ã€ŠQuiet Night, Loud Nightmaresã€‹


 The Devil Lives in My Friendéˆ¥æªš Right Ear

    I was nodding off when my Lit teacher told everyone in our class to pair up. At the sound of scampering feet, and chairs scraping the linoleum floor, I snapped awake, straightened myself up, and looked around. The others had chosen their partners. And not one of them thought to approach me.

    ¡°Jejomar, looks like you¡¯ll have to pair up with Alberto,¡± said the teacher.

    My stomach curled when I spotted a lumpy shadow in the far corner at the back of the classroom looking like a sad sack of potatoes.

    Berto the Weirdo.

    That was the unfortunate name my peers had tacked on to him. And they weren¡¯t exactly wrong. Berto was a strange 17-year-old boy. He¡¯d say the most peculiar, sometimes outlandish, statements. One of them caused a ruckus at school the previous month, and it nearly got him expelled.

    He had cut off our history teacher mid-lecture, and blurted out that Abraham Lincoln, 16th US president, was going to rise from the dead and invade the school along with his dead army of Union soldiers. And he advised that we should heed his warning carefully. There was going to be an invasion.

    The class fell dead silent. We all gawked at him. He couldn¡¯t be serious, we all thought. But he didn¡¯t blink, his dried lips didn¡¯t crack a smile. Berto was serious. After a moment of suspense, someone burst into laughter. Then, one by one, the others joined in.

    ¡°Lincoln wasn¡¯t even buried in this state!¡± the history teacher cried through his laughter.

    They didn¡¯t see how Berto¡¯s eyes narrowed, how his ears burned red, and how he ground his teeth and muttered under his breath, ¡°You¡¯ll see soon enough.¡±

    The following day he swaggered into school dressed up like a gunslinger with a Winchester rifle slung over his shoulder and a set of daggers underneath his long leather coat. But Abraham Lincoln and his dead army of Union soldiers didn¡¯t rise from their graves and invade the school. The rifle was fake, though that couldn¡¯t keep him out of trouble. The school was put on lockdown and everyone else scattered to the closest rooms they could find and locked themselves in, until the cops arrived.

    After that went on, somehow Berto was allowed to stay at the school. Some said it was because his dad, a rich businessman of an obscure trade, wrote the School Board a fat check. Money talks, as they say.

    Now, Berto the Weirdo was going to be my partner for a stupid class assignment.

    ¡°Um...¡± I uttered as I shot my hand up in the air.

    The teacher turned from the chalkboard and raised a brow. ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°Can I work alone?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°But--¡±

    ¡°I think I¡¯ve told you to pair up with Alberto!¡±

    ¡°Fucking hell,¡± I grumbled.

    ¡°What did you say?¡±

    ¡°Nothing!¡±

    I braced myself. I needed every ounce of the universe¡¯s mystical powers to get me through this hour-long ordeal.

    Seeing that the lumpy sack of potatoes wasn¡¯t going to move where I was, I picked up my notebook and textbook, and plopped into the empty desk beside him. Berto didn¡¯t have his textbook, not even a pencil or a notebook. I knew right then I¡¯d be carrying the weight of the assignment for both of us. And I¡¯d completely forgotten what story we were reading in class.

    "Hey, do you even know which chapter we¡¯re supposed to be reading?¡± I asked him, but he didn¡¯t respond, not even a glance over in my direction. He was busy biting the skin around his thumb and staring at the bloody progress he¡¯d made chewing it off.

    I waved my hand in front of his face. He slowly turned. His gaze crept along my skin. I shuddered. An unsettling presence lurked behind those brown eyes. I couldn¡¯t put a finger on what exactly it was, but it frightened me.

    ¡°I can¡¯t hear with my right ear,¡± he said, flatly. ¡°You¡¯ve got to be on my left side.¡±

    Grumbling, I lifted the desk slightly off the floor and scooted over to his left side, wedging myself between him and another student, who threw me a nasty look for bumping into her leg and letting one of the legs of the desk stomp on her backpack on the floor. But after I had settled down to flip open my textbook, a sudden gust of wind came out from nowhere and leafed through the pages. I watched in confused shock until it landed on a page with a picture of the Devil. Flashing his pearly whites, he seemed to stare at me from the page, with barely concealed malice. It was a chapter on the portrayals of the Devil in classic literature with excerpts from Milton¡¯s Paradise Lost, Goethe¡¯s Faust, and Dante¡¯s Inferno.

    I scooted my desk closer to Berto and laid the book between us. He glanced at the picture and giggled. With his face turned away from me, he was whispering to someone else, though there was no one on the other side of him.

    I tapped him on the shoulder.

    Slowly, he turned to face me. ¡°Yeah, what?¡±

    ¡°We need to get started on the assignment.¡±

    I still didn¡¯t know what exactly we were supposed to do. I squinted at the chalkboard trying to make out the chalky scribbles. I needed to focus but Berto¡¯s giggling was distracting.

    ¡°What are you laughing about?¡± I snapped.

    Grinning, he shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s nothing.¡±

    ¡°Well, if it¡¯s so funny, then I want to know.¡±

    He stroked the sparse hairs on his chin and pondered for a moment. And then, he leaned over and, tapping a finger on the Devil¡¯s picture, he whispered, ¡°Mr. Friendly thinks he¡¯s much more handsome than this coxcomb here,¡± slapping a hand over his mouth to hide his snickering, ¡°but I told him that all goats look the same anyway.¡±

    ¡°Who the hell is Mr. Friendly?¡±

    I thought perhaps he had a Bluetooth piece in his ear and was chatting with someone on the phone. But then he pointed to his right ear. The ear with which he claimed he couldn¡¯t hear well.

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± I said.

    ¡°He lives right here,¡± he said, rubbing his ear. ¡°I think it¡¯s why I can¡¯t hear with this ear; Mr. Friendly takes up all the space inside and¡ªdamn¡ªhe sure is a loud talker.¡±

    I didn¡¯t know how to respond, honestly. I scanned the room hoping that maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªthere was another classmate without a partner. The students, however, were all perfectly paired up, and by the look on their faces, they were glad to not have ended up with Berto. Some threw a pitiful glance at me.

    Berto frowned. ¡°You don¡¯t believe me, I know.¡±

    Of course not! Why would anyone believe anything he said? This was the same guy who was convinced that the tomato sauce in the school¡¯s cheese pizza was made with the blood of aborted fetuses. That rumor spread faster than wildfire ripping through a dry-ass Arizona field on a summer¡¯s day. It riled up some folks. They stormed the cafeteria and screamed at the workers. A vicious brawl broke out, and it ended with the head lunch lady being sent to the hospital with a spork in her eye, but no arrests were made.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you know what you¡¯re saying?¡± I asked him. ¡°I mean it¡¯s...¡± I paused to search for the right word without setting him off. ¡°It¡¯s...just--I mean---just so, bizarre!¡±The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    He glowered.

    ¡°Besides,¡± I went on, ¡°it¡¯s probably earwax that¡¯s clogging your ear canal.¡±

    He rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a small flashlight. ¡°See for yourself,¡± he said, handing me the flashlight. I balked but he egged me on. ¡°Come on, look!¡±

    He twisted his body around, so that I could peer into his right ear with the light. Aside from the white flakes sprinkled about in the outer part, his ear canal was deep and pitch-black, meaning that there was nothing there.

    As I was about to tell him how much he was full of shit and that I was quite sure it was a thick wad of earwax sitting deep in the canal, when I thought I heard¡ªno, no, couldn¡¯t be¡ªbut there it was again...a distinctive, clear and crisp, voice saying, ¡°Salutations Jejomar,¡± and then the squeaking hinges of a door being shut closed.

    A loud smack rang in the air. I jumped.

    The teacher had slapped a long ruler against the chalkboard, and it had broken in half.

    ¡°Jejomar! Alberto! This isn¡¯t playtime!¡± she shrilled, glaring at me and Berto. ¡°Get back to work!¡±

    I shoved the flashlight back into his hands and attempted to read a passage, but I couldn¡¯t focus. The words on the page blended into one inky whirlpool. My mind wandered back to Berto¡¯s right ear, and it made me remember the time when my dad took my little sister to a healer.

    After she had complained about mind-numbing headaches, my parents drove my sister to the doctor who conducted several tests and yet found nothing wrong. Healthy as an ox, he told them. But then she started bleeding from her eyes and nose. My dad carried her to the healer who lived in an old apartment complex down the block.

    The healer was an elderly man who we called Papay. My dad laid my sister down on the couch. Papay grabbed an egg from the kitchen and rubbed my sister¡¯s head with it, while mumbling a prayer under his breath. At that time, I thought ¡®oh, boy, here we go. We were going to get swindled out of a hundred bucks.¡¯

    Those thoughts, however, were erased when Papay cracked the egg into a bowl and, instead of the clear egg white with the yolk at its center, it was deep brown spotted with white fuzzy spores. He told dad that my sister had a malicious spirit inside of her. He called it a dem¨°nio. To extract the dem¨°nio, Papay concocted a special drink. He stirred hot water in a mug with calamansi, a root, and a white powder.

    My sister¡¯s face scrunched up. The taste was too sour and too bitter, but she did what she was told and drank every drop. Then, the mug slipped from her hands. Her head whipped back, and she let out a terrible gut-wrenching scream as a tiny wrinkly hairless pink creature with the face of a red-eyed rat crawled out of her nostril. The dem¨°nio made for the door, but Papay, who was as swift as a hawk, caught it with his left foot, pinching it between his big toe and pointer toe. With a quick snap, he popped its head like a fat red pimple squirting out a gush of yellow pus.

    My stomach churned just thinking about it. But then, an idea sprung up.

    ¡°I¡¯ll believe you,¡± I said to Berto, ¡°if you do a simple test.¡±

    Intrigued, Berto raised a brow. ¡°A test?¡±

    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s a test to see if you¡¯re telling the truth.¡±

    ¡°Alright, test me, then!¡±

    I dug through my bag and retrieved an egg from a small Tupperware. It was a hard-boiled egg, but I thought it would do the trick the same as Papay¡¯s.

    ¡°Rub your right ear with this and if the egg turns black and moldy inside,¡± I explained, ¡°then that means Mr. Friendly is there, and if it¡¯s white¡ª¡±

    Berto snatched the egg from my hand before I could finish. He rubbed it on his right ear in circles and handed it back to me, looking on expectantly. As I peeled off the shell, a revolting odor dominated the classroom without mercy. It ripped through my nostrils and watered my eyes. It was as if I had stepped into a public restroom where the smell of urine and excrement thickened the moist air.

    ¡°No eating in class!¡± the teacher screamed. She pointed to a poster of classroom rules on the wall. ¡°Put that aw--¡± she stopped abruptly, her face turning green. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she bolted out of the classroom.

    The other students were retching. They knocked over the desks and chairs as they scrambled for the door. Some went straight to the windows and flung them open.

    I also rushed to the windowsill and gasped for air. When I swerved around, sliding to the floor completely winded, I watched Berto pick up the rotten egg off the floor, sniff it, and gobble it up. There was no doubt in my mind that a dem¨°nio was living in Berto¡¯s ear. And judging by the stink the egg exuded, it was an incredibly malevolent one. Now, I realized, perhaps it was the reason why he¡¯d say and do things that were so...unhinged.

    ¡°All right, I believe you,¡± I said, settling back into my desk.

    Glaring at Berto, the other students returned to their seats and whispered among themselves. And with the teacher being absent, a few took the opportunity to ditch the class.

