silently tilted
her head, like she was listening to something I couldn't hear.
Then she asked, did it show you yours yet? I hesitated, No,
I don't think so, She smiled gently, sadly. Then you're
not done, and without waiting for me to follow, she
turned and walked deeper into the dark. We walked in
silence for what felt like hours. The walls grew tighter, closer,
like the air itself was pressing in. The stone began
to hum under my feet, faintly, like a muscle twitching
beneath the surface. Grace walked ahead of me without a flashlight.
Her bare arms didn't flinch in the cold. She never stumbled.
I asked her once how far this place went? She
just said far enough. The further we went, the stranger
it got. The architecture stopped making sense. The angles turned inward,
folding in ways I couldn't track. At one point, I
looked back and realized I couldn't see where we'd come from,
not just because it was dark, but the spiral behind
us looked completely different. My body still obeyed gravity, but
my balance fought me. I leaned left and started drifting
slightly right, like my own way to developed second thoughts.
Grace never slowed. She murmured to herself sometimes or maybe
not too, just as someone I couldn't hear. I caught
bits of it, phrases like it's not pain they want,
she once said, it's the shape pain leaves behind. And
they can't open what's sealed, but they can wait for
the cracks. Her words landed like riddles, but she said
them with a certainty of someone remembering a dream in
perfect clarity. And the way she glanced at me like
I was the answer, not the question, made something uneasy
settle in my gut. You've been here before, she said, suddenly, no,
I told her, this is my first time. She smiled,
but with a kind of sadness. I didn't understand. You're
walking ahead of me, I said, that's the only way
I know where to go. Deep down, you know where
to go. You're just nervous, she replied. I didn't know
what to say. She kept walking. I followed, this wasn't true.
I was disoriented without her depending on light, whereas she
seemed to navigate with a sense foreign to humans. Maybe
I should have corrected her, told her I didn't belong here,
that I was just chasing someone else's goodbye. But I didn't.
I didn't understand what this place was, or why it opened,
or why people came here to disappear. I just wanted to.
I needed to, And even though my skin crawled and
some small voice in the back of my mind begged
me to stop, I didn't. I followed her deeper because
curiosity is its own kind of hunger, and I was starving.
I knew we were close because the cold stopped feeling natural.
Then we turned a corner and the spiral opened up
into a space so vast it made my stomach twist.
The chamber was enormous. I couldn't tell if it was
unnatural or predated the concept of natural. It felt wrong
in scale, as though it had been hollowed out of
the world without permission. It breathed in silence. It loomed
at the center. Sunken below us were forms, dozens of them,
maybe more, pale folded things like human silhouettes, wrapped in themselves,
gently shifting as if caught in a current. I couldn't see.
They didn't move on their own. They were being moved
the way wind passes over wheat fields. Moths caught mid dream.
I didn't ask Grace what they were. I think I
knew at the far end was something, not a statue
or an altar, but a presence shaped like both. It
pulsed slow and rhythmic, like a sleeping lung. Its surface
was stone mostly, but it bent and flexed like muscle underwater.
Part of it attracted others bloomed. It wasn't alive in
any way I recognized, but it also wasn't dead, just waiting,
and it had been for a long time. Grace didn't
hesitate toward it, like she'd finally found home. Her arms
lowered to her sides, her shoulders loosened. She stepped into
the shallow basin of the chamber and up to the altar.
She didn't pray, She just opened her hands and whispered,
I'm ready. The altar answered without sound. I felt it
more than heard it, like a tuning fork against my bones.
Grace lifted onto the balls of her feet, and then
she began to come apart. It wasn't violent or painful.
She simply unwound, skin first, pulling back like paper, curling
near flame. Her clothes melted with her, her skin wrapped
into curves, all colored, draining until they were white, almost translucented.
There was no blood, no scream, just a face smiling
through tears. It looked like whatever was happening was stripping
all pain away, both physical and mental. Her body started
curling downward, knees tugged in, arms wrapped around them, and
as the husk of her skin was slowly about to
cover her, she spoke to me with what remained of
her mind. This is what I wanted, she said, voice
barely audible. This is what I needed to become relief, salvation,
the size of your pain. She looked at me. Then
I didn't move. I couldn't. I was shaking, hands clenched, body,
screaming to flee, but I was frozen, scared if I moved,
I'd trigger whatever was happening to her. But nothing happened.
The altar stilled, the chamber grew quiet again, my skin
stayed whole, my breath fogged in the air. I looked
down at myself and knew it was the way you
know you've been forgotten at a party. I hadn't been chosen,
I wasn't invited. Grace's smile faltered, her face barely peeking
through the cocoon about to envelop her. For god knows
how long she stared at me, blinking, like seeing me
for the first time. Horror crept into her face as
the last of her hands dissolved into dust. You weren't marked,
she whispered. I took a step toward her, but she
recoiled in confusion. She reached out, tried to her feeble gesture.
I didn't underst stand until what she said next. You
need to get out, she said, voice breaking. Only those
chosen are safe, and then she was gone. The chamber dimmed,
and for a second there was nothing but my pulse
hammering in the silence. Then the altar pulsed once a
ripple ran through the floor. The walls quivered, then shifted subtle,
at first, like stone taking a deeper breath. And then
I heard it dripping. Water splashed against stone through the walls,
then closer still, the lake was refilling. I didn't know
how long That process took minute seconds. With the sound
of rushing water rolling down the spiral made my throat tighten.
A draft pushed down from above, carrying the scent of
wet earth and cold depth. I didn't think. I ran.
