Warm air filters through the Asian man’s car as we make our way down Interstate 20. Bound for the unknown, I can do little more than stare as the vehicle shoots through the darkness like a bullet, its headlights illuminating the night, casting wicked shadows across the road and into the woodlands flanking either side.


    I think, What did I get myself into?


    Then I think, How do you know he’s even who he claims to be?


    But that’s the thing. This man, this person who claimed to be a Wiper, had shown that he was capable of fantastical things. From making the nurse forget, to causing the electricity to malfunction, to making the street lamps change color, he’d done things that were nothing short of miraculous.


    And now I’m here, I think, in his car.


    Heading to who knew where.


    Knowing that I will not get answers if I do not press for them, I clear my throat and force myself to ask the question that’s been lingering inside me for what seems like hours. I ask: “Where are you taking me?”


    “Dallas,” the man says, without missing a beat.


    “What’s in Dallas?” I reply.


    “The United States Agency for Supernatural Affiliations.”


    “And you’re taking me there because…”


    “You have agreed to undergo the process of assimilation.”


    There it was again—that phrase, spoken so casually, so normally, as if it meant nothing at all. He’d said it as if it would have little bearing at all on my life; and yet, I know, deep down, in the fiber of my being, that it will change everything.


    My past.


    My present.


    My future.


    Rather than wait for the man to speak further, I ball my hands into a fist, expel a pent-up breath, and say, “Tell me more.”


    “The process is undergone when a mute individual declares their intentions to make themselves aware of the Supernatural. Normally, mundanes—or, people with no knowledge of the Supernatural world—simply have their memories erased by Wipers to prevent complications.”


    “Then why haven’t you erased my mind?”


    “Because you declared your intentions,” Shadow says, “and because I could sense an inner strength within you.”


    I can’t help but laugh.


    “I… do not understand,” Shadow then says, turning his head briefly to face me. “Why are you laughing?”


    “You think I’m strong? In this state?”


    “Most ordinary people would have succumbed to insanity upon seeing what you had.”


    I find, not long after he has spoken, that I can say nothing. This is not because I have lost my voice, or because I have no words. Rather, it is because of the truth of the matter, which is far more grim than I could’ve ever imagined.


    The truth is that I almost had gone insane. Standing there on that porch and seeing my mother, and her killer, drenched in blood had almost driven me to the brink. It’d been too much to process, too much to even believe. No one could ever imagine someone, even their mother, being killed, let alone by nothing less than a vampire.


    The thoughts—which bombard me with the intensity of mortars on the field of my personal battle—threaten to send me over the edge.


    Tears burn at my eyes. My chest tightens with newfound anxiety. My stomach twists, and I almost immediately begin to hyperventilate.


    A hand falls upon my shoulder.


    Shadow says, “Stop.”


    And I, surprisingly, do. Gone is the terror in my mind, the grief in my lungs. In their places emerges an eerie calm that would have otherwise left me unsettled.


    “Did you—” I start.


    “Wipe your memory?” he asks. “No. I didn’t.”


    I stare at him, trying my hardest to determine his reasoning, his motive. His eyes shift from me to the road, then back again. His lips curl into a frown as he returns his hand to the steering wheel.


    What was that? I ask myself. Why did he do it?


    Was it because Shadow simply wanted me calm? That he didn’t want me to have an episode? Because he didn’t want me to freak the hell out? Or was it for another reason—another reason that I couldn’t have anticipated? Is it because he—


    Cares? I think.


    The thought strikes me instantly, leaving me breathless.


    Could it be that this man—this person from the Supernatural world—really wants to help me?


    “Shadow,” I say as the thought flutters about my mind.


    “Yes?” he asks.


    “Why are you taking me to the Agency?”


    “You said you wished to avenge your mother’s death.”


    “Yes, but—”


    “What?”


    “What exactly does that mean?”


    “You tell me,” he says.


    But that’s the thing—I don’t know what it means, not enough to give him a concrete answer. Rage had blinded me—had made me silly, made me weak—but it had also compelled me in the moments when Shadow had entered my room, when he’d promised to take my memories away and make my past all but disappear.


