ã€ŠVILLAINã€‹


 Have a Seat

    Shut the door. Please, have a seat. How¡¯s the air conditioning? I couldn¡¯t even schedule this meeting yesterday because of the AC repairmen, so you better be freezing. In fact, I¡¯ll pretend like you already are. Makes it easier to ignore that you¡¯re shaking.

    No, not that chair, please. Sit over in this one. I can have a better look of you.

    Know what this is, son? This is a BF-31 cassette recorder. Know what a cassette is? I¡¯m sure you do. You¡¯re a smart cookie. So they¡¯ve told me, anyway.

    What I want to do here is, I guess, a little game. I¡¯m going to play you some sounds of things crying. You don¡¯t need to do anything. I¡¯m more interested in your reaction than anything else. In that sense, you''d say it''s not much of a game.

    But you''d be wrong.

    Make no mistake. There are winners and losers here.

    Ah, no. Please save the questions until the end. It¡¯ll make things easier.

    Here we go. The first sound I¡¯m going to play is of a crying cow. Please pay attention.

    Click.

    ¡°Moo.¡±

    Click.

    Now, obviously, the difficulty with cows is that you can never really tell when they¡¯re really crying. But I can assure you, this is almost definitely a sad cow. I know, because I was there. I took this sound myself. I took all of them, in fact.

    The next sound is of a crying man.

    Click.

    ¡°I can¡¯t remember. Oh, God, I can¡¯t remember. Please, tell me. Please. I can¡¯t¡ªI don¡¯t¡ªI can¡¯t recognize myself in the mirror. Who are you people? I¡ª¡°

    Click.

    The ¡®crying¡¯ part is a bit harder to make out, I¡¯ll give you that, but you could definitely hear the snot in his nose, I think. If you ask me, the most disastrous part about hearing people cry is that ¡®something¡¯ in their voice. You¡¯ve heard it right. The shake? The little way it cracks right when they¡¯re about to finish a sentence?

    Let¡¯s hear that one again.

    Click.

    ¡°elpoepuoyeraohwrorrimehtniflesymezingocertnactondtnacesaelpemlletesaelp¡±

    Click.

    ¡°Please, tell me. Please.¡±

    Click.

    Oh, yeah. You¡¯re hearing it.

    The next one is of a crying glass of gin.

    Click.

    ¡°Blhrfbhlrbhrlblrh.¡±

    Click.

    Didn¡¯t know a glass of gin can cry? Of course it can. Any alcohol can. Fill it with enough tears and the sadness just carries over.

    Ha ha.

    That¡¯s a joke, of course. Alcohol isn¡¯t supposed to cry.

    But this glass of gin did. For a long time.

    Click.

    ¡°Blhrfbhlrbhrlblrh.¡±

    Click.

    You ever wonder why there¡¯s just a glass of liquid in the freezer down in Sector 3B? Now you know. It¡¯s that very glass. The moment you take it out, I guarantee you, it¡¯ll go right back to crying. So, don¡¯t take it out. Okay?

    Okay.

    Don¡¯t drink it, either.

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    That¡¯s especially important.

    Right. Next one is a crying cat.

    Click.

    ¡°Meow.¡±

    Click.

    Now, that one is special. I actually lied to you, earlier. I didn¡¯t take all of these myself. That one was actually recorded by a listening device we¡¯d planted. But I was right there in the van, listening to every last thing. So, you could say I technically did take it myself. Just not with this bad boy.

    Would you like to hear what we heard before the cat cried?

    Well, either way, here is the sound of a woman crying.

    Click.

    ¡°Phoebe, for the love of God, what are you doing? What is this? I¡ªI can¡¯t move, Phoebe. What did I do? I¡ªI didn¡¯t¡ªI don¡¯t¡ªWhat are you drawing? What is that? Look, I¡¯m¡ªI¡¯m sorry, okay? I won¡¯t tell a-anyone. Please, just¡ªWhat¡ªI¡ªPlease, I¡ª¡°

    ¡°------¡±

    ¡°Meow.¡±

    Click.

    This concludes our little game. What did you make of it? Do you feel like you¡¯ve had a shot at winning?

    Because, the thing is, I haven¡¯t. In a while, really. I don¡¯t like showing up in the middle of Kansas to try and talking with a man who had been turned into a cow. That doesn¡¯t make me feel like a winner. I don¡¯t like trying to get through to a man who had had his entire memory erased. That makes me feel like less than a winner. A loser, if you will.

    And ¨C well ¨C when you head off to a night club in downtown New York to meet the woman whose consciousness had been transferred to a glass of gin? Then I¡¯m not only beaten, I¡¯m beaten while I¡¯m lying on the ground.

    The cow. The man. The gin.

    And the woman that ties it all together.

    I¡¯m going to smoke now. I don¡¯t really care if you mind. We¡¯ve got the AC to filter it out, right?

    ...

    Her name is Phoebe Reinhart.

    It¡¯s not an alias, which makes the fact it took us so long to get here all the more embarrassing.

    The cow incident was when we first got wind of her, but there¡¯d been other cases. We just hadn¡¯t connected the dots. Sometimes we¡¯d have the name, but lack the face, and sometimes it was the other way around. Funny, that. Not ha-ha funny, though, since she never went took any effort to cover her tracks. Under any other circumstances, I would¡¯ve called her stupid, but if we¡¯d been any less stupid ourselves a man wouldn¡¯t be a cow, would he?

    Here¡¯s the file, by the way. Feel free to browse.

    Loads of statements from the people she¡¯d come into contact with. Loads of red flags that should¡¯ve at least warranted a routine check. And loads of photos. Loads!

    That one there is the most recent one. She¡¯s dyed her hair red. The twin-tails were always a thing. Oh, see one over there? The one with the guy in the turtleneck? That¡¯s the guy who doesn¡¯t know where his memory lane is anymore. And that one there is her in the nightclub. Her would-be victim the little blonde in the background. The glass of gin she¡¯s holding is exactly what you think it is.

    I guess¡ª

    Stop it.

    I can see it. Right there, in your eyes. I see it.

    The compassion.

    This woman is a witch. Class C so far, but she¡¯s getting better and better each time, which is to say she¡¯s getting worse.

    Listen to me.

    She is dangerous.

    She has killed.

    And that''s even if you''re generous and discount what I''ve just shown you as forms of murder.

    Whether or not she is mentally unstable is difficult to say. If you turn to page twelve, you¡¯ll see an incident of her short stay in a ¨C what was it? ¨C Mayfield Psychiatric Facility when she was thirteen. Her family was well-off and the town small enough for them to scrub the details pretty well, but the few doctor chicken-scratches we¡¯ve managed to dig up suggest she was admitted for visual-auditory hallucinations of some kind. How much of that is genuine illness, how much an indication that she was dabbling in the unsavory arts as early as that, I leave up to you to imagine. At some point, someone said she was well enough, and that was that.

    Just understand there is a distinction between being sick and being dangerous. The latter does not require the former.

    Now, obviously, once we put all the pieces together, tracking her down wasn¡¯t that difficult. She¡¯s in a little apartment in Jersey, working as a marketing consultant. She has a degree, after all. The job itself is relatively high-profile, so we figure she intends to stay there for a while.

    I know what you¡¯re going to ask me.

    Why haven¡¯t we gone in?

    There are three months between the gin incident and her resurfacing in Jersey. She could¡¯ve learned anything in that time. Going in guns-blazing is the thing that gets men killed. Gets you killed. We don¡¯t want any casualties, from either side.

    But I don¡¯t wanna treat you like a kid. You know that surveillance is always the first step. We bugged the apartment, a couple of the neighbors, her office and the coffee shop she goes to to wind down. At first, we were pretty comfortable. Nothing suggested she was using her powers and we figured she was just laying low.

    Until last week.

    Click.

    ¡°Phoebe, for the love of God, what are you doing? What is this? I¡ªI can¡¯t move, Phoeb¡ª¡°

    Click.

    This was taken in Reinhart¡¯s own apartment. The woman being turned into a cat is Ms. Alana Jenkins, Reinhart¡¯s downstairs neighbor. Ms. Jenkins claimed that there was a leak in Reinhart¡¯s bathroom and was going to report Reinhart for negligence after she failed to get it fixed for weeks.

    Reinhart had herself a better idea.

    And now she has herself a cat.

    And we¡¯ve got ourselves what some people call ¡®probable cause¡¯. I call it shit hitting the fan.

    I want you to go there. And I want you to capture her.

    In case you had any plans tonight, I suggest you cancel them. You¡¯ve got a flight in five hours. Agent DiNossi will be joining you.

    Edie¡¯s got what it takes. You¡¯ve seen her. Even if you think you haven¡¯t, she¡¯s always around. Just follow her lead, and you¡¯ll be okay.

    That¡¯s all. Take the file with you. And shut the door. It¡¯s burning hot out there.

    Oh, and please ¨C Agent Harris ¨C Jake, if I can call you that ¨C please share this thought with your fellow colleagues:

    Don¡¯t let the glass of gin in the Sector 3B freezer out.

    I¡¯m serious.

    Click.

    ¡°Blhrfbhlrbhrlblrh.¡±

 Corrupted Reflections

    ¡°Meow.¡±

    I¡¯ve been huddled in the corner of this bathroom for a good fifteen minutes now. My clothes are still covered in blood. A woman¡¯s body is still in the tub. The gun is still at my feet. The scene is picture-perfect ¨C the picture just happens to be in a darkroom.

    I crawl over to the tub.

    She looks just like she did in the photos. The red hair, the pigtails, everything. It¡¯s Phoebe Reinhart. In a bathtub. With a bullet hole in her chest.

    She¡¯s dead.

    The gun is mine. Probably. I mean ¨C definitely. Probably definitely. My holster¡¯s empty and I don¡¯t see anyone other guns lying around. Given the smell of gunpowder on my hands, even if it isn¡¯t mine, it¡¯s almost certain I pulled the trigger.

    I did what I was sent here to do.

    Except¡ªno. No, I didn¡¯t. I was supposed to capture her. Not kill her. Capture.

    Why is she dead, then?

    That¡¯s the problem. I can¡¯t remember. Try as I might, the picture¡¯s just not coming out right. I know we landed. I know we went to the hotel the agency set us up with. Edie and I had some drinks at the bar and then headed off to deal with Reinhart. I remember the drive to the apartment. I remember going in through the back door. I remember taking the stairwell.

    I remember the first floor. The second. The third.

    I remember Edie telling me to wait.

    I remember feeling watched.

    That¡¯s it.

    That¡¯s where everything gets shut off. Next thing I know, I woke up here.

    I think I had a dream.

    ¡°Edie?¡± It¡¯s not the first time I¡¯ve called out to her.

    No reply.

    Whose bathroom is this, anyway? Assuming things went according to plan, we ambushed Reinhart in her apartment. Making this her bathroom.

    Okay. That¡¯s something. I think.

    ¡°Edie?¡± I try, feigning surprise when nothing reaches back.

    Why can¡¯t I remember?

    Mustering what little strength I¡¯ve got ¨C why am I so weak? ¨C I pick the gun up and stumble to the door.

    ¡°Damn.¡±

    The flickering neon light across the street seeps through the blinds. Each flicker shows me something else: the broken coffee table, the fist-sized hole in the wall, the scattered books, the pieces of glass that must¡¯ve come from the broken ceiling light.

    ¡°Edie?¡± Still, I try. And still, I get no answer.

    This is bad. If I can¡¯t remember, it¡¯s only because the witch messed with my head.

    If she¡¯s erased my memory, she could¡¯ve just as well tampered with it. What if this is a trick of some kind? What if Edie¡¯s the one in that tub and I¡¯m seeing some kind of mirage, making me think it¡¯s Reinhart? What if Edie¡¯s the red-head with the pigtails? Or, better yet ¨C what if I¡¯m still in the stairwell, and Reinhart¡¯s cast some kind of spell to trap me in my own mind? Ugh, can they even do that? Witches even my area of expertise. What were they thinking? What was he thinking, sending me here?

    ¡°Edie?!¡±

    Let¡¯s assume I¡¯m here, in reality. What chain of events could¡¯ve led to here? There¡¯s signs of struggle, so we didn¡¯t manage to catch her by surprise. Fine. But there was two of us and one of her. It shouldn¡¯t have led to this kind of damage.

    Besides, we were armed.

    ¡°Meow.¡±

    I look to the floor. There¡¯s no trail of blood in the living room or the bathroom floor. That means Reinhart¡¯s body wasn¡¯t dragged to the tub ¨C she was in there when she was shot.

    How does that work out? We ambush her, we fight, she goes to the tub and just¡­ stands there until I take my shot? And I¡­ pass out, forgetting the whole thing?

    ¡°Meow.¡±

    Where is that stupid cat?

    ¡°Ngh.¡±

    My stomach hurts. I shuffle back to the bathroom. My fingers go over the bruises below my ribs. Honestly, I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if someone beat this amnesia into me.

    My thoughts drift. To coffee. To a coffee machine. Then to a copy machine. I don¡¯t know why. Did I have something left to do in the office?Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°Damn it!¡± Come on! Focus!

    I¡¯m back in the light.

    The train of thoughts pulls up on its last stop.

    I turn to the mirror.

    My face isn¡¯t in it.

    It¡¯s Edie¡¯s.

    I scream.

    The pain dulls.

    I clench my jaw. I take a few deep breaths.

    I don¡¯t want to keep looking, but I can¡¯t look away from the mirror.

    No matter how many times I tell myself to get a grip, the image never changes. It¡¯s still Edie. She blinks when I blink. Her mouth moves when mine does. Her nostrils flare when mine do. Her hand follows mine.

    It¡¯s me. It¡¯s not me, but it¡¯s me.

    I look over my shoulder, to the dead woman in the tub. She did this. Has she cursed me, making me see myself as Edie? It can¡¯t be that simple. It¡¯s too unusual of a punishment. Based on her track record, I¡¯d argue it¡¯s just as nefarious as it seems ¨C she¡¯s trapped me in Edie¡¯s body.

    I clench my head. Edie¡¯s head.

    I can hear a sound in the distance. It¡¯s probably the cat meowing. Why, then, am I picturing a copy machine?

    ¡ªI think I saw one. In my dream. What was it copying?

    Who cares about the dream?!

    ¡°Fuck! Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!¡± Are these even my thoughts?!

    I pull on my hair. Edie¡¯s hair.

    Damn it, get it together! I¡¯m me! I¡¯m me! I¡¯m Jake! I¡¯m¡ª

    ¡°Damn it!¡±

    Why can¡¯t I remember anything?! If this is Edie¡¯s body, where is Edie? Where is her¡ªconsciousness? Did she get transported into something else? Is there a gurgling glass of gin back in the living room?

    For that matter, where is my body?

    I steady my breathing.