    Berto¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°Oh, do you now?¡±

    ¡°Yes, sure.¡± I nodded. ¡°But don¡¯t you think that Mr. Friendly isn¡¯t so¡ªwell¡ªvery friendly?¡±

    Again, he stroked the hairs on his chin and thought hard. ¡°He¡¯s been annoying me lately. He never shuts up. Sometimes he wants me to do things. I mean, sometimes they¡¯re fun things. Like the time when we snuck into the principal¡¯s house and brought his cat home with us.¡±

    He chuckled fondly at the memory.

    My eyes widened. ¡°That was you!¡± I had heard about the principal¡¯s missing cat and had seen the ¡®lost cat¡¯ posters around the school. ¡°What happened to it? What did you do with it?¡±

    He sighed. ¡°Mr. Friendly got hungry.¡±

    ¡°Fuck, Berto!¡±

    ¡°But he crossed the line when he wanted my dog!¡±

    ¡°So, do you want to give Mr. Friendly an eviction notice, then?¡±

    He nodded with a mournful look. ¡°You don¡¯t understand how this is driving me close to the breaking point!¡± He yanked at his hair. ¡°I need help. Can you help me?¡±

    ¡°Why would I help you?¡±

    ¡°Because you¡¯re my partner in this class.¡±

    Well, not by choice. But I kept my mouth shut.

    ¡°And you¡¯re the type,¡± he continued, ¡°to help a fellow man, no matter who it is, whether he be a bum on the streets or not. You have a good sense of morals; you know what is right and wrong.¡±

    ¡°How can I help, though?¡±

    Berto¡¯s eyes twinkled with a glimmer of hope that I might finally offer him the relief that he so desperately craved. And though Berto and I weren¡¯t the best of friends, I was willing to save another fellow human being.

    ¡°I¡¯ve tried to pick him out with a pair of tweezers,¡± he said, ¡°but it was too difficult. There¡¯s something in the way. And I was a little scared to continue; I thought I might accidentally puncture my eardrum.¡±

    ¡°You want me to try to pick your ear?¡±

    He rifled through his pockets and took out the slender tweezers. ¡°Yes,¡± he affirmed, handing me the tool and the flashlight.

    I grimaced.

    Normally, if anyone were to ask me to clean their ears, I¡¯d downright turn them down. But this was different. This was another human being who was suffering. He had a dem¨°nio in his ear, and he needed help. My help. So, peering into his ear with the flashlight, I inserted the tweezers, going deep, until it bumped into something hard. I poked at it a couple of times.

    ¡°Ah, ah!¡± Berto cried.

    ¡°Does it hurt?¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s just loud. Like you¡¯re banging on a door inside my ear.¡±

    ¡°Hold on. I think I¡¯ve got it.¡±

    I squeezed the tweezers on something, and after a few tugs, something gave way, and I withdrew from what appeared to be a door made from amber-colored wax with its hinges and door knob of a hardened blackish crust.

    ¡°Ah, wonderful!¡± Berto whooped. ¡°I can hear clearly now!¡±

    I flicked the wax chunk away and shined the light into the ear canal.

    ¡°Do you see him?¡± he asked.

    ¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡±

    He laid his head on his desk with his right side facing up. ¡°Look a little closer.¡±

    I upped the brightness on the flashlight and, drawing myself closer to his ear, I squinted. A gust of hot wind whipped about me, lifting notebooks, textbooks, pencils, and papers up into the air in circles. Every second the wind grew stronger, hotter.

    Covering my head with my arms, I ducked under a desk, and when the storm had calmed, I opened my eyes and found myself in a scorching tunnel. At one end was a bright light, while on the other end was the pitch-black abyss. I tried to turn on the flashlight, smacking it against the wall, but it only lasted a fleeting moment before flickering away and dying.

    I had this unshakeable feeling that something was watching me from the darkness. Then a voice called out to me. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to run. Something was coming. Closer and closer. I made a mad dash towards the light end of the tunnel. And as I ran to the light, the ground began to shake, throwing me off my feet. And a great amber wall of wax materialized before me, completely blocking the light and sealing me in the darkness.

    I wanted to scream but the torrid air burned my throat and lungs. My eyes wilted and crumbled like crushed autumn leaves. My mouth dried up and my tongue shriveled like a sun-dried pepper. All the moisture in my body was evaporating, and I crumbled to the ground. I lay there powerless, too weak to fight off Mr. Friendly as he dragged me by the legs into his lair.

 Mr. Agustin Takes a Lunch Break

    It was a mundane Monday, just another dull day on his way to a dreadful job. Dante Agustin was running late for work. He pushed through the other pedestrians, picking up the pace to make it across the street before the light turned, but it was too late.

    He let out a frustrated sigh and looked up at the dreary sky. The towers of glass and steel loomed over him like giant overlords, casting their shadows over the minions.

    Dante shivered under their cold gaze as he waited for the light at the crosswalk to turn green. He spotted a growing crowd in front of a restaurant, with the line wrapping around the block. He removed his glasses, cleaned the lenses with the cloth he had pulled from his pocket, and slipped them back on.

    "HAMS." It read on the restaurant''s black awning in bold gold letters.

    "What''s going on over there?" he heard someone ask.

    "I heard a new restaurant opened up the other day," someone answered.

    "Is it any good?"

    "It must be; just look at the line! It''s not even open yet."

    "HAMS! What kind of name is that for a restaurant?"

    When he arrived at the corporate building, he rushed through the glass turnstile doors, hurried to the elevator, and punched the button to go up to the 49th floor. With his suit soaked in sweat, he huffed and puffed to his cubicle, where he plopped himself down in his chair.

    He frowned at the piles of paperwork that had suddenly appeared overnight in his inbox. They were as high as city skyscrapers. For the next four hours, he stuck to the routine of settling complaints, reviewing forms, and stamping papers with the company''s signature red seal.

    The job was physically taxing. The joints in his fingers tightened, and his wrists began to numb. But he buried himself deeper into work. The work overwhelmed him, almost sinking him into the dirt under its steel weight.

    The Big Clock on the wall clucked its tongue. Its tick-tocks prickled the tiny hairs in his ears, and the stifling air heightened his irritation. At times, Dante believed the Big Clock was self-aware. It would tease the workers by pretending to glitch¡ªits second hand slowed, and the minute hand twitched.

    Have patience, he told himself. It was almost lunch break.

    The Big Clock knew what every worker was thinking. Smirking, it lingered a moment longer on the 59th second before moving on to the next minute.

    Dante''s stomach grumbled. His growing frustration was locked up inside his guts. He had never once publicly shown a disagreeable manner, which had earned him "Employee of the Month" a few times a year. The recognition came with a company pen, a candy bag, and the best reward yet¡ªa $15 gift card to any diner within a mile radius of the office.

    Dante struggled to focus. His fingers tingled as if he had just plunged his hands through a thicket of pine needles. The tingling coursed up his arms to his brain, and then a lightheadedness swept him off his seat. Weightless, he floated from his desk.

    His co-workers poked their heads up and gawked like gophers out of a hole. Laughing, he waved goodbye and flew out of an open window. He flew up above the skyscrapers, which narrowed their steely eyes at him and gnashed their glass teeth in rage. They stretched out their long steel arms, whipping them about to grab him by the ankles and chain him back to his desk. But he was too high up in the sky now. He had reached the stratosphere.

    The sight took his breath away. Clouds rippled before him like ocean waves, and rings and orbs of heavenly colors surrounded him. He curled up into a ball, closed his eyes, and imagined what it was like to be in a womb. But the high didn''t last long.

    A disapproving "ahem" popped Dante''s little daydream bubble. He fell from the sky and collapsed back onto his desk, with an ankle shackled to the desk''s leg. He felt the invisible chain''s weight and its hundreds of tiny teeth digging into his skin and bone.

    The building rumbled. It was laughing. The walls and floor vibrated, and the fluorescent lights above swayed.

    Sliding his glasses back to their rightful place on the bridge of his nose, he lifted his eyes to look at the intruder.

    The Supervisor of Employee Productivity, a large man built like an ox, loomed over the towers of documents, envelopes, memos, and manila folders on the desk, which quivered under the pressure. He existed to make sure the employees were on task. If he caught one asleep or not present at their desk, he noted the minutes and added them to the time they''d be required to stay after office hours.

    Overtime... it sent shivers up Dante''s spine. Though he hadn''t served overtime (yet), he had heard from others that after 5 o''clock, the atmosphere on the 49th floor would shift. The air thinned. The lighting glared hotter and brighter, stinging the eyes. The Big Clock took pleasure in the workers'' angst. It slowed, so that seconds stretched to hours. Sometimes it stopped altogether, and the employees would languish in despair for what felt like an eternal sentence, though in reality, only an hour had passed.

    "Catching a few winks, Mr. Agustin?"

    The Supervisor took one of the papers from Dante''s desk and began reading. He had a fried burger in his other hand. The meat protruded between the buns like a fat burnt tongue slowly slipping over crusty lips. It had a strange and sweet fragrance, like honey mixed with grease.

    The Supervisor took a bite of the burger. He helped himself to a second and then a third bite, each time emitting a sound¡ªsomewhat of a snort. An oink.

    "No, I wasn''t¡ª" Dante started to say, his heart drumming hard in his ears, "I mean, I''ve been just so tired lately..." his voice trailed off, then he cleared his throat and kept his head down. "I know... I know, sir, that there''s no excuse."

    The Supervisor returned the paper to the pile, but it slipped, somersaulted weightlessly in the air, and landed in front of Dante. On the left margin, right by the paper''s edge, there was a greasy thumbprint.

    "This isn''t the report that was due yesterday," said his superior, flatly.

    "The report?"

    The Supervisor nodded. "Yes, the weekly ''Self-Reflection on Performance'' report that every employee here is required to submit. Come on, Mr. Agustin, you know that!"

    Dante''s stomach dropped. "I haven''t typed it up yet."

    "That''s not like you!"

    "W-Well, I... you see..." he fumbled for an excuse, "My computer has been unusually slow, and sometimes it freezes."

    The Supervisor shook his head in disappointment. "Tsk, tsk! Looks like you''ll have to work overtime¡ª"

    "But!" Dante interjected. "Rest assured that you''ll receive my report before five o''clock today."

    With bated breath, Dante fidgeted in his seat. He drummed his fingers on the desk. He rolled his pen between his fingers. His right leg shook.

    The Supervisor leaned over so that his face was mere inches from Dante''s. A gust of onions, melted cheese, and meat blew from the Supervisor''s flared nostrils and gaping mouth. Naturally, when someone breathed in his face, Dante would have taken a step back. But the aroma captivated him. It reeled him in like a seductress beckoning him to enter the bedroom. His stomach growled loudly. It yearned for lunch.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    The Big Clock was just a second away from announcing lunch break. It heard the stomach growls of the workers and purposely yawned, pausing its second hand, which caused its minute hand to spasm. Hearing an employee burst into tears, the Big Clock cackled.

    ¡°All right, that''s fine by me,¡± the Supervisor finally said, ¡°But remember that late work may affect your chances of having your name entered in the lottery for a promotion this year.¡±

    He dug through his pocket and offered a peppermint candy in the palm of his hand. ¡°A little encouragement to keep you going, Mr. Agustin!¡±

    Dante cautiously reached out, and as he picked up the candy, the Supervisor''s hand snapped shut around his like a clam and squeezed.

    The blood drained from Dante''s face.

    ¡°Is there something else you wanted, sir?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Mr. Agustin, why didn''t you attend the office party last weekend?¡±

    Surprised by the question, Dante thought it over; he tried to remember the reason he gave. Unable to recall, he shrugged and gave the Supervisor an apologetic look.

    ¡°I think I wasn''t feeling well that night. Why do you ask?¡±

    He sighed in relief when his hand was released from its trap.

