《Midnight Coffee》


 V.

    In every city there ever was, there has always been a 24-hour caf¨¦.


    It doesn''t matter what they are called or whether they are French or if they launder money. They sell things, things like hot cocoa and coffee and baked goods, for prices varying from dirt-cheap to overtly expensive¡ªand they remain open at all times and at all hours to anybody and everybody.


    In North Canley, that caf¨¦ was the Midnight Coffee.


    It was a cold night in early November, and the browning leaves outside were clinging to their trees for dear life. The breath of the stranger making her way up the steps of the Midnight Coffee was puffing out behind her like lingering chimney smoke. She pushed the glass door open, ringing the little bell hanging above it with a querulous ding which announced her arrival. She carefully shut the door behind her.


    The clock above the counter read 11:28PM.


    "Be right with you!" The voice which emanated from the back was young and cheerful, despite the emptiness of the caf¨¦ and the early morning hour. Just hearing it made the stranger''s heart pound and her breathing quicken. "Just a minute."


    The stranger unwound her thick scarf from her neck and seated herself at one of the scrupulously clean round tables. She waited.


    A young man wearing a waiter''s apron soon appeared behind the counter, wiping his hands on a towelette. "What can I do for you?"


    "One coffee, please. Black." Her voice did not shake.


    "Ooh, ordering a Midnight! Like our name." The young man busied himself with a variety of chrome machines which went whirr and pssh. "Yeah, not many people like the Midnight. Me, I¡¯m more of a mocha person, but to each their own, right?"


    The stranger studied her surroundings. A crooked painting of a vase of flowers was plastered to the wall on the far end, yellowed with age. A few of the lights were flickering precariously, threatening to go out. "How did you end up working here?"


    "Between jobs at the moment, and student loans won¡¯t go away by themselves." The young man grabbed a cup from a hidden drawer. "The opportunity came along, so I thought¡­ why not? Pay isn''t great, but it''s nice. Don''t tell my manager I said that, though." He laughed at his own words and turned back to the coffee machines. "She''d probably have my head for it."


    The sounds of a lone motorcyclist passing by roared from the street, rapidly dwindling as it disappeared into the distance. The wind was picking up, and the stranger watched it blowing a collection of dry, browned leaves past the window, which danced on the sidewalk concrete.


    "Coffee?"


    She turned around, startled out of her thoughts. The young man was standing directly behind her with a white mug of steaming black liquid held in an outstretched hand. He was smiling slightly, which almost broke her heart.


    She took the proffered coffee. "Thank you."


    "No problem." The young man cocked his head at her. "What brings you in here tonight, anyways?"


    The stranger took a sip from the mug. It was bitter and tasted like roasted soil. ¡°A drink.¡±


    The young man studied the stranger for a moment. He must have seen something in her which he disliked, because now a shadow flickered in his eyes which hadn¡¯t been there before. His smile didn¡¯t fade. ¡°Anything else I can get you?¡±


    The stranger swallowed. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Alright, enjoy your drink, then.¡± The young man turned around and left, whistling a jaunty tune. The stranger watched the tail end of his apron disappearing around a corner into the kitchens in the back.


    She was alone in the silence of the caf¨¦ once more.


    The stranger waited, listening for any signs of life. When she was finally certain that she was truly alone, she reached into the inner breast pocket of her trenchcoat. Her clenched fist came out clutching a sturdy stick of wood, which had been carefully sharpened to a near-perfect conical point. She turned it over in her hands, inspecting it. This was a familiar motion, one which she had repeated many times over in the past month.


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    She steadied her shaking fingers and stood from her seat. The scraping sound of the chair''s legs being moved back was too loud and out of place in the quiet, and she was all too conscious of every step she took as she moved slowly towards the kitchens.


    She turned the corner and braced herself.


    Even with the lights off, she could see the vague outlines of the usual cooking paraphernalia scattered throughout the small kitchen: pots, pans, knives, and a stove. But there was nobody there.


    ¡°This is a restricted area,¡± said the young man from just behind her. His voice was pleasant, but it had an undercurrent of warning running through it. ¡°Can I help you with something?¡±


    The stranger spun around, brandishing the stick for a forward lunge, but she couldn''t do it. The young man''s eyes were boring into her own like drills, and all of a sudden her memories were threatening to overwhelm every piece of careful preparation and planning she had put into place.


    She just couldn''t do it.


    "Ma''am?"


    "Why?" The stranger kept her stick steady. "Nicholas, why did you do it?"


    The young man blinked politely. "I''m afraid I don''t¡ª"


    "Why did you kill them?" The stranger''s voice was shaking now despite her best efforts. "I followed you for months. I saw you drinking from them."


    The young man remained motionless.


    "I was so worried when you disappeared." The stranger took a deep breath. "Nicholas, son, I always meant to make amends, you know that? But I can¡¯t forgive this. What have you done?¡±


    The young man¡¯s face was blank and carefully unimposing. ¡°Ma¡¯am, I think you''re mistaking me for somebody else. I¡¯m going to have to ask you to leave.¡±


    ¡°Stop playing games with me. Was it your¡ª¡± The stranger struggled to spit the word out. ¡°Boyfriend? Did he influence you to do this? Did he tell you to kill people?¡±


    ¡°If you suspect that murders have been committed, ma¡¯am, it might be best to bring your concerns to the police.¡±


    ¡°Stop. Playing. Games. Is this all a joke to you?¡± The stranger¡¯s breath was coming in hard now. ¡°I didn¡¯t raise you this way, Nicholas. This isn¡¯t you.¡±


    The young man smiled. It was a slightly crooked smile tinged with sardonic wryness, which highlighted his dimples in strange ways. ¡°Yes. I¡¯m not Nicholas.¡±


    The stranger raised the stick. ¡°Have you no remorse at all, son?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to call the police.¡± There was a hint of warning in the young man¡¯s voice now as he watched the sharpened stick moving in her trembling hand. ¡°Please stop threatening me.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to do this, Nicholas. I¡¯m your mother, and I love you. But you can¡¯t kill people.¡±


    The young man shook his head. ¡°Ma¡¯am, I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±


    The stranger lunged forward and stabbed. The wooden stick slid between the young man¡¯s ribs and into his heart with almost no resistance, and the stranger caught the young man in her arms as he fell backwards. His boyish face had a slightly stunned cast to it, and his eyes were already glazing over.


    It was done. The deed¡­ was done. The stranger took a deep breath, cradling the body of the young man, and allowed the tears to finally come. Her son. Her poor, misguided son, who had loved the wrong people and fallen in with the wrong crowd, could finally rest. He was as light as a feather with his innocence restored to him in his final moments.


    Clap. Clap. Clap.


    The stranger looked around for the source of the noise, and realised that the young man was slow-clapping. He still had his arms clasped around her, and she could feel each clap against the small of her back as a series of reverberations going down her spine. She stumbled back and fell, hard, against the kitchen counter.


    ¡°The stake was a nice touch,¡± said the young man, pulling the stick out of his chest and looking at the blood on it with detached interest. ¡°It was a good try. I think you¡¯ve been watching a few too many movies about this kind of thing, though.¡±


    ¡°What are you?¡± the stranger whispered.


    ¡°Not what you thought I was, that¡¯s for sure.¡± The young man tossed the stick aside. Suddenly, he was looming over her, and his eyes were pinpricks in the dark which shone with the swallowed light of everything in the universe. ¡°It¡¯s funny. You know, I just realised that you came here for the exact same reason I did.¡±


    ¡°To stop you?¡± The stranger was frightened, oh so very frightened. Her heart was hammering in her chest and everything in her blood was urging her to run, but the young man¡¯s eyes were pinning her where she stood, rendering her legs useless.


    The young man¡¯s smile widened, showing teeth, and suddenly he didn¡¯t look very young at all. ¡°For a drink.¡±


    The clock above the counter read 11:36PM. It was the only other thing, living or otherwise, to observe precisely when the screaming from the kitchens started that morning.


    It read 12:00AM when they finally stopped.

 IV.

    A finger on a button. The smell of fresh coffee being poured into a cup.


    ¡°So why¡¯d you move out here, then?¡±


    ¡°Hm?¡± Cole looked up, distracted from his thoughts. His fingers were hovering over his laptop''s keyboard, his writer''s block was in full swing, and his brain was having a laugh at his own expense.


    Springtime meant that every student everywhere was busy studying and fretting over piles of midterms, and Cole was no exception. The sunny disposition of the world outside was at odds with his internal feelings of total despair as he stared at the blinking cursor on his half-finished page.


    His roommate retrieved her filled cup from the coffee machine. "This apartment. It''s a bit far from Brigham, isn''t it? I thought that was on the other side of the city."


    "Oh, yeah." Cole closed his laptop and drank from his own forgotten cup. It had gone cold, and he winced as it went down his throat. "I like the scenery here, though."


    That was part of the truth. Their little apartment was located atop a hill overlooking the entire city, and on clear days Cole could see right across the lake to the border from his bedroom window.


    "Wow, you are nuts." His roommate seated herself across from him and yawned, rubbing her eyes. "A two-hour commute by train either way to university? I don''t think I''d take that even if our apartment was looking over the Grand Canyon, dude."


    Cole shrugged and gulped down another mouthful of his unintentional semi-cold brew.


    "What are you working on?"


    "An essay." Cole shrugged again, trying to seem nonchalant. "On contemporary literature."


    His roommate looked at him with sympathy. "Midterms?"


    "Yeah."