The staircase writhed beneath my feet. Steps stretched, then shrank.
Landings folded out of existence. Doorways appeared only to collapse
back into the walls, like the place was trying to
inhale me. The whole structure felt alive, now awake and
not pleased with my intrusion. As I climbed, the walls
began to change, stone bulged into shapes, scenes, memories, my memories,
but wrong. It was like a twisted game of association.
The visage of an object would form a tory gone,
which instantly made me relive a memory in my head
of my ninth birthday party. Only a few friends showed up,
and that was one of the presents I was given.
Then a car wheel. My dad showed me the process
of changing a tire, and I spray my wrist when
I dropped a tool. The place was trying to break me,
trying to find a fracture, a regret, a wound deep
enough to open me the way it opened grace. It
wanted something to hurt, but it couldn't find one. Only
memories of slight discomfort or mild embarrassments, nothing strong that
it could relieve me from, pull me into its fold
in exchange of the loss of such strong pain. And
when it didn't find one, it tried making one a
memory form beside me. Me aged twelve, standing at the
foot of the lake with red Only now Ray walked
into the water alone, while I stood on shore, doing nothing,
just watching him drown. I stumbled, nauseated. That had never happened,
but the memory felt heavy, familiar, like guilt someone else
had carved for me. I started feeling the guilt lines
going through my head. You should have saved him, It's
your fault. This was too much to bear. I kept
climbing faster. The stairs tilted, his water surged downward, splashing
my ankles. Panic clawed at my ribs. All the while
memories were forced into my head, painful ones, a painful divorce,
not being able to find love, the loss of a
beloved pet. All I knew were not real, but they
felt real, and like a fisherman's hook, it pulled the
bard tips sinking into my cheek. I could feel it.
My skin started to feel alien to me, rejected and
ready to leave. But just as the spiral twisted in
on itself and my path began to collapse, I saw
him Ray standing on a landing higher up the spiral,
lit by a pale glow that didn't come from any
natural source. He was pale, slightly translucent, hardened skin hanging
off him. He was turned, but he was using the
last of himself before being eternally let to rest. He smiled,
soft and familiar. You came anyway, he said, You always
were too curious, tightened, Ray, did you. He held up
a hand, not to silence me, but to ready me.
I'm all right, he said. I went where I needed
to go because I was ready. You're not. Still got
plenty of good time in you. The structure groaned, Water
blasted up the spiral behind me, chasing my heels. Ray
reached out, and when I took his hand, the staircase
stopped shifting. The walls softened, the false memory shattered like
brittle clay. For a moment, everything aligned, solid, stable, real.
He looked me in the eyes, and I understood he
was anchoring me, using whatever remained of him in this place,
delaying his disc appearance to help me leave. You're not
meant for this, he said, not unkindly, and that's not
a punishment. The water searched again, roaring. Ray squeezed my
hand once. Then he guided me upward. A brief, unbearable
farewell and let me go before the rising lake swallowed
the chamber behind me. I climbed the last stretch alone,
but I didn't feel alone, not anymore. I barely surfaced.
The water lapped up the last few stairs, swirling around
my knees, then my chest. It came faster, then seemed possible,
rising like it had always meant to. My lungs were
burning by the time I saw the light above. I
pushed off the last stone step and swam hard and desperate,
everything in me screaming not to stop. My limbs went numb.
The water thickened. The pressure of the whole spiral below
tugged at my heels like it was trying to keep me,
like I'd broken a rule I didn't understand. I breached
the surface with a gasp so violent it scraped my
throat roar. The lake was almost full again. Ripples widened
around me, dark and cold, swallowing the last trace of
the spiral. The stone rim had vanished entirely beneath the water.
I swam toward the shore, lung spluttering, muscles cramping with
every pull. When my feet finally touched solid ground, I
staggered up the rocky bank and collapsed. The air was
sharp and brittle, the cold that scraped at your skin
and told you you'd survived something you weren't meant. Two.
The sky was soft, gray mist hung low over the water.
Behind me. Hollow Lake looked whole again, like it had
never left, no evidence that any of it had happened
at all. I stared at the water for a long time,
waiting for something, anything, but it was just a lake,
calm and normal, indifferent. When I sat up, coughing water
and blood into my hands, I felt something weighted in
the strap of my pack. I pulled it out, raise
old army jacket, worn at the cuffs, torn at the collar.
I reached into the inside pocket. Folded between the lining
was a photo, cracked and faded from time. It was
of taken when I was maybe nine. I'm smiling with
my front teeth missing. Ray had one arm around my
shoulder and the other holding up a peace sign, halfway
covering the camera lens. There was writing on the back
in his handwriting, you weren't broken, so live. I didn't cry.
I just sat there, listening to the wind sweep over
the lake and let the weight of it settle. I
was still here. Weeks passed before I felt steady on
my feet again. I stayed in Grafton to finish handling
Rai's affairs, sorting his tools, boxing up his books, meeting
with a lawyer about the cabin. There was a strange
comfort in the routine. I kept it, expecting to find
him in the workshop or hear him cough in the
other room. Habit is a stubborn thing, grief even more so.
The lake was back to normal, and the town treated
it so smooth as glass, clear enough to see the
stones near the shoreline. No one talked about the spiral
because no one else had seen it, or if they had,
they pretended otherwise. That's a talent. Small towns develop like
a callous People would not politely when they saw me,
ask if I was staying long, and then change the
subject before I could answer. It was like they sense
something was different about me without knowing what. Or maybe
that's just how it always was, and I'd never noticed.