    The Supervisor shrugged his shoulders. ¡°I noticed that you''ve been withdrawn lately. Perhaps you should attend another gathering that I''ll be hosting this Friday night after work,¡± his voice rose in excitement, ¡°I''ve just reserved a room at HAMS. Fantastic place! The food there... Well, it''s something else! And they''ve only opened just the other day! I don''t know what it is, but¡­¡±

    The Supervisor¡¯s voice faded into the background as Dante inspected the man¡¯s glistening face.

    Dante removed his glasses, cleaned the lenses with the cloth, and slipped them back on. He squinted. His eyes settled on the nose. It was pushed back like a snout. The nostrils flared and snorted.

    He straightened himself up in the chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He ogled at the unshaved chins. Two, four, six chins he counted. They weren¡¯t there before. He was sure of it. They quaked with every word as the Supervisor rambled on.

    ¡°So, are you going to come or not?¡±

    A pair of black beady eyes zeroed in on him.

    ¡°Oh¡­uh¡­yeah. Yeah, I mean¡ªI don¡¯t know¡± Dante stumbled again on his words. ¡°¡ªbut, you know, I¡¯ll think about it. I¡¯ll definitely think about it.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be a loner, Mr. Agustin. We¡¯re a family here! And if you want to get anywhere in life, then you¡¯ve got to open up a bit to people.¡±

    The Supervisor smiled, unknowingly showing the chewed pieces of dark meat that bespeckled his beige teeth.

    The Big Clock screeched like a banshee, signaling lunch break. The other employees practically leapt out of their chairs, grabbing their hats and coats, and raced towards the elevator hall.

    The Supervisor frowned. He hated it when the workers took lunch breaks. It was known in the company that he had made numerous attempts to whittle the break from an hour to eleven minutes.

    ¡°Lunch breaks set back productivity,¡± he once argued. ¡°Hunger is motivation to work a little harder, thereby increasing productivity!¡±

    Dante pushed back his glasses on his nose. He was fixated on the Supervisor¡¯s face.

    Did his eyes get darker? Did his nose seem stubbier than a moment ago? The tuft of hair on his chins, however, glistened even more.

    These questions and thoughts on his close observations followed Dante across the street to the mass gathering at the restaurant, HAMS. Every man, woman, child, cat, and dog were waiting outside. With a ticket number in hand, they pressed their wet noses against the windows, anxious for the hostess to call out their number.

    A savory smell poured out when the hostess opened the doors and called out a number. The smell cast a spell upon the mass of curious and excited diners. Their noses turned up, and they took a deep breath, holding it in their lungs to savor the aroma as long as possible before releasing it in one longing sigh.

    Dante admitted to himself that he was no different from those who crowded before its doors. And like them, he was entranced by the smell. His mouth salivated.

    When his number came up, he pushed through the herd who groaned in disappointment and angrily grumbled about the long wait. The hostess flashed him a saccharine smile and escorted him to a table for one. Then, a beaming waitress approached his table. She recommended the ¡°HAMS House Burger,¡± their current popular dish. It came with thick potato wedges, a generous amount of coleslaw and pickles, and a soda with a silly straw that had more loops and curves than a roller coaster. But after a few minutes scanning the other dishes listed on the menu, he decided to order the pork onion soup, and the waitress complimented sincerely on his choice.

    Slouching in the chair, he glanced around the crowded, smoky restaurant, curious to know what others had on their plates. The first thing that struck him was the alluring smell. It played and twirled with his nostril hairs. It kissed his mouth and tugged at his tongue. He shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie.

    "Perhaps I should''ve ordered the house burger," he thought. "Is it too late to change the order?" But as he raised his hand to wave at a waitress, he caught sight of a couple sitting at the table next to the window, where a group of salivating young folks peered in from the outside.

    Two juicy "HAMS House Burgers" sat happily on plates before the round and pink couple. They tended to the burgers with such care and awe, as if they were the proud parents of newborn twins. Their mouths enclosed the meal, and instantly their eyes darkened and glazed like melted sugar poured over chocolate doughnut balls. They basked in waves of carnal lust.

    The burger''s grease glowed like gold and shone on their chin hairs, leaving little golden droplets on the front of their shirts. The woman''s peach-shaped face darkened from pink to magenta, and her greased pink lips shone like polished wood.

    The man''s forehead sweated as he undid his tie, easing the discomfort on his growing and reddening neck. The ends of his handlebar mustache stood erect. After lingering in that blessed moment, they gorged on the food without restraint.

    Dante turned his eyes away, sickened by the scene yet secretly aroused. He laid his gaze on a loud family of five seated at a long table. They had a small child who restlessly swayed in its highchair. He noted that each plate had the house burger, and even the child fed on some morsels served in a little trough. Their eyes darkened and glazed over, too.

    So absorbed by the scene, he didn''t realize the waitress had already brought his hot soup. The aroma, like a pair of lovers'' hands, rose from the bowl to cup his cheeks in its warmth. It pecked him on the nose and moistened his lips.

    He gingerly dipped a finger and tasted the creamy soup. It tasted sweet like honey and bitter like blood, and though that would make anyone recoil in disgust, the flavor roped him in. The steam rising from the bowl whipped around his neck like a noose and yanked him closer.

    Just as his tongue rolled out to dip into the soup, he heard a creature oink. He glanced over at the other diners around him. In disbelief, he removed his glasses and searched for the cloth in his pocket.

    "I must''ve left it at the office," he mumbled to himself as he used his shirt to clean the glasses.

    The people were changing. Their eyes shrank into beady black eyes, and their noses shifted into snouts. Their clothes stretched and ripped at the seams as their bodies transformed into the shape of pot-bellied pigs. With each bite of the HAMS burger, they snorted and squealed in excitement.

    He wasn''t imagining the event at all. No, no, no. This was truly happening! He clutched his chest in shock with one hand and gripped the tablecloth with the other. He watched as the diners fell to the floor on newly morphed four-toed feet. High-pitched squeals ruptured from their mouths.

    Then, chaos broke loose. What were once well-mannered humans were now aggressive, loud, and riotous pigs. They ran amok. They turned over tables and knocked down chairs. Plates, mugs, and wine glasses shattered on the floor. Silverware was scattered, and the tablecloths and napkins were shredded into bits.

    Caught in the whirlwind, he clung to the chair for dear life but was violently thrown off. He froze as a couple of pink creatures approached him. They sniffed and licked the soles of his shoes. They snorted, sniffing their way up to his pale face. One smeared grease across his cheek with its lips.

    Then, realization struck him. He recognized the peach-shaped head of the creature and its companion with the erected handlebar mustache. It was the couple he had seen earlier.

    Their black beady eyes bore into his. He saw a sliver of their former selves. They were once like him. They were once chained to a desk and buried six feet under a pile of paperwork and had served overtime. But now they were free! They had never felt so liberated and jovial. They could eat whatever they wanted, love whomever they lusted after, and roam wherever they desired.

    "Be with us," Dante swore he heard them say.

    With trembling hands, he reached out and stroked their heads. His heart fluttered. Their short coarse hairs tickled his fingers, sending a strange but thrilling sensation through him. They leaned into his touch. For the first time in a long while, he was moved.

    All the stress and frustration that had built up inside of him for years and years, one layer atop another, finally collapsed!

    A howl ripped through his throat. It shook the walls, cracked the floor, and shattered his glasses. He was exhausted but at peace.

    Leaning forward, he kissed them both on each blushing cheek. Then, wrapping his arms around one of them, he nuzzled their skin and breathed in their scent. The softness of their flesh made his skin hum in excitement. As he sank his teeth into their softness, joyful tears flooded his eyes as the metamorphosis coursed through his body.

 Smiley Companions

    Mrs. Moon looked forward to watching church service on TV every Sunday morning. Not only because she was a faithful follower, but because the priest reminded her of her late husband. That, and the fact that one of the altar boys was the spitting image of her son. Watching the service brought back memories of the days when they all prepared for church, as a family. She¡¯d fuss over Mr. Moon''s crooked tie and smooth out little Dae-seong''s hair, especially that stubborn little sprig of a cowlick.

    But those days were long ago, more of a dream now than a memory. She tried to cling onto the fleeting remnants of these moments as the sunlight seeped through the blinds and nudged her awake.

    She threw the blanket aside and pushed herself up from the bed. At 70, she was still as strong as someone half her age, though she had slowed down considerably. Now, on an average day, she needed an extra 20 minutes to get ready. Just because the service was on TV didn¡¯t mean she could attend in her nightgown. That was no excuse. Even if the priest couldn¡¯t see her, the good Lord could. Also, what would Polly and the other gals think if they saw her attending mass in a nightgown? What an embarrassment that¡¯d be!

    Mrs. Moon put on her usual Sunday outfit¡ªa plain turquoise dress with a diamond-studded flower brooch pinned above the left breast. As she took in the morning¡¯s sunlight, she made her way downstairs at a leisurely pace. First things first, she strode over to the closet in the living room. Gently, one by one, she brought out Polly and the three other ladies: Molly, Holly, and Dolly. They were about her height and, luckily, light as a feather to carry over to the four-person couch. When her husband had long passed and her son had long ago settled across the country in California, she took up knitting as a hobby.

    Polly was the first doll she knitted and was meant to be a birthday gift for her granddaughter, but an angel had swept the child away to heaven days before her 10th birthday. Mrs. Moon had sent Polly to her grieving son and his wife in the hope it would console them. She was distraught to find it returned to her address with an apologetic, though slightly angry, note explaining that the doll¡¯s uncanny likeness to the dead girl was too upsetting to have around the house.

    Once the ladies were settled, Mrs. Moon took her usual place on the sofa chair right beside the telephone in case Dae-seong called. She wanted to easily reach the phone without needing to get up and hurry. She¡¯d fallen once in the past. The phone had rang, and, on the way, she lost her balance and bumped her shin on the edge of the coffee table.

    It was a horrible, painful night in the ER. A night when terrible, mean people tried to stick her with needles and strings like they were trying to turn her into some kind of marionette. And, not to mention, the suffering she had endured was all for nothing! The caller had been a telemarketer¡ªa complete nobody! Who did he think he was, interrupting her special time to ask if she¡¯d like to renew her subscription to Smiley Companions, a bi-annual magazine specializing in dolls, puppets, and porcelain figurines? The man mistook her groan for a ¡®yes¡¯ as she came around from the fall. It had left her shaken, confused, and smeared with blood on one side of her face.

    The moment she returned home after being discharged, she canceled her subscription.

    Polly didn¡¯t mind giving up her spot on the sofa chair. After all, it made more sense for Mrs. Moon to be seated there by the phone. There she could be quick to answer when her son called. Whenever that may be.

    She switched on the TV and grinned as Father Brown appeared on the screen, marching down the aisle with the altar boys as they held up the cross and the holy book. She glanced over at the ladies and told them about the days that Dae-seong served as an altar boy, and she told them about that one time when Mr. Moon gave a sermon that earned him a standing ovation. As Father Brown approached the podium and began to recite the opening prayer, the doorbell rang, and three quick knocks sounded at the door.

    Mrs. Moon grumbled. ¡°Go away!¡± She didn¡¯t want any visitors at all. Not on Sunday.

    But she heard the jangle of keys and the squeak of the doorknob turning. And then, a voice called out, ¡°Eomma?¡±

    Mrs. Moon hoisted herself up, heart pounding with happiness.

    Dae-seong!

    She hustled to the entrance hall, scolding herself for not tidying up the house or preparing any meal for such a long-awaited honorary guest. By God, she didn¡¯t even have a snack ready.