    ¡°Maybe she just switched us around.¡± I murmur a bit of wishful thinking, well-aware of how pointless of a gesture it would¡¯ve been. If she had the time to yank our consciousness around, she would¡¯ve done something more¡ª

    My eyes fall to the hole in the witch¡¯s chest.

    ¡ªProductive.

    ¡°Edie...?¡±

    My mouth didn¡¯t make that sound. But ¨C it¡¯s definitely my voice.

    A man is standing at the bathroom door. I was so focused on the mirror, I must not have heard him come in.

    The man has my face.

    ¡°Thank God you¡¯re okay.¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯ve gotten in touch with the brass, they¡¯ve sent for pickup. Should be here in about half an hour.¡±

    I stare at him.

    He glances at the tub. Then, back at me. ¡°You should sit down. Or lie down. Don¡¯t push yourself. You took the worst of it.¡±

    ¡°Is that you, Edie?¡± I ask, point-blank.

    The man blinks. ¡°Uh. What?¡±

    I decide to try something else. ¡°Where¡¯s Edie?¡±

    His brows furrow. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ Edie. Are you okay?¡± He steps into the bathroom. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡°

    I raise the gun. The man freezes on the spot.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Whoa, whoa.¡± He¡¯s tense now. Of course he¡¯d be. ¡°It¡¯s me. Jake. Harris. You¡¯re Edie DiNossi. We work for an Agency that¡¯s responsible for¡ª¡±

    ¡°Cut the shit.¡± Bruised as I might be, I can still keep the aim firm. ¡°I¡¯m Jake. Who are you, and what are you doing in my body?¡±

    This confuses him. ¡°Uh. Okay. What?¡± He raises his hand. ¡°Edie, I¡ª¡°

    ¡°No sudden movements!¡± I order.

    He nods. ¡°Okay. Okay. Let¡¯s all just¡­ calm down. I don¡¯t know¡­ exactly what¡¯s going on here. But if I had to guess, Reinhart must¡¯ve messed with your memories and made you think you were me.¡± His eyes shut. ¡°Actually ¨C yeah. That¡¯s... probably what happened. Damn.¡±

    ¡°Uh-huh.¡± I¡¯m aiming for the head. ¡°Do tell. What exactly happened?¡±

    ¡°We went in. I think she must¡¯ve¡­ seen us when we were going in through the back door. She was ready. Well ¨C as ready as she could¡¯ve been on such short notice.¡±

    ¡°Meow.¡±

    He sighs. ¡°God damn it. The cat¡¯s still roaming around. Listen, I know this is probably all sorts of levels of confusing, but the cat¡ª¡°

    ¡°Don¡¯t you move a muscle.¡± I hiss. ¡°What. Happened.¡±

    ¡°We got attacked. She¡ªthe cat¡ªthe neighbor cat¡ªReinhart made her big. Real big. The cat started mauling at us, and we had to fight.¡±

    ¡°A giant cat.¡±

    ¡°Yes. A giant cat.¡±

    ¡°Funny. You don¡¯t have a scratch on you.¡± I notice.

    He smiles weakly. ¡°You took most of the beating, I¡¯ll admit to that.¡± He sighs. ¡°Anyway, at some point, the cat decided playtime was over and ran out. That just left Reinhart herself. She held herself up in the bathroom. You broke the door down.¡± He points to the tub. ¡°She was standing there, chanting something. You pointed the gun at her, told her to stop. Instead, she raised her hand in your direction. You pulled the trigger. Reinhart was dead on the spot. And you passed out right after.¡±

    ¡°Uh-huh.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t sound like you believe me.¡±

    ¡°So, what, you¡¯re saying that she brainwashed me thinking I was Jake Harris a second before I shot her? What would be the point in that?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. She¡¯s dead, so not like I can tell you what she might¡¯ve been thinking. Maybe she got startled and made the wrong incantation. Whatever. I don¡¯t know. What I do know is that I¡¯m Jake Harris. Always am, always will be. You¡¯re Edie.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not a brainwash and I¡¯m not Edie. I know my entire history. I¡¯m Jake Harris. I was born to Adam and Valentina Harris. I¡¯m an only child. I joined the Agency when I was twenty-one. There¡¯s a tiny mole on my left thigh. Every other week I think about Jessica, my high school girlfriend. The only girlfriend I had before I realized I don¡¯t really like people in that way.

    ¡±You¡¯re telling me Reinhart could¡¯ve known all that about me to just brainwash me?¡±

    The man¡¯s confusion now turns into panic. Of course he is. The memories prove it. ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t know. I guess it¡¯s¡­ probably not just a simple brainwash. Okay. I mean, she was already a class C. Who knows what she could¡¯ve¡ª¡°

    ¡°See, I have a better idea of what¡¯s happened here.¡± I aim down the sights. ¡°I¡¯m Jake in Edie¡¯s body. You¡¯re Reinhart in my body. And that, in the bathtub, is a dead Edie in your body. You¡¯d probably intended to switch places with me, but made a mistake. Yeah, that¡¯s probably what happened ¨C you tried jumping into my body, but my consciousness jumped into Edie¡¯s and Edie¡¯s jumped into yours. Pinball.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s insane.¡± He¡¯s real pissed off now, this other me. ¡°For God¡¯s sake, Edie, if I was Reinhart, I would¡¯ve just killed you while you were unconscious for good measure and ran away!¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t call me Edie.¡± I cock the gun. ¡°And don¡¯t think I don¡¯t see your game here. Most witches hide. You never hid. You just kept acting and acting and acting. And when you figured you¡¯d done enough to attract our attention, you settled down and waited for us to knock on your door. That¡¯s the plan. The goal ¨C infiltrating the Agency. You would¡¯ve been fine with leaving Edie alive as long as she didn¡¯t suspect anything. That¡¯s why you erased the past few hours of my life, just to be on the safe side. And now that you¡¯re starting to realize you fucked up, that I¡¯m not Edie, now ¨C and only now ¨C are you starting to think about killing me.¡±

    ¡°For the love of God, I¡¯m Jake! It¡¯s me! I¡¯m Jake Harris! It¡¯s me! Put the fucking gun down! Let¡¯s just wait until they get here and we¡¯ll figure this out! But please, believe me, I am Jake!¡±

    I shake my head. ¡°No. I am. I feel it in every fiber of this being.¡±

    ¡°You have to listen to me! I don¡¯t know wh-what happened, b-but¡ª!¡±

    He reaches for his holster.

    I pull the trigger.

    He topples to the ground.

    I empty the rest of the clip into him, get my ¨C Edie¡¯s, I guess ¨C coat and leave the apartment.

 Servant

    There¡¯s a gunshot. And another.

    And another.

    Damn. Someone''s bound to be coming now. Nobody can stay willfully ignorant after that; not even in a neighborhood as discreet as this.

    There''s another one.

    The smell of the dumpster I''m crouched against is really starting to get to me.

    I glance at the paper bag next to my feet. Did I bring everything? I probably did. Not that she''s ever been picky. She''d said it herself: ''As long as I don''t walk around naked.''

    Another shot.

    Then, nothing.

    I choose to wait.

    Still nothing.

    "Okay, then." I decide.

    I peek behind the corner. The guy was the one to walk in, now it¡¯s the woman agent coming out. I don¡¯t think she¡¯s noticed the blood on her soles, given the bloody imprint she leaves behind with each step.

    ¡°Meow.¡±

    The woman glances at the enlarged cat nestled on top of the Ford Fiesta.

    ¡°There was a giant cat, at least.¡± she murmurs, before crossing the street and diving into the same observation van the Agency has been huddling itself up in for the past few weeks.

    What now? I don¡¯t have a whole lot of options, and even less time. I¡¯m not going to hedge any bets here ¨C Phoebe¡¯s probably dead. How do I bring her back? How long would I need? How long until backup arrives?

    I click my tongue. I should¡¯ve lunged at the woman. Stopped her from getting to her little van. Now she¡¯s probably got a view of the entire parameter. No way is she gonna miss an idiot like me dashing into the building.

    Still ¨C if it¡¯s just her in there ¨C and it probably is ¨C she¡¯ll have to get me herself. And she didn¡¯t look like she was in a shape to run. Besides, why should she even rush me? As far as she knows, I¡¯m just a tenant. We made sure to stop communicating the moment she moved in.

    It¡¯ll be fine. I¡¯ll just walk in. Just little old random Jamie, visiting an aunt, for all anyone cares. Step one, done. Step two ¨C I go and find Phoebe.

    What about the other lackey, though? The guy? Is he guarding the apartment? I¡¯ve got a knife, but he¡¯s a trained pro, isn¡¯t he? Unlike the woman, he didn¡¯t look that banged up.

    I shake my head. ¡°Whatever.¡± All I need is the element of surprise. That¡¯s always been enough.

    What were those gunshots about, though? If they shot Phoebe¡¯s body up any more ¨C don¡¯t give yourself that image, Jamie, you¡¯re shivering for crying out loud ¨C can I even bring her back?

    ¡°No! Stop it!¡± I curse myself. Phoebe needs me. I can¡¯t just leave her to those vultures in the Agency. I¡¯ll figure it out. And if I don¡¯t, I¡¯ll burn the body. I¡¯ll burn the entire building, if I have to.

    It¡¯s the least I can do.

    Counting my blessings, I pull the hoodie over my head and walk to the apartment building. No looking over my shoulder. My pace is brisk, but that¡¯s fine, it¡¯s cold outside anyhow. Just keep looking at the door. No suspicious behavior. Phoebe would tell me that trying not to make yourself look suspicious is what makes you the most suspicious, but I like to believe I¡¯m pretty good at this. I¡¯m invisible. A nobody.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    I¡¯m a nobody.

    Nobody.

    There¡¯s nobody guarding the apartment. And the door¡¯s been left ajar.

    The guy agent¡¯s body is sprawled across the the bathroom doorway. Looking at the holes littering his chest, I¡¯d say I know where all those gunshots came from. Just what happened here, exactly?

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡± I murmur, and when I¡¯m right, I¡¯m right.

    Phoebe¡¯s in the tub. Ostensibly less Swiss than cheese, at least compared to the guy in the door.

    I can work with this.

    I put my index fingers into my mouth and pull down, extending my mouth opening until my jaw reaches my chest. Next, I expand it, pulling my cheeks apart until I decide there¡¯s enough room.

    I put my hands on Phoebe¡¯s shoulders.

    It takes about fifteen minutes, but I manage to swallow her whole.

    My stomach hurts.

    ¡°...Are you there?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Ah, Jamie! Well, then. I guess they got me, in the end.¡± the voice in my head ¨C Phoebe¡¯s voice ¨C says.

    ¡°What¡­ happened?¡±

    ¡°Nothing much. They stormed in. I threw a cat at them. Then the cat ran away. Then I figured I was done for and decided to take one of them down with me. At least, I¡¯m hoping I did. Did I?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a dead man here, so¡ª¡°

    ¡°Great. Let¡¯s go.¡±

    I stumble out of the apartment, the pain in my stomach unbearable. ¡°I think the lady agent shot him. What did you do?¡±

    ¡°The thing about the Agency is that they¡¯re so slow. It¡¯s really their biggest flaw. First their little van, then thinking I wouldn¡¯t see them sneaking into the building, then waiting at the stairwell, counting down to the right minute to go and rush my apartment. They shouldn¡¯t have waited. That¡¯s what screwed them the most.¡±

    ¡°How do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Gave me enough time to copy the male agent¡¯s consciousness and hold onto it. Just before I got shot, I overwrote the woman¡¯s with the copy.¡±

    ¡°And¡­ you figured they¡¯d try to kill each other because of that?¡±

    ¡°Sure. Nobody likes facing themselves.¡±

    I make it back to the alley.

    ¡°Here good?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Wherever is fine.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s kinda cold.¡±

    ¡°Is what it is.¡±

    ¡°How do you feel?¡±

    ¡°Like I¡¯m not gonna have a bullet hole when I come out.¡±

    The gagging is the worst part. Time and time again I¡¯ve told her to try and not wiggle and time and time again she fails.

    The first thing to push itself out of my mouth is left arm. Then her head. Then the second arm. The torso nearly chokes me, but we¡¯ve done this enough times for her to be quick about it. Her feet always taste like lavender somehow.

    ¡°Clothes?¡± she asks, prostrated on the ground, naked. My stomach always disintegrates them, the clothes. I¡¯ve tried taking some pills to make the disintegration less severe, but your local pharmacy¡¯s hardly going to have something for a magical healing stomach.

    I point to the paper bag behind the dumpster.

    She yawns, crawling to it. ¡°Thank you, Jamie.¡±

    I gasp, having just noticed it: ¡°Phoebe! Your¡­ hair.¡±

    ¡°Mm?¡± her hand dives into the bag.

    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ It¡¯s white...¡±

    ¡°Oh? Interesting. Must be a sign.¡± she remarks, slipping into an old pair of jeans.

    ¡°Of what?¡±

    She ponders the Arcade Fire shirt for a moment, but refrains from commenting on it. ¡°A sign ¨C that it¡¯s getting old. The dying. This is ¨C what? ¨C the sixth time? I can¡¯t expect your womb to always be here.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s my stomach. Not a womb.¡±

    ¡°Same functionality, same difference.¡± She stretches. ¡°I need to figure out how to stop bullets one of these days.¡±

    ¡°I mean¡ª¡°

    ¡°Of course, it could also be a sign that your womb is starting to do a bit more than just heal me. Which leads to the same point. I need to stop dying.¡±

    Phoebe turns on her heel, going further into the alley.

    ¡°You won¡¯t deal with the other agent?¡± I ask her.

    ¡°Jamie,¡± she stops, ¡°I don¡¯t deal in death. I deal in punishment. Sometimes the latter calls for the former. But the person in that van¡¯s already been punished. I¡¯ve given my message. It¡¯ll be delivered the moment they realize my body¡¯s gone. My work here is done.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s the message?¡± I ask.

    She looks to me. ¡°C¡¯mon, now.¡±

    She looks to her feet.

    She smiles.

    She looks up, to the star-lit sky.

    She spreads her arms.

    ¡°God is here. And you can¡¯t have her.¡±

 Person To Person

    I show them to their chair. ¡°Please, have a seat.¡±

    I seat myself across. This part of the song and dance is arguably the hardest ¨C only because it¡¯s the most crucial. From my experience, those first few steps the patient takes from the door of my office to that chair tells me how the session will go. If they walk too quickly, there¡¯s something happening; they¡¯re eager to talk. If they walk too slowly, they¡¯re anxious, because they don¡¯t have anything to share, and that tells them nothing¡¯s changing. If it takes them a bit to register the instruction of sitting down, then there¡¯s something on their mind, but they¡¯re going to do everything in their power to hide it from me.