One evening I wandered down to Lester's bait shop. He
saw me through the window and had a glass poard
before I even sat down. He didn't ask where I'd been,
He didn't mention Ray nor bring up the lake. That
silence between locals is its own form of hospitality. I
turned the glass slowly in my hands before I spoke Lester,
I said, you told me about the ones who came
back wrong. Have you ever known someone who came back right?
He didn't look up immediately, just kept staring into the
bottom of his drink, as if something down there might
float to the surface. Only once, he said, finally, long
time ago, what happened to them? He shrugged, didn't say much,
but he never tried to go back for him to elaborate,
but he didn't, And somehow that was enough, a glimmer
of hope that I will be fine. When I left
the shop, the sky was turning amber, and the air
carried that late autumn chill that always feels like an ending.
I walked to the lake. The surface was perfectly still,
not even a ripple. If there was anything beneath it,
if it remembered me, or Ray or Grace, it didn't show.
I didn't speak to it, didn't ask questions that wouldn't
be answered. I just watched the water hold the sky
in its reflection, and felt something settle in my chest,
a kind of permission to keep moving. As I turned
to leave, a thought came to me, soft and unbidden.
It never opened for me, but maybe that means I
still have something left to give. And for the first
time since the spiral, the thought didn't hurt. It felt.
Speaker 2: Like hope.
Speaker 1: I used to tell people I enjoyed teaching. It wasn't true,
not really, but it sounded better than admitting that the
job just kept me busy. Most of the staff thought
I had my life sorted. They didn't see how I
lingered in my classroom after hours, pretending to grade so
I didn't have to go home to a flat that
felt like a holding cell. People see what makes them comfortable,
corrected them. That Monday started like any other. Rain streaked
across the windows, a steady drizzle that made the whole
building feel half asleep. My students filed in with their
usual mix of muttering and half hearted chatter, jackets, stripping, trainers,
squeaking on the laminate. I didn't have the energy for
anything ambitious, so I opened with a simple warm up exercise.
Draw a character you'd like to write about. This term
doesn't matter who. Someone from a story, someone from imagination.
Ten minutes, pencils, scratched. A few kids argued over colored pencils.
One boy tried to draw a dragon so massive it
took up the entire page. Nor more chaos comforting. Even
then my eyes drifted to the back row. Joel Watkins
sat hunched over his desk, shoulders tight, tongue caught between
his teeth and concentration. He was a quiet kid. The
saw too, apologized when he hadn't done anything wrong. I
expected something gentle from him, a cartoon mascot, maybe a pet.
But when he slid the paper to the edge of
his desk, almost shyly, something in my chest went cold.
The face he drawn wasn't fantasy. It was familiar in
a way that made my breath stall. It had wide
brown eyes and hair that fell unevenly across the forehead,
A small dark mark along the right cheekbone, A mole
Caleb spent years trying to hide in photos. Caleb was
my younger brother. We fought like brothers do, but I
always told myself I'd look out for him. That night
in the woods was just another argument that went too far,
another moment I replayed so often it lost its edges,
And that was the last time I saw him, twenty
years since I'd last seen my brother's face, and here
it was, in pencil on loose leaf paper, sketched by
a boy who wasn't even born. When Caleb disappeared, I
forced myself to speak, keeping my tone steady interesting. Who's
this meant to be? Joel hesitated, His pencil hovered over
the drawing. Then he wrote a title in small block
letters above the head, the boy in the Leaves. Something
crawled up the back of my neck. Where'd you get
the idea? I asked? He looked up at me, uncomplicated
and earnest, as if the answer were obvious. He told
me to draw him, he said, so you'd see, And
just like that, the rain outside felt louder, the room colder,
and the years I'd spent burying my brother's memories shifted,
as if something beneath them had just begun to move.
I spent the rest of that day convincing myself it
meant nothing. Kids drew weird things. They copied each other,
They absorbed stray details from conversations they shouldn't have been
listening to. It was easier to believe in coincidence than
to even touch the possibility. Of something intentional. The next morning,
I built a neat little wall around it. One drawing
wasn't an omen it was just a drawing. Then the
class turned in their free write assignments. I was flipping
through them, drawing silent reading when I noticed a short
piece from a girl who normally wrote about princesses and ponies.
This time she described quote, a boy who stood under
the trees, smiling, a lopsided smile that revealed a chipped
front tooth. I couldn't help but think about the chip
Caleb hadgotten from falling off his bike at age seven.
My throat tightened. I set it aside and grabbed the next.
Another story, another boy. This one described the way he
laughed quote, like he couldn't quite catch his breath. That
was Caleb, too. He used to wee when he laughed
hard enough. Third assignment wrote about a boy who walked funny,
like he had a stone in his shoe. Caleb a
one leg slightly shorter than the other, but only my
family ever noticed it. I felt my pulls climbing, but
it wasn't fear that hit me first. It was irritation,
a sour hot flare of anger. Someone had to be
behind this, some older kids spreading a cruel story, maybe
a sibling at home feeding their younger brothers and sisters
details about my family. Kids could be thoughtless, sometimes their
parents were worse, And beneath that irritation was shame, an
old familiar shape that whispered I was being ridiculous for
carrying this match, that I was overreacting, that it shouldn't
matter anymore. While silent reading ended, I closed the stack
of assignments and addressed the class as lightly as I could.
These stories you've written, I said, a lot of you
seemed to have chosen the same character this week. Did
someone plan that or did you talk about it beforehand?