    They both shared a moment of glum camaraderie in silence. "That sucks, man."


    "Yeah."


    His roommate abruptly stood and stretched, changing the subject. "I''m going to be out at my boyfriend''s for a couple of days. Do you mind taking the compost down for the weekend?"


    "Nah, that''s fine."


    "Alright, thanks. See you, then." She left the room. He heard her footsteps heading down the stairs, followed by the slamming of the back door a moment later as she went out.


    Cole exhaled and slumped back in his chair. His essay, which was supposed to be well over six pages long, was due in four days. Shame, stemming from his idleness over the past three weeks, was beginning to haunt him¡ªbut it wasn''t strong enough yet to turn him away from his continued procrastination.


    It had been so easy to declare that he was going to be a writer, he reflected. He liked writing, and he liked words, so it had seemed like a natural fit at the time. But he hadn''t anticipated the reams of formal essays and soul-draining reports that came with getting a Proper Writing Education, and he was starting to regret his purported choice of career.


    Moping around and waiting for ideas to come wasn''t going to do him any good. Cole decided to head out for a walk. He powered down his laptop, finished off the last of his coffee, and washed his breakfast dishes.


    The birds were singing like ringing carillons when he finally stepped outside, blinking as he took in the fresh sunlight and cloying summer heat. He locked the door behind him and started down the lane.


    He''d only been in this area of North Canley for about a month, so everything was still relatively new to him, but even then some part of him felt an uneasy disquiet about the place. Neighbours waved rhythmically and dogs made no sound. Every lawn was immaculately trimmed and every house was painted the same shade of eggshell white. It was like the whole avenue was a death''s row of dollhouses.


    The city centre wasn''t much better. Buildings leered at him with reflective glass, bouncing his reflections off of each other so that four or five of them were following him up the street at any time. He kept his arms close to his sides, feeling more than slightly self-conscious as he passed his fellow pedestrians.


    A soft rain started up, and Cole belatedly cursed his lack of an umbrella as he pulled his hood over his head¡ªit had been sunny only a few moments ago, hadn¡¯t it? He glanced around for nearby shelter, wiping water from his brow, and his eyes fell on a nearby caf¨¦. Open 24 hours, its sign said. Midnight Coffee.


    Well, he could do with a hot drink.


    The bell chimed as he pushed open the door. Strangely, the caf¨¦ was almost entirely empty, except for the waiter cleaning one of the tables. He straightened up as Cole entered and offered him a perfect smile with gleaming white teeth. ¡°Raining outside, is it?¡±


    ¡°Er, yeah.¡± Cole awkwardly fumbled with his bag, rummaging around for his wallet. "Is it usually this empty?"


    "We only serve special customers like yourself." The waiter winked, and Cole felt a blush working its way up through his body. "Isaac. Nice to meet you."


    "I''m Nicholas. My friends call me Cole."


    Isaac raised an eyebrow. "Would I be one of your friends?"


    The blush hit Cole''s face, where it bloomed and blossomed. "Yeah. Yes, very much so."


    "Well, then! Happy to make your acquaintance, Cole.¡± Isaac grinned and bowed to Cole with exaggerated formality, sweeping his arms forward and to the side. ¡°Ordering anything? Our specialty is black coffee. Midnight, like the sign."


    "Oh, no, I''m not really a black coffee kind of person." Cole shrugged sheepishly.


    "Really? Why''s that?"


    "Too bitter."


    "In that case¡­" Isaac neatly folded the cloth he''d been using to clean the table, draping it over his forearm in one fluid motion. "I''ll be sure to make it sweet just for you."


    He left for the back before Cole could say another word, leaving him feeling more than slightly speechless and unsure of how to proceed. He sat down gingerly. His brain was saying that this sort of thing didn¡¯t just happen, that beautiful people like Isaac didn¡¯t hit on people like Cole, that he probably did his little routine with every customer who walked in, that something probably wasn¡¯t right, that Isaac was too good for Cole¡ªbut his heart was pounding and pounding, and he was suddenly in the grips of a very large and very painful crush that made it rather hard to swallow¡­


    I should have worn something nicer, he thought.


    ¡°I hope you like mochaccino,¡± said Isaac from behind him, making Cole jump about a foot into the air. He set the teacup and saucer before Cole on the table with a soft clink. ¡°It¡¯s my own recipe. Melted white chocolate, roasted arabica, a dash of vanilla, a touch of cream, and a secret ingredient.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Cole stared at the little cup. ¡°You didn¡¯t have to.¡±


    ¡°Nah, I¡¯ve got nothing but time in this place.¡± Isaac pulled up a chair and rested his chin on steepled fingers. ¡°Go on, have a taste. Bet you¡¯ll like it.¡±


    Cole brought the cup to his lips and sipped. Flavours hit his tongue and opened up in layers, revealing creamy, sweet overtures and hints of dark undertones. It would have been akin to biting into an orange, had citrus trees borne chocolate instead of fruit.


    Isaac was watching him closely. ¡°How do you like it?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Holy shit. Wow. It¡¯s amazing.¡±


    A huge grin unfolded on Isaac¡¯s face. ¡°Told you so.¡±


    ¡°Um, how much¡ª¡±


    ¡°This one¡¯s on the house.¡± Cole opened his mouth to protest, but Isaac cut him off. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. I am the house as far as we¡¯re concerned.¡± Isaac waggled his eyebrows suggestively. ¡°Plenty of room in these walls for more. Would you like another?¡±


    Cole glanced down and belatedly realised that he¡¯d drained the entire cup. ¡°I¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get you another.¡± Isaac stood, ready to take off like a rocket, but was stopped halfway when the sounds of a familiar jingle suddenly blared out of nowhere.


    They both looked towards the source, which was Cole¡¯s phone.


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry¡ª¡± said Cole, at the same time that Isaac said, ¡°Sorry, I¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    They looked at each other with sheepish grins.


    ¡°I¡¯ll just leave you to it, then, shall I? I¡¯ll go get that second cup brewing.¡± Isaac gave him a lazy salute and disappeared around the corner.


    Cole wistfully watched him go, then looked down at the caller ID. It read, Mom.


    He sucked in a deep breath and picked up. ¡°Mom?¡±


    ¡°Nicholas?¡± Her voice was worried, but stern, and he closed his eyes. Another lecture. There was another lecture coming for him in his very near future, and the chances of his being able to avoid it were absolutely nil. ¡°Where are you? You haven''t called, you haven''t¡ª"


    Cole swallowed, trying to keep his voice even. "I''m not coming back, Mom."


    "Just let me explain myself, son. I''ve been looking into treatments for you, and I think¡ª"


    He hung up.


    He was still staring at his phone when Isaac came back with the mocha. Isaac set the cup down, looking concerned. "Bad call?"


    Cole hastily stood from his seat. "Listen, Isaac, I''ve got to go. I''m really sorry. Thanks so much for the coffee."


    "Are you alright? Do you need to talk?"


    "No, no. I''ve¡­ I¡¯ve just got something I need to do." Cole slung his backpack over his shoulder. He didn''t quite know what to say, so he just went for the simplest thing he could think of. "Bye."


    He stumbled out of the caf¨¦, hearing the ding of the bell behind him, and hurried down the street. When he turned to look back, he saw Isaac standing at the window of the caf¨¦, staring after him with his palm against the glass.


    Cole kept walking.


    ¡ª


    That night, Cole had a dream about a tree with twisted branches which spiralled infinitely upwards into an endless grey sky. Crows filled its branches as far as he could see, watching him with their beady eyes.


    They didn¡¯t make a single sound. They just stared.


    ¡ª


    A finger, hovering over a button.


    Cole¡¯s hair was still suffering from a severe case of bedhead as he stood numbly over the coffee machine. His brain was telling him to push the ON button, to get his morning over and done with, but he just couldn''t do it.


    He was remembering the taste of mochaccino¡ªspecifically, Isaac''s smile as he sipped it. He was also remembering kissing his first crush behind their middle school building, holding him by the lapels. He remembered getting ratted out by Timothy Dumont to the teachers, and he remembered his mother''s reaction when she heard about it¡­


    Six years of absolute hell had followed.


    He still loved his mother. That was the most frustrating part. It would have been easier to leave her if he hadn''t felt a thing for her, but he constantly missed her home-cooked meals and the rambling way she would talk about her day at work. She would go on and on about girls she''d seen in magazines (''Aren''t they pretty, Nicholas?'') or their neighbours'' daughters (''I hear Maddie¡¯s been looking for a boyfriend''), and Nicholas hadn¡¯t had the heart to tell her Mom, while I''m sure those girls are lovely people, I don¡¯t love them.


    She would have tea with the other parents in her group and gossip relentlessly about him. Gossip has a way of trickling down from parents to children in a particularly malicious way, and thus for most of high school he found himself sitting alone at tables or being apologetically ignored by everyone else. Cole was naturally shy and introverted, so that had mostly been fine, but having nobody talking to you does eventually take its toll on a person no matter how antisocial you may think you are.


    He¡¯d tried. He¡¯d attempted a Coming Out speech, although he might as well have just Gone Back Inside because nobody could do withering disinterest like his mother. She liked to change the subject whenever he brought it up (¡®Weather is awfully nice today, don¡¯t you think?¡¯ or ¡®Fridge is looking a bit empty, might be time for a grocery trip'' were her perennial favourites), which made it almost impossible to talk about anything. Running away and getting his own apartment had been like taking in a fresh lungful of air for the first time in years.