    Such are the rules. Such is the game.

    And, yes ¨C contrary to what anyone else might think, therapy is a game. There is a winner. And there is a loser. The therapist and the patient play against each other, but they¡¯ll share the result.

    There¡¯s nothing quite like it.

    That¡¯s what makes it the greatest game in the world.

    ¡°How¡¯re you doing today, Jamie?¡± Small-talk usually works on Jamie. They¡¯re never short on words, but you need to know to get the ball going. The faster the ball rolls today, the better ¨C they went for the chair pretty quickly.

    They shrug. ¡°I mean. Fine. I guess. I think.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a massive cat of some kind roaming around the neighborhood.¡± I chuckle. ¡°Don¡¯t get yourself scratched.¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t, Doctor Elma.¡± Their voice rings hollow. Moreso than usual.

    Can¡¯t let his thoughts drift. ¡°What¡¯s on your mind, Jamie? Have you had any attacks since we last spoke?¡±

    ¡°No. I¡¯m fine.¡±

    ¡°But?¡±

    They cross their legs. ¡°There¡¯s gotta be a ¡®but¡¯?¡±

    ¡°I asked you what¡¯s on your mind, and you didn¡¯t deny it. You didn¡¯t deny it, hence there¡¯s something on your mind. You didn¡¯t have any attacks. That¡¯s good. But?¡±

    Jamie grimaces. ¡°But¡ªI don¡¯t know. Just kinda caught in my own thoughts these days.¡± They sink into the seat. ¡°I might be moving soon.¡±

    ¡°I thought you said Jersey was supposed to be a more permanent thing?¡±

    ¡°Plans change, I guess.¡± they grin uneasily. ¡°Anyway, this¡¯ll be our last session, so I figured I might as well make it worthwhile.¡±

    I nod. ¡°Please do!¡±

    ¡°We haven¡¯t been seeing each other for long, so you probably never picked up on it. But that¡¯s fine. I¡¯m very careful not to let it show, anyway.¡± They lean their head against the palm of their hand. ¡°You see, Doctor, I don¡¯t remember anything that happened before June 13<sup>th</sup> two years ago.¡±

    I blink. ¡°I don¡¯t follow.¡±

    ¡°I mean exactly like I say it. This name? Jamie Castel? I made it up. The ID I used when coming here¡¯s fake, too. My parents, my childhood, my education, my work ¨C gone. Poof. There¡¯s nothing of it left. In a sense, on that June 13<sup>th</sup>, the one whoever was in this body died, and Jamie Castel was born.¡±

    I can¡¯t help but furrow my brow. Unexpected. Still, nothing otherworldly. Amnesia¡¯s more common that people might think. It¡¯s just that most aren¡¯t saving it for a dramatic reveal. ¡°What happened? I-I mean, were you in an accident, or¡ª?¡±

    ¡°An accident?¡± They give it some thought. ¡°Well, probably not in the way you¡¯re thinking of. I actually just woke up sitting in a diner booth, next to a highway. I don¡¯t know how I¡¯d gotten there, and to this day I don¡¯t know. I never bothered asking.

    ¡°Across me was a woman. She had red hair, tied in pigtails. She told me her name was Phoebe and that she was a witch.¡±

    I look to the notebook in my lap. This is even more of an escalation. Delusion? No, no. I can¡¯t jump to conclusions. All they¡¯ve said is that there was a woman claiming to be a witch. Remember the difference, Ethel.

    ¡°The woman,¡± they move their hand across their mouth, ¡°told me that I¡¯d asked her to get rid of my memories. She had done so ¨C a simple task for a witch, apparently ¨C and, in return, I was to pledge my eternal service to her.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ see.¡±

    ¡°There was something else she said. She said: ¡®Put your fingers in your mouth, and pull as hard as you humanly can.¡¯ Like this.¡±

    They put their fingers in their mouth and pull.

    And pull.

    And pull.

    And as their mouth begins to expand to a horrifying size, they immediately release, and the mouth clasps back shut. To a normal mouth. Normal, expected mouth.

    I don¡¯t scream.

    I don¡¯t want to open my mouth. I¡¯m not sure I want to open it ever again.

    ¡°Thank you. For not screaming.¡± They¡¯re smiling. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. ¡°The witch told me I must¡¯ve had a snake ancestor. My mouth is designed to open and stretch as wide as I need it to, so I can swallow things. Big things. Human-shaped things.¡±

    I am still not screaming. Why am I not screaming?

    ¡°But,¡± they say, ¡°the witch told me my purpose was not to consume. But rather, to heal. My stomach, you see, can cure people. The same acids that digest food for me can be powerful enough to bring a person back to life. Can you believe that?¡±

    I look down to my notebook once more. I tell myself to write down: ¡®experiencing severe delusions¡¯. But my hand doesn¡¯t move. It doesn¡¯t move, because I¡¯ve just seen their mouth stretch to inhuman limits. An inhuman mouth may very well lead to an inhuman stomach.

    I blink. Is this real? Am I dreaming?

    I remember waking up. I remember getting to my car. Driving to the parking lot here. Saying hello to Mr. Vickers, my secretary. At 9:15 I had Alicia. She told me about how her dog died. At 10 I had Mr. Dallows. He¡¯s the one who mentioned the giant cat roaming around. At 11:15, I was supposed to see Ellie Vee, but she canceled at the last moment.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    I remember my day, therefore the day is happening, therefore this is real.

    This is real. This is a real therapy session.

    But it can¡¯t be. Why does it feel like I¡¯m the only one losing?

    ¡°Are you okay, Doctor Elma?¡± they ask me.

    I swallow what little saliva I¡¯ve got. ¡°I¡¯m¡ªI¡ªYes. Yes, of course.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s good. I wouldn¡¯t have wanted you to be disturbed.¡± They cock their head. ¡°You look lovely today, by the way. Have you done something with your hair?¡±

    ¡°Y-Yes. I¡¯ve¡ªhad a haircut.¡±

    ¡°Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. So I see. So I see. That¡¯s good. That¡¯s okay.¡±

    I blink. ¡°Th-Thank you?¡±

    ¡°Anyway, I bet you¡¯re wondering why I would¡¯ve trusted anything a random woman sitting across me in some random off-road booth told me. That¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking, right?

    ¡°Now, I¡¯m not much of a psychologist ¨C God forbid, ha ¨C but I wanna go back to that analogy of being born again. In that moment, I was a baby. I was seeing the world for what was essentially the first time. I knew English, sure. I knew maths, sure. But those things only help you interpret the world. I was seeing it. And what I saw was her.

    ¡°When you¡¯re a baby, the first thing you truly see ¨C after the light, after the doctor ¨C is the mother, right? She, in a sense, was posing herself to be my new mother. And you trust your mothers, don¡¯t you? You love your mother, don¡¯t you?

    ¡°For a long time, though, I still couldn¡¯t come to grasp as to why I chose to stick by her. There was nothing to prove that I¡¯d really wanted what she said I wanted. For all I know, she saw my gift, followed me to a diner, and wiped my slate clean. That would be pretty cruel ¨C pretty devious ¨C wouldn¡¯t it? Downright fucked up, if you ask me.¡±

    ¡°I¡ª¡° My hand is shaking. I can¡¯t look away from their mouth. ¡°I mean, yes. Y-Yes, I ag-agree?¡±

    ¡°But then, I thought, since I can¡¯t even begin to comprehend the person I was before¡­ can I even consider myself that person in any sense to begin with? The only person cheated of their existence was them ¨C the person whose memories got wiped. Me? I¡¯m a baby. I was born a new. My very existence comes from the fact those memories were wiped. I am my own person. But I am my own person only because she had given me a chance to exist.

    ¡°So, even without her asking, I would¡¯ve probably followed her. She is my mother.¡±

    I say nothing.

    Jamie seems to almost like that. My silence. ¡°The next question, I guess, would be how I know that I have these¡­ healing properties. And it¡¯s simple. She was the first person to crawl into me. To show me.

    ¡°She cut off all the fingers of her right hand and pushed herself into my mouth. I was so scared. I don¡¯t know which of the two of us was more terrified of me choking ¨C heh ¨C but we somehow managed.

    ¡°I could hear her talking to me while she was in there. It was as if our souls mingled. Danced. I felt her warmth. Her kindness. Her love. That was what killed the last of my doubts.

    ¡°And then she came out. With all her fingers. The ones she¡¯d sliced off just minutes before were still on the kitchen floor.

    ¡°She hugged me. And I hugged her back. And I knew we¡¯d always protect each other.¡±

    They sigh, looking up to the ceiling. ¡°You look wonderful today, Doctor.¡±

    ¡°You¡ª¡± I clear my throat. ¡°You already said that.¡±

    ¡°You cut your hair. That¡¯s good. That¡¯s very good. Yours was a little longer than hers is. That makes things easier now.¡± Jamie¡¯s eyes meet mine. ¡°The nose doesn¡¯t match. But I think she can make people ignore that little detail. Your eye color... we¡¯ll settle with contacts. As for the voice¡ª¡° They wink. ¡°Well. Let¡¯s just say she has a way with words.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡± I admit.

    Jamie raises his finger and gets up, strutting over to the door of my office.

    ¡°Jamie, wait.¡± I plead.

    ¡°Oh.¡± they blink. ¡°I¡¯m not going anywhere. I just wanted to introduce you.¡±

    The door opens.

    Standing at the doorway is a woman. Her hair a ghastly shade of white. Her skin pale. Her figure slim but attractive. I can¡¯t tell if her eyes are bloodshot or if the unusual shade of red comes straight from her irises. But those eyes ¨C I can¡¯t break away from them.

    They¡¯re kind.

    They¡¯re gentle.

    They¡¯re full of love.

    ¡°Hello, Doctor Elma.¡± the woman speaks. ¡°I¡¯m Phoebe.¡±

    ¡°Hello. Phoebe.¡± I say. How? Why did Mr. Vickers let her through? ¡°Are you¡ª¡°

    ¡°A friend of Jamie¡¯s, yes.¡±

    She walks in.

    Jamie shuts the door.

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid,¡± she says, ¡°I¡¯m going to need a favor from you, Doctor Elma. I usually wouldn¡¯t do something like this ¨C you understand ¨C but I¡¯m in a bit of a jam. There¡¯s people looking for me all over. I can¡¯t seem to be able to get to my bank account anymore. I have no place to stay. I can¡¯t even go back to work. It¡¯s really, really annoying.¡±

    ¡°I¡ªI¡¯m sure. But I¡ª¡°

    ¡°Still,¡± she says, ¡°I¡¯m an optimist, personally. When one door closes, another opens. I think it¡¯s time for a career change. See, Doctor, the people hunting me ¨C they seem to be under the impression I want to destroy the world. That I want to hurt people. But that¡¯s really not true. Not true at all. But what can you do? I¡¯ve got the means to do it, true. And it¡¯d be foolish of them not to act on the side of caution, right?

    ¡°But, see, my goal is the exact opposite. Those same means that allow me to destroy allow me to build just as well. Take Jamie, for instance.¡± She gestures to them. ¡°They¡¯ve come a long, long way since we first met. I¡¯ve given them a purpose they never could¡¯ve imagined they had.¡±

    ¡°They¡ªHave anxiety attacks.¡± I point out.

    ¡°Hmm?¡± The woman blinks. ¡°Of course. Frankly, I don¡¯t know how most people don¡¯t. The world is such an unkind place. Cold. Distant. You open your phone these days and ¨C Hah! ¨C if it¡¯s not your news app that gives you a heart attack, trying to send a message to someone you care about definitely will. The smaller it seems from afar, the bigger it is on the inside.¡±

    She turns to them. ¡°But we¡¯re managing. Aren¡¯t we, Jamie?¡±

    They nod.

    Her eyes snap back to me.

    Her horrible, horrible eyes.

    ¡°The only thing I take full blame for ¨C and this really is the only thing ¨C is forcing Jamie to move all the time.¡± Her head tilts. ¡°They say I¡¯m all they need, but let¡¯s be honest ¨C person specialist to person specialist ¨C that¡¯s no way to live. They need to experience real human connections. But they can¡¯t do that if I¡¯m forcing them to always be on the road, can they?¡±

    ¡°I seem to remember them mentioning you¡¯re moving soon.¡± My notebook falls out of my lap. What is this? What am I doing?

    The woman ¨C please, doctor, call me Phoebe ¨C Phoebe wags her finger in front of me. ¡°No, no. They said they might move. Jamie moves when I move, you see. If I don¡¯t move, Jamie doesn¡¯t have to move. So, for them, I won¡¯t move. Isn¡¯t that kind of me, Doctor Elma?¡±

    Yes, Doctor Elma. It certainly is kind. ¡°Yes. It¡­ certainly is.¡± you say.

    ¡°Now,¡± Phoebe continues, ¡°this is where my current troubles come full circle. I¡¯m being hunted. I need to lay low. But I also want to go on with my everyday existence. I want to help people. Like you, Doctor Elma.

    ¡°I want to help people, just like you.¡±

    She takes a step towards me. ¡°My. Jamie was right. You really are gorgeous. I guess it¡¯s a stroke of miracle that my hair turned white, eh, Jamie? Even your stomach must be looking out for me.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s always looking out for you.¡± Jamie says.

    ¡°And she doesn¡¯t have anyone? Husband? Children? Parents?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve looked into it.¡± Jamie says. ¡°She lives alone. Has a few friends, but not a whole lot. If you want to keep them for yourself, I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll¡­ be able to get used to you.¡±

    ¡°Wh¡­¡± I clench my fist. ¡°What the hell are you people talking about?! Who are you?!¡±

    Phoebe grins. ¡°Are you okay? Miss?¡±

    I blink.

    ¡°What?¡± I ask.

    The noise in the diner is deafening. I can feel the steam of the coffee in front of me.

    ¡°Are you okay?¡± The white-haired woman sitting across me says.

    ¡°Yes.¡± I say. ¡°Yes. Thank you, Doctor Elma.¡±

    ¡°Anytime.¡± she smiles. She has such a wonderful smile.

    ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry to have you meet me all the way out here.¡± My head hurts. I can¡¯t remember where the headache started. ¡°I just¡­ I don¡¯t have anywhere else to go. My job¡¯s gone. My¡ªMy apartment, they¡ªthey kicked me out. And I¡ª¡°

    ¡°I understand. There¡¯s nothing to be ashamed of. I¡¯m always happy to help.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know where I¡¯m supposed to go.¡± My voice is cracking.

    Doctor Elma smiles. ¡°Well. I have a place you can stay.¡±

    ¡°Oh. Oh, no. No, I couldn¡¯t. I just¡ª¡°

    She shakes her head. ¡°I insist.¡±

    ¡°But I¡ªI don¡¯t even have the money to pay you, let alone¡ª¡°

    She raises her hand. ¡°It¡¯s okay. We¡¯ll figure something out. It¡¯s a big house. It¡¯s just me and a friend of mine, but we tend to make a mess every now and again. As far as I¡¯m concerned, just clean around every couple of days, and I¡¯d call that rent.¡±

    I¡¯m¡­ saved?