They all shook her head. A few exchange confused glances.
No one told us to. One girl said, we just
saw him, saw him. I kept my voice casual, but
my chest felt tight in our dreams. Another kid said
it was the same boy. The third added, as if
clarifying something obvious. I swallowed, okay, But why him? Why
that face? Silence settled Then other boys, A small nervous
kid who chewed the sleeves of his jumper, raised his
hand halfway, then put it down again. I coaxed him gently,
his voice wavered. He said to me that he used
to be a brother, but he's different now. He hesitated,
eyes starting to the floor. He wants you to find him.
The room seemed to hold its breath. I forced the
tight smile, muttered something about imagination and recurring themes, and
dismissed them for break. But my mind was already sliding
in motion, gears turning the way they hadn't in years.
This couldn't continue if someone was spreading stories about my family.
I needed to know. If someone was manipulating these kids,
it had to stop before it became a full blown
rumor mill. So I decided to investigate. Quietly, ask around,
check for older siblings, see who had started the boy
in the leaves idea. But deep down, something colder whispered
that this had already spiraled and I was catching it
too late. I didn't want to go to my mother's house.
I never did. Being there meant brushing up against memories.
I spent years smoothing into something manageable. But after the
drawings at school, the whispers about dreams, I couldn't talk
myself out of it. The drive felt longer than it
was My mother lived only twenty minutes away, but every
mile dragged as my mind raised. When I pulled into
the driveway, I was struck by how much smaller the
house looked, or maybe I'd just outgrown it, while she
stayed frozen in her grief. She opened the door before
I knocked. She always did, like she spent the days
waiting for someone who never came. Evan, she said, giving
a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes. The lines
in her face had deepened since I last visited, grief
calcified into bone structure. We exchanged the usual awkward pleasantries,
neither of us addressing why I was really there. When
the conversation ran out, as it always did, she led
me down the hall. Caleb's room was still preserved the
way she kept it since the week he vanished. Posters
pale from sunlight, trophies untouched, bedding smoothed as if expecting
him to slip under it any minute. I stood in
the doorway, half expecting to see some sign that the
intruder from school had been here too, But the room
was unchanged. That should have comforted me instead and left
a knot in my stomach. A strange little disappointment. I
hated myself for feeling if something had been moved, tampered with, displaced,
at least it would have meant I wasn't losing my grip. Oh,
something came, my mother said, suddenly, turning toward her dresser,
she pulled an envelope from a drawer and handed it
to me. No return address, just this. Inside it was
a drawing, crayon rough, unsteady lines. It was of Caleb,
stood in our old backyard, smiling, same uneven hair cut,
same bright eyes, same way. He tilted his head like
he was listening. My throat tightened. You sent this, didn't you,
she asked quietly, some kind of apology. No, I whispered.
I couldn't take my eyes off the picture. The timeline
clicked into place a week ago, was exactly when the
students claimed the dreams began. But something else snagged at me,
a detail I couldn't immediately place. I stared at the
yard behind Caleb in the drawing, at the clothes line,
the fence, and the sloping hill. Then it hit me
the hill was wrong in the drawing. The ground behind
him dipped sharply, a small steep drop. But our back yard.
Never had that, not the way it was drawn. It
looked like the slope from the woods, the embankment, the
one from the night he vanished, the one I've spent
twenty years remembering as gentle, forgettable, marmless. But here in
crayon it looked exactly as it truly had. A sudden drop,
a fall that could hurt a child. My stomach twisted heaven.
My mum asked, what is it? I folded the drawing
before she could see my face. Whoever was sketching Caleb
wasn't remembering the past. They were remembering my past, the
real one, the one I'd never said out loud. They
knew the place I'd spent twenty years pretending didn't exist.
By the next morning, whatever thin veneer of professionalism I'd
been clinging to had worn down to threads. I wasn't
thinking like a teacher any more, nor was I thinking
like an adult. I just needed answers, and the only
people who seemed to have any were twelve year olds
who should have been worrying about lunch room seating arrangements.
Not the last night my brother was alive. I called
Joelin first. He shuffled into the empty class room, looking
smaller than usual, like he knew he shouldn't be part
of this conversation. I closed the door behind him, Joel,
I said, keeping my tone even, I need you to
tell me where you heard about that boy, the one
in your drawing. He stared at his shoes. His hands
were tucked into his sleeves, knuckle whitened through the fabric.
I didn't hear it, he said, He showed me my
jaw tightened, showed you how in a dream. A hesitant nod, Joel,
it's important you're honest. If another student told you about
my about the boy, he flinched before I finished the sentence.
He doesn't like when you ask about him, he whispered.
He wants you to remember on your own. And chill
swept through me, quick and sharp. Remember what? Joel shook
his head rapidly. He told me not to say that part. Joel,
My voice snapped harder than I intended. He recoiled, and
I forced myself to soften. What did he mean? The
boy's eyes filled with a nervous, glassy sheen. He looked
past me, as though checking the corners of the room.
He said, His voice shrank to a thread. He said,
you were there the night he changed. My stomach hollowed.
No one knew I'd been with Caleb the night he disappeared.
I spent years telling the polished version. I hadn't seen
him after dinner, we argue the day before, I wished
him good night, a clean lie, a safe lie. I
had never told a soul that I was the last
person to see him breathing. Oh do you know that
I breathed? Joel squeezed his eyes shut, like he expected
to get in trouble for simply repeating it. Because he
told me he remembers you, he remembers what you did.