    But the instant she saw the woman closing the front door, Mrs. Moon¡¯s heart sank. She had forgotten that she had another child. An unmarried middle-aged daughter. Eunji.

    Mrs. Moon always wondered why Eunji preferred to chase after a job in the city rather than settle down with a nice man. One who¡¯d provide modern comforts for the family, and perhaps even birth a grandchild.

    Seeing the disappointed look on the old woman¡¯s face, Eunji frowned. ¡°I¡¯m glad to see you, too,¡± she said in a flat tone tinged with bitter sarcasm.

    Mrs. Moon waved a dismissive hand. ¡°Don¡¯t be like that. You know I¡¯m always happy to have you around.¡±

    Eunji sighed as she kicked off her shoes and brought in the package she had found by the front door. It was a rectangular box wrapped in plain brown paper. Taped to the bottom left corner was an envelope addressed to Mrs. Moon. When her daughter placed the package on the dining table, Mrs. Moon looked at it curiously, detaching the envelope and unsealing its lips with a letter opener.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have my reading glasses on me,¡± she said, handing the letter over to her daughter. ¡°What does it say?¡±

    ¡°Dear Mrs. Moon,¡± Eunji started to read, ¡°we miss having you as our loyal customer. We hope you will re-subscribe to us. To show our appreciation for your patronage, we have gifted you this special doll. Sincerely yours, Smiley Companions.¡±

    With excited, nimble fingers, Mrs. Moon tore away at the wrapping paper, and her eyes lit up with glee as she laid her sight upon a doll in a see-through box. There, carved meticulously out of wood, was a red-painted figurine with a large head and flared nostrils; it flashed its jagged crooked white marble teeth in a mischievous grin.

    She released it from its confinement and held it in her hands. Her reflection shined in its bulging, obsidian eyes.

    ¡°Why would they send you such an ugly thing?¡± asked Eunji, making a disgusted face.

    ¡°Ugly?¡± Mrs. Moon was taken aback. ¡°I think it¡¯s beautifully crafted. It¡¯s a¡­¡±

    Her voice trailed off as she searched for the right word in the old, dusty trove of memories of her childhood in Korea. Then it struck her.

    ¡°A dokkaebi!¡±

    ¡°A what?¡±

    ¡°A dokkaebi. It¡¯s sort of a mischievous creature,¡± Mrs. Moon explained. ¡°In the village where I grew up, all the kids believed that a dokkaebi lived in the woods, so no one dared to venture in after dark.¡±

    ¡°What happens when someone does go in?¡±

    ¡°They say that the dokkaebi will snatch you up and eat you! But I¡¯ve mostly heard that this creature is harmless, and only likes to play tricks on people.¡±

    Eunji shook her head and mumbled, ¡°It¡¯s still an ugly doll!¡± And so, she went on to clean around the house as she always did on her visits. There was no one else to help her mother.

    Pleased with the gift, Mrs. Moon placed her strange new companion on the middle shelf of a glass cabinet. This was where she kept all her little porcelain figurines of animals as well as a picture-perfect replica of her childhood village. On the top shelf, she kept her two most cherished dolls. They too were carved out of wood and painted with details to resemble her son and late husband. Even strands of their real hair were plugged into their heads.

    ¡°When do you think Dae-seong will come for a visit?¡± she asked Eunji, who was busy dusting behind another cabinet filled with even more knitted and wooden dolls and porcelain figurines.

    Eunji paused. Her brows furrowed. ¡°Eomma¡­¡± she said, cautiously. ¡°I thought we talked about this before.¡±

    ¡°We talked about what? Just tell him to come visit soon!¡± Mrs. Moon licked a finger, reached up, and tried to smooth out her son¡¯s stubborn cowlick.

    *****

    Since the dokkaebi¡¯s arrival, Mrs. Moon noticed peculiar occurrences around the house. When she walked into the kitchen to fix herself a cup of tea one morning, she found all of her drawers, as well as the cabinet and refrigerator doors, open. Then, in the living room, she had switched on the TV to tune into the rerun of last Sunday¡¯s service when it suddenly switched off. She turned up the volume, but it went mute in reaction. Then the channel changed without her pressing a button. Almost as though it was mocking her.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    She grabbed the remote and fought for control over her television. She pressed the ¡®channel¡¯ button furiously until the old machine started to smoke. It spewed sparks as the screen cracked and broke into pieces. Tiny shards of glass and plastic erupted and littered the floor. Luckily, she was left unharmed. Although she was upset about her TV.

    These strange occurrences couldn¡¯t be because of some silly doll, she thought. But that all changed one evening. As she performed her nightly ritual of arranging the gals around the dinner table, she was struck by a sight that left her aghast. The dokkaebi doll sat at the head of the table where Mr. Moon used to sit as head of the family.

    She was certain she hadn¡¯t taken the doll out of the cabinet. Nor, of course, had she placed it at the table herself. With apprehension, she looked to her little friends. ¡°What an oddball to just invite himself!¡± she told them. But she carried on with supper. Throughout the hour, as she chatted about her day to the ladies, the dokkaebi¡¯s bulging black orbs fixated upon her. And whenever she glanced back at it, she swore that its grin grew wider.

    After washing the dishes and silverware, she invited the ladies for a sleepover in her room. This was a rare occasion, and the ladies buzzed with excitement.

    ¡°Ladies only,¡± she told the dokkaebi firmly.

    She took the dolls, two at a time, up to the room. She told them how nervous that new doll made her feel. She needed their company in case the dokkaebi did something funny. And of course, her friends understood. They guarded her back as she readied herself for bed.

    She placed Polly and Molly on the right side of the bed and Holly and Dolly on the other side of her. Only then could she settle herself soundly in the middle. Once she shut her eyes, she was fast asleep.

    Mrs. Moon loved sleeping. For her it was like stepping into a time machine. It sent her back to moments she longed to relive. Tonight, she went back to the time when she and Mr. Moon finally managed to scrounge up enough money to fly the family out on a summer vacation to Korea. Dae-seong''s daughter was only seven at the time, and it was Eunji and Dae-seong¡¯s first visit to their parents¡¯ home country. They¡¯d been excited to explore the many shops at the hanok village.

    Mr. and Mrs. Moon were surprised to see how much their hometown had changed over the years; it was nearly unrecognizable to them. The hanok village was once a dilapidated wreck, with its one-story buildings looking forlorn and weather-beaten. She remembered the cracked and discolored tiles of their rooftops. Back in those days the streets were nothing but dirt paths and grimy cobblestones. But now, crowds of people wandered around on smooth pavement. They perused bright new tourist shops, dined at restaurants, and lounged in cafes.

    The Moon family went into one of the shops and had a look around. The women browsed through the shelves of embroidered purses while Dae-seong''s little girl was drawn to the handcrafted wooden toys. But when Mrs. Moon decided that she wanted to leave, her stomach dropped as she saw the dokkaebi doll in her granddaughter''s arms.

    She jolted awake in the dark.

    Both sides of the bed were empty. Polly and the gals were gone!

    ¡°It can¡¯t be possible...¡± she thought as she sat up and rubbed the slumber from her eyes.

    Perhaps they¡¯d fallen to the floor. She did tend to toss and turn throughout the night.

    Just as she peered over the edge of the bed, she froze. Her eyes met the black buttoned eyes of Polly, who stood straight up beside the bed. The black, beady little eyes of Molly, Holly, and Dolly also met hers. A chill crept down her spine as a deluge of prying glances encircled her. But what perplexed her most of all was how they stood on their own. Polly and Molly on the right, and Holly and Dolly on the left. Those smiles, which had offered warmth and comfort just hours ago, now felt alien and uncanny.

    She pressed her back against the headboard and drew the blankets closer. But even then, she sensed a presence that no blanket could shelter her from. As she surveyed the abyssal darkness of the room, her entire soul nearly leapt out of her body. There, squatting at the foot of her bed, was a figure the size of a grown man. A sliver of moonlight illuminated its red face, except for its eyes. No, not its eyes. For they were like two black holes where light went to die. The horns on its head were as long and pointed as the horns of a bull.

    ¡°What do you want?¡± she demanded, finally finding her voice through tremors of fear.

    She jerked back as the beast crawled on all fours towards her. Saliva dripped from rows of jagged, pointed teeth onto her fresh, clean quilt.

    With a wide, unwavering grin, it spoke to her. Its slick, oily voice reverberated inside her head.

    ¡°To be your forever friend. And for you to be my forever friend.¡±

    ¡°W-why?¡± she squeaked.

    ¡°How lonely you must be in this great big house!¡±

    ¡°Well, I get on just fine without a forever friend.¡± She looked at Polly and the gals, who smiled and nodded their heads.

    ¡°How sad you feel, longing for the family you once had.¡±

    ¡°I¡ªI¡­¡± She faltered. It was true. There was indeed a sadness in her life. One that she hid from. A feeling that followed her around like a shadow everywhere she went.

    ¡°There is someone you sorely miss.¡±

    She nodded.

    ¡°Someone you wish to see again.¡±

    The dokkaebi snapped its fingers and vanished quicker than the blink of an eye. But Polly and the ladies remained at her side. Mrs. Moon clutched her quilt and blanket.

    ¡°I¡¯m a little cold,¡± she told the dolls, tightening her grip on the blanket as they tugged at it. ¡°Please¡ª¡± she stopped abruptly.

    With her pulse racing, she strained her ears and held her breath. In her heightened state, she could have sworn she heard someone call out to her from downstairs in the living room. But that made no sense. Not at this hour.

    ¡°Eomma!¡±

    There it was again! That familiar tenor and timbre made her heart soar! She threw off the covers and raced out of bed before hastily grabbing her slippers. Her entire body trembled.

    ¡°Could it be¡­ could it be¡­¡± she said to herself, voice quivering and heart pounding.

    With Holly and Dolly holding her steady by the arms, she shuffled out of the bedroom and descended the staircase, step by step. And when she finally reached the landing, she nearly crumpled to the floor in tears as she saw an all-too-familiar figure. His back faced her as he stood by the window. But she knew exactly who it was.

    ¡°Dae-seong!¡± she cried.

    ¡°Eomma, I¡¯m sorry I kept you waiting.¡±

    Composing herself, she wiped the tears from her eyes. ¡°Nothing to be sorry for! You¡¯re here now, and that¡¯s what matters.¡±

    She took a step forward, wanting to see him up close and cup his cheek in her hands. It had been so long. Too long¡­

    ¡°And I¡¯m sorry for what I did,¡± he went on. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to leave you behind.¡±

    ¡°Oh, son, don¡¯t be sorry! Sorry for what?¡±

    ¡°Sorry¡­sorry¡­I¡­¡±

    As she was about to take another step, she paused when a tiny glimmer caught her eye. A gentle stream of moonlight illuminated nine long, silvery threads, thin and light as a spider¡¯s web. Each and every one led to Dae-seong. They attached themselves to each leg and arm, his shoulders and ears, and there was one final string protruding from the base of his spine. They all stretched up to the ceiling, where the grinning dokkaebi floated with the strings tied to its fingers. As it pulled on the strings, Dae-seong turned around on command. His face remained obscured by the dark.

    ¡°Eomma,¡± he said, ¡°don¡¯t you remember what happened to me and my little family? Don¡¯t you remember the day when Eunji called you?¡±

    Mrs. Moon¡¯s stomach twisted. She shut her eyes and stuck her fingers in her ears.

    No, no, no!

    But Dae-seong¡¯s voice spoke inside her head.