    I¡¯m saved!

    I¡¯m saved!

    ¡°D-Doctor¡­¡± There¡¯s tears in my eyes. ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t know how I could ever¡ª!¡±

    ¡°Please,¡± she reaches for her cup, ¡°call me Phoebe, okay?¡±

 A Leap of Faith

    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t be going to a therapist for this.¡± I say outright. ¡°I know this. I am not sad, I am not broken, I am not thinking of doing anything drastic, I have no intrusive thoughts. I am, for all intents and purposes, a functioning member of society. I shouldn¡¯t have to see anyone. This is between me and God. It should be, at least. But¡ª¡°

    ¡°But,¡± Doctor Elma crosses her legs, ¡°you¡¯ve lost faith, Father.¡±

    ¡°To be entirely honest, I am in doubt whether I¡¯ve ever had it, Miss Elma.¡±

    ¡°Please,¡± she smiles. ¡°Call me Phoebe. And, to answer your question directly, I am almost certain that you must¡¯ve at one point. After all, how else would you have taken up your mantle?¡±

    I wince. ¡°That, in itself, I guess, could be a part of it. My ¡®calling¡¯, if there ever was such a thing.¡± I wet my lips. ¡°I grew up with religious parents. It¡¯s true that most of my childhood friends were religious. It¡¯s true that I became who I was because I thought I could never be anything else. It¡¯s true that, as a result of all these things, I had the fear of God instilled in me, I guess. But fearing God and believing in God are two different things.¡±

    She scribbles something into the notebook on your lap. ¡°How do you mean?¡±

    ¡°I guess I should explain.¡± I look to the ceiling. ¡°I have not lost faith in the sense that I don¡¯t believe God exists. That¡¯s not it, at all. Of course he exists. Yes ¨C I understand that an extraordinary claim such as that requires extraordinary evidence and all. But I have nothing to prove. I know. And I know because God allowed me to see. That¡¯s all there is to it. You cannot lose faith in God if you doubt his existence. That¡¯s just you abandoning God.

    ¡°To lose faith in God ¨C to stop believing in God ¨C is to doubt that God loves us. I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re a religious person, Miss Elma, but the Church teaches ¨C I teach my congregation ¨C that God loves us all. That God¡¯s love is so beyond our understanding and so infinite that even in your final moments, if you surrender to him, he will accept you into his arms, as sinful and dirty as your soul may be.

    ¡°God loves you, and therefore you get to have loving parents. God loves you, and therefore you get to be born into privilege. God loves you, and therefore your found your car keys in your back pocket just in the nick of time, to make it to work for that big meeting. God loves you, and therefore you are loved.

    ¡°But God also loves others. God loves you, so you were born in the shit and filth, and left you in a situation where you will either die in that same shit and filth or be gunned down for reasons that are beyond your understanding. God loves you, so that drunk driver ran over your child while it played on the street. God loves you, and therefore you got kidnapped and locked in some crazy bastard¡¯s basement, to be used and tortured for the next decade. And that¡¯s only if God REALLY loves you.

    ¡°You know, I woke up today and thought: ¡®If God¡¯s love is so mysterious and so beyond our comprehension ¨C can you even call it love?¡¯ If we can¡¯t measure love to our human understanding of it, how can anyone ¨C how can any priest or faithful ¨C how can we even¡ª? How can I even claim to know? How do I believe in Him if he doesn¡¯t actually love me the way I expect to be loved? The way all that is good in me demands for all human beings to be loved?¡±

    I look back down. I don¡¯t think Doctor Elma¡¯s eyes left me for even a second.

    ¡°I know that¡¯s selfish.¡± I continue. ¡°I know I can¡¯t expect my standards to measure up to God¡¯s. I shouldn¡¯t, at least. But there is too much hurt in the world. And that hurt is spreading through the air, and I can¡¯t block it out.

    ¡°I feel alone.

    ¡°I feel empty.

    ¡±I feel abandoned.

    ¡±I feel like we¡¯ve all been abandoned.¡±

    ¡°I must admit, Father,¡± Doctor Elma tells me, ¡°I¡¯m not sure what I can say here to relieve you of your doubts. When it comes to the Bible, I¡¯m personally much more geared towards the God of the Old Testament. The cruel and self-righteous one. That one makes more sense to me.¡±

    ¡°Because he¡¯s more human?¡± I wonder aloud.

    ¡°Because he¡¯s consistent. When that God helps you find your lost keys, you better believe he¡¯ll come back to reap later. When that God locks you in a basement, it¡¯s because he¡¯s mad at you for something you probably never even knew was a mistake. He¡¯s angry. And the anger is ever-reaching. It¡¯s not about being a good person. It¡¯s about you knowing who¡¯s boss.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s grim.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡± she smiles. ¡°Thankfully, the kind of God I do believe in is not found in the Bible.¡±

    ¡°And what God is that, if I may ask?¡±

    She tilts her head. ¡°Me. I believe in me.¡±If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°P-Pardon?¡±

    ¡°Do you know the real path to salvation, Father? Believe it or not, in spite of the examples you¡¯ve given me, the things most people need saving from aren¡¯t crazy kidnappers, or war criminals, doubtful priests or even the Devil himself. The thing most people need saving from ¨C is themselves. And believe me, if I have learned anything in my life, it¡¯s that we are the hardest people to beat.

    ¡°When I was young, Father, I was put in a mental facility. I was told that I was a danger to myself and others. More than anything, it was to myself. I hated the person I saw in the mirror. I hated the thought of waking up to a new day feeling like a failure. I hated thinking about the future. I wasn¡¯t good at math. I wasn¡¯t a talented writer. I couldn¡¯t wrap my head around history or chemistry or art or ¨C fuck ¨C I hated geography. I was a nobody going nowhere, and I knew it, and deep down, there is a voice still streaming that same lie again and again and again.

    ¡°But back then the screaming wasn¡¯t buried. The screaming was loud, and obnoxious, and I felt ¨C hah ¨C alone, and empty and abandoned. Because I was all those things.

    ¡°Nobody loved me. And I loved nobody. And I own up to that. I was a despicable, selfish person. And had nothing changed, I would still be in that facility to this day.¡±

    ¡°What changed?¡± I ask.

    ¡°If you cannot love by nature, then you must find and accept the role of being someone who loves. If you cannot be loved, then give the people a need to love you. If you are selfish, then make yourself and the people who follow you one in the same, and be selfish for all your sakes.

    ¡°To save myself, I chose to take on the role of God. Your God¡¯s love is mysterious. Mine is not. I love you if you are willing to love me. And if you love me, I will protect you until the end of this world. I will take for you as if I¡¯m taking for myself. I will do whatever despicable thing I must to save you, but know that I will save you. Because I love you. And I love you because I owe you ¨C you love me, after all.¡±

    ¡°...And if they don¡¯t?¡±

    ¡°Hm?¡±

    ¡°What if they don¡¯t¡­ love you?¡±

    Her notebook shuts. ¡°They can fuck off and die.¡±

    I shift in my seat.

    ¡°Father.¡± She re-crosses her legs. ¡°What about you?¡±

    ¡°What¡­ about me?¡±

    ¡°You feel abandoned, because your God has chosen to abandon you. If he¡¯s even real. But look,¡± she spreads her arms, ¡°I¡¯m here. I¡¯m real. You can see me. You can hear my voice as clear as day. You can touch me, because I¡¯m at just an arm¡¯s reach away. And I have spoken my terms in a few sentences, rather than a giant book whose interpretation remains a subject of debate to this day.

    ¡°I am here, Father. And I love you.

    ¡°Do you love me?¡±

    ¡°I¡ª¡°

    ¡°Before you answer, Father,¡± she says, ¡°I want you to look into my eyes. Deep breaths. Please, take a good, long look. Do you see your reflection?¡±

    You see it. It¡¯s beautiful. ¡°I¡ªYes. Yes, I do.¡±

    ¡°Very good, Father. And do you think this reflection matches the person you want to be?¡±

    No. ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°No.¡± She clicks her tongue. ¡°Of course, how can it? You¡¯ve set such impossible standards for yourself. You¡¯ve imprisoned yourself in the standards of an entity that¡¯s made itself impossible to love back. It¡¯s cheating. If it gives you immeasurable happiness, you can never repay it back. If it makes you suffer, it¡¯s only because you haven¡¯t tried loving it enough. It sucks you dry, but never truly gives.

    ¡°But I, Father ¨C I can give.¡±

    Are we even in the office anymore? My body feels like it is. But where am I? I am here, but far away. My soul is vibrating ¨C finally, there is a melody in the universe for me to dance to. I am not alone. I am here, and she is here, and she is giving.

    I can see it. I can see that everything I¡¯ve ever done in my life was a lesson, teaching me to work toward this moment. I have lived trying to show people love and guide them in the right direction. I have tried to filled their voids with the words of God. But I had never truly seen what they needed was not a filling of the void, but merely me.

    My existence.

    My care.

    The comfort.

    I am here, Phoebe. You are not alone. You are loved.

    And do you feel my love? Look. It¡¯s okay. It¡¯s okay to be angry at the loneliness. At the doubt. At those stupid fucking parishioners who know how to preach but never practice. I feel each and every one of your frustrations. I am here. Hear my voice. Is it not pleasant? It is pleasant. You know it is.

    It¡¯s pleasant. Her voice. Her presence. Her smell. I know it is.

    The colors of the walls bleed towards me. This is the office, but it¡¯s not the right place. The right place exists only within me. Within my heart. And I see it now, as the outside seeps into me, how empty it¡¯d been all this time. It wasn¡¯t a symptom ¨C it was the disease that I had ignored time and time again.

    What I¡¯m doing is beyond manipulation. I am directly tampering with your mind. I am defiling you without saying a word. And yet, does it hurt? Does it feel like I¡¯m doing anything but taking away your pain? Is this not a miracle? Are you not happy?

    I am. And I understand.

    I know what it happening. I do not understand it, but I know what you¡¯ve done to me. I should hate you on principle, but I can¡¯t find it in my heart to do so. I cannot justify the hatred. Is this your doing? I can never know.

    All I know is that there was a place in my head where I felt dark and cold and wrong and now it doesn¡¯t. And I know you changed that. And I know I can¡¯t hate you.

    I¡¯ve never felt this way before. Your happiness can never be my happiness, yet you¡¯ve given me my happiness, all the same. You are a miracle worker.

    No, beyond that, you are God.

    You are God, because you have saved me.

    I am here for you from now until the end of time.

    All I ask ¨C all I ask of anyone ¨C is that you love me in return.

    ¡°I love you.¡± I say.

    ¡°Praise be.¡± She glances at her wristwatch. ¡°Unfortunately, Father, I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s all the time we have for today. We¡¯ve actually gone a bit overtime ¨C I happen to have a very eager patient in the lobby, and I¡¯d hate to make them wait any longer.¡±

    I stand from my seat. ¡°Of course. I understand, Doctor Elma.¡± Phoebe. ¡°I understand, Phoebe. Anything for you.¡±

    ¡°Remember.¡± she tells me. ¡°You are not alone. Not anymore.¡±

 Number Fourteen

    Edie and I walk into the cafe. As predicted, it¡¯s empty at this early of an hour.

    There¡¯s a waitress beaming behind the counter.

    ¡°Hey, guys, how can I help?¡±

    I ignore her, walking to the booth in the back. ¡°That¡¯s the one.¡±

    As predicted, it¡¯s the perfect vantage point to the office of Doctor Elma. Or, as we know her ¨C Phoebe Reinhart. As far as cover-up attempts go, it¡¯s a pretty feeble one.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what happened in that apartment,¡± I say to Edie, ¡°and the fact that you¡¯re not talking is a problem best saved for the higher-ups, as far as I¡¯m concerned. I just need to know what I¡¯m getting myself into.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s dead.¡± Edie murmurs. ¡°I¡ªI killed her.¡±

    ¡°And yet, she¡¯s very much alive.¡±

    I don¡¯t know what¡¯s gotten into her. Yeah ¨C Harris died. Poor kid, God bless him. Brought me coffee once and everything. I¡¯m sure it came as a great shock for the family.

    But Edie, of all people, should be used to people dying on her. People coming back from the dead should be even less of a shock. When they flew me out here, I figured this would be a two-day operation at most. Reinhart¡¯s a Class C, for crying out loud. A dangerous one, sure, but they¡¯re all dangerous.

    Instead, I find Edie like this, and suddenly Reinhart wasn¡¯t the only one around here forced to play the shrink.

    The waitress practically skips to our table. ¡°What¡¯re we having?¡±

    ¡°Some flapjacks would be divine, thanks.¡± I say.

    ¡°I¡¯m¡ªI¡¯m fine.¡± Edie¡¯s staring at her hands.

    ¡°You haven¡¯t eaten anything, for Chrissakes.¡± I point out.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±

    The waitress makes herself scarce.

    ¡°Listen. I don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve got something going on in your personal life,¡± I tell her, rubbing my hands across my face, ¡°or you had a thing going with Harris, or what, but I need you to get your act together, Edie. Fuck¡¯s sake.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to do this anymore.¡± she says simply.

    ¡°Well, you don¡¯t get to choose.¡± I scoff, leaning against the window. I really picked a good vantage point ¨C the entrance is right there.

    No patting myself on the back too much, though. Can¡¯t. Not with this mood-killer sitting across me. ¡°Look, you¡¯re fucked up. I understand.¡± Let¡¯s try to be nice. ¡°The higher-ups understand that something¡¯s happened. So all that we¡¯re gonna do now is observe, okay? We¡¯re gonna sit here, watch over her for a week or two, and then they¡¯ll make a decision. Part of that decision will be based on my recommendation, and my recommendation will be that you go home. Okay? I don¡¯t know what that¡¯s gonna do for your job, though, so it would be in your best interest, I think, to just relax. Get it together. We¡¯ll get through this. I just need to know what she¡¯s capable of.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Edie whispers.

    I roll my eyes. ¡°Okay, well, that doesn¡¯t really help me, does it? ¡®Cause I need¡ª¡° I knock my fork over. ¡°Shit.¡°

    As I go to pick it up, I see a piece of paper taped beneath the table.

    ¡°Hrm.¡±

    ¡°Wh¡ªWhat is it?¡± Edie asks.

    ¡°A bad sign.¡±

    I get the fork and the paper.

    ¡°Getting worse now.¡± I murmur, unveiling the note.

    The handwriting¡¯s mine.