But he said you remember it wrong. My pulse thudded
in my ears. Someone something was feeding these kids details
pulled straight from the memories I'd locked away two decades ago.
My truth, the one I'd spent years suffocating Joel, I managed.
Did he say anything else? The boy nodded, trembling. Now,
he said he's coming to school today. He wants to
watch you teach. The words hung in the room like smoke.
I dismissed him quickly, but I couldn't focus on anything.
Every time I looked up from my desk, my eyes
dragged toward the window. By midday, curiosity curdled into dread.
I finally stood and walked to the glass outside, beyond
the football pitch, just at the border where the school
grounds met the first line of trees, stood a figure, small,
still facing the building, facing me, watching, And though I
couldn't make out his face through the distance and the glare,
I knew, with a kind of bone deep certainty that
bypasses logic, that it was him, Caleb. I don't know how,
but he was back. By lunchtime, the figure of the
tree line had vanished. I stood at the edge of
the football pitch, staring into the woods, half convinced I
imagine the whole thing. The teachers milling around didn't notice
anything unusual. Kids shouted, laughed, and kicked balls across the
damp grass. Everything looked painfully normal, but the trees looked expectant.
Leaning in as if listening, I told myself I was
being ridiculous that I needed sleep. Yet my feet carried
me forward anyway toward the place where I'd seen the silhouette.
The closer I got, the quieter the world became. The
kid's voices dissolved, the wind flattened. Even the rustle of
branches dimmed, replaced by a subtle shift of leaves, a
slow spiraling motion on the forest floor, as if whatever
had been standing there had only just slipped back into cover.
My throat tightened. I knew this place, not this exact spot,
but the feeling of it, the sense that the trees
were watching, holding their breath. The forest where Caleb and
I had our last argument didn't look like this. It
had always seemed smaller in my memories, thinner, less oppressive.
But memories simplify things, especially when they're hiding something. A
flash of that night came back, sharp enough to sting.
Caleb's face flushed with frustration, the way he threw his
hands up and said he was sick of me bossing
him around, Me spinning away from him, fueled by resentment
I didn't want to admit. I carried his footsteps behind me,
my own anger smothering the thought of turning back, and
then nothing, just empty air where he'd been for years.
I clung to the comforting lie Cale ran away, or
some one took him, or something else intervened, anything to
avoid acknowledging the truth that I left him. I stepped
into the trees, leaves cushioning the ground, forming a gentle
slope toward a shallow dip in the earth. At first
I thought it was natural, a hollow left by a
fallen log or the weather. But the shape was wrung,
a depression the size of a child curled on their side,
fresh and undisturbed. Something had been lying here recently, or
still was just beneath the surface. I crouched, heart hammering,
and hovered my hand above the leaves. The air fell warm.
Then a whisper rose from the hollow, thin and fractured,
drifting up through soil and roots. You left me my
legs nearly buckled. It wasn't Caleb's voice exactly. It was
stretched and frayed, as if passed through too many mouths,
too many years of abandonment. I didn't think. I just
lunged forward and began tearing through the leaves with my
bare hands, dragging them aside in frantic handfuls. Dirt under
my nails, sweat to my forehead, a pounding in my skull,
screaming that whatever I was about to find, I couldn't
walk away again. My fingers brushed something smooth, paper, I
pulled it free, a drawing crayon on cheap printer stock,
fresh and unwrinkled, not a lick of weathering. Caleb's face
stared back at me, but the proportions were wrong, the
eyes too large, the smile too wide, stretching past the
limits of human comfort. The head ankled at a tilt
no child ever held, but he looked older, not grown,
just continued, evolved in the wrong direction, and beneath the
image an uneven lettering, I'm closer now. By the time
I left the forest, my hands were shaking hard enough
that I kept them shoved in my pockets. I told
myself he was just adrenaline, the remnants of a panic attack,
the shock of finding a child size hollow, and the
leaves with a drawing. I had no explanation for what
I didn't want to admit was simpler. The ground I
stood on in that clearing matched the terrain I'd spent
two decades trying not to remember. It looked nothing like
the softened version i'd described to police, the gentle incline
i'd said. I'd convinced myself that that lies so thoroughly
that finding the truth rendering crayon felt like having the
floor pulled out from beneath me. The walk back to
the school blurred again. My breath kept snagging on something
I couldn't name. When I stepped into my classroom, everything
looked normal. Kids chatting, pages turning, the scrape of chairs, normal, normal, normal.
I convinced myself the morning had been an episode e lapse,
something my mind could fold away. Then a boy at
the front, the one who hadn't been involved in the drawings,
muttered to a friend under his breath, he always slowed
me down my chest con strut did that was my
line from that night. Before I could process it, another
student parroted I'm not your babysitter in the middle of
a conversation about football practice. Then at the back of
the room, someone dropped a pencil and muttered, just go.
I felt my stomach twist. These weren't Caleb's words, they
were mine. These children are repeating phrases I'd shoved so
deep inside myself that I'd believe they no longer existed.
The walls and my constructed narrative, the version of the
story I rehearsed and told them that it felt true.
Buckled around me. This wasn't about the kids, and it
wasn't about dreams. Something was bleeding through the cracks in
my memory, dragging the truth with it. Then, a girl
who rarely spoke the hands slightly. She didn't wait for
me to call on her. Her eyes when focused, as
though she were listening to something I couldn't hear. In
her own voice, but with an inflection too measured, too deliberate,
she asked, do you remember pushing him? My vision blurted,
the edges my knees almost gave out. I had to
grip the edge of my desk to stay upright. She blinked, confused,
as if she had no idea she said anything at all.