    His mother wasn¡¯t an awful person, she just hated who he was. On some days, it was really hard to reconcile those two things.


    Like today.


    Cole lowered his hand from the coffee machine. He owed Isaac an apology.


    He threw on his jacket, went through a sped-up version of his morning routine, nervously checked his hair for any dishevelled strands, and stepped outside. The air was cooler this morning due to the fog from the morning rain, and he shivered instinctively despite the summer warmth as he tucked his hands in his pockets.


    There was a dreamlike quality to the lane as he started on his walk. Every monotonous, cardboard-cutout house was quiet and partially shrouded in the mist, looming larger as he got closer and then fading away once more as he left them behind. He couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something was following in his footsteps, echoing his every move, but whenever he paused to listen for signs of human life, all he could hear was silence.


    Strangely, he was half-expecting the caf¨¦ to be gone, but it was still sitting on the corner of Nord and Fleet in all its assuring solidness when he arrived. He ascended the steps, hesitated, and pushed open the glass door.


    Ding.


    Isaac was standing in front of the counter. There was a small smile on his face, and Cole swore that he had never seen a more perfect human being in his whole life. ¡°Well, well! Look who¡¯s returned.¡±


    Cole couldn¡¯t help it. He smiled back. ¡°Hi.¡±


    ¡°Hi to you too. Are you alright? You ran off pretty quickly yesterday.¡±


    Cole took his hands out of his pockets. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m¡­ sorry, Isaac.¡±


    ¡°What for?¡±


    ¡°Well, for running off on you like that.¡± He shrugged helplessly. ¡°And I didn¡¯t drink your second cup of coffee.¡±


    Isaac¡¯s smile widened. ¡°Is that all? Ha! That¡¯s nothing. Actually, do you want that second cup now? I was keeping one ready just in case you came along.¡±


    ¡°Yes, please.¡±


    The sounds of Isaac bustling around the machines behind the counter were oddly comforting in the quiet atmosphere of the caf¨¦. Cole sat and watched the world passing by slowly outside¡ªa mother pushing her stroller, a cyclist waiting for the light to turn, a taxi picking up a passenger, a pedestrian walking a dog. The fog was clearing up, and a few rays of sunshine were beginning to peek through the clouds. The twisted knot in his stomach was unwinding, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt hopeful.


    Isaac came back carefully holding a cup and saucer with both hands. ¡°This one¡¯s a bit different from yesterday¡¯s. Do you like lattes?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never tried one before, actually.¡±


    ¡°You uncultured barbarian!¡± Isaac put a hand over his heart in mock horror. ¡°I¡¯d better fix that quickly, then.¡± He placed Isaac¡¯s hands around the cup, and the brief contact from Isaac¡¯s fingers made Cole¡¯s heart flutter. ¡°It¡¯s french toast.¡±


    Cole grinned. ¡°I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s your own recipe.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m guessing you must be psychic.¡± Isaac winked.


    ¡°Are you going to give me an extensive list of ingredients this time, too?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Isaac looked down modestly. ¡°It¡¯s nothing much. Hazelnut milk, brown sugar, maple syrup, vanilla, and a dash of cinnamon. Oh, and my own special secret ingredient. That goes in everything I make, of course.¡±


    ¡°Care to tell me what it is?¡±


    Isaac wagged a finger. ¡°And ruin the fun? You¡¯ll have to figure it out for yourself. Taste it.¡±


    Cole looked down at the latte. The creamy browns and whites in the cup had been carefully and deliberately parted into the shape of a heart.


    Cole looked up at Isaac.


    Isaac¡¯s smile softened, and his eyes took on a mischievous sparkle. ¡°Go on, take a sip.¡±


    Without taking his eyes off Isaac, Cole took a sip.


    It was warm¡ªnot just in temperature, but also in taste. Where the mocha from the previous day had been a starburst of sudden flavorful life, the latte was a layered pastry confectionery. Every sip brought the slightest kick of cinnamon, simmering beneath a shimmering sweet silk cream curtain of hazelnuts and vanilla. It was a close hug on a cold day. It was exactly what Cole craved and needed.


    ¡°Do you like it?¡±


    Wordlessly, Cole nodded.


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    Isaac seemed to be struggling with words, which struck Cole as being highly unusual. Finally, he spoke. ¡°Cole. I like you. A lot.¡±


    Cole felt his heart speeding up. He nodded.


    ¡°I would ask you out for drinks, but, well¡­¡± Isaac shrugged and grinned impishly. ¡°I think we¡¯ve already gotten past that point, right? So I was wondering¡ªwould you like to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± Cole blurted out. ¡°Absolutely.¡±


    ¡°Really? You didn¡¯t even hear what I was going to say yet. I could have been suggesting the most boring thing on the planet.¡±


    He raised his head and looked into Isaac¡¯s eyes. Strangely, there seemed to be depths to them that trapped glimmers of light within their recesses, and it was oddly mesmerising. He¡¯d never noticed that before. ¡°No. I trust you.¡±


    Isaac¡¯s eyes crinkled at the edges. ¡°Well, I¡¯d better take advantage of that, then.¡±


    ¡ª


    how to act on a date with boyfriend


    Cole¡¯s fingers stopped typing, then frantically backspaced.


    what gifts to buy for boyfriend


    No, that wasn¡¯t it, either.


    how to make boyfriend happy


    He hit enter.


    There was the typical Adderall fluff: Be affectionate. Be attractive. Be supportive. He scrolled past it quickly, his eyes scanning pages of black text on white. It was late at night and well past what anybody would be calling a reasonable time to be awake, but worry and anticipation were driving him off the rails. Why wasn¡¯t there a manual for this kind of thing? Was it alright to hold hands on a first date? And what on earth were you supposed to talk about?


    He looked out the window. There was a single lit street lamp throwing the whole avenue into variations of shadow, but it was still bright enough for him to see the black formless shapes staring out at him from the dark. They were a multitude of black eyes and black feathers, and they rustled.


    When he rubbed his eyes to take a closer look, they were gone.


    He did not have any dreams that night.


    ¡ª


    Isaac was wearing an enigmatic smile and a long black collared coat when Cole found him outside the caf¨¦ late that afternoon. He was leaning against his brick wall backdrop with an effortless, casual ease, which instantly made Cole¡¯s palms break out into an itching sweat. He curled his hands into fists, hoping to stop them from trembling. It didn¡¯t work. You can do this. You can do this. You can¡ª


    ¡°You look nice,¡± Isaac said, walking over and putting a warm arm around Cole. ¡°Going somewhere, handsome?¡±


    Cole turned a bright beetroot red. Oh, god, I can¡¯t do this.


    Isaac chuckled and gave Cole a companionable slap on the back. ¡°You¡¯re very fun to play with, you know.¡±


    ¡°Thanks?¡± Cole hurriedly changed the subject. ¡°Uh, I brought food. For the picnic.¡±


    ¡°That was very kind of you.¡± Isaac¡¯s gaze lingered on his face. ¡°I¡¯ll bet it tastes wonderful.¡±


    The two of them started down the street. The sun was modestly hiding behind a brace of grey clouds, which lent a cooler edge to the afternoon breeze on their faces as they walked. Cole searched for something to say. ¡°Isaac?¡±


    ¡°Hm?¡±


    ¡°How did you end up working in that caf¨¦, anyways?¡±


    Isaac raised an eyebrow. ¡°Why do you want to know?¡±


    ¡°Well, because¡­¡± Cole shrugged. ¡°You seem to be pretty good at what you do. I feel like you could be some kind of professional chef or something. I mean, your coffee is amazing.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s just the secret ingredient you¡¯re tasting,¡± said Isaac, waving a hand dismissively. ¡°I¡¯d be nothing without it.¡±


    ¡°No, really. You said they¡¯re your own recipes, and they¡¯re wonderful. You could probably leave and start your own caf¨¦ or something.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Isaac had a bemused expression on his face, like he was in on a personal secret which Cole wasn¡¯t aware of. ¡°Well, I¡¯m not sure anybody would come.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d come.¡±


    Isaac took Cole¡¯s arm in his own. His lips curved. ¡°I¡¯ll consider it, then.¡±


    Strangely, the beach was completely devoid of people when they arrived. Cole spread out a blanket and began placing his little selection of fruits and breads on it. Isaac watched him work with a curious hunger to his features that Cole couldn¡¯t quite place.


    They sat down together facing the water.


    ¡°Tell me about you, then,¡± said Isaac, who was cross-legged on the blanket. ¡°How¡¯d you end up in North Canley? No offence, but it¡¯s quite the mundane place. Not much happens here.¡±


    Cole had his knees drawn close to his side. He was beginning to regret wearing only a t-shirt¡ªdespite the summer warmth, there was a small breeze blowing, which was making his arms prickle with goosebumps along their length. ¡°It¡¯s not a very interesting story.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re interesting, so it stands to reason that nothing about you is boring.¡± Isaac was showing a hint of his very white teeth in his dazzling smile. ¡°I¡¯d listen to anything you say.¡±


    Cole blushed and fiddled with the blanket, looking at his feet. ¡°Well¡­ I was running from my mom.¡±


    ¡°Your mom?¡±


    ¡°She didn¡¯t like the fact that I¡ªwell, that I like guys, I guess.¡± Cole took a deep breath, trying not to remember all their nights of not-fights, and their conversations full of things left unsaid. ¡°She was always trying to fix me. So I moved away.¡±


    Isaac moved closer to him on the blanket. ¡°Well, I don''t think you need fixing,¡± he said gently. ¡°You¡¯re perfect.¡±


    The words struck a long-disused chord within Cole. You¡¯re perfect. Two simple words should not have been able to evoke such emotion, but in that moment, every one of his faults was suddenly forgiven and every little thing was possible.


