《Fatal Attraction》 How I died Someone once asked me if I thought the stars looked so beautiful by firelight because they were twin souls calling out to each other across the universe. I never answered them because it was a weird question asked by a weird person who, at the time, had been holding my car keys hostage so I couldn¡¯t leave what turned out to be the sketchiest camping trip of my life. Or, one of them, at least. Perhaps that¡¯s why I never really gave the question much thought. Now that I¡¯ve had some time to think it over, I must say, the stars by firelight really do make for quite a fetching sight. Even if said firelight comes from the ceremonial braziers surrounding my bound body. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯d be willing to untie me so we can talk about this?¡± I make my last ditch, if somewhat lackluster, case for my life, giving my wrists a tentative wiggle. The bindings are still as tight as ever and I¡¯m starting to lose feeling in my fingers and toes. A bored part of my brain immediately starts droning on about permanent tissue damage due to lack of oxygen, but once you find yourself tied to a sacrificial alter in the woods, considering the issue of potential long term damage seems unreasonably optimistic. I¡¯m not a very optimistic person, as a rule. If I remember correctly, I gathered up the last remaining scraps of optimism I had and tossed that waste of time out the window after one of my elementary teachers set the school on fire. He did it for me, he said. No, my name¡¯s not Damien, and no, I¡¯m not the anti-Christ. I¡¯ve just led what some might call a ¡°challenging¡± life. ¡°Cassius, don''t be afraid. I¡¯m not doing this to hurt you. I¡¯m doing this for you.¡± A head appears above me, half blocking my view of the night sky and illuminated only by the flames from the braziers. Brown eyes, brown hair, normal in every way expect all the marks drawn across her face. "By offering you to the Lord of Dreams, I shall make you his favored one and you shall-" I stop listening because fuck if I know who the Lord of Dreams is, and fuck if knowing that actually matters. Hers is an only slightly familiar face, if I¡¯m being honest. That feels like an embarrassing thing to admit when talking about my would be murderer, especially when they seem so fond of me and all, but I really can only vaguely remember her. An underclassman from college. Quiet and bookish. Harmless, I thought. We¡¯d been almost friends, for a time. Or the closest to friends I tend to get. It lasted for a couple weeks maybe. Then I caught her picking up the things I threw away and realized she was just like all the rest. Never talked to her again. I hardly remember her because there was too much else going on in college. There was the professor who kept causing me trouble so they could rush in to ¡°help¡± me, and then there was the stalker classmate who broke into my dorm with a knife and, yeah, I guess a couple others. She just got overshadowed. Here we are, potential murderer and potential murderee and I can¡¯t even remember her name. Embarrassing. Come to think of it, I never did get my degree. Though, to be fair, based on the rather striking iconography she¡¯s painted on her face, it would appear she¡¯s also strayed somewhat from her previous calling of forensic chemistry. She, whatever her name is, places her hand on my face, caressing my cheek in the way only creepy people can. They all have the skill, I''m sure of it. I don¡¯t try to avoid her touch. I don¡¯t react at all really. I can remember when I would¡¯ve reacted, flinched back and struggled against my restraints. That was years ago. People really can get used to anything. There¡¯s only so many times you can be in a situation like this before you have no more fucks to give. But maybe that¡¯s just the depression talking. ¡°Your soul is too beautiful for this place. You deserve a better life. A better world. I¡¯ll make sure you get there.¡± I let out a deep sigh, flicking my gaze back to the stars, resigned. She¡¯d been saying stuff like that since I woke up here. Some nonsense about offering my soul to some divine something or other so I can finally be happy or some shit. Honestly, if I were looking for tips on happiness, I doubt I''d have asked her. Home-baked occultist just isn''t a very reliable look. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. I don¡¯t feel any anger, no sense of betrayal or outrage knowing this lunatic is going to kill me soon. I¡¯m not even struck by a desperate upswelling of desire to live. I¡¯m just tired. If it wasn¡¯t her it would¡¯ve been someone else. If not this situation than another. ¡°Well, if you feel that strongly about it.