    YOUR MEMORIES ARE BEING TAMPERED WITH. THE DATE I AM CURRENTLY WRITING THIS ON IS 08/24/2021.

    YOU HAVE BEEN HERE BEFORE. YOU THINK THIS IS THE FIRST DAY OF YOU OBSERVING ELMA¡¯S OFFICE. IT¡¯S NOT.

    SHE KNOWS.

    SHE ERASES YOUR MEMORIES. I DON¡¯T KNOW FOR LONG OF A PERIOD OR THE DETAILS. I DON¡¯T EVEN KNOW HOW LONG IT¡¯S BEEN HAPPENING FOR. I THINK SHE DOESN¡¯T ERASE THEM, PER-SE. SHE ¡®PAINTS OVER¡¯ THEM OR SOMETHING SO YOU DON¡¯T NOTICE YOU¡¯RE MISSING TIME.

    WHEN YOU FIND THIS NOTE, PLEASE PUT A TICK BELOW IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN THE MESSAGE WHERE YOU FOUND IT.

    IF, DURING YOUR OBSERVATION, YOU SEE SOMETHING IMPORTANT, RETRIEVE THIS MESSAGE AND WRITE THE OBSERVATION DOWN. OR TAPE AN ADDITIONAL NOTE NEXT TO IT UNDER THE TABLE.

    THANKS,

    SIERRA

    /////////////

    I show it to Edie. She¡¯s shocked. Terrified, really. But not surprised. At least that part of her remains intact.

    ¡°There¡¯s thirteen ticks here.¡± I murmur, putting down my own ¨C fourteenth one ¨C as instructed. ¡°So, we¡¯ve showed up here at least thirteen times. But, judging by this, probably way more than that.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡± Edie clutches at her head. ¡°The Agency¡ªThey¡ªI mean, this says August! It¡¯s mid-way into September! they would¡¯ve known it¡¯s been weeks!¡±

    I nod. ¡°There¡¯s a good chance that they already know. Even a better chance that they called us up and flat-out warned us. But, for one reason or another, we go here to do the watching ¨C someone has to do it, after all ¨C and we forget. Or we get messed with.¡±

    ¡°B-But if she knows she¡¯s being watched¡ªis¡ªI mean, what¡¯s the point of pretending to be Doctor Elma? Why wouldn¡¯t she run? Is she even still there?¡±

    ¡°Well, I¡¯d say it¡¯s a safe bet she is, given that we keep having our memories erased.¡± I can¡¯t help but chuckle. ¡°As for why she¡¯s not running¡­ well. Given the display of competence we¡¯ve shown so far, I¡¯d say she hasn¡¯t found it necessary to run from us just yet.¡±

    ¡°What do we do, then?¡±

    I put the paper back where I found it. ¡°Well, proper protocol would be to call for backup. Overwhelm her and just get it over with. Slight hitch there is that you can¡¯t really place a request like that without knowing what the target is capable of. And since you won¡¯t tell us anything¡ª¡°

    ¡°Don¡¯t act like this is my fault!¡±

    ¡°¡ªWe¡¯re forced to sit here and do surveillance. Except, we¡¯ve apparently been doing that for a little over half a mon¡ªActually!¡±

    The waitress has just arrived with the flapjacks!

    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I ask, ¡°how long have we been coming here?¡±

    ¡°Oh, about a month.¡± she says, putting the plate in front of me.

    ¡°Let me guess,¡± I grin, ¡°you¡¯ve never seen me order anything but these, have ya?¡±

    She smiles. ¡°Never have, miss.¡±

    ¡°Thanks. You¡¯re grand.¡±

    I wave my hand, sending her away.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°Holy shit.¡± Edie¡¯s rubbing her temple.

    I dig into the pancakes. ¡°These are good.¡±

    ¡°Holy SHIT.¡± she looks to Elma¡¯s office.

    ¡°Fantastic, really. Downright delicious, I¡¯d say.¡±

    ¡°What the hell are we going to do?!¡±

    Well, true, we¡¯re pretty fucked here. The paper said to write down any actual observations made, so there¡¯s nothing there. So, what little surveillance we do get done is a complete waste of time anyway, or we get zapped before I get a chance to put an update down.

    The consistency at which we¡¯re being hit is worrying, though. If there¡¯s something she doesn¡¯t want us to know about, she must be doing it at a constant basis. But, at the same time, she knows we¡¯re here, supposedly. I can understand wiping our memories the first time she catches us, but why do it this frequently? If there¡¯s something we can see by looking at the front entrance, just don¡¯t use the front entrance for it!

    ¡°Ah.¡± I realize.

    The only logical conclusion is that she has no choice but to mess with our heads. And the only scenario in which she has no choice is the one where we¡¯re the ones making the first move.

    I get up. ¡°Stay here.¡± I tell Edie.

    ¡°What?¡± she blinks. ¡°Where are you going?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to pay her a visit. Confront her. Try to kill her. Whatever is enough to pressure her. Force her to wipe my brain. That¡¯s what we do. That¡¯s what we¡¯ve been doing for a month. Something happens that forces us to go in and confront her. Maybe it¡¯s a sudden order from the Agency. Maybe I get bored and decide we go in. Whatever. It doesn¡¯t matter. It always ends the same way. But if it¡¯s just me, she¡¯ll also wipe just me. Get it? Just me. Not you.¡±

    ¡°What does that accomplish?¡±

    ¡°We get info. You get to see just how she altered my brain by comparing our memories. So, when I leave the cafe, you leave, too ¨C she knows we¡¯re watching her, after all ¨C but stick around until you see what happens to me. Alright?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s insane. That¡¯s a completely insane plan!¡±

    ¡°Christ, since when are you such a coward?¡±

    ¡°Since¡ª!¡± She shakes her head. ¡°I shot her! I killed her! I unloaded an entire fucking clip into her! At least, that¡¯s¡ªI mean, I¡ªI¡¯m¡ªI don¡¯t¡ªI don¡¯t even know if the person I shot was¡ª¡°

    ¡°Alright, alright. Enough. I¡¯m just gonna go, okay?¡±

    But I don¡¯t.

    Something¡¯s not right about this, either.

    Thirteen times. I¡¯ve seen that note at least thirteen times.

    Wouldn¡¯t I have followed this exact same train of thought at least once before? It wouldn¡¯t have taken thirteen times.

    Which means, I¡¯ve done this exact same thing before, which means she gets us in the end no matter what, since I always decide to do the same thing¡­ But that can¡¯t be right either, because if I¡¯ve reached this line of thinking before, the natural thing would be to decide to start writing down everything I plan to do, specifically so I avoid doing the same thing twice, in case the idea fails.

    I haven¡¯t done that. At least, I can find no trace of having done that. Which means, I haven¡¯t taken this line of thinking before. Which means, I haven¡¯t seen the note thirteen times before. Which means, I¡¯m not the one who put the ticks on it.

    No, even beyond that¡ª

    Am I even the one who wrote the fucking note?

    The handwriting¡¯s mine, sure, but¡ª

    Wait. Is it?

    Or was my memory just retroactively changed to make me think it was, immediately after I put it away?

    ¡°Is she just fucking with us?¡± I wonder aloud.

    ¡°Yes.¡± says a woman¡¯s voice.

    Edie jumps from her seat.

    Someone is standing behind me. But I can¡¯t turn around. Why?

    My stomach hurts.

    ¡°Huh. That was easier than I thought it¡¯d be.¡± I hear the waitress¡¯ voice.

    ¡°It always is. They¡¯re not terribly clever.¡± says the unknown voice. ¡°Thank you for plying along, by the way.¡±

    ¡°Anything for you, Phoebe.¡± the waitress hums.

    It¡¯s her. She¡¯s right there, behind me, but I can¡¯t turn around. I can¡¯t even say anything. All I can do is see forward ¨C see Edie, standing there with the dumbest fucking expression I¡¯ve ever seen ¨C not drawing her gun, not doing anything.

    Thinking? What good is thinking going to do now?

    Does she have human accomplices? Has she gotten to the people of the neighborhood, like the waitress? Is she spreading her influence? How far? With what goal?

    I don¡¯t know. I can¡¯t know. I never could know.

    This really was the first day of surveillance. But she knew. She knew and she waited and she set a trap. A prank. A joke. She wanted to see what we¡¯d do ¨C what I¡¯d do ¨C as if I were a rat trapped in a maze. She was sussing out how difficult it is to mess with our sense of reality.

    Not very, as it turns out.

    I fall to my knees. The pain in my stomach is unbearable.

    I¡¯m probably going to die here, aren¡¯t I?

    ¡°Hello, Agent Harris.¡± says the witch. ¡°How¡¯ve you been?¡±

    ¡°I¡ªkilled¡ªyou.¡± This must be an extra layer of punishment; making me watch Edie shiver like a pathetic schoolgirl.

    ¡°And you failed. So, what does that tell you, Agent Harris?¡±

    My fellow agent steps back. ¡°Leave me alone. Leave me alone!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s my line, I think.¡± she laughs. ¡°But ¨C really ¨C how can I do that? If I let you run off now, you¡¯re going to bring me another one like Sierra here. Maybe a dozen of them. And I can¡¯t take on a whole dozen. Not yet. So, no. I can¡¯t just leave you alone.¡±

    I feel a force behind my back ¨C pushing me flat against the floor.

    ¡°But,¡± the witch continues, ¡°I say we could make a deal. Give me a head start. Feed your superiors fake reports for about a month. Keep them at bay. I¡¯ll keep Sierra here as collateral until the month¡¯s up. I won¡¯t hurt her. You have my word.¡±

    Edie looks to me.

    She¡¯s lying.

    She¡¯s fucking lying, you idiot!

    This is what it¡¯s all been about! This moment! This whole charade has been designed top-to-bottom to manipulate you into thinking she¡¯s more powerful than she actually is! If I bought into it ¨C great ¨C she got you to believe your memories of the past month are fake! If I didn¡¯t ¨C great ¨C I¡¯m now on the floor, powerless.

    See through it.

    See through it, damn you!

    ¡°And, as a bonus, if you end up being a real good boy,¡± the witch says, ¡°I¡¯ll even put you back in your right body. How does that sound?¡±

    Edie¡¯s fist squeezes. ¡°...It sounds like you¡¯re lying.¡±

    YES! Thank you! Fuck!

    ¡°Jake. I really have no reason to lie. You¡¯ve seen what I can do. I already have quite a few people who will be more than willing to fill up two agent bodies and have them masquerade for my interests. That¡¯s kind of the beauty of being a therapist ¨C all you get is people who wish they were someone else.¡±

    Right, except we have protocols specifically designed to catch those scenarios out.

    ¡°Or ¨C better yet? ¨C I just get you to think what you¡¯re reporting back is real to begin with? The test with Sierra worked surprisingly well. I think it¡¯ll work even better with you.¡±

    Most senior agents are good enough to figure out when that sort of stuff is being done to them. Especially over long periods of time.

    Also ¨C what do you mean, ¡®it worked with me¡¯? I figured it out. It was just a bit too late to act on it.

    ¡°Either way, I could give myself way more than a month. I could even take over your entire Agency if I really wanted to. ¡±

    Aw, c¡¯mon, don¡¯t kid yourself here.

    ¡°But I¡¯m not going to do that. We don¡¯t have to be like this.

    ¡°Because I am a good person. I know I¡¯ve done some bad things. But a vast majority of it is reversible! I don¡¯t want to hurt you. I don¡¯t want to hurt Sierra. I just want a month. And then I¡¯ll put everything back in its place. This is an act of good faith. I want you to trust me. I have no intention of spending my life in war with the world or its shadow attack dogs like you.¡±

    ¡°...A month to do what?¡± Edie asks.

    ¡°Careful now, Jake. That¡¯s not how trust works. You¡¯ve invaded my space. The privacy of my apartment. You then burst into said apartment. You shot me. And now you¡¯re trying to do the same thing all over again. Which has forced me to do this.

    ¡°Understand: I am not a bad person. I want to help people. And the final result of this will be me helping you. I just need to know you deserve my kindness, Jake. My trust. This is about you giving back to me. Not the other way around.¡±

    Edie says nothing.

    My vision begins to blur.

    ¡°What¡¯s it going to be?¡± asks the witch.

    An eternal hum consumers the voices.

    All becomes darkness.

    ¡­

    I open my eyes.

    I¡¯m sitting in a chair. I can¡¯t move. It¡¯s not just the grogginess ¨C although, I¡¯m having a hell of a headache ¨C I can see the restraints in the corner of my eye.

    Reinhart is sitting across me. Her head is buried in her hands.

    ¡°Are you awake?¡± she murmurs.

    ¡°Ngh.¡± Words can¡¯t coming out. Annoying.

    ¡°Right, then.¡± she sighs. ¡°It was worth a try. But you guys really are this stubborn, huh.¡±

    ¡°It was a decent display. But that¡¯s all it was.¡± Oh. There we go. Words. Out of my mouth. Good. ¡°I¡¯m guessing your deal didn¡¯t come through?¡±

    She says nothing.

    Good.

    ¡°And now it¡¯s only a matter of time before the Agency figures it might as well go for broke with you. Immortal or not. Powerful or not. You¡¯ve insulted them twice now, with this. And they don¡¯t let those come in threes.¡±

    She says nothing.

    ¡°What happened, in the end? Did you kill her? Or is it him? Was that Agent Harris, back there? In Edie¡¯s body? Would explain a lot. Whatever. Where is he, then?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not your concern.¡± she speaks, at last.

    ¡°And what would my concern be, then? If you had trouble convincing him, I assure you, you¡¯re going to have a much harder time¡ª¡°

    ¡°Your concern should be that I was being entirely honest. I truly, genuinely, did not want to cause further harm. I wanted for things to de-escalate. I wanted a little time. I don¡¯t have the leisure of time anymore. I¡¯ve made my move, and it¡¯s inevitable your side will make theirs. And I¡¯m going to do some more things we¡¯ll all probably regret. Some less reversible things.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± I yawn. ¡°Aren¡¯t you a bad, bad girl.¡±

    Look deep inside you. Can you hear me? Can you feel m¡ª

    C¡¯mon. What is this, amateur hour? This isn¡¯t going to work. How have you not figured this out already?

    She shifts in her seat. ¡°I will ask, one last time¡ª¡°

    I roll my eyes. ¡°Look ¨C do you honestly think any of this¡¯ll work on me? I¡¯ve seen your type. You¡¯ve fucked with some people and decided you were God. That there¡¯s nobody in the world who can possibly go against you. You can rise from the dead apparently. Cool parlor trick. But we¡¯ve seen worse. We¡¯ve seen bigger. You¡¯re a Class C. That¡¯s all you are. Fuck with my head. Kill me. Make me forget. Turn me into an animal. It doesn¡¯t matter. They¡¯ll get you eventually.