    To think that I, Scarlet Jane, can actually do something, let alone kill the monster that had murdered my mother, fills me with so much emotion, so much dread, that I cannot even begin to fathom it.


    But you’re going to do it, I tell myself as I look down at my balled fists. You’re going to kill the monster. You’re going to avenge your mother.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    It is the one thing I can do to reclaim my power, the one thing I can work toward in order to reclaim what has wrongfully taken from me. But how can I explain that?


    Rather than question myself further, I clear my throat, then say, “Avenging my mother… means killing the thing that killed her.”


    “Then that it what you will do,” Shadow says. “You will undergo your initiation, then begin the process of assimilation.”


    “Into what?”


    “The Supernatural world.”


    “There’s more to this than you’re letting on, isn’t there?”


    “You are too overwhelmed to even begin to comprehend everything there is to know. Surely you must understand that.”


    “I… I do,” I say.


    “Then there is little more than needs to be said.” The man reaches forward to adjust the air conditioner. “You should sleep now, Scarlet. We still have several hours until we reach Dallas.”


    “All right.”


    After taking several moments to consider the options laid out before me, I lean back, twist myself onto my side, and gaze out the window.


    No matter how hard I try to fight them back, I cannot help but think of all the horrible things I’ve seen tonight.


    My mother—


    That monster—


    This strange and unusual world—


    It was almost too much to bear.


    As I close my eyes—and as the nightmares once more rush forward to greet me—I find that I can do nothing more than face them head on.


    So I do the only thing I can think to do:


    I try my hardest to rest.


    * * *


    I succumb to sleep not long after I have curled onto my side, but I do not dream ordinary dreams. Instead, I suffer nightmares—cruel, malicious nightmares, during which I was at my greatest high, only to succumb to my deepest low.


    Walking home—


    Seeing the front door open—


    Stepping onto the porch—


    Seeing it.


    It.


    That horrible thing, that malevolent monster.


    It lifts its head to face me—to look at me with its cruel red eyes and its long, knife-like teeth—


    And that is when I burst from dream, anxious, sweating, and chest tight.


    Nestled in the passenger seat, and with a blanket cast over my shoulders, I open my eyes to find that I am alone in the car.


    Where… where am I? I think. And where is Shadow?


    I blink in an effort to clear my vision—to drive back the nightmares that still dance at the corners of my eyes—and lift my head to consider my surroundings.


    The car idles next to a gas station pump, beneath which a flickering florescent light offers a view of the clean concrete below.


    Where is he? I wonder before casting my gaze to the gas station.


    A quick glance at the frosted glass on the western side of the building offers no indication as to who could be inside the establishment. Even the gauge displaying how much gas might have been pumped into the vehicle isn’t enough to determine when or where he might have gone.


    Surely he wouldn’t have left me alone, I think.


    Right?


    I swallow a lump in my throat as I push myself upright and reach up to wipe sweat-streaked hair away from my eyes—


    Just in time for the door to the gas station to open and my mysterious savior to exit. He carries a plastic bag in one hand and nods as we exchange gazes before glancing back and lifting a hand.


    The lights in the gas station flicker.


    The pump resets at my side.


    Within moments, Shadow is stepping forward and opening the driver’s side door. “I apologize if I frightened you,” he says. “I needed to pay for gas and thought you might be hungry.”


    “Where are we?” I ask.


    “About two hours from Dallas, near a small town called Kilgore.”


    “How long was I asleep?”


    “Long enough,” Shadow says. He passes the plastic bag over the center console. “For you.”


    I reach in and withdraw a bottle of water, as well as a sandwich made with turkey, lettuce, and cheddar between white bread. The sight of the food is instantly enough to make my stomach rumble.


    “Go ahead and eat,” Shadow says as I rip the plastic packaging apart. “I figured you might be hungry.”


    “Thank you,” I say before lowering my eyes to consider the sandwich. “Do you… do you want some of this?”


    “I do not require sustenance,” he says.


    “You don’t?” I ask, to which the man responds with a nod. “How is that possible?”