¡± I mumble vaguely at the stars. In truth, from the way my life started no one could¡¯ve guessed that things would end like this. I was born as the youngest child of a well to do, upper middle class family. My family was loving and warm with two happily married parents and an old brother and sister that dotted on me. The perfect, safe environment to grow up in, all but certain to set me up for a stable adult life. There was just the one problem. For whatever reason, and I truly have no idea why, I seem to attract the obsessive attentions of what can only be called extreme individuals. Age, gender, orientation, none of it matters. They follow me, watch me, try to get close. When that doesn¡¯t work they go for harassment, kidnapping or they just attack me, all in the name of their twisted affections. When that sort of thing happens as often as it does to me and every new person is a possible threat, it''s difficult to remember the good things. Hence the depression. (Serotonin, you foxy minx, get your ass back here!) Maybe someone else would¡¯ve been able to handle all this better than me, overcome and face these challenges with optimism and courage. Me? I just got so tired. Ground down by years of everything I took even a moment¡¯s passing interest in being tainted by the obsession of my unwanted admirers, by every life path I tried to take being blocked by one outrageous incident after another. In truth, I don¡¯t particularly mind being murdered because breathing already feels like something of a chore. I don¡¯t dislike living, mind you, but the way I''m living makes me feel like I''m already dead. I know if I were a normal jobless twenty-three year old with no career prospects and crushing depression I would probably be homeless by now. Luckily for my somewhat pampered ass, my family have been very understanding about everything and insisted I continue to live with them. Which, ironically, is kind of how I ended up here. Above me, my would-be murderer starts chanting something, the strange cadence snapping my attention back to her. She has a knife now, gripped in both of her hands before her chest like a slightly wild eyed knight with a very short sword. She hadn''t stopped talking since earlier, but I tuned her out. Now I¡¯m kind of curious what I missed. Whoever she is, she¡¯s patient and quite the planner. I haven¡¯t seen her in years, yet here she is, having this all set up and ready to go at a moment''s notice just in case she got her chance. And she did, obviously. She actually got me the very first time I went out alone, which is harder than it sounds. I''m never really alone anymore. My family is very aware of the troubles I deal with, having been there for most of it. This has made them more than a little overprotective. Like trackers sewn into my clothes and checking in every couple hours kind of overprotective. I never thought much about it because I knew exactly where their worry came from and their precautions have saved me more than a few times. It wasn¡¯t until I moved back in that I finally realized that perhaps they were just a little too happy to have me back. I didn¡¯t want to accept that. Didn''t even want to think about it, but years of paranoia wouldn¡¯t let me ignore the thought either. So I tested it out. None of my "fans" react well when I try to put some distance between us, so I brought up the idea of me getting a job, maybe moving out one day. That went very poorly. Mom just started crying and soon after my car keys and wallet went missing. Dad got very serious and told me about the money he¡¯d put aside so I never had to work, while the house got new locks and indoor cameras. My brother started having a lot of heart-to-heart conversations about how he ¡°admired my will¡± but how I should ¡°consider the risks¡± and realize that maybe living safely with the rest of the family is what''s best for me. My sister suddenly had time to spend with me. All the time. And it somehow turned out that someone was always available to go with me whenever I wanted to go outside. I couldn''t really deny it then. I knew the intense look in their eye too well by then to miss it. They weren''t violent like so many of my unwanted fans, but that didn''t mean they wouldn''t use force if I pressed them. I think that, more than anything I had yet experienced, truly broke my heart. My depression got a lot worse after that. It took a couple years, but I did finally manage to slip away by myself. ...Only for this to happen. I was just a bit careless, I suppose. Running so fast from one danger I fell head first into another. Maybe they were right about home being the safest place for me. ¡°Cassius!¡± What¡¯s her face yells out my name at the top of her lungs, clearly reaching the climax of our final moments together. Or maybe she noticed I wasn¡¯t paying attention. ¡°Heart of my heart! I send you now into the loving arms of the Lord of Dreams!¡± She raises the knife up into the air and I focus on the tip and the way it reflects the firelight. Bright like a promise. There are some questions I¡¯ve been asking myself for the last few years that I¡¯ve been trying not to answer. If even my family, my lovely, sane, once-so-safe family, could succumb to the insanity that surrounds me, than were all those people over the years really crazy? Or am I what made them like that? An incurable poison that twists everything it touches. If I am, than is me being alive even a good thing? With a scream the knife plunges down, straight into my heart. And that¡¯s how I died. Divine Drug Deal I¡¯m not sure what I expected from death. I never put much thought into what might potentially come next. Considering the wide range of possibilities put out there, from eternal torment to an endless paradise, I would¡¯ve been fine with just ceasing to exist when I die in the way preached by the naturalists. Something nice