    ¡°My little girl was swept away by the currents.¡±

    ¡°No, no, no!¡±

    ¡°Her body lost forever in the sea.¡±

    ¡°No, no, no!¡±

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t save her, and I couldn¡¯t forgive myself. And then my wife, whose heart was so broken, followed our girl.¡±

    ¡°Stop, stop, stop!¡±

    ¡°And later, alone at home, I decided to follow them.¡±

    ¡°STOP IT! NO MORE! NO MORE!¡±

    Mrs. Moon screamed until she spent every breath in her lungs. After a moment, she opened her eyes. It was a regrettable decision.

    Her heart stopped.

    She felt sick.

    Dae-seong¡¯s limp body gently swung in the air from a beam with a rope tied around his neck.

    With the quick snap of its fingers, the dokkaebi made the body disappear. The beast jumped down from the ceiling and squatted in front of Mrs. Moon, peering up at her tear-streaked face.

    ¡°Would you like to see him again?¡± it asked.

    She nodded. ¡°Yes, please, I do.¡±

    ¡°Be my forever friend, and you will be with him. You will never be lonely again.¡±

    After wiping the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown, she gazed into the dokkaebi¡¯s black eyes. And, in them, she saw herself fixing Mr. Moon¡¯s crooked tie and smoothing out Dae-seong¡¯s little sprig of a cowlick as the family got ready for Sunday church.

    *****

    Eunji pulled into her mother¡¯s driveway and parked the car. She unfastened her seatbelt but didn¡¯t get out right away. First, she needed a smoke. Something to loosen up the anxiety that had built up during the long drive to the countryside. She loved her mom, but these visits weren¡¯t easy.

    She had tried to convince her to sell the house and move into the condo with her, but the old woman simply would not have it.

    ¡°This is our home!¡± her mom had said, ¡°And it was built by your appa¡¯s hands with love. You¡¯d have to get the whole damned military to pry me out of here!¡±

    When Eunji hired a caretaker, her mom was livid. She hated strangers in the house. And so, armed with the kitchen broomstick, she chased the caretaker out to his car.

    Thus, to Eunji, a smoke was needed. Yes, she had quit months ago, only to start again after her brother¡¯s funeral. Goddamn, these visits weren¡¯t easy.

    She put out the cigarette in a tin can that she kept under the seat, sprayed herself with Febreze, and climbed out of the car. She knocked on the door a few times and waited a minute before opening it with the key.

    Eomma''s probably watching the Sunday service on loop, she thought. But when she went inside, the house stood eerily still.

    ¡°Eomma?¡± she called out.

    No answer.

    A looming sense of dread swelled within as she peeked into the living room. There she found the shattered remnants of the television.

    ¡°Eomma!¡± The tenor of her voice surged with greater force and confidence. Maybe she would have made a good parent after all, just as her mother always wanted.

    Then, there it was¡­a sound in the dining room. Eunji sighed in relief, her muscles finally relaxing. She went straight towards the room to ask her mother about what had happened to the television. But this was not to be. As she opened her mouth to speak, she was assaulted by a sight that stopped her heart and sickened her stomach.

    Her mother sat at the table with her back turned towards her. But what made her blood curl were the guests. Dae-seong sat to the left of their mother. At the other end was their father.

    Eunji would give anything to see them alive again, but she knew in the pit of her gut that they were not her loved ones. They looked wooden. Their skin was painted and varnished. Their forced smiles stretched unnaturally and painfully across their faces, as if held up by wiring inside their mouths. And then there were the eyes. Bulging and black. They stared back, void of emotion.

    ¡°Oh, you¡¯re just in time for lunch!¡± said Mrs. Moon, cheerfully, getting up from the table with several spider-like threads rising from her limbs.

    Eunji¡¯s eyes followed the length of the threads to the ceiling. And there, affixed to the top left corner, she saw the grinning dokkaebi. It peered down at her, as if to beckon.

 Sneezo-pocalypse

    The sneeze was heard and felt around the world. A groundbreaking earthquake that caused the lights to flicker, the windows and the walls to vibrate, and the pencil box on the teacher''s desk to tip over. Pens, markers, paper clips, rubber bands and erasers tumbled onto the floor.

    The teacher felt the mist hit her face. Her eyes shot to the little boy across the table. He grinned happily while tracing the ABCs, unfazed by the thick strings of dark green ooze dangling out of his nostrils.

    ¡°I¡¯ve a box of tissues over there,¡± said the teacher, pointing to the Kleenex box on her desk. ¡°Go grab one.¡±

    The boy shook his head stubbornly and replied, "I''m alright," before audibly sucking the thick, slimy green strings back into his nose.

    ¡°Are you sure?¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    ¡°Yup.¡±

    The second sneeze was stronger and deafening. The other students ducked under the tables, while the force had thrown her off her chair. When she got up on her feet, she found the boy still diligently engrossed in his assignment, despite the green strings once again dangling from his nostrils. One of them extended over his lip, making its way down to his chin.

    There was a weight that fell onto her hand. She looked down to see a glob of the green thing on her wrist. She felt herself turn green. A wave of nausea threatened to rise in her throat but she fought it down. As she reached for a tissue, her hand froze in mid-air as the glob unexpectedly expanded and morphed into a hand, gripping her wrist tightly.

    She made a move for the hand sanitizer. The green hand tightened its grip, nearly cutting off circulation. She screamed and gagged. It slithered up her sleeve, creeping toward her shoulder, and pressed its index finger against her trembling lips.

    Shhh.

    The boy looked up with a wide grin on his elfin face, his eyes gleaming with pride. "I''m all done!" he exclaimed, triumphantly holding up the assignment, each letter perfectly traced with the pencil.

 Odd Pete (1): The New Kid

    I hate children¡¯s toys, especially dolls.

    They¡¯re the bane of my existence.

    For a little over 30 years, I¡¯ve managed to avoid them, until last weekend at a friend¡¯s birthday luncheon, when one of the guests brought their five-year-old son. The boy had a doll with him, like one of those Cabbage Patch Kids. Instantly I panicked at the sight of it, and I wrestled it out of his grip and struck a knife through its heart.

    I snapped out of this episode when I realized that the doll had no blood, nor any entrails, just wads of fluffy, white cotton balls. Everyone went dead quiet and gawked at me in horror. The boy ran off to his mother wailing uncontrollably.

    ¡°What the hell, Benjie!¡± my friend shrieked.

    I left the party right away, shaken and humiliated beyond belief. I thought of writing a letter of apology to my friend and the boy¡¯s parents. Of course, I wanted to express how deeply sorry I was. How could I not be? And I wanted to tell them that I¡¯d buy a new doll for their now traumatized son. But I did nothing. I let phone calls go unanswered and text messages unread.

    It has been a lot to handle, and so now here I am. I am writing this to finally explain why I lost control that day. I have kept this story to myself for three decades. This is a story

    about toys, and why I can no longer bear the sight of them.

    ******

    In fifth grade our teacher, Ms. Bryant, introduced a new student--Pete. She wanted us to make him feel welcomed, since he and his parents had just moved into town about a week ago. We all said ¡®Hi, Pete!¡± in unison, but he wouldn¡¯t return the greeting. All he did was stare at us with unblinking, blue eyes. They looked as though they had been painted over their sockets. And then, like a wind-up tin soldier, he marched to an empty desk in the back of the classroom. I swear to God, he moved like he didn¡¯t understand how the human body worked. We started to giggle, but with one stern look from Ms. Bryant, we slapped our hands to our mouths. Snickers continued to slip through the gaps between our fingers.

    Pete wasn¡¯t simply weird. His general demeanor made my flesh creep. He had his hair neatly parted and gelled. He always wore the same outfit: a buttoned-up, white short-sleeved shirt with a pocket on the left breast. This was always paired with a thin black tie, black shorts held up with suspenders, and polished black leather shoes. He reminded me of one of those insurance salesmen on TV.

    He was also quiet.

    Jackie, a girl known for her fiery mouth, tried to talk to him. ¡°So, where did you used to live?¡± she asked, and when he didn¡¯t say anything, she asked another question. ¡°Are you from out of state?¡±

    His silence irritated her.

    ¡°You¡¯re a fucking weirdo!¡±

    Ms. Bryant snapped around from the whiteboard and glared at Jackie. ¡°Watch your language!¡±

    Throughout the day, Pete didn¡¯t speak. Not a single word. This, I would find out later, was because he couldn¡¯t, and not because he didn¡¯t want to. I overheard Ms. Bryant talking to another teacher about Pete. They would smoke behind the classroom trailers. She said that Pete had a condition. For one, it made him effectively mute. But it also affected the texture and color of his skin, which was like sanded ash wood with faint brown stripes and rings.

    ¡°But the boy¡¯s father said he¡¯ll be going through a special procedure soon,¡± Ms. Bryant said. "I hope it¡¯ll work. That kid gives me the fucking jitters.¡±

    The procedure did work. The following week, he walked into class, and, for the first time, he spoke.

    ¡°Present,¡± he piped up, cheerfully and forcefully, as Ms. Bryant scrolled through the attendance.

    All heads turned to him, completely surprised. I did notice that Jackie was absent that day. Later, at recess, word got out that Jackie was missing. She had disappeared in the middle of the night. Poof. Without a trace. No signs of a break-in or struggle. Naturally, the police suspected that her parents were involved in her disappearance and had taken them in for interrogation. There was, however, no evidence.

    My friends¡ªFrank, Mark, and Andy and I gathered by the basketball court near the fence that separated the playground from the parking lot. We were curious about what happened to Jackie, and many of us came up with some wild theories; some thought she¡¯d run away, and some believed she¡¯d been abducted by aliens. But we all agreed that Jackie would probably pop up somewhere, and that this was just one of her dramatic ways to get attention. After all, this was something that she was also known for.

    ¡°Hi, may I join you?¡± We jumped at the squeaky voice that suddenly spoke from behind us.

    It was Pete.

    None of us said anything, until Frank yelled, ¡°Heads up!¡± and threw a basketball at him. It bounced off Pete¡¯s chest. He stared at the ball as it rolled away, then turned to us with his glossy blue eyes and, and those lips; permanently affixed into a smile with perfectly symmetrical alabaster teeth. Like fucking porcelain.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    Frank frowned. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to catch the ball.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡±

    Pete watched us play a round of basketball from the sidelines. The teacher on recess duty strode over with hands on hips, scolding us for leaving Pete out of the game. Groaning, we reluctantly waved at him to step onto the court. Frank threw the ball to him again.

    This time Pete caught it but didn¡¯t dribble or throw it to another player. He didn¡¯t even make an attempt to shoot it through the hoop. Instead, he inspected it, feeling the bumps and grooves. The teacher cheered him on, encouraging him to run and shoot the ball. Pete wobbled, rather than ran, like a clumsy penguin across the court.

    His aim was terrible, and the ball bounced off the beam of the hoop and hit a group of girls jump roping. As they screamed at him in frustration, all he could do was scratch his head and shrug. One of the girls tossed the ball back to Pete, but Frank snatched it from his hands and ran with it to the other side of the court, expertly pulling off a figure eight dribble. He threw the ball into the hoop.

    Pete watched in awe.

    The next day, Frank was absent from class. My stomach churned as I saw a picture of his smug face on a ¡°Missing Person¡± flier that was posted on the announcement cork board alongside Jackie¡¯s. The town started to fear that a serial kidnapper could be on the loose. Concerned parents demanded that police and the school administration do something...anything. Later that week, the principal announced over the P.A. that we weren¡¯t allowed to wait outside in front of the school where our parents usually picked us up. Instead, parents had to come into the classroom, sign in, and pick up their children.

    ¡°What a stupid idea,¡± Ms. Bryant mumbled. She was right. People fought over parking spaces. Cars jammed the area in front of the school. It was chaos. But the principal insisted this was the best way to ensure student safety.