    “I am technically not a corporeal form. I am merely the illusion of one.”


    “Corporeal,” I say and frown not long after. “You mean… you’re not physical?”


    “I am, yes.”


    “I guess that would explain how you’re driving,” I say, then follow that up by asking, “So… you can change shapes?”


    “I can, yes.”


    “Why Asian, then? Why not be a white man? Wouldn’t it be easier on you?”


    “My homeland of Japan resonates with me,” Shadow says as he twists the key in the ignition. “That’s all I can say on the matter.”


    With the understanding that it might be best to keep my questions to a minimum, I begin to eat the sandwich—and try, with little success, to keep my stomach from doing acrobats. Between my rising anxiety and my desperate hunger, I find that eating is almost impossible, a chore if ever there was one.


    You have to eat, I tell myself. Force yourself to, even if it’s just to be polite.


    Every bite is laborious. Every drink of water a reminder that I am still alive.


    Unlike my mother.


    My mother.


    Who is probably lying in a morgue somewhere, waiting for whatever to happen to happen.


    Tears burn at the corners of my eyes.


    “You do not have to hide your emotions from me,” Shadow says. “I will not judge you.”


    “I know you won’t,” I reply, even though I truly don’t. “It’s just… I don’t know why I should be crying when I should be concentrating on what I can be doing. You know?”


    “Grief is a powerful emotion. It can cloud your mind, your thoughts, your judgment. Do not allow it to overwhelm you, but allow yourself to feel it all the same. That is how all living creatures must survive.”


    “Thank you.” I draw the blanket around my shoulders and turn my head to consider the traffic cutting through the night like pale hands through fog. “Do you… do you mind if I ask you some questions?”


    “You are free to ask anything you like.”


    “What is your purpose in taking me to the Agency?”


    “You bore witness to the Supernatural world and declared yourself willing to become a part of it. This is known as an initiation, which precipitates the process of assimilation.”


    “You keep saying that. What exactly does that mean?”


    “The process of assimilation is undertaken when someone who bears witness is deemed fit to integrate into the Supernatural world. Once it begins, a Wiper—such as myself—will begin the process of removing any physical or emotional record of your existence from the world, be it from an electronic document, or even a memory from a person you have come into contact with.”


    “Is that why you’re called Wipers? Because you have the ability to make people forget things?”


    “We are able to erase human memories,” Shadow replies. “We have also, in the modern age, adapted our abilities to interfere with electronic equipment.”


    “But what about physical copies of my existence? Like papers or pictures?”


    “Those are generally more difficult to track down. I assure you, however, that a Wiper stops at nothing to remove traces of a witness’ identity once the process has begun.”


    “So when we get to the Agency,” I say, “you—or someone like you—will start making it look like I… what? Never existed?”


    “Precisely.”


    “So you’ll meet my family, my friends, my teachers and just… make them all forget?”


    “Yes, Scarlet. This is what the process entails.”


    I can’t even begin to comprehend the amount of work that would take, the manpower it would entail. In the modern age, documents are everywhere—on paper, on computers, in hearts, minds, and souls. The more I consider it, the more frightened I become.


    What does it mean for everyone and everything who knew you existed to simply forget? Is it like snuffing a flame and seeing the smoke ebb freely, or does it compare to a breath of air, taken and known once but never truly seen?


    Unable to know, I lean back in my seat and say, “Shadow.”


    “Yes?”


    “Can you… can you promise me something?”


    “I can’t say I can.”


    “If you can,” I say, “and… and if you’re able, I need someone… anyone… that can help me get through this.”


    “There are people here who will assist you through the recovery process and transitional period,” he says.


    “I know. But you… you’re the one who found me. Who saved me. Who… who gave me this choice. I… I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for you.”


    “You would move on and do whatever was necessary to ensure your life had meaning.”


    “Still… it means a lot to know you think I have what it takes to become a part of your world.”


    “It will soon be your world too, Scarlet.”


    The thought, troubling as it happens to be, is also inspiring.


    Though I may not know what will happen next, I do know one thing for certain:


    I know I will avenge my mother’s death.