and middle of the road. So I¡¯m mildly disappointed when the next thing I know, I find myself in a cavernous room filled with giant pillars formed by stalagmites and stalactites meeting and not much else. The ceiling is so high it just looks like the pillars disappear into endless darkness. The only light comes from luminous blue mushrooms growing at the base of the pillars. No cessation of existence for me it seems. Apparently, life doesn¡¯t give a fuck about what you want and or believe your afterlife should be. Just slaps you with reality and walks off without any explanation. Go figure. A flicker of movement at the corner of my eye warns me that I¡¯m not alone in the seemingly endless room, and I study the space between pillars more intently. When I focus I can just make out the shape of other people wandering about without an apparent purpose. They¡¯re half translucent and so faded in color that they all but disappear into the gloom around them when they stay in place. I suppose that makes them my dead comrades in arms. Oddly enough, I don¡¯t feel a pressing urge to go chat them up. Sure, I would kind of like to know what¡¯s going on and where I am, but they seem pretty busy. You know, with all their¡­ shuffling. And being dead. Besides, long experience has taught me that initiating contact with other people is always, always, always a bad idea. I don¡¯t see why that would be any different now just because the other people happen to be what I can only guess are shades from the underworld. A moment later I give myself a mental pat on the back for my good decision making after I catch a glimpse of myself. Unlike my pale companions I don¡¯t seem to have faded at all, in fact I¡¯ve gained a rather noticeable golden glow. I don¡¯t know what that means, but I sit down and huddle nearer to one of the pillars in an attempt to minimize my presence among the glowing fungi. It doesn¡¯t work at all. With a glow like this I¡¯d draw attention on a sunny summer day. I mean, I¡¯m even having a hard time not looking at myself. I don¡¯t even want to imagine how other people would respond. Thankfully, no one here seems all that aware of their own surroundings. Which is great. If they keep this up, dead people might just become my new favorite kind of crowd. ¡­That sounded worse than I meant it too. I notice I¡¯m still wearing the clothes I died in. Jeans, sneakers, t-shirt and my favorite jacket. That seems a bit weird, but then none of this is what can be called normal. At least, I think. I¡¯m not really an expert on what usually happens post ritual murder. I take a moment to wonder if my being here means that crazy girl¡¯s ritual actually worked. Sure, based on what she said I was supposed to end up in the loving arms of the Lord of Dreams, not a mushroom lit cavern of doom, so maybe some things went a bit janky. Then again, I¡¯ve never been very fond of other people¡¯s arms, so I guess that worked out. But could I really be here because she chanted some mumbo jumbo and got freaky with a knife? Despite myself, I do find that idea intriguing. More intriguing than I¡¯ve found anything in years. It implies that there¡¯s far more to reality than the everyday humdrum, an entirely new aspect of life. One that could explain impossible things like functioning ritual magic and a catnip like snack of a person who people just can¡¯t seem to resist. The prospect of potential answers is tantalizing. The idea of a world so much bigger than my old problems even more so. My thoughts wander off then, pondering on what life would¡¯ve been like if I lived in a world where the impossible was possible. It sounds like a world were I would¡¯ve been able to overcome the things that always got me stuck before. How appealing. I¡¯m brought out of my musings by a faint sound in the distance. It takes a few seconds for me to realize it¡¯s a voice, and a few more to confirm it¡¯s only the one. Someone is out here, talking to themselves. That does a lot to quash any initial vague ideas I might have about going to ask them where I am. Sure, they might have the answers I, hmm, maybe not want, but would prefer to have. It¡¯s just, they¡¯re talking to themselves in a caverns full of dead people. That¡¯s all red flags there. If I were alive and at risk of dying of starvation or something than I might risk it, but what do I risk by staying here? Getting more dead? No, best to follow my long held rule of not engaging with crazy. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The voice doesn¡¯t seem willing to oblige me though, as it soon gets close enough for me to start making out the odd word or two of what they¡¯re saying. It¡¯s then I realize they¡¯re not talking to themselves. They¡¯re talking to the wandering shades. Nope. That¡¯s not any better. I can¡¯t tell how far away they are. It¡¯s so quiet here even the smallest noise carries a long way. It¡¯s clear they are getting closer. Within a certain distance it¡¯ll be impossible for me to hide if I can¡¯t do something about this glow. Carefully, so as not to make any noise, I scrape up some dirt off the ground and rub it on my hands in a test to see if that will help dim me. A part of me is a bit conflicted since, being dead, I must be rubbing filth on my soul instead of my body. That just seems like something that shouldn¡¯t be done. It becomes a moot point when none of the dirt sticks to me, sliding off in a way that reminds me of mercury. So, that¡¯s not going to work. The next best thing I could do is put some distance between us, but I doubt a moving light will be somehow less noticeable than a stationary one. Should I try army crawling? Would a glowing ground worm be less eye catching then pretending to be an especially bright little mushroom? ¡°Not you, not you, not you.