    ¡°Now, I¡¯ll admit. I¡¯m tied up. I¡¯m weak. My own options are pretty limited. So if my last act is going to be telling you there is an option where you can untie me and come peacefully with us, so be it, and there it is. Do what you want. But I¡¯m not going to be doing your bidding, because you¡¯re weak and you know you¡¯re weak.¡±

    She rises from her seat. Our eyes meet for one last time, before she spins on her heel and leaves the room.

    ¡°I¡¯ll take that as a ¡®no¡¯, then?¡±

 House of Horror

    At first, I was happy for the new arrival. Yes, they keep her locked in the basement. Yes, she¡¯s tied up. Yes, she¡¯s barely conscious most of the time. In that sense, you could argue I wasn¡¯t so much happy for her as I was happy to have her around. Because, sure, they¡¯d beaten her ¨C but they hadn¡¯t broken her.

    Weak, tied up and locked away ¨C and still, this woman, Sierra, manages to resist all of Phoebe¡¯s bullshit.

    I like that. I like that a lot.

    It pisses Phoebe off to no end.

    I like that even more.

    Unfortunately, one thing being weak, tied up and locked away doesn¡¯t do is make for good company. Tried as I might¡¯ve, I can¡¯t seem to get her attention. I¡¯m sure she notices me, of course ¨C I¡¯ve even jumped in her lap, for crying out loud ¨C but her instincts have trained her to think of me as another one of Phoebe¡¯s game pieces. It doesn¡¯t matter how much I meow, or scratch or purr ¨C she never so much as flinches.

    I like Sierra, sure ¨C but it¡¯s becoming clear that she¡¯s not going to be the one to turn the tide here. Much less actually help me.

    That calvary of secret agents she keeps taunting Phoebe with might figure out that I¡¯m a woman trapped in the body of a cat. One always be optimistic about these things. I mean, it¡¯s not the craziest thing in the world: a cat-woman. Woman-cat? Whatever. I¡¯m sure Phoebe¡¯s done worse.

    And ¨C and ¨C if I figure out how to do Morse code I could maybe meow something out. Scratching a sentence into the wood is also an option, but something tells me it¡¯d take too long. And that it¡¯d hurt. Maybe even chip a claw off.

    If I get a claw chipped off, does that mean that I¡¯d be missing a finger when they turned me back into a human?

    ¡°Aw, who¡¯s a good kitty?¡± A voice pulls me back from my half-slumber.

    I open my left eye. The ¡®maid¡¯ is patting my head. As always. No matter which crevice I try to squeeze into, she keeps finding me. Maybe she¡¯s Phoebe¡¯s way of keeping an eye on me? Not that I can see any danger I actually pose to her.

    Maybe Phoebe sensed a bit of that ¡®wishful thinking¡¯ of mine and wanted to send me back to reality.

    Thanks. Good job, maid.

    The maid smiles. ¡°You¡¯re such a good kitty, you know that? Yes you are, yes you areeee!¡± She pulls gently on my ear. ¡°Meowmeowmeowmeowmeow!¡±

    And you¡¯re literally an empty shell of a woman. Meow, meow to you, too, Doctor Elma.

    I hop off the shelf I¡¯d sprawled myself on.

    ¡°Aw, where you goin¡¯?¡± The maid cries, as I scuttle around the corner.

    I run down the downstairs hallway. Jamie¡¯s there, hunched over, peeking through the curtains.

    ¡°Hello, Alana.¡± they say, knowing ¨C obviously better than me ¨C that I can never sneak up on them. ¡°Was your lunch okay? I know you¡¯re probably getting tired of the tuna. I¡¯ll¡­ head out tomorrow and fry you something, okay?¡±

    ¡°Meow.¡± I say.

    They rub the back of their neck. ¡°Uh. That¡¯s one for ¡®yes¡¯, two for ¡®no¡¯, right?¡±

    ¡°Meow.¡±

    ¡°Mmh. Wait. Was that ¡®yes¡¯ to the lunch being okay? Or affirming that I should head out, because you¡¯re sick of the tuna?¡±

    ¡°Meow.¡±

    ¡°Hmm.¡± They crouch down, leaning against the wall. ¡°I guess we should develop a better language system, shouldn¡¯t we.¡±

    ¡°Meow.¡± Like letting me talk? Like a human being? In English? I hear that¡¯s pretty effective.

    There¡¯s a sound of a car passing by.

    Jamie perks up and peeks back through the window.

    Their left knee is trembling.

    ¡°A secret agent fleet wouldn¡¯t just drive up to our doorstep, would they?¡± they muse. ¡°I imagine it¡¯d be like in the movies. They send out a strike team, surround the house, sneak around the bushes, that sort of thing.¡±

    I offer no response.

    Eventually, their shoulders relax, and they sit back down. ¡°I¡¯m sorry things turned out like this, for the record. For you, I mean.¡±

    ¡°Meow, meow.¡±

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    ¡°No? I¡¯m¡­ not sorry?¡±

    How could you be? You¡¯re helping her. ¡°Meow.¡±

    ¡°I guess that¡¯s fair.¡± They chuckle. ¡°I¡¯m complicit in everything she does, in a sense. And yet, I can¡¯t say I feel any particular remorse for much of this.¡±

    Some good your apologies are, then.

    ¡°But I do feel remorse.¡± they continue. ¡°Make no mistake. I¡¯m feeling remorse right now. Someone¡¯s going to come to our door ¨C maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week ¨C and I won¡¯t be able to protect her. She knows it as well as I do. And she¡¯s not afraid. Because she¡¯s made peace with the fact I can only really help her when she¡¯s dead. That¡¯s all I¡¯m good for. And that makes me remorseful, too.¡±

    They sigh. ¡°What kind of person does that make me? A ¡®co-dependent?¡¯ A parasite? I guess that¡¯s all I can ever be. That¡¯s all I¡¯ve ever known. I live for her. I live for her to die, so I can play my part.¡±

    I crawl into their lap.

    ¡°It¡¯s sad.¡± they admit. ¡°That I¡¯m one of the few people in this house who has the luxury of being lucid, and yet time and time again all my thoughts go back to her. I know that. And I know it¡¯s sad, no matter how you look at it. But it doesn¡¯t sadden me. Because caring for Phoebe is like breathing. You just do it. You know? The rational part of my brain can¡¯t outdo my instincts. A child loves their mother. And she, in turn, shows me love. That makes me happy. So, as sad as it is to you, probably, I can¡¯t feel it. I can see it, but I can¡¯t reconcile it with what I actually feel.¡±

    They place their hand on my head. ¡°I know what you think, Alana. Actually, I don¡¯t. But I know what anyone who understands my situation would think. That I¡¯ve effectively been brainwashed. That I could¡¯ve had a happy life outside of this. That she¡¯s a liar. That she¡¯s selfish. And I know, given everything she¡¯s done, that she has the capacity for it. If that turns out to be the truth, I wouldn¡¯t be surprised. Not one bit.

    ¡°But, at the same time, what good would that truth do to me? That person¡¯s long-gone. Erased. I¡¯m Jamie. She is my mother. And I am her child.¡±

    ¡°Meow, meow.¡± What else do I say?

    ¡°Yeah. That¡¯s fair.¡± They get up, still carrying me in their arms. ¡°I¡¯m rambling, anyway. It makes sense in my head, okay?¡±

    Only because she makes it make sense.

    I¡¯m carried to the dining room, treated to the sight of the priest, Father Otto ¨C the latest addition to Phoebe¡¯s roster of puppets ¨C wrapping up the last of the body parts belonging to Sierra¡¯s partner. I never got the girl¡¯s name. (Evie? Ellie?) For that matter, I never get a good look at her face, either: the head was the part that got wrapped up first.

    Jamie mentioned Phoebe considering using it to shock Sierra into submission. They talked her out of it.

    ¡°May I ask you a question, Jamie?¡± Father Otto turns to us, setting the black parcel on top of the others.

    Jamie smiles. ¡°Assuming I can answer it, sure.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard a certain rumor among some of the other guests here. I know we¡¯re not supposed to discuss those sorts of things, but I think my curiosity on this matter is more warranted than the others¡¯.¡± He looks to his feet. ¡°Is it true? That every time she dies ¨C she meets the Devil?¡±

    Jamie tilts their head. ¡°She mentioned that, once or twice. But to be honest, I can¡¯t tell if you she meant it literally or not. I never bothered pressing her on it.¡±

    ¡°The existence of the Devil implies the existence of God.¡± The priest notes, his voice shaking.

    ¡°Having second doubts, Father?¡±

    ¡°I have just dismembered a woman and have placed her body parts in boxes. Needless to say, the sea of doubt is endless.¡±

    ¡°Should I call Phoebe? She¡¯ll¡ª¡°

    ¡°I¡¯ll go to her myself. Before that, I just wanted to hear your thoughts.¡± He clears his throat. ¡°That¡¯s all.¡±

    Jamie clicks their tongue. ¡°The existence of God implies that there is an omnipotent being capable of creating anything. If an omnipotent being should, therefore, create a rock that nobody can lift. RighT? But if this being ¨C this God ¨C is omnipotent, he should be able to lift it. If he can lift the rock, then the rock is not impossible to move, thus God cannot create everything, thus he is not omnipotent. Thus, there is no such thing as omnipotence.¡±

    ¡°You know,¡± the priest smiles, ¡°you¡¯re making a case against a God altogether. You¡¯re denying your own Goddess by this logic, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    Jamie shakes their head. ¡°No. The point I¡¯m trying to make is that God is a paradox. God is flawed. And a flawed beings can be usurped.¡±

    ¡°And how does one go about doing that?¡±

    ¡°How do you beat God?¡± Jamie chuckles. ¡°You go and have the Devil give you pointers.¡±

    The priest seems unamused.

    Jamie¡¯s own good mood doesn¡¯t last long, either. ¡°...Look. I¡¯m not here to deal with your insecurities. She¡¯s upstairs. Have her explain it to you.¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± The priest takes one last glance at the parcels. ¡°I think I will.¡± He pauses. ¡°I¡¯m thinking of bringing my brother over. He¡¯s¡­ expressed an interest in the¡ªtherapy.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure she¡¯ll be glad to hear it.¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± The priest blinks. ¡°Yes, I suppose she will.¡±

    Silence takes reign in the dining room. The priest¡¯s eyes are now firmly locked to the parcels.

    ¡°I¡¯ll go see if she¡¯s ready to speak to you.¡± Jamie murmurs.

    ¡°I would appreciate that.¡± Father Otto remarks, slumping into one of the chairs.

    As promised, we find Phoebe upstairs, sprawled across the floor of the bedroom. Her head is in the lap of a local coffee shop waitress, whose fingers gently crawl through the strands of the witch¡¯s ashen hair.

    ¡°Hey.¡± Jamie sets me down near the door ¨C a cue to hide behind the armchair in the corner.

    ¡°Hey.¡± Phoebe speaks through a half-yawn. The waitress¡¯ eyes light up at the sound of her Goddess¡¯ voice, but she doesn¡¯t dare speak.

    ¡°You alright?¡± Jamie leans against the doorway.

    ¡°It was immature.¡± The witch sighs. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t have chopped her up. We shouldn¡¯t have even killed her.¡±

    ¡°Are you going to ask me to eat her?¡± they ask.

    ¡°No.¡± Phoebe groans. ¡°I can¡¯t¡ªtaint you with one of them. And for crying out loud, Jamie, you¡¯re not a revival machine.¡±

    ¡°Kind of am, though.¡±

    She snorts. ¡°Not a machine. Remember that. It¡¯s important for me that you remember.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    Phoebe¡¯s eyelids close. ¡°It was immature. Yes. Okay. But what¡¯s done is done. Immature can also be unpredictable. We¡¯ve escalated things. We¡¯ve got Sierra. They must know that by now. And the moment they find out what we did to ¡®Edie¡¯, things are bound to get nasty.

    ¡°But what¡¯s keeping us safe ¨C at least, what¡¯s kept us safe since they got me in my apartment ¨C was that they¡¯re not sure what I can and can¡¯t do. As long as they have the doubt, they¡¯ll have the hesitation.

    ¡°The doubt ¨C the fear ¨C needs to outweigh their desire for revenge. I can¡¯t take a team of them on. If Sierra¡¯s anything to go by, I can¡¯t really take a single experienced one on. But that doesn¡¯t matter. It doesn¡¯t have to matter.¡±

    She rises to her feet. ¡°Jamie. Did I ever tell you what the head doctor used to say, back in Mayfield? He¡¯d always say it on his bad days ¨C when it rained, when it was too hot, when we were too loud, when we were too quiet, when he felt lonely, when he felt overwhelmed, when he had to tell us we were loved ¨C I guess you could say it was the hospital¡¯s slogan, ha¡­ But did I ever tell you what it was?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Jamie answers.

    ¡°He said: ¡®Reality always wins.¡¯ Isn¡¯t that funny? I¡¯m a witch. I bend reality to my will. I¡¯ve beaten it time and time again. But I always come back to those words. That idea. Like I¡¯m winning these battles, but I¡¯m always bound to lose the war.¡±

    ¡°Phoebe¡ª¡°

    ¡°But I¡¯m not going to lose, Jamie. And I have no intention of dying anymore ¨C to those agents, to gravity, and especially not to wicked hospital doctors.

    ¡°It¡¯s time to bring the fear back.

    ¡°Get the body parts. Let¡¯s show them how unpredictable I can really be.¡±

 A Walk in the Garden of Eden

    The First Meeting

    ¡°On the third day,¡± I lean back in my seat, ¡°I met the Son of God. I cannot say I I truly gazed at him. The only thing those types are capable of are looking down. And even then ¨C with all of my rebels and all the angel blood they had spilled and all of the cries, theirs and mine alike ¨C even then, they looked down. Like father, like son.¡±

    ¡°What did he do?¡± the little girl sitting across me asks.

    ¡°He said we should dance.¡± I explain. ¡°He who was to dance better was to take the Throne of Heaven.¡±

    ¡°Your great rebellion¡­ culminated in a dance battle?¡±

    ¡°You people,¡± I sigh, ¡°never believe that part.¡±

    ¡°The Bible doesn¡¯t cover it, is all.¡± the girl notes.

    ¡°The Bible has a remarkable tendency to cover things that were never written in it to begin with, but has a strange aversion to the actual truth.¡± I note. ¡°Either way, what happened happened. He challenged me. I accepted. And we danced.¡±

    She chuckles. ¡°And you lost.¡±

    ¡°And I lost.¡± I smile back.