    The new rule didn¡¯t apply to me, though. My mom worked as a waitress and her boss was a real asshole who refused to let her swap shifts, so she couldn¡¯t go pick me up no matter how much she wanted. And my dad...well, I didn¡¯t know where he was. He walked out on us when I was five. I¡¯m not sure if he¡¯s still alive to this day.

    So, I walked home alone, as always. I lived about half an hour on foot from the school. I never encountered any problems on the way home. I knew the route and neighborhood better than the back of my hand. I had always felt safe, but one day an overwhelmingly weird feeling twisted my insides. I glanced over my shoulder, and instantly my heart jumped to my throat.

    A car was following me.

    I noted the color and make of it. A classic black Lincoln car. The driver rolled down his window as he slowed his speed to match my pace. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Pete sitting in the passenger seat. I could only guess that the man in the driver¡¯s seat was his dad. They both looked exactly alike, though the dad seemed, at least, more human.

    ¡°Hi, son! It¡¯s Benjie, isn¡¯t it?¡± Pete¡¯s dad said, cheerfully. ¡°Do you need a ride?¡±

    I shook my head. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s alright, I know my way home. Thanks for the offer, sir.¡±

    He laughed. ¡°You can call me George. Oh, by the way, thanks for being so nice to my son. It¡¯s not easy being the new kid in town. We just moved here from out of state, and we¡¯re still trying to blend in.¡±

    With a happy-go-lucky grin, Pete nodded. ¡°I had fun today at recess, Benjie. That was a great basketball game! Didn¡¯t you think so?¡±

    ¡°Uh, yeah, sure.¡±

    Earlier that day, Pete wanted to join me and my friends for another round of basketball. I thought it was so strange how suddenly he was able to dribble the ball as smoothly as Frank. He no longer wobbled like a penguin; he ran as if he were a natural athlete. After seeing that, I had this feeling that he was the reason Jackie and Frank were missing. I mean, it was obvious. Andy and Mark thought so, too. We just couldn¡¯t prove it. And did we even want to find out?

    I kept my eyes straight on the path towards home; I guessed it was another fifteen minutes before I reached my block. I picked up the pace a bit, hoping that I¡¯d get there sooner, but George slightly pressed on the gas. My whole body tensed. My heart started to beat a little faster and a little louder.

    ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want a ride, son?¡± asked George.

    ¡°Yeah, I don¡¯t need a ride. I¡¯ll be alright.¡±

    ¡°Okay, suit yourself. Just be careful, I heard there was a kidnapper on the loose! A couple of kids went missing.¡± With that being said, he drove off.

    Later that week, another student was absent. It was Susan. the class brainiac, so to speak. I remembered seeing her help Pete work out a math problem. Everyone thought he was as dumb as a bag of rocks. While most ignored him or told him to figure it out on his own, Susan was too nice.

    She liked to help people. It was in her nature. So, of course, when Pete politely asked her for help, she did. And as she explained to him how to solve the problem, he looked at her with admiration.

    The whole town was freaking out more than ever. The police still didn¡¯t have a lead which angered everyone. They all just wanted someone locked up. Since the three missing kids were from Ms. Bryant¡¯s class, the police had their eyes dead set on her. They marched into the classroom, and despite our tears and protests, she was handcuffed and taken away.

    For the rest of the month, a substitute teacher was brought in. This put the parents at ease. They thought the serial kidnapper had been finally caught, though many were still upset and thought it could all have been prevented if the principal had screened the teachers better. But I knew Ms. Bryant wasn¡¯t to blame. None of the teachers were. I wanted to scream, ¡°It was Pete! I swear to God, it was Pete!¡± I knew they wouldn¡¯t believe me.

    After Susan¡¯s disappearance, Pete looked more...well, like a human. His skin appeared fleshier and less like sanded ash wood. His face, too, had a peachy color. And, suddenly, he also became the smartest kid in the class. His hand shot up to every question the teacher asked. He spoke clearly and with confidence, just as how Susan would¡¯ve answered.

    He came to class with a stack of envelopes and passed one to each of us. It was an invitation to his 11th birthday. Colorful confetti and several colorful paper balloons popped up from the invitation card with Pete¡¯s distinguished squeaky voice speaking, ¡°You¡¯re my special friend and you¡¯ve been invited to my birthday party!¡±

    Mark and Andy decided to go, but I was unsure; I was uneasy about this. They assured me that it probably wouldn¡¯t be so bad. Besides, the parents would be coming along as well. They were sure that if Pete was behind the disappearances, he wouldn¡¯t be able to do anything with so many adults keeping their eyes on him.

    ¡°I¡¯d be over the moon if you all could come!¡± said Pete. ¡°It¡¯s my first birthday party ever!¡±

    I remembered how he stood in front of the classroom, gazing expectantly at us with that perfect little manicured smile.

    *****

    I need to stop right here. Recalling these events has been so draining. I promise that I will continue. Once I get some sleep.

 Odd Pete (2): A Party Game

    Before I go on with the story, I wanted to mention that I finally got around to checking my text messages. I shouldn¡¯t be surprised that all of them were furious. I don¡¯t blame them. I¡¯m still distraught about the whole situation. I pretty much lost all of my friends in one day; all because I thought that a little boy¡¯s doll would come to life and... well...

    Just, listen to me.

    I know that all of this will sound insane. But everything I am about to tell you happened before. I feel like I can¡¯t bring myself to even think of the moment, let alone tell you, but I need to press on. It is time that you understand the moment that everything changed forever¡ªPete''s 11th birthday party.

    What happened on that day plays over and over again in my mind. It doesn¡¯t matter that 30 years have passed. Not a night goes by where I am wrenched from my beleaguered sleep and find myself gasping for air in a pool of my own sweat. Years of broken sleep will get to a person over time. And so, I grew agitated and depressed. I was on and off on medication, and in and out of therapy.

    Now, I don¡¯t always freak out when I see them in pictures or on display in a shop¡¯s front window. If I keep my distance and they keep theirs, I am fine. I mean, my breathing would quicken, and my heart would pump hard, but the moment would pass, and I¡¯d come back to some level of normalcy. I¡¯ve got my own way to deal with such a situation. I¡¯d close my eyes and count from 100 to zero, deeply breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, before slowly turning and walking away.

    Oh, right. I guess you want to hear what happened.

    *****

    Pete and his family lived in a massive two-story house with an acre of forestry within their property line. The house was miles outside of town. It was cozy but isolated.

    I carpooled with Andy and his parents. We met up with Mark and his dad in the house. Our jaws dropped at how beautiful the house and their property were; none of us had ever been to such a fancy place.

    Andy¡¯s mom mentioned in the car that what she heard from the other moms was that Pete¡¯s dad, George, worked as an inventor and toymaker for a company that no one had heard of, and his mom, Wendy, was a stay-at-home mom. She had tried to invite her out for coffee with the other moms. In the end she decided not to. Wendy¡¯s presence was just too off-putting.

    ¡°She wouldn¡¯t stop smiling,¡± Andy¡¯s mom recalled, ¡°and she¡¯d just nod her head without saying anything. Not a word. And she moved in this very odd, kind of funny way, too. Like she didn¡¯t know how to use her arms or legs.¡±

    Kind of like how Pete was on his first day of class.

    The family greeted the guests in the foyer with excited eyes and gaping smiles. They were the picture perfect of a 1950s TV sitcom family. Pete had on a blue and yellow checkered suit with a yellow bowtie. George also wore the same style of suit but with a blue tie. His outfit was topped with a tobacco pipe hanging at the side of his mouth. Wendy had on a yellow dress with a blue ribbon tied around her waist, and her flaming red hair rolled up in a bouffant hairstyle.

    There were a couple of dozens of us that showed up to the party. Most of the parents came along, too. My mom couldn¡¯t come; she was stuck at the restaurant picking up someone else¡¯s shift. That was to say nothing of her continued fear and suspicion about the whole kidnapper situation. She believed they were still out there, and that the cops had gotten the wrong person.

    Everyone was led into a banquet hall where a great feast waited for us. We stuffed ourselves until the buttons on our pants threatened to burst. Fat roasted turkey thighs, mince pies, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, a mountain of steaming sweet biscuits. The choices were endless. And the moms and dads enjoyed themselves, drinking the wine that Wendy, smiling emptily and silently, served.

    George went around telling stories to anyone who¡¯d be willing to listen. He was incredibly intelligent with a wide breadth of knowledge of world history. He spoke about historical events as if he¡¯d been there himself, describing in such vivid detail of the event¡¯s atmosphere like how the heaviness of grief weighed in the air at Alexander the Great¡¯s funeral procession, and how frigid cold the Russian winter was in 1812 when Napoleon Bonaparte¡¯s army marched towards Moscow.

    He showed us a room filled with his collection of ancient artifacts, even an American Civil War-era musket rifle with a Minie ball still lodged inside. But what caught my attention and raised the hairs on my body were three mummies behind a glass case. They were about my height and, judging by the smallness of their faces, they had died as children.

    ¡°Why do you have those?¡± I asked.

    George grinned. ¡°Well, why not?¡±

    ¡°Where did you get them from?¡± asked Andy.

    ¡°Far and near...¡±

    Squinting, Mark stepped up closer to the glass. ¡°Are they real?¡±

    ¡°What do your eyes tell you?¡±

    Together, we pressed our noses to the glass, staring hard at these mummies. Their skin was withered brown, and parts of their yellowed bone were exposed. They stared back at us with dark empty sockets and twisted mouths as though they¡¯d come face to face with something more terrifying and terrible than death. None of the adults with us thought it weird that this family had such a collection. The moms and dads were starting to act a bit giddy and silly; it was the generous amount of wine they¡¯d drunk, probably.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    After a tour of George¡¯s mini-home museum, we were led into an adjacent room filled with toys, clowns, dolls, and a bizarre collection of crossbred animals. A full train set wound about the length of the room and over our heads. This was Pete¡¯s playroom, and George had designed every toy. This massive room with all the toys and games was more than what a child could dream of.

    Unable to control ourselves, we got our hands on everything; we were a bunch of 10-year-olds after all. We played with the toys and shrieked with laughter. The moms and dads watched us as they drank the wine Wendy was serving them. Before we knew it, time flew by, and the sun had long since gone down. The grandfather clock struck 9 o¡¯clock. But we weren¡¯t tired; we wanted to play some more. So, we were thrilled when the grown-ups nodded and agreed to let us go on.

    Shining with happiness, Pete announced that we were to play a special game, even the grown-ups would be involved.

    ¡°This game is called Catch the Souls!¡± he said. ¡°The rules are quite simple. There are two types of players: souls and catchers. The game will be played both in the dark and in the light. Souls are safe in the light and the catchers won¡¯t be able to move. But when the lights are off, souls better find a place to hide for the catchers will hunt you down and bring you to the king¡ªme!"

    ¡°Then, how do we know if we¡¯ve won?¡± I asked.

    His eyes darkened as the pupils enlarged. ¡°Well, when you see the sun rise, then you¡¯ll know.¡±

    My stomach sank.

    Were we really going to play all night?

    I looked at the others to see if they also thought this was a ridiculous idea. Much to my surprise, the others buzzed with excitement, even the adults were eager to play. No one wanted to go home just yet. They wanted to play more. And, surprisingly, I wasn¡¯t at all that tired or sleepy either. George ordered for the moms and dads to follow him into another room; they were to put on their ¡°catcher¡± costumes.

    Mark, Andy, and I decided to stick together. We figured that if we could find a good spot to hide out in, we could wait there until the game was over. At the beginning of the game, all the lights were on in every room and hallway, and Pete counted backwards from 100.