¡± The voice is suddenly much closer. It¡¯s a man¡¯s voice. He sounds like he¡¯s been down here for a while. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose any of you can hear me? That would make this so much easier. I¡¯d even settle for one of you being able to recognize I¡¯m here. Nothing?¡± He''s too close now. In a place this dark it''s impossible for him not to catch sight of me any moment now. I wrap my arms around my knees and hunker down among the glowing fungi as much as I can. I hear a big sigh, followed by an exasperated rant. ¡°This is why Bertie always tells me to clean my closet. If I took better care of this place I wouldn¡¯t be having such a hard time with this.¡± Does that mean I¡¯m in someone¡¯s closet? A part of me starts snickering that, whoever this person is, they keep dead people in their closet. For whatever reason, that just strikes me as terribly funny. I mean, I know I haven¡¯t been amused by something in years, but who knew my sense of humor was so dark? ¡°Hmm? What¡¯s that light? I didn¡¯t leave anything here, did I?¡± The man mutters absently to himself. Ah, looks like I¡¯ve been caught. I don¡¯t really have a plan on how to handle this, but if he¡¯s looking for someone who can hear, or even notice him, shouldn¡¯t I just pretend that I can¡¯t? I¡¯m different enough that he¡¯ll likely take an interest in me regardless, but there¡¯s no reason to go around giving him more reasons to do that, is there? Number one rule of engaging with other people: Do not engage. I can hear him getting closer but I don''t let myself look in his direction, instead letting my eyes go out of focus as I stare at the ground. Sitting among the mushrooms, thinking mushroom thoughts. I''m just an innocent little mushroom. ¡°Well, look at you. That''s... different. You¡¯re a shiny one, aren¡¯t you?¡± Don¡¯t look. Don¡¯t look. Don¡¯t look. The approaching footsteps pause and the voice takes on an incredulous tone. ¡°What? Are you¡­ ignoring me?¡± The steps resume a moment later and the man¡¯s shoes come into view. ¡°Hello? You can hear me, can¡¯t you? How did someone like you get down here?¡± The tip of a well polished shoe gives me a gentle nudge and my body sways unresisting to the slight force. ¡°Oh, I see. You¡¯re from an undeveloped world. Tch. Living in a place like that with a soul like yours. That can¡¯t have been easy. Died pretty young too.¡± He isn¡¯t being sympathetic, not really. There¡¯s too much distance in his voice for that. It¡¯s like he¡¯s discussing the condition of an animal and bemoaning of how good stock was mishandled. That should probably send a chill down my spine, but really I find it more reassuring than anything. Distance is good. I like distance. Then the man crouches down in front of me to look into my unfocused eyes and suddenly there isn¡¯t enough distance in the world. There¡¯s just too much of him to fit in so small a place and for a moment my mind can¡¯t handle it. He looks like a normal enough man, with olive toned skin, thick, swept back black hair and a face like a sculpture. His clothes are neat and expensive looking, similar to a suit but with enough alterations to have a distinctly alien, if stylish, look to it. A normal enough man, though maybe not one you would easily see on the street. It''s his eyes that give him away. They''re two pits of void-like blackness swirling in his face, taking in the world and giving nothing back. Whatever he is, he''s not a human. I¡¯m not even sure he¡¯s something that can be called a person. He feels too vast for such a small word. He¡¯s just a person shaped something. He might not be the Lord of Dreams that girl mentioned, but if he''s not a god than I really don''t want to meet one A part of my mind inanely notes that, if the dead didn''t notice him then surely they wouldn''t notice me. Maybe the dead are my favorite kind of people. ¡°I know you can hear me. There¡¯s no point in pretending.¡± I believe him, my eyes rolling to the side as I finally move with a quiet sigh. ¡°There we go. Now that wasn¡¯t so hard, was it?¡± I look back at him, studying him. He¡¯s not smiling, but I catch signs of faint amusement as he studies me right back. ¡°You¡¯re not quite what I was looking for, but this could work too.¡± I don¡¯t like the sound of that. Something tells me that whatever he has in mind was not thought up with my well being as a priority. ¡°Hey kid, how would you like to try something fun?¡± He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a crystal vial full of a shimmering golden liquid that shines even in this dark place, holding it up for me to see. ¡°You can¡¯t imagine how many people want this but can¡¯t get it. Yet here I am, willing to offer it to you for free. How about it? Want to give it a try?¡± I blink. Is a god pushing drugs on me?