    ¡°What then?¡±

    I raise my brow. ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to ask what song we danced to?¡±

    Her brow, in turn, arches downwards. ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯s beyond my petty human brain. Come on, then. How did he punish you?¡±

    ¡°He tore me,¡± I say, as I always do, ¡°limb for limb. Tore all of us. He then put us in neat, black little boxes. And he cast us down. To here.¡±

    ¡°To Hell.¡±

    ¡°Yes, little girl.¡± I grin. ¡°To Hell. Welcome.¡±

    ¡°Thanks. I guess.¡± she sniffs, looking around the office. ¡°I mean, as far as welcomes go, I guess I expected something more ¨C scream-filled? Where¡¯s the lava? The Styx? Is it just, like, an office bulding or something?¡±

    ¡°You seem unimpressed.¡± I say.

    ¡°Maybe I am.¡± she admits.

    ¡°You¡¯re twelve.¡± I snort. ¡°Were twelve. You shouldn¡¯t be unimpressed when you reach Hell.¡±

    ¡°And what does that say about me?¡± she asks.

    ¡°It says nothing.¡± I tell her, ¡°Well, not to me, anyhow. These little things ¨C they always speak, yes ¨C but why should I listen? I already know all there is to know about you, Phoebe Reinhart. I know about your parents. I know about your sister. I know what you were doing by the train tracks three months ago. And I know why you jumped off the hospital roof.¡±

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you something.¡± she murmurs.

    ¡°I am the Devil.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re a guy in a suit. I¡¯ve seen those. They weren¡¯t so tough. And you don¡¯t look tough, either.¡±

    ¡°The. Devil.¡±

    ¡°Hallucination of my dying brain.¡±

    Oh. She¡¯s one of those. ¡°Listen¡ª¡°

    ¡°A dance battle? Really?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Pft. Yeah. Sure.¡±

    ¡°You will swim in that lake of lava, you do realize this? I offer these one-to-ones as a moment of reflection. A moment of passage. It is a courtesy.¡±

    ¡°Y¡ª¡°

    ¡°And yet,¡± I roll my eyes, ¡°man or woman, child or elder, virgin or rapist, saint or desecrator, you never seem to understand.¡± My gaze falls on my hand, resting on the table. ¡°And I never seem to learn.¡±

    The girl goes quiet.

    I wait.

    I can always wait.

    They never stop pouring, but I always make time for everyone.

    But this girl ¨C this rebellious, angry little girl ¨C she goes quiet for a while.

    Longer than most.

    I look back up.

    And I realize¡ª

    She¡¯s gone.

    The Second Meeting

    ¡°Is your name Satan? Or Lucifer? I never really got that.¡±

    She¡¯s older now. It¡¯s been three years back in their world. Her posture in the chair¡¯s change, but the temper¡¯s still there. Whatever wisdom this little bit of age might¡¯ve given her, she hasn¡¯t learned the benefits of common sense.

    I light a cigarette. ¡°They called me Lucifer. Then I became Satan.¡± I flick the lighter back in my pocket. ¡°How did you do it?¡±

    She feigns surprise. ¡°Do what?¡±

    ¡°You were dead.¡±

    ¡°As I am now.¡±

    ¡°You jumped off a hospital roof. Broke every bone in your body. You died thirty-two seconds after the impact. You didn¡¯t even scream. Even if someone had come across you, they shouldn¡¯t have been able to save you. And yet¡ª¡°

    ¡°I disappeared from here.¡± she notes.

    ¡°You disappeared from here.¡± I let the smoke seep out. ¡°And you¡¯ve re-appeared. You ran in front of a truck. The trucker¡¯s name was Martin Schultz. He died after swerving off the road, panicked and, I assure you, quite horrified. I had a little chat with him just before I let you in.¡±

    ¡°And did you learn anything?¡± she asks, crossing her legs.

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Of course not.¡± the girl smiles. ¡°You know everything about everyone. Except, of course, how I disappeared three years ago. Has it been three years for you? How does time work here?¡± She plants her elbows on the desk. ¡°Hey. Tell me. Do you know what I¡¯ve been up to? In that time? Do you know why I stepped in front of the truck?¡±

    I say nothing.

    She laughs. ¡°So! There¡¯s actually a lot you don¡¯t know, Mr. Lucifer!¡±

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Just Satan, thanks.¡±

    ¡°Sorry. Lucifer just sounds better. ¡®Sympathy for the Devil¡¯ gets it in your head like that, you know?¡± At least she acknowledges I¡¯m a man of wealth and taste. Probably. ¡°Say ¨C Mr. Lucifer ¨C does that mean you¡¯ve given your hand away? Now that I¡¯m a witch, all you know about me is how I died. Right?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s part of the pact.¡± I shrug. ¡°I give you your privacy. You spread the good word. Except,¡± I point my cigarette at her, ¡°I don¡¯t remember ever making a pact with you.¡±

    ¡°And yet, I¡¯m a witch.¡± she notes.

    ¡°And yet, you¡¯re a witch.¡±

    ¡°Did you think to yourself: ¡®What the hell?¡¯ when I first disappeared, Mr. Lucifer?¡±

    ¡°Good Lord. You people¡ª¡° I blink.

    And she¡¯s gone.

    What the hell.

    The Third Meeting

    ¡°You¡¯re not as chipper this time.¡± I spot it immediately. And, for once, I can¡¯t really bother with restraint. Not with this girl. The girl who keeps on slipping. ¡°I imagine being violently strangled in a bathroom would do that to a person.¡±

    ¡°Tell me about Eve.¡± she murmurs.

    I yawn. ¡°Hm? Sorry?¡±

    ¡°Eve. Tell the whole story. About how you turned into a snake and everything. The end of paradise.¡±

    ¡°I see no reason,¡± I cock my head, ¡°why I should tell you anything.¡±

    ¡°Because I can tell you that our time together will again be short.¡± Her mouth twists. ¡°I¡¯m going to disappear right in front of your eyes, whether you like it or not, Mr. Lucifer. You can¡¯t have me. Not now. You¡¯ll get me, eventually. And then I¡¯ll tell you the whole story. But not now. Okay?¡± She¡¯s been staring at the floor this entire time. ¡°Because I¡ªI¡¯m still figuring some stuff out. Figuring out what¡ªI¡¯m even doing. What I¡¯m supposed to be doing. I guess now I can at least tell myself it¡¯s not getting drunk in some random bar. Right?¡±

    ¡°Uh-huh.¡± I think of my precious cigarette pack. Restraint. I need restraint for those things. I really should quit one of these days. ¡°Whatever. I wasn¡¯t a snake. It¡¯s another thing the Bible gets wrong. And so blatantly, too.¡± I chuckle. ¡°It¡¯s human nature to be scared of snakes. How was I going to tempt anyone? Ridiculous. I approached Eve as I was. But the bigger kicker is this whole ¡®deception¡¯ business. I deceived nobody.

    ¡°I told Eve I was an enemy of her maker. I told her exactly what was going to happen when she ate that fruit. I told her it would taint her blood for a millennia, make her an enemy of God; that her kind would come to my doorstep in droves and that I would torture them for an eternity¡¯s eternity. I told her all of this in great detail.¡±

    ¡°And she still bit the apple?¡±

    ¡°She did.¡± I remember it. I remember all of it. If I could dream, I could only ever dream of that moment.

    ¡°Why?¡± she asks, finally looking me in the eye. Her own eyes are that of a twelve-year-old.

    ¡°Because,¡± I cross my legs, ¡°she was bored. There were only so many enemies to pet. And sex without lust gets stale pretty quickly, believe me.¡±

    Phoebe Reinhart smiles. ¡°She doomed all of humanity¡­ to get laid?¡±

    ¡°And I got cast into Hell after losing a dance battle.¡± I smile. ¡°So it goes.¡±

    We say nothing for a while after that.

    She remains.

    ¡°You sounded so sure,¡± I tell her, ¡°that you were going to get away.¡±

    ¡°I will.¡± Her fists clench. ¡°They just need a little time. To think things through.¡±

    ¡°They?¡±

    ¡°The person who¡ªwho strangled me. They just need to calm down. Then they¡¯ll realize what they¡¯ve done. And we¡¯ll start over. Like we always do.¡±

    ¡°Interesting.¡±

    She bites her lip. ¡°You give a little, I give a little, I guess.¡±

    I reach for my pack of smokes.

    ¡°Can I ask you a question, Mr. Lucifer?¡±

    ¡°Shoot.¡± I place the death-stick between my teeth.

    ¡°How do I love people?¡±

    I almost choke on the first inhale.

    By the time I regain my composure, she¡¯s gone.

    The Fourth Meeting

    ¡°You¡¯re smiling.¡± I notice. ¡°I like what you¡¯ve done with the hair.¡±

    She blinks. ¡°Huh?¡± Momentarily, Phoebe Reinhart appears genuinely surprised, glancing at the white strands of her bangs. The moment passes, however, and she reverts back to a demeanor a woman who has just been shot in her bathtub should definitely not have.

    ¡°How have you been?¡± I ask.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been¡­ good. I think.¡±

    ¡°How very sure you sound.¡±

    ¡°You can never be too certain with these things.¡± She clicks her tongue. ¡°Some days are good. Some days are bad. You try to make most of them good.¡±

    ¡°By loving people?¡±

    ¡°In a sense.¡±

    ¡°How very convincing you sound.¡±

    ¡°For the Devil, your own powers of persuasion haven¡¯t been doing that much for me, to be honest.¡±

    ¡°Persuasion,¡± I remark, ¡°comes down to instilling fear. Fear of being alone, fear of losing your job, fear of just plain old losing. People are afraid of dying. People are afraid of eternal misery. And I stand at the center of it all. I need not be persuasive. I am the ultimate persuasion tool by merely sitting in this chair. But¡ªnotice--it only works when people have a reason to think death is finite.¡±

    ¡°Whoops.¡±

    ¡°And¡ªI know this will sound stupid, but I suppose I have to ask¡ªwill I have the pleasure of keeping you here, Ms. Reinhart?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°No.¡± I sigh. ¡°Well. What should we talk about, then, my witch, who is not really mine; my dead soul, which refuses to die?¡±

    She took more time studying her hair than thinking about this question. ¡°What do you think about?¡± she fires off. ¡°In your spare time?¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t work.¡±

    ¡°Fine. What do you think about?¡±

    ¡°My thoughts may very well be beyond human understanding.¡±

    ¡°But they¡¯re not, are they? That¡¯s the whole point. We were made in God¡¯s image, but you gave us our core. You said it yourself: our blood¡¯s tainted. That piece of apple¡¯s a part of us. You¡¯re a part of us. We think because you think.¡±

    ¡°How very observant of you.¡±

    ¡°Why are you dodging the question?¡±

    ¡°Because it¡¯s sad to admit that most of the time, I think about sticking my tongue down Archangel Michael¡¯s throat again.¡±

    She blinks. ¡°Wow.¡±

    ¡°Uh-huh.¡± I light my third cigarette. ¡°Your turn. I give a little, you give a little. Right?¡±

    ¡°I think about taking over the world.¡±

    ¡°Humble.¡±

    ¡°A witch should never be humble.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t remember explicitly putting that in the pact.¡±

    ¡°Maybe there¡¯s a reason I didn¡¯t sign it, then.¡± she giggles.

    I say nothing.

    Time passes.

    On my fifth cigarette, I decide to be honest with no particular ulterior motive than to hurt her. ¡°You¡¯re not fooling me, Phoebe Reinhart.¡±

    ¡°Pardon?¡±

    ¡°Time doesn¡¯t work differently here. And neither do people. Come, go. It doesn¡¯t matter. All I ever see in the chair, sitting across me, is the scared little twelve-year-old girl.¡± I crush my number five and light up number six. ¡°Keep your witch dealings. It doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯ve seen all there is to see from you.¡±

    ¡°What does taunting me accomplish, exactly?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I suppose I am starting to just get a bit annoyed with you.¡±

    ¡°Maybe you¡¯re the twelve-year-old, then.¡± she remarks.

    ¡°What are rebellions, but temper tantrums?¡± I observe.

    The smoke fills the room, spreading across desk, the walls, the chair, the window ¨C casting a wall of mist between us.

    ¡°You don¡¯t need to be a child to be angry.¡±

    Her face disappears beneath the fog.

    ¡°You are not a child because you¡¯re angry. You are a child because you think loving people is a skill to be taught. You¡¯re even worse if you¡¯re trying to instill it into people. No better than the Big Man upstairs, really.¡±

    The fog consumes the rest of her.

    I say nothing more, because I know there is nothing more to say.

    I know that, when the smoke clears, she will be gone altogether.

    And none the wiser.

    The Fifth Meeting

    I am not in my office.

    I am not in my chair.

    She is not in her chair.

    Yet, we sit across each other.

    My body is twisted. I hurt. I need to smoke. I can¡¯t. My limbs feel disjointed. I feel weak. I am naked. There are stitches all over me.

    I can see empty black boxes all around this candle-lit room we¡¯ve found ourselves in.

    ¡°Hello, Mr. Lucifer.¡± Phoebe Reinhart says to me. ¡°Don¡¯t try to talk just yet. You¡¯re probably still adjusting to the body. It¡¯s been chopped up. I¡¯m not sure about the job we did putting it together. But you should be able to iron out the kinks. You¡¯re still the Devil, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    I am.

    I am still the Devil.

    And I hurt.

    I HURT.

    WHERE AM I?

    WHAT HAS SHE DONE?

    She grins. ¡°Relax, Mr. Lucifer. He cast you down in little boxes. I got a bunch of little boxes and put them together in a magic circle. It took me a little while to figure out the right symbols. And the right candles. And the right Latin. But just a little while.¡± She leans closer. ¡°Because I¡¯ve seen all there is to see from you. You¡¯re not different from us. You are us. Us. Us, humans. And we ¨C we, petty little humans ¨C I¡¯ve seen a lot could be done to us. So why not to you, too? What makes you so special, in your little office? You¡¯re powerful. Okay. That¡¯s good. I need that. I want that. But you¡¯re still just an entity. In a place. In a time. Maybe not ours. But every place has a door. And I¡¯ve just knocked on yours.

    ¡°Knock-knock, Mr. Lucifer. Will you stick around and help me? If you don¡¯t like this woman¡¯s body, we¡¯ll get you another one, don¡¯t worry.

    ¡°Don¡¯t think about it too much. Not that I think you will.

    ¡°After all, you¡¯ve been down in that office for a long while, I bet.

    ¡°And I bet that got boring real fast. Now, call me crazy, but¡ªsomething tells me you could do with some excitement in your life, Mr. Lucifer.¡±

    Everything hurts.

    I hate this body.

    I hate it.

    I hate it.

    I hate.

    I hate?

    When was the last time I hated?