    There was a painful lump in his throat which he couldn¡¯t swallow. He couldn¡¯t speak. "I¡ª"


    "Shh, shh." He felt Isaac¡¯s lips on his forehead, and before he knew it he was falling backwards onto Isaac¡¯s broad chest. His arms were wrapped around his waist, cradling Cole. It was alright. Everything was okay.


    Cole wept until he had no tears left to shed and nothing left to feel, until his only thought was that Isaac¡¯s torso was the softest thing in the whole world, and until he only knew that Isaac was his whole world. The waves of Lake Locken splashed rhythmically against the sand a few metres from their blanket, the water continually drawing away along with the last of Cole¡¯s misgivings.


    They lay together on the beach for a very long time in the meaningful quiet.


    ¡°Isaac?¡± Cole was listening to the resonant thrum of Isaac¡¯s heartbeat, feeling its steady rhythm aligning with his own. He felt like a compass needle that had finally found north.


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°Sometimes, I think you¡¯re too good to be true.¡±


    He felt the gentle shake of Isaac¡¯s chest against his cheek as Isaac laughed softly. ¡°Maybe I am.¡±


    The two of them watched the last of the sunlight disappearing beneath the water together.


    ¡ª


    ¡°Something needs to be done about your mother,¡± said Isaac. They were making their way back to the familiar sights and sounds of the city at night, carefully stepping over weeds and threading around shrubs.


    ¡°Done? What do you mean, done?¡± Cole¡¯s cheeks were still red from the cold breeze and the warmth of Isaac¡¯s embrace as he tried not to trip over his own feet.


    ¡°She¡¯s not good for you, obviously.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m done with her.¡± Cole tried to put as much conviction into his words as he could¡ªif he said it like he believed it, perhaps it was true. ¡°She can hate me all she wants. I¡¯ll be better off without her.¡±


    Isaac¡¯s eyes flickered. ¡°Will she get in the way of us being together?¡±


    Cole looked away and said nothing.


    The familiar light of the caf¨¦ was a beacon in the dark. Cole was grateful to ascend its steps and escape into its confines, and he watched Isaac doffing his windbreaker with all the ceremony of a priest performing last rites. The seats were as empty as ever, and Cole had the strangest feeling of apprehension as he looked across at the empty seats. "Isaac?"


    "Hm?"


    "It really is this empty all the time, isn''t it?"


    Isaac''s face was carefully blank. "Yes."


    "Wow, you weren''t lying. There''s never any customers." Cole pulled back a chair contemplatively, then replaced it. Isaac was watching him like a hawk, and Cole suddenly felt awkward under his intense scrutiny. He tried to lighten the tension with a joking compliment. "Can''t think why. Your personality is just magnetic."


    ¡°I have you as a customer, don¡¯t I?¡± Isaac smiled distantly, but his eyes did not crinkle. ¡°I don¡¯t need anybody else.¡±


    After Cole left, he thought he saw Isaac¡¯s dark silhouette outlined against the caf¨¦ windows, staring after him, but when he rubbed his eyes the figure was no longer there. There was, however, a crow sitting on a streetlamp, and its beady eyes were silent and implacable twin stars as it watched Cole and his troubled heart making the long trek home together in the gloom of the summer night.


    ¡ª


    Two realisations bludgeoned Cole over the head when he woke up the next morning.


    The first was that his essay was, in fact, due later that day. The second was that his roommate had still not returned to their apartment.


    He closed his eyes, exhaled, and groaned with heartfelt despondency.


    After summoning just enough energy to scramble out of bed, he opened his laptop and stared at the half-blank page which came up. The cursor blinked at him in a cheerfully malevolent way, like a hellhound puppy. His dishevelled clothes arrayed about the floor chimed in with their own diabolical salutations, and his unwashed bowls joined the greeting festival just for the fun of it.


    Cole closed his eyes again, willfully ignoring the sight of his own room. If I can¡¯t see it, perhaps it will all magically disappear, he thought. Alas, when he reopened his eyes, his world appeared entirely unchanged.


    He suddenly wanted to call his mother. The urge to confess all his troubles to somebody who was family manifested as a deep yearning with his chest cavity, reminding him that he would never be able to let go of her no matter how much he lied otherwise.


    Call her, whispered an insidious little voice in the back of his mind. It was the voice of eternal hope. If you call her and tell her everything, maybe she¡¯ll finally accept you.


    The doorbell rang.


    Cole hurriedly threw on a hoodie and sweatpants, then answered the door with as much dignity as he could muster. ¡°Hello?¡±


    Standing on the threshold was a tall man wearing glasses whom, Cole dimly recalled, he had seen around the place before. Cole couldn¡¯t quite recall his name, though the man certainly knew his. ¡°Cole?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s me.¡± Cole tried to get some intruding hairs out of his line of vision¡ªhe hadn¡¯t yet brushed his unruly locks into order. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m James. Marcel¡¯s boyfriend?¡±


    A little bell went ding in Cole¡¯s brain. The man was his roommate¡¯s boyfriend. ¡°Oh. Hi.¡± Another thought occurred to him. ¡°I was going to ask¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªhave you seen Marcel?¡± the two of them said at the same time.


    There was a momentary pause. ¡°I guess you haven¡¯t,¡± said Cole, because he couldn¡¯t think of anything useful to say.


    ¡°Yeah. Do you know where she might have gone?¡± The man pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. His face was a mask of worry. ¡°She hasn¡¯t messaged me at all for a couple of days now.¡±


    ¡°I thought she went over to your apartment. That¡¯s what she told me.¡±


    The man shook his head. ¡°She never came over, and she never told me she had plans to come over.¡±


    Cole racked his brains for any helpful clues, and came up with nothing. ¡°I don¡¯t know where she could be,¡± he said at last, slowly. ¡°I didn¡¯t know her very well. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    The man¡¯s face tightened at his use of the word didn¡¯t, but his voice was tightly controlled when he spoke. ¡°So you didn¡¯t notice anything strange at all? Nothing concerning about her behaviour?¡±


    Now that he thought about it¡­ ¡°She was going out a lot lately, but I thought she was going over to your place. That¡¯s what she told me every time.¡±


    ¡°She hasn¡¯t been at my place for a month now.¡± The man hesitated. ¡°I¡­ I thought she wanted to break up with me, honestly. I wanted to talk to her, but she was so abrupt and cold when I messaged her. It was like she was a completely different person. I thought I¡¯d done something wrong.¡±


    Strangely, Cole found his thoughts wandering over to Isaac, and the distance in his eyes when Cole had mentioned other customers the previous night. ¡°Maybe she just needs some time to herself,¡± he said, but his words sounded weak even to his own ears. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve done nothing wrong. Maybe she¡¯s having the time of her life right now.¡±


    The man let out a laugh, but there was no humour to it¡ªonly a horrible nervousness. ¡°Will you call me if she comes back?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Yes.¡± Cole nodded. ¡°I promise.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    Cole shut the door and breathed in deeply, then took out his phone. After staring at it for a long moment, he opened his Contacts and let his finger hover over Mom.


    Too much. The world was being too much at the moment. He wanted to tell somebody that he was drowning in a well of his own devising. He needed to.


    He dialled her number.


    She picked up on the first ring. ¡°Nicholas?¡±


    Cole listened to her voice and said nothing.


    ¡°Nicholas, what¡¯s wrong?¡± Her voice was starting to become suspicious. ¡°Nicholas?¡±


    Tell her, the thing with feathers that perched in his soul suggested.


    ¡°Do I need to call an ambulance? Say something, son!¡±


    ¡°Mom,¡± said Cole. His voice did not sound like his own. It was thin, weary, and stretched out over too many places at once. ¡°Mom, do you love me?¡±


    ¡°Of course I love you, son.¡± Her voice was as it had always been: soothing in its gravitas, and pitched just so as to make the world seem like an inherently orderly place. ¡°Is there something wrong?¡±


    ¡°I have a boyfriend.¡±


    The sudden silence on the other end of the line was as terrifying as it was worrying. Cole pressed his ear closer to the earpiece, straining to hear something. His mother¡¯s voice, when it came, was the boulder at the tip of an avalanche. ¡°You¡¯ve fallen in with the wrong crowd again. They¡¯ve been telling you things, haven¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°No, mom. I¡ªI love him.¡± Cole faltered. He couldn¡¯t remember why he had decided to call any longer.


    ¡°I knew that moving away would put bad ideas into your head. Nicholas, forget this nonsense and come home at once.¡± His mother was speaking with urgency. ¡°You¡¯re not well.¡±


    ¡°Mom, you said you loved me.¡± The back of his throat was burning with raw, red emotion, searing his larynx with every word he forced out. ¡°I thought you loved me.¡±


    ¡°I do, son, but¡ª¡±


    His fear caught fire and flared into pure fury. ¡°If you really loved me, you would love every part of me,¡± he said to the black rectangle in his hand. ¡°But you don¡¯t. Bye, Mom.¡±


    Cole didn¡¯t wait to hear her response. He just threw his phone in a scything arc, where it smashed into the wall and bounced off to a stop on the carpet.


    He was so angry and so fed up. He couldn¡¯t believe how na?ve he¡¯d been. Expecting change from his mother? Really? All because he¡¯d finally gone and done the one thing which she¡¯d always tried to prevent from doing¡ªfinding happiness?