That was the moment I knew the problem was me.
Something in the forest wasn't haunting me. It was peeling
me open, forcing me to look at the memory I'd
sealed shut twenty years ago. I couldn't keep pretending the past.
There was something that happened to me. It was something
I did, and something out there wanted me to stop
lying about it. I wasn't going back to the forest,
I told myself. I take the day off, call in sick,
do anything except fee the madness that had started tearing
through my life. But morning came and my body moved
before my mind could protest the desire for answers, overtaking
all senses, I barked at the edge of the woods,
like some one drawn by instinct rather than decision. The
trees felt tighter, as if they had grown inward overnight.
The forest floor swallowed sound. The moment I stepped off
the grass, there was just the faint hum of something waiting.
I found a large depression easily. In my memory. It
had just looked child sized. Today it was deeper, wider,
curled into the shape of grief I carried for years.
I crouched, expecting the faint whisper I heard before, but
the ground was silent. Instead, a sound drifted from above.
A voice, light and uncertain, weaving between branches, trying to
be a boy's voice, trying to be Caleb, except it
wasn't right. The pitch wavered, the rhythm stuttered, the tone
slid from soft to hollow, as if the speaker didn't
understand what emotion went where It was in imitation, built
from scraps, stitched together by something that understood the shape
of a child, but not the soul. I froze, staring
up into the interlocking limbs. Nothing moved, but I felt
eyes studying me, practicing me. The memory didn't return cleanly.
HIT surfaced in fragments, each one fighting against the version
I'd rehearsed for years. I saw my younger self shove Caleb,
a hard, frustrated motion meant to end the argument, not
his life. I clung to that justification. I didn't mean harm.
I just snapped brother's fight, kid's fall. It wasn't it
couldn't have been that bad. But the next fragment shattered
that excuse. Caleb stumbled over the embankment, hit the ground
with more force than I remembered enough the Jarro's breath
into a sharp startled gasp. His hand grabbed at the leaves,
reaching for balance, long after momentum had left him. I
felt an old thought try to surface, the one I
buried the deepest. He'll get up. He always gets up.
You don't have to deal with this, Just walk, breathe
leave it alone. He would get up and follow me,
like he always did. And then I saw when I
spent twenty years refusing to acknowledge. I turned away because
it was easier because anger had hollowed out every instinct
except the desire to be free of responsibility, Because I
told myself distance would make everything less my fault. The
memory didn't condemn me outright. It simply showed the truth
without commentary, and that honesty hurt far more than judgment.
I felt hollow, A vacancy the forest seemed eager to
fill my breath left me in a rush. My vision
dimmed around the edges from a strange dissociation I recognized
too well, the same numbness I cultivated my entire adult
life to avoid touching this truth. The forest responded to it.
The leaves rustled with a sound too deliberate to bewind.
Roots groan softly, shifting beneath the soil, like mussels waking.
The boundary between my memory and this place felt thin
enough to tear. Something caught my eye, a scrap of
paper pinned to a tree by a sharpened twig. I
approached slowly. It was another crayon drawing. Caleb lay curled
in the leaves, knees drawn up the same way I
now remembered him lying after the fall, but behind him,
half emerged from the earth. Was a long, pale arm
stretching toward him, cradling him, comforting him. I pressed a
hand against the tree to steady myself. The bark felt warm.
I started to cry, an ugly, shaking sob that dragged
out of me, as if it had been waiting two
decades for his chance. The trees echoed it back to me,
and when the last echo faded, I realized it wasn't
just copying my sorrow, it was learning me preparing for something.
By the time I reached my house, the shaking hadn't stopped.
My clothes were streaked with dirt. I kept expecting the
panic to settle into something familiar, numbness or denial, the
emotional tool kit that had carried me through the last
twenty years. But the truth was too loud, now echoing
through every part of me. I closed the door behind
me and leaned against it. Breath dragged. My brain scrambled
for an escape route. I could hear myself trying to
rebuild the same excuses I'd lived behind all my adult life.
I'm not required to go back into those woods. Nothing
is forcing me. People live with secrets all the time.
I already did. I can do it again, but saying
the words out loud only made them sound cheap, flimsy.
I didn't believe them any more, and the house, with
its suffocating quiet, seemed to know it too. I wandered
from room to room, rubbing my arms, the chase of
a chill that wasn't physical. The knowledge I carried, the
truth I'd avoided for two decades, pressed heavier than any
whisper or drawing or distorted voice in the forest. I
stopped pacing. My thoughts split between two clear paths, both
terrible in different ways. One was the path I knew
best avoidance. Pack a bag, get in the car, drive
until the forest was a rumor in the rear view mirror,
Seal the truth back inside, and let time do the
bearying again. The second path fell like stepping into fire. Accountability,
go back, face what I did, Accept whatever waited for
me in those trees. My pulse studded against my ribs
as I stood there weighing them. The first option glittered
with false safety. The second burned with everything I'd spent
twenty years running from. Then the tapping started a gentle
rhythm on the back door. Three light knocks, a pause,
then one more a pattern I hadn't heard since I
was a teenager, Caleb's pattern, the way he asked me
to walk with him to the bathroom at night, the
way he told me, without speaking that he was scared.
The sound froze me where I stood. I knew what
waited on the other side couldn't truly be Caleb. I
knew it was an echo, a mimicry, but the message
inside the sound was clearer than anything supernatural. Choose. They
slid down the wall and onto the floor, body shaking
as the weight of the choice crossed against my chest.