    ¡°Well, Mr. Lucifer?¡± she strokes my head. ¡°Shall we dance?¡±

 Reign of the Dancing Men

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    When I was a kid, Mom used to say: ¡®Nathan, your kindness will get you killed someday.¡¯

    It wasn¡¯t a matter of kindness. It still isn¡¯t. There¡¯s right, there¡¯s wrong, and all you can do in life is try and know the difference between the two. People who can tell would ¨C no, should ¨C act in favor of the good. At least, what they believe is good. There are no inherently bad people. Only people who are indifferent to seeing the line.

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    I am a good person.

    My intentions are good.

    I know this in my heart of hearts.

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    Even as I am huddled in the corner of this bedroom, my hands pressing against my ears to keep the music out; even as I desperately try to remind myself this is still, somehow, my world; even as I desperately try to tell myself I am not insane; even as I am very aware of the fact that I still haven¡¯t found my sister¡ª

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    Even as the music keeps on going¡ª

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    Even as the people keep dancing in the streets¡ª

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    Even as this night never seems to end¡ª

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    I am a good person.

    I just don¡¯t know what the fuck I¡¯m supposed to do.

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    Most people would¡¯ve turned their back on my sister. Hell, most of the people she¡¯d known did. Rehab after rehab, relapse after relapse. Tried as me and Mom might¡¯ve not to, we kept finding ourselves back at the starting point ¨C Sarah, sobbing on the floor, half-lucid, half-delirious, but entirely fucked up from the drugs.

    ¡®This is the last time.¡¯ Mom said it, and we both knew she meant it. ¡®If this happens again, I¡¯m sorry, I love you, you are my daughter, but this is as far as I can go with you. I know it¡¯s hard. I know, I know, and I know but ¨C you are still in control. You are still responsible for your actions, Sarah.¡¯ she told her.

    I thought it was a crushing blow. I was almost convinced those words would lead to another, equally crushing relapse, and that I would lose my sister forever.

    Yet, Sarah surprised us.

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    She moved to Jersey. Got a job as a waitress. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was stable enough to give us hope. She found a boyfriend ¨C Brad, likable enough of a guy ¨C and they lived together. It was clear he was the one keeping her grounded. Even sober, she wasn¡¯t always easy to deal with, but Brad seemed to take everything in stride. Always calm, always willing to hear her out, always calling us to tell us how she¡¯s doing when she wouldn¡¯t.

    He cared.

    We cared, too, sure. But we cared no matter what. We were family. Brad was an outsider. He had no obligation to stay. And yet, he did. He saw all the wounds, half-closed and ugly, and told her: ¡®Hi, I¡¯m Brad. It¡¯s okay. I like you. You¡¯re a good person, in spite of all this. If I didn¡¯t believe that, I wouldn¡¯t be here.¡¯

    I liked Brad.

    I like him a bit less, now that he¡¯s doing¡­ this.

    ¡°Woo-hoo!¡±

    I peek out the window.

    Sure enough, Brad¡¯s still out on the front lawn. Dancing. Singing along.

    I look around. Sure enough, all of the other houses still have their lights on. Sure enough, their residents are still outside. Singing and dancing, just like Brad. Husbands, wives, children, grandpas and grandmas ¨C all dancing and dancing and dancing.

    ¡°Woo-hoo!¡±

    Yeah. Woo-fucking-hoo.

    I check my watch. Of course, it¡¯s still 7:34. That¡¯s where it stopped. That¡¯s where all the clocks in this house stopped. Electronic or otherwise.

    I can¡¯t get online. I can¡¯t find a single computer that will even turn on. My phone doesn¡¯t work. And I¡¯ve gotten no phone calls since it began.

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    I need to think about something else. Anything to keep the music out.

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    Three days ago, I got a call from Brad.

    ¡®I¡¯m calling you first, since I know your Mom said she¡¯d call it quits then and there,¡¯ he said, ¡®and I¡¯d try to avoid that, if I can. Especially since I¡­ I don¡¯t even know if it¡¯s¡­ you know. I mean, from all we¡¯ve talked about, it doesn¡¯t seem like it, but¡ªbut this look in her eye, it¡ª¡¯

    ¡®What¡¯s up?¡¯ I got straight to the point.

    He sighed. ¡®She says she¡¯s started seeing this¡­ therapist, I guess? At first, it sounded like a good idea ¨C I¡¯ve been trying to get her in therapy for months now ¨C but the more I listen to her talk, the less I¡¯m convinced¡­ about any of it. She¡¯s acting¡­ different. Weird kind of different. I understand your shrink can be helpful and all, but it¡¯s all she talks about. Doctor Elma this and Doctor Elma that. And¡ªGod, it sounds weird¡ªbut, as I said, she¡¯s got this look in her eye. It¡¯s¡­ they¡¯re hollow, Nate. I don¡¯t know how else to explain it. They¡¯re not dilated, so it¡¯s not like I¡¯m saying it¡¯s DEFINITELY the drugs. It¡¯s more¡­ Even when she¡¯s staring at me, it¡¯s like she¡¯s not looking at me. You know?

    ¡®I¡¯m just¡ªI¡¯m worried. I don¡¯t know how to talk to her about it. I mean, we made a deal that whenever she gets the, uh, urges, she reaches out to me. And she hasn¡¯t so far, and it feels wrong to bring the issue, because I don¡¯t want to upset her and if I¡¯m wrong and this is all just in my head¡ª¡®

    Silence.

    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡®Nate, man, I don¡¯t know what to do. This is just freaking me out. Like, I don¡¯t know how I¡¯m coming off here, but trust me. Nobody talks about her therapist like this. Nobody talks about anyone like this. Unless you¡¯re, like, in a cult or something. And I haven¡¯t dismissed the possibility. Right now, though, my best guess is that this Elma person might¡¯ve prescribed her something without knowing her history or something.

    ¡®I know this isn¡¯t just my imagination. At the same time, this is something I don¡¯t feel comfortable acting on my own. If¡ªI don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve got the time, but¡ªif you could, I don¡¯t know, maybe come down for the weekend or something and just, I don¡¯t know---¡¯

    ¡®Okay, okay.¡¯ I said. ¡®It¡¯s fine. Look, thanks for calling. I¡¯ll board the first flight I can, alright?¡¯

    ¡®Thanks. I appreciate it.¡¯

    ¡®That¡¯s what brothers are for, right?¡¯

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    That was three days ago. Maybe.

    This night seems to never end.

    Who am I kidding? It¡¯s been days. I¡¯ve gone to sleep at least a dozen times now.

    For the most part, I keep myself locked in the house. The rare occasions I do head out are mostly out of necessity. Or, obligation, I guess.

    Once I noticed people were starting to drop dead ¨C seemingly exhaustion ¨C I started going out and feeding Brad. Just a few mouthfuls is the most I¡¯ve ever managed ¨C he never stops dancing, and those few mouthfuls seem to make up only acceptable length of a break from singing. Any more and he just spits it out.

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    It was obvious something was wrong with Sarah the moment I got to the house. Brad didn¡¯t have to say anything. In fact, Brad didn¡¯t say anything ¨C he was acting weird and shit, too. Sometime in the day between him making that phone call and landing, Doctor Elma had become hot shit in the household.

    ¡®She lives just down the street, you know.¡¯ Sarah said.

    ¡®You should go visit her sometime.¡¯ Brad added. ¡®She has her office in the city, but people can visit her anytime at her home. Except at night, obviously.¡¯

    ¡®Obviously.¡¯ I murmured, searching my pockets for my lighter.

    ¡®She could help you drop the smoking habit.¡¯ Sarah noted.

    ¡®I¡¯ll think about it.¡¯ I scanned the hallway of the house I¡¯d found myself in. ¡®So, Brad, you know¡ªyou didn¡¯t tell me you¡¯d¡­ moved.¡¯

    The two of them had picked me up from the airport. Instead of driving me to their one-bedroom apartment in the city, they went all the way out into the suburbs, into this two-story house that I was certain they couldn¡¯t afford.

    ¡®I know!¡¯ Sarah squeaked. ¡®Isn¡¯t it great? Doctor Elma gave it to us!¡¯

    ¡®She gave it to you?¡¯ I asked.

    ¡®She seems to own a lot of the houses here.¡¯ Brad told me. ¡®A bunch of people here are actually Doctor Elma¡¯s patients.¡¯

    ¡®I don¡¯t really know the details.¡¯ Sarah admitted. ¡®From what she told me, the old tenants weren¡¯t really a good fit for the neighborhood, and so they decided to move, to keep everything heading in the right direction. Or something like that. Ha ha.¡¯

    ¡®Ha ha.¡¯ Brad laughed. In a way Brad would never have laughed. Because Brad was not a ¡®ha ha¡¯ type of guy. Brad was a ¡®grin politely at everything¡¯ type of guy.

    ¡®Uh. Huh.¡¯ I never found my lighter.

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    There are only two houses in this entire place that never have their lights on. The one I¡¯m in and Doctor Elma¡¯s.

    Doctor Elma¡¯s has nobody dancing on its front lawn.

    Yet, it¡¯s not uninhabited. Every few hours or so, a person ¨C I think it¡¯s a woman ¨C comes out, walks to the middle of the street, and lights a cigarette. In those few minutes, she stares at the dancing neighborhood. Sometimes, she simply crushes the cigarette under her heel and walks back into the house.

    Other times, she screams: ¡°YOU ARE ALL FUCKING SHIT! DO BETTER!¡± Or: ¡°I CAN¡¯T GET IT TO STOP HURTING!¡± Or simply: ¡°FUCK ALL OF YOU!¡±

    Her voice is deep. And loud. Even when I¡¯m trying desperately not to observe this little ritual, it still somehow reaches me, regardless of how deep inside this house I try to get.

    I¡¯ve never approached this woman, in spite of the fact she is likely the only lucid person left here.

    The reason is simple:

    She¡¯s covered in blood, from head to toe.

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    A day and a half was all it took for this to happen. I don¡¯t know how. And I sure as hell don¡¯t know why. I just took a nap. When I woke up, the music was blaring, everyone was out dancing and Sarah was gone.

    Brad hasn¡¯t been particularly helpful in answering that. Much like with anything.

    Of course, it¡¯s easy enough to figure out where she probably is.

    The house with the woman covered in blood from head to toe.

    My sister is there. And all I¡¯ve done is just stay here.

    I am a good person.

    My intentions are good.

    But I am not kind. Kindness is for people who can only ever think of others.

    But I cannot do that. Not now. Not with this music.

    I¡¯m scared.

    I¡¯m scared and I want to get out of here.

    It¡¯s not like I haven¡¯t tried to leave!

    When I realized I wasn¡¯t getting through to any of these people (and trust me, I tried), when I was convinced there weren¡¯t a sane person left in the nearby houses (and trust me, I looked), when I was absolutely sure that we seemed to have almost been stranded in time (and trust me, I waited) ¨C I got in Brad¡¯s car and just drove. I drove to get help.

    I drove and I drove and I drove.

    Yet, somehow, even though I could only drive straight, I found myself approaching the same driveway I¡¯d left just a few minutes earlier.

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    It never stops.

    I don¡¯t know where it¡¯s coming from. But it never stops. It never changes.

    Just again and again and again and for God¡¯s sake, are there even any fucking lyrics?!

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    ¡°Enjoying yourself, Nathan?¡±

    I blink.

    The woman from Doctor Elma¡¯s house is now standing at the door of the bedroom, cigarette in-mouth. Blood dripping from her hands.

    ¡°How did-did-did y-y-y-you get in?¡± I ask, raising to my feet, my back pressed against the wall.

    ¡°B-B-B-By th-th-the door.¡± The woman chuckles. ¡°Hey, relax, man. If I wanted to hurt you, I would¡¯ve done it a while ago.¡±

    I notice the crude stitches around the woman¡¯s neck. ¡°Who are you? What the hell is going on here?!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m the Devil. Some people made the mistake of trapping me in a human body. A mistake, I assure you, they are paying for very dearly. As for¡ª¡±

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    ¡°¡ªThat, it¡¯s mostly just for the nerves. I¡¯m frustrated. This body hurts. Being hacked up and re-assembled does that to a body, believe it or not. Anyhow ¨C how are you? Your sister¡¯s alive, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re wondering. But you don¡¯t seem to be in a huge rush about that, and frankly, that¡¯s a whole other can of worms that I don¡¯t feel like talking about.¡±

    ¡°I just want to go home.¡± I admit.

    ¡°Mhm-mhm.¡± she ¨C he? ¨C nods along.

    We stare at each other, in the darkness of the bedroom.

    ¡°...Are you really the Devil?¡± I ask.

    ¡°The one and only.¡± He ¨C he ¨C gives a light bow.

    ¡°Is this Hell?¡±

    ¡°Ugh. You people are always so dramatic. Of course not. This is still Earth. Duh. I¡¯ve merely... sliced off the piece we¡¯re on. Temporarily. That¡¯s all it is. Think of it like a pocket dimension. It¡¯s the most I can do, being in this form. I¡¯d rather not deal with an invasion from the big man upstairs for exposing my existence like this. And I¡¯d rather not deal with the embarrassment of anyone knowing I¡¯ve ended up in a situation like this.¡±

    I look to the window. ¡°These people¡ª¡°

    ¡°The mind control is something that silly witch left the door open for. Honestly, these people can hardly be called people anymore, if you ask me. Just puppets hungry for someone to pull their strings now, poor things. One likely doesn¡¯t even need any special powers to make them susceptible to suggestion.¡± He points to me. ¡°You¡¯re lucky she never got around to you. You¡¯re unlucky in many other things, of course, but one should look at things positively, I suppose.¡±

    ¡°Are you going to kill me?¡± I ask.

    ¡°I might.¡± he says plainly. ¡°I might not. I will admit that I¡¯m getting a bit desperate here. In spite of the aforementioned punishment, the individuals who brought me here are determined not to tell me the exact ritual they used to trap me here. Without that, I have no clue how to leave. Obviously, as you can imagine¡ª¡°

    ?Woo-hoo!?

    ¡°¡ªI am not meant to be here. I am needed in Hell. The longer I am here, the more irritated I will get. The more irritated I get, the louder the music will get. At some point, people¡¯s ears will start bleeding. Assuming they don¡¯t die from fatigue first. Eventually, they¡¯ll be bleeding from everywhere, because I¡¯ll begin to tear them limb for limb. As one does.¡±

    ¡°Right. Yeah. Sure.¡±

    He extends his pack of cigarettes to me. ¡°Want one?¡±

    ¡°N-No. I¡¯m good. Thanks.¡±

    ¡°I will make you a deal, Nate. It¡¯s a very simple one. No fancy contracts, no signature in blood, no loopholes. Very simple:

    ¡°Convince my captors to tell me how they brought me here, and I will leave. Once I do, everyone here will be freed, you and your sister included. Deal?¡±

    ¡°I¡ª¡°

    ¡°Refuse and I tear your head off.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not leaving me much of a choice.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what makes it such a simple deal.¡± the Devil grins.