    He had nobody but himself to blame for his delusions.


    Throwing on his coat, he stormed out of the house. Fine. His mother didn¡¯t love him. That was alright by him, then. He didn¡¯t love her either.


    The oppressive sunshine beat down on his skull as Cole stormed down the lane, past rows upon rows of beautiful whitewashed hellhole houses standing in silent judgement, past ever-watchful columns of impenetrable glass and mirrors and steel, and finally arrived at the one refuge which mattered the most in that instant.


    It was a different place with the lights out. The Open 24 Hours sign became a near-falsehood, and the emptiness of the caf¨¦ seemed to have expanded in the absence of light. The ding of the bell as he entered reverberated, trying to fill the soundless void, but fell silent almost instantly. Cole looked around. Everything was spotless, as usual. ¡°Isaac?¡±


    The till¡¯s digital display, usually brightly lit, had gone dark. Nothing moved except for his own shadow as he peered around the counter, trying to find signs of life. He found none.


    Maybe, he reasoned, Isaac¡¯s hiding in one of the back rooms, getting supplies ready or something. He pushed the flimsy barrier aside and entered the Staff-Only hallway. ¡°Isaac!¡±


    It was strange how labyrinthine everything in the hallway was. He went down twists and turns, expecting to find a dead end at some point, but the corridor wound on and on the further he travelled. He wasn¡¯t sure if something this long and large could have, or should have, been able to exist in a corner caf¨¦¡­


    As the anger and indignation slowly started to drain out of him, replaced by dawning apprehension, he reached the end of his little journey. There was a door ahead of him that was just barely ajar marked STOREROOM C, and there was a distinct smell coming out of it. It was a smell that said that it was a few days old at the very least.


    ¡°Isaac?¡± Cole¡¯s voice was very small in the empty quiet. ¡°Are you there?¡±


    No response.


    He pushed open the door.


    In the dark, it was hard to tell what was lying on the ground between all the boxes, but as he leaned closer, he realised to his horror that it was an arrangement of limbs that formed a body¡ªthat is to say, there was a corpse on the floor.


    ¡°You weren¡¯t supposed to find that.¡±


    Cole whirled around to find Isaac studying him with those glimmering, light-consuming pinprick eyes of his. He was standing right behind him. His charming smile, his cheerful persona, his warmth¡ªthat was all gone now, and what was left of the Isaac whom Cole had thought he loved was something vaguely predatory.


    ¡°Isaac, what¡¯s going on?¡± Cole was slowly backing away, though he wasn¡¯t aware of it yet. ¡°Why is there a¡ª¡±


    Isaac shot forward like a bullet that had been kept on a leash for far too long, and in one smooth motion drove all the breath from Cole¡¯s body with a single blow to the throat.


    Cole staggered and fell to his knees, gagging. As he did so, he was brought into direct line of sight with the body, and was immediately able to discern more details.


    The eyes of his former roommate were boring into his own from their places in her head on the floor, having been rendered sightless forever.


    Isaac looked down at him. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to do that, Cole.¡± He leaned down and took Cole¡¯s chin in his hand, turning it one way and the other, inspecting him thoughtfully. ¡°It¡¯s too early. I wanted to wait.¡± He easily lifted Cole up by the chin, and Cole struggled futilely like a fish out of water. ¡°It would have been better if we¡¯d taken our time together.¡±


    Cole tried to speak, but he might as well have tried breathing under the sea. It probably would have been easier.


    ¡°You¡¯d have tasted better.¡± Isaac¡¯s eyes were chips of obsidian. ¡°I¡¯d have enjoyed you more than her.¡± He nudged the corpse on the floor disdainfully with his toe. ¡°Did you enjoy her?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± It came out as a strained, coughing whisper.


    Isaac¡¯s lips curved in that not-smile of his. ¡°Did you like the coffee? I made it sweet just for you. Barley for the pigs, as they say.¡±


    Cole threw up a little in his mouth and groaned.


    Isaac closed his eyes and inhaled, drinking in his fear. His eyes opened. ¡°There¡¯s still some potential to you. You¡¯re angry, and it¡¯s not because of me. Why?¡±


    Cole shook his head. He wasn¡¯t going to say a thing.


    Isaac almost looked bored as he reached down and effortlessly broke one of Cole¡¯s fingers with a crack that split the air like a gunshot. Cole tried to scream, but Isaac¡¯s other hand rapidly clamped around his neck, cutting off his air supply.


    ¡°You still have nine other fingers,¡± said Isaac.


    Cole felt the tears streaming down his cheeks, and realised that at some point he¡¯d started to cry. It hurt too much to see, and Isaac¡¯s face swam before him in twos. This couldn¡¯t be happening. This wasn¡¯t happening.


    Isaac broke another finger. The jets of pure agony which blasted into Cole¡¯s brain washed away all rational thought, and this time Isaac allowed him to howl from the pain of it.


    ¡°Eight left, now.¡± Isaac smiled, showing teeth. ¡°Shall I make it seven?¡±


    Cole just wanted it all to stop. ¡°My mom. I called my mom.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    The words tumbled out. ¡°She can¡¯t¡­ accept me.¡±


    Isaac studied Cole, who was trembling under his grip. ¡°Do you hate her?¡±


    Cole shuddered, closing his eyes. ¡°No.¡±


    Everything was still for a moment. ¡°You¡¯re all so interesting,¡± murmured Isaac, running his tongue between his teeth. ¡°So much forgiveness, so much fear, so much hate, so much love¡ªand all at once, too. You¡¯re all such irrational creatures. You don¡¯t make sense.¡±


    Cole was too busy trying to grit his teeth against the pain to speak.


    ¡°Perhaps I should pay your mother a visit. She seems like such a fascinating person.¡±


    Cole frantically shook his head. ¡°Don¡¯t do this,¡± he said desperately, trying to appeal to any last scrap of humanity Isaac might have had. ¡°I still love you, Isaac. You don¡¯t have to do this.¡±


    Isaac said nothing in response. His cold hand only further tightened around Cole¡¯s neck until stars began to swim at the edges of his vision and his head started to pound painfully. There was a dark amusement in those light-eating eyes of his, and Cole could see his own futile struggles reflected back at him from within their black, shining depths.


    That was when Cole knew that he had lost, and there was no way he would be leaving alive. He summoned up the last of his breath for one final whisper. ¡°Just don¡¯t hurt my mother. Please.¡±


    Isaac leaned forward. Cole could feel his cheek brushing against his scalp, and he gagged at the physical closeness of the contact.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± he said. His lips were moving against Cole¡¯s ear. ¡°Isaac won¡¯t lay a finger on your mother. We¡¯ll be together, Cole. Just like you wanted.¡±


    Perhaps it was the sudden clarity that impending death was bringing with it, or the desperate little voice in the back of his head which had gone unnoticed for far, far too long that was finally making itself heard. Whatever the case, Cole''s eyes widened with dismay as he realised that perhaps there was a fate worse than death, and his struggles increased in urgency as he fought to claw the hand of the thing which called itself Isaac away from his throat¡­


    "Shh, shh."


    The last thing Cole ever felt were those white, white teeth as they rent his neck to pieces.

 III.

    Ding.


    It was a Monday in May when I showed up for my first day at work. I remember that because spring was in full swing at the time and it was driving my hay fever insane, so I walked into the caf¨¦ with a blotchy nose and running eyes while praying that this small act of unprofessionalism wouldn¡¯t get me instantly fired.


    The Midnight Coffee. My new workplace, just on the corner of Harriet Street and Glenorchy Boulevard. It wasn¡¯t a glamorous building by any means, but the suspiciously high hourly wage more than made up for that particular deficit. I¡¯d almost certainly been convinced that the job offer was an elaborate scam until they¡¯d emailed me with a verifiably legal contract, but even then, the details of the job were certainly peculiar¡­


    We¡¯d like to apologise in advance, the email read. We¡¯re afraid that you¡¯ll be the only staff member on the premises for day shifts, since we¡¯re having a shortage of employees at the moment. We¡¯re a family business, and unfortunately our owner is currently ill and unable to supervise operations. However, we are more than confident that you will be able to manage with the previous barista experience which you detailed in your resum¨¦. The only mandatory condition of your employment is that you never go down into the basement, as we keep our most sensitive ingredients in the cellar. We greatly appreciate your patience and cooperation in these difficult times, and we look forward to welcoming you. There had been a list of instructions on how to operate the various machines in the caf¨¦ as well as a rundown of caf¨¦ protocols at the end.


    Peculiar was perhaps an understatement. Still, money made the world go round, and the obscene amount that I¡¯d be earning would go a long way towards paying off my mother¡¯s medical debts.


    The first thing I noticed was that it was eerily quiet in the caf¨¦. The only sound I had heard was the little ding of the bell when I had opened the door, and it shut itself with a loud clang that almost made me flinch as I stepped inside.


    I made my way behind the counter, and was surprised to find a note. It had been messily scribbled out using a sparkly marker, and the handwriting itself was spindly and child-like. It read:


    WE HOPE YOU STAY FOR A LIFETIME :)


    I looked around. There were no signs of other people, so I assumed that the owners had left it earlier for me to find. I was about to toss the paper in the trash, but then I noticed that there were ink stains seeping to the front from the backside. I flipped it over, and my blood ran cold for a second.


    help me


    I stared at the paper, then looked out over the tables and chairs in the room once more. No signs of anybody. ¡°Hello?¡±


    I half-expected somebody to answer, but all I got was nothing. I waited, just to be sure, but everything remained just as quiet as it had been when I¡¯d first walked in.