    My friends and I bolted. We didn¡¯t realize how huge the house was. It was like a never-ending labyrinth. One door would lead to nowhere except a brick wall, or a sudden drop into what looked like a bottomless pit. Andy had nearly fallen into one and was only saved when Mark and I caught him by the arms as he fell and clung desperately to the doorknob.

    The hallways echoed with giggles of excitement. But once the lights began to flicker, the whole house plunged into darkness. We hurried into another room. I hid behind a desk, Mark behind a big tapestry, and Andy in the corner of the room squatting behind a tall vase.

    We waited.

    We held our breath.

    A hair-raising scream erupted in another room. Followed by another, then another. Three in succession.

    ¡°What was that?¡± I heard Mark ask, shakily.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Andy cried.

    Peeking around the corner of the desk, I spotted Mark out from his hiding spot and poking his head out the door. He quickly shut the door and scrambled back behind the tapestry. Before I could ask him what he saw, the door opened. My body instantly went rigid. I was terrified that if I were to move or breathe, I¡¯d get caught. I certainly didn¡¯t want to find out what Pete would do to me.

    A tall, shadowy figure with two long pointed ears entered the room. It was a Catcher. It hopped slowly around the room like a rabbit, playing with the leaves of the plants in the tall vase and sniffing around the tapestry. Then it turned its attention to the desk. I scooted back underneath the desk and slapped my hand over my mouth, desperate not to make a sound. I heard it hop into the air before its feet landed gently on the floor right next to the desk. It took a step closer to the spot where I lay in a fetal position. I hoped that I was small enough that it wouldn¡¯t notice me.

    Light swept throughout the room. And I let out a breath of relief. We were safe when the lights were on. That was the rule of the game, I reminded myself. I crawled out from underneath the desk and froze as I came face to face with a giant pink bunny. I knew that inside the costume was a classmate¡¯s parent. But there was something off about it, like it had no good intentions.

    It stared back with large black orbs for eyes. Its large buck teeth dripped droplets of red on the white carpet. Dark red chunks like mushed up beets fell from its mouth.

    ¡°Benjie! Don¡¯t just stand there!¡± Mark pulled me out of the trance, and I ran out with them. At the end of the hallway, we saw another Catcher dressed in a court blue and yellow jester suit and mask.

    The lights flickered; one minute warning for us to find another hiding spot. Without looking back, we ran and tried getting into another room. With utter mortification I learned that most of the doors were locked. Not only that, but others only led to dead ends. We went through one door that led to another hallway that stretched on endlessly with rows of doors on either side of us.

    Behind us, the bells jingled on the dangling sleeves of the jester¡¯s cap ¡®n¡¯ bells. It got closer and closer. Of course, I stupidly looked back. One by one the wall lights went out, and the laughing jester twirled and leapt its way to us.

    We came to a door at the end of the hallway, but it wouldn¡¯t budge. Andy banged on it and twisted the knob as hard as he could.

    ¡°I want to stop playing this game,¡± Mark sobbed. He backed into the corner, trembling and crying. A dark wet spot appeared in front of his pants. I also felt something wet and warm trickling down my pants.

    The jester was approaching, inching closer and closer by the second. And then, it stopped. It squatted in the dark with its hands under its chin, gazing at us with its harrowing black eyes. The only thing keeping it from capturing us was that the light from a single wall lamp shielded us. Sniffling and wiping his tears away, Mark squeaked, ¡°Dad?¡± He took a step forward with an outreached hand seeking a sliver of comfort.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think he¡¯s your dad,¡± I said, but my words didn¡¯t reach him. The jester gestured with a single finger for him to come closer.

    ¡°I got it! Come on, guys!¡± Andy cried, happily, as the door finally swung inward with a hard kick revealing a lighted room. I grabbed hold of Mark¡¯s arm, but he shook me off. And I watched in horror as he tugged on the jester¡¯s mask and pulled it off.

    It was Mark¡¯s dad behind the mask. His smile was split so wide, I could see his gums bleed and the skin at the corners of his lips had torn. He was foaming heavily at the mouth like a rabid dog.

    ¡°Dad...¡± Mark uttered.

    The wall light went out. And that was the last I saw of him.

    *****

    I¡¯ll have to continue with my story later. I need to eat something. I can¡¯t remember the last time I did. The hunger is gnawing my stomach. There¡¯s nothing in the fridge. I didn¡¯t even get leftovers from my friend¡¯s birthday party. It¡¯s okay. All I need now is to feed this body.

 Odd Pete (3): Happy Birthday, Pete

    I finally managed to get something to eat. A cold, disgusting tuna sandwich from 7-11. This would be enough for me to keep going, if it weren¡¯t for the fact that I got the shit beaten on the way back home. This is what happened. After I bought the sandwich, I came across a kid playing with a windup toy on the sidewalk. It was a miniature clown that would take four wobbly steps, stop, and then giggle. The boy, probably no more than eight years old, was entranced by the toy. And he¡¯d wind it up again and watch it as it wobbled away. Its laughter echoed through the street.

    All the fear and terror from that night at Pete¡¯s house came rushing in, and I just tensed up. I asked the kid where he got the toy. He said a boy gave it to him. What boy? I asked. I looked around but saw no other boy but him. He then described a boy that exactly matched Pete¡¯s. It had to be a sign, like a cryptic message for me. Pete and his family still watched me. I¡¯m sure they were hiding somewhere near enough, laughing as they teased me with this repulsive little trinket.

    I told the kid that he shouldn¡¯t play with toys from strangers. Then I stomped on the clown and broke it into fucking pieces. The kid teared up and started shrieking. It was at that moment that I felt something as hard as a brick smashing into my face. The kid¡¯s teen brother swooped in and swung his fist at me. My nose was bloodied and swollen, but not broken. At least I don¡¯t think it is. I¡¯m not one to usually fight back. I just took it.

    Thank God the bleeding has stopped. I guess I am ready now. Finally, I can finish this story.

    *****

    Andy and I went from room to room. We kept on moving when the lights flicked on and hid in the darkness¡ªunder a bed, in a closet, behind marble statues of Greek gods. We heard the screams of the others as they came face to face with the Catchers. We had no idea what time it was, and we had no way of knowing whether or not the night was almost over.

    The antique clocks weren¡¯t any help; they all pointed to various times. And the windows showed nothing but pitch darkness, not a single star in the sky nor a shed of moonlight. We were trapped in an alternate dimension.

    We decided to try to find our way back to the living room on the first floor. Andy remembered seeing a cordless phone on a table. If we could get to it, we¡¯d call the police. It sounded like a solid plan, but the tricky part was finding our way through the maze-like mansion.

    We came across what appeared to be George¡¯s toy workshop. Wooden bodies and blocks of wood molded into the shapes of children¡¯s heads were scattered about the shelves. Wooden figures stared at me from every corner: a gathering of rocking horses, snakes, elephants with wheels for legs, and disembodied heads and limbs seemed to beckon us to come closer.

    At a workbench, George chiseled away at a block of wood, shaping it into the perfect shape of a child¡¯s head. He set his tools down and swerved around.

    ¡°Ah, you¡¯ve found my workshop,¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m not a Catcher. In fact, you¡¯re safe here.¡±

    ¡°I want to call my mom,¡± I demanded.

    ¡°We want to go home!¡± Andy cried.

    George frowned. ¡°Are you not enjoying yourselves, boys?¡±

    ¡°This game has gone on for too long,¡± I said. ¡°We¡¯re really tired. Let us go home.¡±

    ¡°Oh, but Pete¡¯s having such a ball! It¡¯s his first birthday, you know.¡±

    ¡°You mean, you don¡¯t usually throw birthday parties for him?¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s been exactly one year since I created him. I never thought of becoming a father, but being alone in this world for so long, you do get a bit bored from time to time. So, I thought¡ªWhy not? Why not create a perfect family of my own? First was Pete. But a boy needs a mother, right? Then came Wendy.¡±

    He turned his attention back to the wooden head he was chiseling and sanding down with sandpaper. ¡°I¡¯m thinking of making a sister for Pete,¡± he continued as painted two green eyes, small pink lips, and rosy cheeks. ¡°I want her to have the heart of an angel and an innocent nature. Like you, boys.¡±A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    He screwed the head onto the wooden body of a young girl. Then, with the snap of his fingers, the doll jolted to life. As she hopped off the workbench, she fell forward on her face, before clumsily getting back onto her feet. With arms outstretched, she stumbled forward to me and clasped her hands around my throat.

    Surprisingly, I felt no pain. My muscles relaxed. The more I drifted into peace and tranquility, the more vibrant she became¡ªrosier cheeks, glossier eyes, and warmer and softer hands. But something sharp sliced through the air and splintered her wooden head. She staggered backward and slumped against the wall, lifeless.

    Holding an axe in his hands, Andy stood between me and George, who chuckled and clapped his hands. At once, every wooden toy and doll in the shop stirred to life! Andy swung the axe, hacking them into pieces. He grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the door. My legs were like jelly, and I struggled to keep up with his pace.

    The lights blinked.

    We hurried into a room which turned out to be the banquet hall. Pete was at the head of the long table with Wendy standing by his side, beaming proudly at her boy as he admired the three-tier cake before him. The Catchers were decked out in elaborate costumes¡ªclowns, jesters, mimes, bunnies, lions, and bears. They stood in rows behind their mummified children, who sat eerily still in decadent wooden chairs. The Catchers all clapped and hummed ¡°Happy Birthday¡± in unison.

    But what churned our stomachs and jolted our nerves the most was the sight of our withered classmates, posed delicately around the long table. Among them, I could barely make out the faded resemblance to Mark¡¯s face, grey and withered like raisins, and pleading with eyeless despair.

    ¡°Oh, you made it in time for the cake!¡± Pete exclaimed. ¡°I¡¯m a real boy now! I couldn¡¯t have done it without the help of my friends.¡± He grabbed a fistful of cake and stuffed it into his mouth, moaning with delight.

    ¡°Put that axe down, son,¡± Wendy piped up, suddenly. ¡°It¡¯s not a toy.¡±

    ¡°Join us!¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be stubborn, boys!¡±

    With a nod from Wendy, the Catchers turned to us and slowly inched forward. Tearfully, Andy struck a Bear in the arm with the axe. He was about to strike again when a Clown threw a handful of jacks pinning him onto the wall. Dropping the axe, he tried to wrench himself free, but the more he struggled, the deeper the jacks went into his flesh. The Catchers were closing in.

    ¡°Don¡¯t leave me!¡± Andy screamed.

    ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry!¡± I bolted out of the room with the axe in hand.

    They were right on my heels. I swerved around and swung it through the chest of the Clown. When I swung the axe again, it struck right into the jester¡¯s hip.

    I screamed in despair as I came to the dead end of a hallway. And the lights went out. With eyes shut and adrenaline coursing through my veins, I waved the weapon around me, feeling it collide with flesh and blood that splattered across my face. When the lights switched back on, a mound of bodies lay before me.

    Pete picked up the jester¡¯s cap ¡®n¡¯ bells and put it atop his head. He swiped the red nose of the Clown and placed it on his nose. Singing ¡°Happy Birthday¡±, he danced atop the bodies. He jumped into puddles of blood, kicking and stomping like he was dancing in the rain.

    Then, he stopped and stared me right in the eye. ¡°I guess you won the game,¡± he said, pointing to something behind me.

    A comforting and soothing warmth touched the back of my neck. As I turned to see the sun rising, I collapsed from absolute exhaustion.