I can't leave him again, I whispered, My voice cracked.
Saying it out loud made it real in a way
nothing else had. I can't do that Twice. I wiped
my face with the heel of my hand and forced
myself to stand. My legs felt unsteady, but willing, as
if some parted me had finally stopped resisting the direction
my life had always been pushing me toward. I opened
the back door. The night air met me like a
held breath released. No creature waited there, no shadow, no
beckoning hand. It was just the forest in the distance,
patient and waiting. I stepped outside, choosing, and as I
reached the tree line, pale moths drifted down from the branches,
spiraling into a luminous path that well deeper into the woods,
marking way forward. Walking into the forest felt different this time.
It wasn't like trespassing. It was like returning to a
place I'd abandoned. Mid sentence, the fear was still there,
humming under my skin, tightening the back of my throat,
But that wasn't the thing guiding me anymore. Responsibility was
heavier than fear, and for the first time in twenty years,
I didn't try to set it down. The trees parted
as I moved deeper, adjusting around me in slow, deliberate shifts.
The forest wasn't hiding anything tonight. It was preparing a path,
an invitation. The embankment appeared through the darkness, lit by
a strange sourceless glow. Despite the absence of a moon,
the sight of it unch the breath out of me.
Even without the imitation of light, I would have known it.
My body had remembered this place long before my mind
ever dared to there. It was the hollow, the ground,
shaped by a small body lying curdled into itself, A
memory pressed into the earth like a fossil. A voice
drifted from the depression, soft and trembling. You remember me now.
My throat tightened. The cadence was almost perfect, almost a
half echo of a voice I'd spent years refusing to replay.
I sank to my knees before I even realized I
was falling. The confession came out of me, like something
being mined from deep inside my ribs, each word scraping
on its way up. I pushed you, I said I
was angry. I wanted space, freedom, a moment where I
wasn't the only one responsible for everything. My hand dug
into the soil, clenching it like a life line. I
heard you cry out, and I left anyway. I walked
away because I convinced myself you'd be fine, because it
was easier than facing what I'd done. And then I
lied for years, to ma'am, to the police, to everyone,
to myself. Most of all, the forest responded. The branches
overhead untwisted the way someone relaxes their shoulders after carrying
way for two long. Broods shifted beneath my knees, grounding themselves.
Now that the truth had been spoken. The air itself loosened.
It had been waiting for this. Movements stirred in the hollow.
Leaves parted as a small figure rose slowly from the depression,
child sized, fragile. My breath hitched. The clothes were familiar,
or trying to be. The hair, the tilt of the chin,
and the face. God, the face almost broke me, familiar
enough to ache, close enough to believe, far enough from
perfect that the distortions hid like tiny knives. The arms
hung a bit too long. The joints moved with liquid smoothness,
bending in ways that made my skin crawl. The eyes
called the glow of the forest, not on the surface,
but from some depth behind them, like lanterns shifting through
frosted glass. But even with all that, he looked like Caleb,
and that was enough to undo me. Caleb, I whispered.
The name trembled out, coated in years of dust and gilt.
It felt raw, vulnerable, naked. The vigor tilted its head
that exact tilt, that curious soft motion. I hadn't realized,
I remembered until I saw it recreated perfectly. I waited
for you, it said. The voice was gentle, no accusation
or bitterness, just the truth, spoken with all the sincerity
of a child who spent too long alone. Tears blurred
my vision, my chest cracked open. For one fragile mo moment,
I believed I had finally done something right, that by
telling the truth, coming back not running, I had earned this,
maybe even forgiveness, the chance to say goodbye properly. I
lifted a shaking hand, an offering a plea. Caleb reached out.
Its skin was warm, human warm. Its fingers curled around
mine with careful pressure, and then it smiled. Caleb smiled
exact a memory made flesh. I let out of breath.
I didn't know I'd been holding. Relief washed through me.
Maybe I really was forgiven. Maybe the forest dropped into silence.
It didn't feel peaceful. I felt like a predatory silence,
when that falls when something stops talking because it's finally
ready to strike. Caleb didn't let go of my hand,
and its smile didn't fade. It only widened just a
fraction too far. The forest around us reacted. The branches stiffened,
the light sank lower, as if pulled into the creature's chest.
You remember me, now, It murmured again, but the voice
was slipping, not entirely Caleb's anymore. There were tones beneath it, older, layered.
He cried for you, it whispered, leaning close enough that
I felt its breath against my cheek. A tremor ran
through its arm, like a memory excited it. I tasted
everything he felt. His pain was delicious. My stomach twisted. Then,
with something almost like affection, it murmured, But you, yours
has aged into something exquisite. I stumbled back, instinctively, yanking
my hand free. The creature stepped forward, and with each
movement the mimicry fell apart a little more. Its arms
lengthened by inches, stretching smoothly like softened wax. Its joints
hinged backward for a split second before snapping forward again.
Its eyes brightened from within the pupil, and a seam
appeared along the center of its face. But it wasn't
the line of an opening mouth, a split, vertical and
clean opening with a soft, wet sound. From within that scene,
the true appendage emerged, long, thin, almost elegant, and its
wrongness a proposis like a mosquito's hollow tipped widening and
narrowing in tiny pulses. It curled in the air, tasting it,
searching for something beneath my skin. Clicks came from inside it,
like an insect redding itself to pierce. I didn't think.