    It was probably a prank. Still, I kept the paper clutched close to my side that morning as I bustled through my routine, keeping one eye out for anything that looked even remotely out of place.


    By the afternoon, though, the edges of my paranoia had worn off and I was thoroughly bored. I was quickly realising that the Midnight Coffee was not a successful business by any means. People walked past the windows like the place didn¡¯t even exist, which I found strange¡ªthere¡¯d normally have been a rush at around lunch hour no matter what the food place was, even if it was the worst cheap chain brand on the planet. Not a single person had walked into the caf¨¦ since I¡¯d started. Was it because of my magnetic personality?


    I signed my hours out on the timesheet, then wondered if anybody would notice if I added a couple extra. My eyes wandered over the caf¨¦, which was just as empty as it had been all day, and I thought, Fuck it.


    I put in a couple extra, shrugged on my coat, then left.


    ¡ª


    The bus was late that evening, but I didn''t mind. The weather was at that sweet breaking point between early summer and late spring, and there was still a lot of daylight despite the late hour, lending a pleasant atmosphere to the everyday humdrum of life and cars and people downtown. I rode off bathed in the rouge haze of a warm sunset, surprised at how content I felt. Maybe, I caught myself thinking, it will all end up working out this time.


    ¡°Name?¡± The receptionist at the hospital desk looked just about ready to head home and collapse. I didn¡¯t blame her.


    ¡°Isaac. Isaac Dolores. I¡¯m here to visit Etiam Dolores? I have an appointment.¡±


    ¡°Go right up ahead.¡±


    I fumbled with the bouquet of lilies in my right hand as I affixed the little visitor¡¯s badge to the front of my shirt, then headed deeper into the hospital.


    The coma wing was on the twelfth floor, which meant an awkward elevator ride trying not to make eye contact with the other occupants¡ªseveral staff and some fellow visitors, by the looks of them. A couple got off for the Burn Wing, and another few left for the Mental Ward, which left only me sailing to the top.


    Ding. I stepped out, and the elevator doors shut themselves behind me. Clang.


    My mother was old. She¡¯d been old when I¡¯d been young, and now she was practically ancient. Just before my father had divorced her when I was eight, he¡¯d said to me, ¡°Your mum wanted you so badly that she refused to adopt, you know. She went to all these clinics and doctors. She was absolutely convinced that she could have you, and, well¡­¡± He mussed my hair with his big palm, and I giggled. ¡°Look how you turned out! Ah, she¡¯s always been stubborn. Stubborn and wonderful.¡±


    ¡°If you think Mom¡¯s wonderful, why are you leaving us?¡±


    I still remember exactly the way he¡¯d smiled, because I remember thinking how strange it was that a smile could be so sad. ¡°Well, she loves you so much that there¡¯s not much room for anything else, see. Not much room here for your old Poppa George.¡±


    (That was the last time I saw my father. Last I heard, he found another wife and made a new family over in Adonis. He still sends postcards occasionally.)


    Now, my mother might have been old, but she was still as energetic as a firecracker. She was like some unstoppable force of nature that wouldn¡¯t go away until you were fed, watered, mothered, and smothered, in any of the above order. She had a tongue on her like a nine-tailed whip, and she never hesitated to give people a piece of her mind when she felt they deserved it. She was a pillar of the community and the bedrock that made me who I was.


    I had thought that she¡¯d be in my life forever.


    In retrospect, I guess what happened to her was inevitable. I¡¯d gone out to fetch some groceries when I came home and found her slumped at the bottom of the stairs, and it didn¡¯t take some genius to figure out that she¡¯d taken quite the tumble. I called emergency services, but by then it was too late.


    ¡°Your mother¡¯s brain-dead,¡± said the man in white standing before me, who sounded professionally sympathetic. ¡°She¡¯s in a coma. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t there¡ªisn¡¯t there anything you can do for her? Will she wake up?¡±


    ¡°No. Probably never, or not for a very long time.¡± The man in white didn¡¯t sugarcoat things, because it wasn¡¯t his job to sugarcoat things.


    It was mine. ¡°Well, people wake up from comas after ten years, right? She could wake up. It¡¯s possible.¡±


    He saw the hope on my face, and I guess he just didn¡¯t have the heart to argue with me any longer after that. ¡°She could.¡±


    That was how my mother had ended up in the Coma Wing, where she¡¯d been living peacefully for two years with the help of machines which kept her breathing and fed.


    I put the lilies on her nightstand and looked at her. Sometimes, it was possible for me to imagine that she was just dreaming¡ªbut then I¡¯d see how frail her wrists had become and the tubing encircling her face, and the illusion would quickly disperse.


    Some visitors to the Coma Wing talked to their loved ones in the beds. I never did, because I didn¡¯t want to hope that someday my mother would sit up and respond. It felt like wishing for it would make the exact opposite happen.


    So instead, I kissed her forehead, tucked her snugly in, then left.


    ¡ª


    I lived in a dingy attic in the East End of North Canley. Mrs. Czapek had rented it out to me on the conditions that I didn''t get up to any funny business and I didn''t make any excessive noise, both of which I had faithfully complied with for the better part of a year now. It wasn''t the best of places and it could get draughty during the winter, but it was mine and that was enough.


    Theo was already cawing in his cage and hopping impatiently from one foot to the other when I took off my coat and hung it on the door. He was a crow that I''d found a few years ago with a broken wing, and I''d slowly nursed him back to health over the course of six months. Now he was as chipper as a dog and just as mischievous. "Hey, Theo," I said, and I unlocked his door to let him out. "How are you doing?"


    He shook out all his feathers, looking up at me with a quizzical expression, and I laughed. God, it was so nice to be home after a long day. I turned on my laptop and looked at the day¡¯s news.


    There was a report on the recent uptick in local crime rates, which I found to be unsurprising. The rise in rent prices and extraordinary food inflation rates had forced a lot of people out onto the streets, which reminded me once again that I was in a supremely lucky position¡ªthank goodness for Mrs. Czapek. Besides that, there was the usual depressing spate of delights: political announcements, a shooting in the upper district, a young girl who was missing, and so on.


    I fed Theo, cleaned myself up a bit, had leftovers for dinner, and went to bed.


    I had strange dreams that night. In them, a little girl in a white dress was calling out to me, her mouth forming the vaguest shapes of words, but the wind kept snatching her voice away no matter how hard I strained to hear her. I tried trudging towards her through the snow, but my feet kept sinking deeper and deeper until I was buried in a world of cold white, and the snow burrowed into my nose and mouth until I couldn¡¯t breathe, like two icy hands were wrapped around my throat...


    My mother was staring at me as if I wasn¡¯t there. Isaac, dear, she said, and she was so old that the flesh was flaking off of her cracked and rotting skull, Let me go.


    I woke up in a cold sweat with my sheets wound around my legs and arms, sinuous snakes which ensnared me and tied me down to the bed. I wrenched them away from me like my life depended on it and fled down to the kitchen for a glass of water. As my shaking hand held the rapidly filling cup, my eyes wandered over to the window. For an instant, I thought I saw snowflakes, but when I rubbed my eyes, the momentary mirage was gone.


    I didn¡¯t get much sleep after that.


    ¡ª


    I regretted that fact a great deal later in the morning when I trekked over to the Midnight Coffee for my day shift. I didn¡¯t feel very much like a functional person, or even very much like a person when it came down to it. What I wanted most of all in the world was to put my head down and get another thirty hours of sleep.


    The door chimed as I pushed it open (ding!) and I paused. The lights were off. Everything was off, actually: the humming of the machines, the digital display of the cash register, the perpetually warming kettle of coffee.


    This was a 24-hour caf¨¦, which meant that theoretically nothing was ever supposed to be off. Perhaps whoever was doing the night shift had simply forgotten that rule? I stepped inside (clang!) and walked over to the counter. The only moving thing in the whole place besides me was the ever-ticking hand of the clock on the wall.


    There was another note on the counter. I hesitantly picked it up. It was written in the same sparkly marker as before, and it read:


    HOPE YOU NEVER LEAVE US! :)


    I flipped it over.


    they know what you did


    ¡°This isn¡¯t funny,¡± I said to the empty caf¨¦, which was even quieter than usual with the absence of the powered devices running in the background. I blinked, then shook my head at myself. Of course nobody was going to respond.


    ¡®They know what you did¡¯? What did that mean? I turned it over and over in my mind, then finally had a realisation. Maybe it was referencing the extra hours I¡¯d marked on the sheet yesterday. But that wasn¡¯t a crime, was it?


    No, no, now I was thinking about this the wrong way. I was treating the little card like it was a real threat, but it was just a prank. It was nothing to be worried about.


    A small part of me was starting to feel slightly unnerved. Isn¡¯t this how horror movies usually begin? it whispered. When the protagonist believes that they¡¯re losing their sanity, but supernatural spooky shit is actually happening to them and they¡¯re just in denial and then they end up getting killed by it?


    No. I was just being paranoid. I tossed the little card into the trash and busied myself turning everything back on again.


    You are not going to lose this job.


    One thing which I hadn¡¯t admitted, even to myself, was that I was glad of the lack of customers in this place. For one thing, I wouldn¡¯t have any tricky social interactions to work through, and for another, I wouldn¡¯t have to make any coffee.


    Despite my previous barista experience, I¡¯d always been terrible at making coffee. Customers consistently left anti-rave reviews on my profile which ran something along the lines of ¡®never knew that mud pie was on the menu¡¯ and ¡®try your dog¡¯s diarrhea instead¡¯. I had become something of an infamous legend within local caf¨¦ circles, and consequently I never lasted very long at any of the jobs I took with them. Who needed a barista who couldn¡¯t brew coffee?


    So, yes, fine: I¡¯d lied on my application and omitted those particular details from my resum¨¦. But it had been a necessary lie, which made it acceptable.


    The morning came and went as uneventfully as it had during the previous day.


    At noon, I decided to make lunch for myself. The job offer had said nothing about freeloading being illegal, so I assumed that making and eating sandwiches using caf¨¦ resources was free real estate. I rummaged around in the back kitchens and came up with some half-decent lettuce and cheese and bread and ham, which I started putting together on the counter.


    That was when I heard the music.


    It wasn¡¯t pop music, or rock music, or any other music that you commonly heard in public places. It was the drip-drip-drip of a tinny music box slowly winding down to a crawl.


    I¡¯d always thought of music boxes as being somewhat innocent¡ªto me, they sounded a little bit like children¡¯s toys, or maybe a very tiny glockenspiel. This music box did not sound innocent.


    My eyes wandered over to the little card I had so thoughtlessly discarded in the trash, which was lying ¡®HOPE YOU NEVER LEAVE US! :)¡¯-side up. There was a slight queasiness in the back of my throat that was threatening to burgeon into fully-fledged sickness.


    I turned to look for the source of the music. It was coming from the basement door.


    (Of course it was.)


    I walked over and opened it.


    The first thing that hit me was the smell. It smelled like cream and toast and baguettes and coffee and fat and butter and sugar and lard, like some great confectionary of sweetness and delight had been left down there to rot for too long and the sickened result ended up seeping into the walls. I gagged slightly at the sheer, overwhelming patisserie-ness of it all and squinted into the darkness. ¡°Hello?¡±


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    ¡°Hello?¡± something echoed back, quieter in origin and higher-pitched than my own voice. It could have been a little girl¡¯s voice, or it could have just been some echo returning from a cavernous underground space, but I had no way of knowing which it was while it was dark. I swallowed, fighting down the urge to run, and flicked on the basement lights.


    At first glance, there was nothing unusual, but then my gaze fell upon something at the bottom of the stairs. My heart almost skipped a beat. Was that¡­ no, it couldn¡¯t be. It shouldn¡¯t be, because it wasn¡¯t possible¡­


    ¡­but it looked an awful lot like my mother¡¯s crumpled body was at the bottom of the stairs.


    My feet were already moving down the steps before I could stop myself, and I knelt, pulling on her arm. ¡°Mom?¡±


    It tore off at the shoulder joint and came away in my grip.


    I was too shocked to scream. I just stared at it numbly with incomprehension for a very long moment, then finally realised that it was just a piece of ragged old sackcloth. My overactive imagination had filled in the rest of the blanks to make me believe that the so-called ¡®body¡¯ on the floor was my mother¡¯s. It wasn¡¯t my mother. It wasn¡¯t my mother.


    So why was it moving?


    I leapt back just as the seams of the sack burst apart and a writhing, wriggling mass of hairy black rodent bodies wormed outwards in waves of pink feet and tails. I yelled out with surprise and scrambled backwards up the steps, watching the swarming rats dispersing back into their hidden cubby holes and assorted tunnels in the walls. Within moments, they were all gone.


    My heart was pounding so forcefully against my chest that I thought my ribcage would explode. ¡°Fuck,¡± I whispered to the empty silence as I struggled to remember how to breathe. ¡°Fuck.¡±


    The sounds of the music box, if there had ever really been one, were gone.


    ¡ª


    I left.


    I didn¡¯t care if abandoning my shift meant getting fired any longer, because all that mattered was getting as far away as possible from the Midnight Coffee. I could find another job elsewhere, though unfortunately probably not one that paid as much, and I would be free of whatever supernatural creepy shit had been happening to me there.


    Theo was especially agitated when I got home that afternoon. He was pecking furiously at the bars of his cage, and when I let him out he immediately started turning circles in the air with his big, black wings, threatening to bring down the lights.


    ¡°Theo!¡± I chased him around for a bit before I finally managed to bring him down. I soothed him by stroking the downy feathers on his belly. ¡°Hey, buddy, what¡¯s wrong?¡±


    He burrowed his beak into my jacket, and I held him close for a long while. ¡°Shh, shh.¡± I sank backwards into my bed and stared at the ceiling with Theo on my chest, listening to my own breathing in the strange quiet.


    I wished I could talk to my mother.


    The phone rang. I gently shoved Theo away and padded across the room in bare feet, grabbing my cell phone. The caller I.D. read ¡®STOREROOM C¡¯, which was rather unusual, and I picked up the call with a slight frown. ¡°Hello?¡±


    hello? The voice on the other end was small, confused. Lost. It sounded like it belonged to a little girl. can you hear me?


    ¡°I can hear you.¡±


    they want me to tell you something. The girl paused, like she was receiving instructions from somebody else in a different room. they know you were lying about the groceries.


    My breathing started to become uneven. I said nothing.


    they say you have to come back to the caf¨¦. A longer pause this time, and when her voice came back, it was trembling. please hurry. i''m in Storeroom C.


    There was a soft ''click'' as the call disconnected.


    I stared at the phone in my hand for a very, very long time. I didn''t know what to think or what to do.


    Call the police? a small part of me suggested, and the rest of me shot the thought down immediately. I couldn''t. They knew, whoever ''they'' was. That meant that calling the police was now the last possible option...


    I sat down, hard, on the carpet, and drew my knees up into my chest. My head was dizzy with nerves and exhaustion. Everything was spinning out of my control. I didn''t want to do this.


    Then I thought of the fear in the girl''s voice, and I realised that there was no other way this could end. I had to do this.


    I slowly shuffled over to the door and pulled my coat on. Theo looked over at me, bright-eyed with curiosity.


    "I have to go out again," I said to Theo, my voice breaking a little. "I''ll be back, okay?"


    Caw-caw? said Theo.


    I closed the door firmly behind me before I could have any second thoughts.


    A weapon. I wanted a weapon. Unfortunately, Mrs. Czapek was not the sort of person who stocked up on machine guns within her lovely house, and the kitchen was disappointingly bare of sharp knives. After a bit of rummaging, the best thing I was able to come up with was a rusted hammer that looked like it had last been used during the Anthropocene. I tested the weight and heft of it in my hand, miming swinging it at an imaginary assailant. I almost took out the window.


    ¡°Are you fixing something?¡±


    I spun around, hiding the hammer behind my back. Mrs. Czapek was standing in the kitchen doorway, a robe hanging off her stick-thin frame and thick rectangular glasses planted over her nose. There was a mug of coffee in her right hand and overlarge slippers were adorning her wrinkled feet.


    ¡°No,¡± I said, trying to play it off as something incredibly trivial. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ for work.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Well, put it back when you¡¯re done, please. That was my husband¡¯s.¡± She squinted at me. ¡°Have you been getting enough sleep? You look like a raccoon.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. I¡¯m just tired.¡± I forced a laugh which was practically dripping with midi-chlorians. ¡°I¡¯ll put it back, I promise.¡±


    ¡°Do you want coffee? I just put on a fresh kettle of water.¡±


    That was the last thing I wanted. ¡°No, no thanks.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± She turned around, ready to leave, but paused on the threshold. ¡°Be careful, dear.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    It was a necessary lie.


    ¡ª


    The Midnight Coffee was a different place at night. During the daytime, it looked unassuming¡ªeven boring, to a point, like a lion sunbathing on a hill. But at night, the lights threw a sinister yellowed shade over the sidewalks outside, and the emptiness of the place shone through, casting its pallor on the whole wide world. The lion woke up.


    Open 24 hours. The girl¡¯s whisper was playing over and over again in my mind. please hurry. please hurry. please hurry.


    I stood on the steps with my entirely inadequate hammer and wondered just what the hell I was doing.


    My hand pushed open the door. It did not chime, and it slid shut behind me without a sound like the hinges had been oiled. Storeroom C. Where was Storeroom C? I walked over to the counter, and my eye fell on the little white card resting upon it.


    CONFESS


    The back of the card was blank.


    ¡°What do you want me to confess to?¡± I asked the empty caf¨¦. I sure felt like somebody was listening, though, which lent a little tremolo to my words. ¡°Why are you doing this?¡±


    The back of the card was no longer blank.


    they said it¡¯s about your mother


    ¡°You said you knew about the groceries. Why do you need me to tell you if you already know?¡±


    More ink was bleeding through from the other side. I flipped the card over.


    WE WANT TO KNOW THE WHOLE STORY :)


    ¡°And you¡¯ll let the girl go? If I tell you, will you let her go?¡± I flipped the card over again.


    they say yes


    I dropped the card back on the counter. I could feel the caf¨¦ humming with pseudo-silence, waiting for me to speak. I was an unwilling performer on an infinite stage with an invisible audience. The sweat under my arms was suddenly making me feel cold. I wished I could lie.


    ¡°I killed my mother,¡± I said.


    ¡ª


    My mother.


    My mother was old. She¡¯d been old when I¡¯d been young, and now she was practically ancient.