I ran, crashing through the underbrush with the forest shifted
with me, Branches bending, roots rising, guiding the creature in
a straight line toward me. It dropped onto my back
a moment later. The impact knocked the air out of me.
Fingers clamped around my wrists, pinning my arms behind me.
Its knees dug into my ribs, forcing me into the
cold dirt. Its breath trembled, marred with triumph. Let me
drink everything he left inside you, and whispered against my neck.
The proposes stabbed into my forearm. Her white hot paine
exploded through my arm. But the real horror wasn't the puncture.
It was the sensation that followed. Something was being pulled
from me, ripped from within, siphoned and drained, And it
wasn't just blood but memories. The first tugged or at
the night Caleb fell, his cry echoing inside my skull.
The second ripped a decades of guilt, thinning it into threads.
The necks pulled at who I thought I was. My
sense of myself unraveling like fabric, fraying under strain. Grief
drained out of me in hot waves. My identity blurded
the edges, my mind hollowed. I felt my limbs weakening,
turning slack. My fingers twitched uselessly in the dirt. The
creature shuddered above me, pleasure rolling through it invisible waves,
so much more than the boy. It breathed, so much
richer matured. My vision blurred, black edges closed inward. I
could feel myself slipping into unconsciousness, into non existence. I
couldn't tell then movement through the haze. I saw something
behind the creature, small hands, small arms, wrapping around its torso,
then pulling. The creature shrieked, a sound too sharp and
layered to be human. I clawed at the ground, refusing
to break its hold on my arm. The proboses stretched painfully,
still embedded in my flesh. The arms around it tightened,
then yanked. The proboses tore free. A spray of red,
following a surge of agony, lit up my arm. I screamed,
collapsing on to my side. Through the blur, I saw
a small child sized silhouette holding the creature back. The
creature thrust wildly, limbs flailing, trying to crawl toward me,
but those small arms, those familiar, heartbreaking, these small arms,
held it fast. I saw only the top of the
child's head. Hair I recognized instantly, hair I had washed
and brushed on school picture mornings. I never saw the face.
I didn't need to go. The small voice strained out.
I staggered under my feet, half blind, half conscious, blood soaking,
my sleeves mined in tatters, and I ran Branches whipped
my face, my legs threatened to buckle. Every few steps
behind me, the two voices rose, one monstrous, furious, shrieking
my name, and beneath it, small and strained go. I did,
and I didn't look back. I didn't remember getting home.
One moment I was staggering through the tree line, lungs burning, arm,
pouring blood down my elbow. The next I was collapsing
through my back door and hitting the kitchen floor hard
enough to rattler chair. For a long time, I just
lay there, half curled, trembling uncontrollably my arm throbbed with
a creature had pierced it with a physical pain. Was
nothing compared to the emptiness spreading through my chest, a
hollowness so deep it fell like wind can blow straight
through me, not metaphorically. Something was gone, memories, feelings, pieces
of myself. I could feel the absence like missing teeth
in my mind. I pushed myself upright against the cabinet, gasping.
My thoughts stuttered, skipping like stones and water. I tried
to remember the exact order of things, what the creature said,
how it looked, the way it fed. Every attempt ended
in a smear of fog, like someone had reached inside
and plucked the sharpest thoughts away. But the truth of
it that stayed, the truth I'd spent two decades bearing,
had sunk its claws into me, too deeply to be taken.
Something fed on Caleb, fed on his fear the night
I left him, on his grief as he waited alone
in the dark, fed on his abandonment. I created that understanding,
crushed harder than any promises ever did. I pulled my
knees up to my chest, shaking, my breath hitched on
every inhale. I'm sorry, I whispered. It came out jagged,
barely audible. But once the words started, more followed, quiet
and broken unraveling from somewhere deep and rust did inside me.
I'm so sorry I left you. I left you there.
I didn't look back. I should have come back. I
should have My voice cracked. I pressed my forehead to
my knees. The apology wasn't to the creature or to
the forest. It was to the boy I failed, the
boy who cried out after falling and waited for a
big brother who never returned. For a long while, that
was all there was pain and silence. But then a
thought rose through the fogged out places in my mind.
Uninvited those arms, those small arms wrapped around the creature's torso,
holding it back with everything they had, the familiar hair
falling across the forehead, shaped by childhood, The way the
silhouette pulled strained refuge, used to let it reach me again.
If that was Caleb, or even just some fragment of him,
some last echo the creature hadn't devoured. Then he did
something I never did. He came back, fought for me.
He saved me. The realization hit like a fresh wound opening,
equal parts unbearable and blinding. My guilt didn't evaporate, it sharpened,
grew clearer. But beneath it, something else bloomed in a
way I wasn't ready for a possibility, a terrible, fragile possibility.
Did Caleb forgive me? Even after everything? I didn't know.
I didn't know of the arms that held the creature
with him, nor did I know if forgiveness was something
a boy swallowed by a foresting could still offer. But
I knew this. I wasn't alone in that clearing, not entirely.
I sat on the kitchen floor until my breathing steady,
listened to the hum of the fridge and the blood
dripping from my arm onto the tiles. The silence and
the house felt different, now, less like a trap, more
like a question waiting to be answered. Dusk shifted through
the windows and I closed my eyes. That was when
I heard it, faint and distant, coming from the forest
far beyond my backyard, a gentle tapping, soft and hesitant,
yet familiar, the same rhythm cale abused when he was
scared and wanted his big brother to come back. My
breath caught. The tapping continued just once, twice three times
before fading into the night, and I didn't know if
it meant forgiveness or good bye.