    My mother might have been old, but she was still as energetic as a firecracker. She was like some unstoppable force of nature that wouldn¡¯t go away until you were fed, watered, mothered, and smothered, in any of the above order. She had a tongue on her like a nine-tailed whip, and she never hesitated to give people a piece of her mind when she felt they deserved it. She was a pillar of the community and the bedrock that made me who I was.


    I had thought that she¡¯d be in my life forever.


    I know you might be thinking that I¡¯m a monster, but I didn¡¯t kill her for the reasons you think. Look¡ªlet me try again, okay?


    My mother was beginning to forget things.


    It started small. She would misplace the car keys, or struggle to come up with the right name for somebody, but she would always shrug it off. ¡®I¡¯m getting old,¡¯ she¡¯d always joke. ¡®Forget my own head next.¡¯


    When I found her wandering around near the highway, I knew that it was the beginning of our end.


    I think what hurt the most was seeing her in denial. She was so good at lying that everyone believed it when she said she was fine, or that nothing was wrong. What made it worse was that I also wanted to believe her. She could still carry on conversations just fine, she could wax lyrical about blues or natter on about hockey, but sometimes she would get lost, forget what had just been said, and then I¡¯d be reminded that she was not fine, that everything was wrong.


    She didn¡¯t want to go into an institution. ¡®They¡¯d lock me up and never let me go,¡¯ she¡¯d declared. ¡®I want to keep on living as myself, thanks very much.¡¯


    So I took care of her. Got the groceries, made sure she didn¡¯t wander off, provided conversation, put my pay towards monthly bills and fetched necessities and medicine when we needed it. It was actually quite a charmed period in my life¡ªwe would reminisce about my childhood and her relatives and bemoan the loss of familiar things like video stores and old pubs together, laughing like it had all taken place only yesterday. For a while, everything was good.


    I think I always had a hope in the back of my mind that she¡¯d get better as the months went by. That was stupid. I know it was stupid, because you don¡¯t just get better from this kind of thing. But I still hoped. If you were me, you¡¯d have hoped too, right?


    She didn¡¯t get better.


    The angriest I¡¯ve ever seen her was when she pissed herself. I heard her screaming, and when I rushed up the stairs to see what was the matter, I found her crying on the bathroom floor. And that scared me, because I¡¯d never seen my mother behaving that way before. I¡¯d never seen her losing her dignity.


    Her moments of lucidity grew more and more fleeting, and she no longer commanded a room with her very presence. She was quickly changing into somebody I didn¡¯t know before my very eyes, and I was helpless to do anything about it. It scared me.


    On one Saturday morning, when I was cleaning the house, she came up to me, and her eyes were the clearest they¡¯d been in weeks.


    ¡®Son?¡¯ she said. ¡®I have something important to ask of you.¡¯


    ¡®Anything.¡¯ What else could I have said?


    ¡®I need you to promise that you¡¯ll help me to move on before I get worse.¡¯ She took a deep breath. ¡®I need you to help me die.¡¯


    I wanted to believe that she wasn¡¯t serious until I saw the earnestness in her eyes. ¡®What?¡¯ I was half-laughing when I said it, because it was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous, and I didn¡¯t want it to be happening to us. It wasn¡¯t happening to us. ¡®Mom, I can¡¯t do that.¡¯


    ¡®Please.¡¯ She clutched my hand in both of hers. ¡®I can¡¯t stand to see you taking care of me like this. You need your own life, and I¡¯m not going to get any better.¡¯


    I didn¡¯t know what to say.


    ¡®Isaac, dear,¡¯ she said. For what would turn out to be the very last time, she was using the unmistakable tone of command that I¡¯d known from her all my life. ¡®Let me go.¡¯


    I nodded.


    I spent two months in agony after that. I tried to ask her if she still meant what she''d said a couple of weeks later, just in case she''d changed her mind, but she didn''t remember, which left me on my own. I lost sleep wondering if there was an afterlife. I researched the most painless ways to die and looked into medically-assisted suicide, which seemed to be the only legal way to go about her request.


    Okay. So.


    The thing about medically-assisted suicide in North Canley is that the person who is going to die has to be mentally competent enough to consent. My mother was nowhere near that, because we¡¯d lived in denial of her condition for so long that she was well past the point when she could make sound decisions.


    Do you see where I¡¯m going here?


    I decided to kill my mother on a Tuesday. It had to look natural because I didn''t want to go to jail, so that ruled out any weaponry or strangulation or brutal physical methods. I don''t think I could have brought myself to kill her in those ways regardless. Gas leak, maybe? But then that ran the risk of triggering our monoxide alarms, and having them deliberately turned off would look suspicious to the police.


    Reading through the news was what finally gave me my inspiration. There was an article on the leading causes of death amongst the elderly, and falling was the biggest one. I thought that I could probably make it look like she''d been trying to head down the stairs and then tripped. Nobody would suspect a thing.


    I didn''t sleep at all for the next couple of nights.


    On the Thursday morning afterwards, I attempted to gently maneuver my mother to the top of the stairs. It was difficult, because she was choosing to be particularly obstinate that day, but after half an hour of coaxing I finally convinced her to move.


    I had both my hands resting on her shoulders as we both looked out over the steps, like we were standing at the summit of some infinitely tall mountain. My palms were covered in sweat. I took a deep breath. ¡®Mom? Mom, I love you.¡¯


    She nodded, though the confusion was visible in her eyes. ¡®I love you too.¡¯


    I tightened my grip on her shoulders.


    ''George?'' Her confusion was turning into alarm. She turned her head towards me, her eyes wide with betrayal. ''George, you''re hurting me¡ª''


    I pushed her.


    I don''t¡ªI''m not going to go into the details of what her fall looked like. You probably already have an idea. All I will say is that I can still remember (and will forever remember) the sounds that her bracelets made as she went crashing down the steps: ding, ding, ding, and then one last clang as her body hit the ground and fell still in a crumpled heap.


    The house was so quiet. I stood at the top of the stairs for a solid thirty seconds, frozen with horror.


    My original plan had been to wait until I was sure she was dead, call the police, then explain to them that I''d found her dead and that I''d been helpless to do anything about it (I''d even bought the groceries beforehand), but that was before I''d actually killed my mother by pushing her down the stairs.


    There was still hope. If I called for an ambulance, they could save her life and bring her back.


    I ran down the steps and started doing CPR, dialling emergency services as I did so. Within minutes an ambulance was at the house and loading my mother''s body away on a stretcher, while a no-nonsense paramedic scanned me for symptoms of shock or injury. ''Standard procedure,'' she''d explained. I nodded numbly, because everything was happening too quickly for me to process anything. ¡®Do you feel alright?¡¯


    ¡®Yes,¡¯ I lied.


    ¡®Were you home when this happened? Did you see your mother fall?¡¯ That was a policeman, who was busy jotting down things on a notepad.


    I did my best to sound traumatised and confused, which wasn¡¯t hard because that was how I actually felt. ¡®No, I was out getting groceries. I found her on the floor.¡¯


    ¡­you know how the rest went.


    You understand me now, right?


    ¡ª


    When I¡¯d finished speaking, the caf¨¦ had gone completely silent. No more machines, no more buzz. I took a moment to compose myself and draw a few deep breaths¡ªI felt uncomfortably exposed, like I¡¯d just scraped off an outer layer to reveal something rawer and much too personal. I awaited judgement.


    It came.


    they say to come down to the basement


    Keeping the hammer in my hand close, I opened the basement door.


    It no longer smelled like a sick pastry shop. It no longer smelled like anything at all. I flicked the lights on and descended the wooden steps, wary of every creak and groan under my feet. There weren¡¯t any rats or any creepy apparitions. Everything was well-lit and clean.


    For some reason, that unnerved me even more.


    ¡°Hello?¡± My voice quivered in the quiet. ¡°Where¡¯s the girl?¡±


    WE HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU


    I held the hammer in front of me like it was a holy symbol that could abjure evil. A few rusty flakes fell off the head. ¡°Yeah?¡±


    WE THINK YOU DESERVE A HAPPY ENDING


    What did that mean? I swallowed, feeling the lump in my throat bobbing up and down. ¡°Thank you?¡±


    EVERYBODY DESERVES A HAPPY ENDING


    OPEN THE DOOR


    I looked up, and there was suddenly a door in the wall. It was marked with ''STOREROOM C'' in large, curlicue letters. There was a scent wafting from it that spoke of long afternoons in a caf¨¦ diner with friends and warm chatter over mugs of steaming coffee. It smelled like being welcomed home. ¡°What¡¯s behind it?¡± I whispered. ¡°Are you keeping the girl back there?¡±


    YOUR MOTHER IS LYING IN BED 3C IN THE COMA WING AT 1307 SAINTS AVENUE


    OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR


    My heart was racing at a million miles per hour. My shaking fingers closed around the cold handle and pulled.


    A young girl in a white dress, no more than eight or nine, stared up at me with wide, frightened eyes. Relief flooded my brain so suddenly that it made it hard to stand up. The girl was alright. We were going to make it out of here.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I said, trying to assume a soothing tone. ¡°You called me. I¡¯m here to get you out. What¡¯s your name?¡±


    I¡¯m Lily. She sounded like she¡¯d been crying for a very long time. Are you here to take me away?


    ¡°Yes. Come on, let¡¯s get out of here.¡± I gave her a small smile. "I¡¯m Isaac. Nice to meet you." I held out my hand to her.


    Lily grinned back at me, showing white, white teeth. She grabbed my hand. HI, ISAAC.


    ¡ª


    They never found Isaac''s body.


    Clang.