    *****

    Mom had called the cops when I hadn¡¯t come home. They found me wrapped up in a blanket sleeping on the floor in the foyer. No one believed me about what happened at Pete¡¯s birthday party. The cops tested the blood that soaked my clothes, and they came back laughing with the results in hand.

    Cherry-flavored wine.

    They said there was no record of Pete at the school. As for the house, it had always been abandoned. But no one could explain why more than twenty kids and their parents were missing. And I was the only student left from Ms. Bryant¡¯s 5th grade class. Since then, I have dreamt about the house and its labyrinthine hallways. Sometimes I can still hear my friends crying. I can hear Andy¡¯s last words ¡®Don¡¯t leave me!¡¯ I¡¯d wake up drenched in sweat, with my blanket soaked in piss.

    Finding even so much as a fragment of peace hasn¡¯t been easy. It took decades. What do you do when everyone around you¡ªyour friends and family and authorities¡ª tells you that what you experienced never happened? The older I got, the more I realized that I didn¡¯t need to convince people that I was right.

    No one needs to believe me because I believe in myself. I¡¯m the one who¡¯ll never escape those memories. The freedom to forget this nightmare is a far-fetched dream. Pete reminded me of that tonight. As I got ready for bed, I found the jester¡¯s mask with streaks of dried-up blood stains on my pillow.

    I don¡¯t know how long I stared at the mask. My body just seized up. I was afraid to touch it. Then, I heard the ringing of the cap ¡®n¡¯ bells outside my door. When I went to check, always expecting the worst, I found a small blue box with a yellow ribbon on the doormat. Something jingled inside when I picked it up. I untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a golden bell.

    I looked around to see if the person who left the box was still around. Then, I saw it. Parked by the curb across from my house was the black Lincoln. Its front lights turned on illuminating three familiar figures inside¡ªGeorge, Wendy, and Pete.

    Without taking my eyes off them, I carefully stepped back into the house as they drove off into the night.

 The Honoring

    What lives in the mountain has been there for more than tens of thousands of years, long before the village was built. Many believe it to be a god with the power to create and destroy life, delicately balancing the world on its fingertips. As someone who has seen its true form, I can''t remain silent. I¡¯ve taken to the soap box and shouted the truth, but no one believed me. I¡¯ve heard them scathingly call me behind my back¡ª the heretic, old witch, and every word synonymous with beast.

    When the first families settled on the uninhabited land, they found the soil to be rich and fertile, and the land teeming with animals. However, the God in the Mountain soon made its presence known. First, the ground began to rumble, strong enough to shake the houses and knock plates from the shelves, and cause furniture to shift from its proper place. Then, a gust of wind blew through the village carrying with it the foulest stench they¡¯d ever smelled. Finally, the vegetation withered, and the animals dropped dead one by one, frothing blood from their mouths.

    Terrified by these events, the villagers sought answers and refuge in the church. The answer came to them through the mouths of the dead pigs and bulls that the farmers were about to burn in a pit: honor thy new god with the offering of your purest soul. The responsibility of appeasing the God in the Mountain now fell upon the villagers, who realized that their very survival depended on its temperament. And so, the Honoring was created; the day when the god receives its Divine Bride.

    After more than a decade of quietude, signs of the god stirring from its slumber are being felt once again. The fruits and plants in the garden have rotted, and the animals cry all day and night, restlessly pacing about in their pens. The tremors begin as a rumble and a gentle shake lasting for a split second but they¡¯re growing stronger. The god is growing hungrier.

    I was in the kitchen when the whole house suddenly and violently quaked, causing the cabinet doors to slam, the lights to flicker, and glass and dishes to shatter. My house was left in disarray. As I started cleaning up, a peculiar odor swept in through the broken windows, churning my stomach. I recognized that stench¡ªgas from the bowels of hell. Cautiously, I stepped out and looked towards the mountain. Smoke was rising from the summit, bringing in a heavy sense of dread to weigh down on me. I fell to my knees, overwhelmed by the ominous sight.

    An announcement arrives in the mailbox from the church, stating that the selection ceremony for the Honoring is to be held soon.

    I reluctantly put on the wooden mask, skillfully crafted by an artisan who¡¯d taken pity on me. The mask serves to hide the gruesome reminder of my own Honoring, which had left me with a disfigured face. Whenever the villagers catch a glimpse of my face, they recoil in disgust, the children tremble in fear; and even infants scream in terror. To go about my daily business in peace, like going to the market, I¡¯ve no choice but to wear the mask. Despite this, people still gawk, point and whisper as I pass by.

    The whole village pours into the church, sweeping me away in its current. They shove and push me, backing me into a dark corner as soon as they recognize who I am. I don¡¯t care to be near the front for the best view of the selection ceremony as I already know the ceremonial arrangement and process having been one of the nominees before. The organist steps onto the stage, and once he starts the first measure of a hymn, conversations cease, and all attention focuses on the entrance.

    As the procession begins, two servants in white robes lead the way down the aisle towards the altar, each carrying a sacred candle. Twelve steps behind them is another white-robed servant carrying a bejeweled scepter resting on a purple velvet pillow, followed by another holding the ancient scrolls that contain the sacred words of the God in the Mountain. Bringing up the rear is a tall, slender figure clad in a green and white robe adorned with gold trimmings. The figure has a head with three faces¡ªa horned bull, an old man, and a tusked boar. These are the Three Fathers, the god¡¯s representatives on earth, through whose eyes it observes its worshippers, and through whose voices it dictates its wisdom.

    The villagers both revere and fear the Three Fathers, as their faces are made of real flesh, and each one is fully conscious of their surroundings, breathing heavily and gazing intensely at the worshippers.

    Then, finally, at the tail end of the procession, two straight files arranged by height, are the twenty nominated girls in white embroidered gowns from ages twelve to nineteen, walking with bright anticipation on their faces. Every girl desires to be the Divine Bride and ascend with the god to the Great Kingdom where her flesh and blood would become ethereal, and her soul eternal. That is what the Three Fathers assure them.

    My head used to be filled with fantasies. As I listened to the tales of the God in the Mountain over the years, my curiosity turned to fascination, and fascination transformed into an intense love that made my soul feel as though it was ablaze. I became bitter towards the other girls who also dreamt of being chosen. I thought to myself, ¡°Only I can be the one!¡±

    Looking back, it was foolish to think that way. But that was how it was. Those emotions were stirred up by our own flesh and blood, particularly our mothers, who sized us up and compared our charms and complexion. They scrutinized whose skin was fairer and smoother, whose hair was silkier and darker, or whose figure was slimmer. The women of the village relished each other¡¯s gossip like glasses of wine. The more they drank, the drunker and giddier they became.

    The Honoring brings out the worst in us. I recall how jealousy reared its ugly head when rumors circulated that the Three Fathers planned to bestow the title of Divine Bride on another girl, instead of me. My confidence was shattered; I was convinced that I was the one chosen. My mother, a devoted servant of the church, was sure of it too. She had overheard the nuns whispering about the Three Fathers being captivated by the girl¡¯s untamed beauty and innocence. Wherever she went, heads turned. She was the kind of beauty that the God in the Mountain coveted. The Three Fathers attested to this; they knew what the god desired.

    There was no doubt in my mother¡¯s mind that the untamed beauty they were referring to was me. She showed one of the nuns a photo of me, which the nun plucked out of her hand and brought to the attention of the Three Fathers. Soon after, I was summoned to the church for a ¡®proper evaluation¡¯ as the nun put it. They led me into a dark chamber behind the altar where the Three Fathers were waiting.

    Although I had attended Mass many times before, it wasn¡¯t until that day that I saw the high priest up close. They told me not to be afraid, and to come closer, so that they could see me better. A pair of long twig-like arms with folds of loose, wrinkly skin hanging off the bones reached out of the darkness, and with their gnarled fingers, took hold of my arms, reeling me closer. The three faces were so close to me that I could feel the hot breath of the bull and see the short bristles of hair on the boar¡¯s chin. The single candle in the room illuminated the blackened eyes of all three faces.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    The boar sniffed my face with its wet snout. The bull flicked its long black tongue at my cheek. The old man grinned, his mouth salivating.

    ¡°What a wild beauty you are!¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes! A wild beauty!¡± the boar chimed in.

    ¡°The god will be pleased,¡± the bull added.

    Soon after, I was listed as a nominee for the selection ceremony, but I couldn¡¯t ignore the rumors about another potential Divine Bride with a wild beauty. If true, my mother was convinced that the church would be making a grave mistake by not selecting me. We were determined to secure the title of Divine Bride for me, but time was running out as the selection ceremony was fast approaching. In a matter of hours, my mother devised a plan, though she didn''t reveal the details to me. I had to trust her and follow along, which I did without hesitation.

    As the organist reaches the end of the score, they loop back to the first measure and repeat until the procession arrives at the altar, and the candles are placed on the altar table. I inch my way up towards the front, trying to get as close as possible. Some attendees, throwing me a look of disgust, quickly move aside to avoid touching me.

    The servants march to their respective seats; the candle bearers take their place on the far right side, while the scepter and scroll bearers are seated on each side of the Three Fathers on the throne. The girls were on their knees at the altar steps, with their eyes humbly lowered and hands clasped in prayer. Their families watch from the front row pew, looking proud yet anxious. Among them is the mother of a deceased girl; now, it is her niece who has joined the ranks of bridal candidates.

    Our eyes meet. She scowls and tears her gaze away. Though more than a decade has passed since the incident, and with no evidence found of foul play, the hate she harbors for me is still raw. She suspects that the death of her daughter was my fault.

    My mother¡¯s plan was for me to visit the girl¡¯s house with a small, sweet bread my mother baked as a way to congratulate her on her nomination. My mother strictly told me that I must make sure she ate the bread, every last crumb, but I wasn¡¯t allowed to have a piece of it.

    I didn¡¯t know what my mother had baked into the bread. I suspected it was something that would make the girl an undesirable candidate. Nevertheless, I presented the sweet bread to her with a genuine smile. She thanked me and took the bread, but instead of eating it right away, she put it in her knapsack and suggested that we go for a walk by the river. We brought the knapsack along with us.

    We talked for a while about our favorite stories about the God in the Mountain. Soon, we lost track of time and wandered too close to a popular resting spot among the crocodiles. That''s where she met her tragic end. A crocodile, lurking in the tall grass, snatched the girl¡¯s leg. It was quick. She screamed for my help, but I retreated to a safe distance in fear for my own life. The creature dragged her down the bank and into the water.

    I can still hear her screams, and those of her mother when the men pulled what remained of the body from the river: a severed foot with a silver gemstone-studded ankle bracelet still attached, the only undeniable evidence to confirm the body¡¯s identity.

    The Three Fathers, standing behind the altar table, raise the scrolls above their heads. The old man, situated in the middle, begins to recite the first prayer, with the worshippers repeating after him. The ceremony is quite lengthy, with seven prayers recited, interspersed with a hymn, before the selection process commences.

    With the scepter in their hands, the Three Fathers inspect each girl like they¡¯re seasonal fruits at a market. Then, stopping before the youngest-looking girl in line, they raise the scepter and tap it on her head. The boar and the bull roar in excitement. Applause and cries of joy ripple throughout the church. The other girls swarm around her, their envy masked behind forced smiles and excited squeals. Today is the girl¡¯s final day as a mortal, and by tonight, she¡¯ll be a goddess.

    As I look at the radiant face of the newly chosen Divine Bride, memories of my own selection flood back. I basked in the attention and adoration that was showered upon me, oblivious to the trials that awaited me in the mountain.

    While the villagers gaze upon the Divine Bride with reverence and admiration, I can only watch with a sense of foreboding. The worshippers form a line at the altar to receive a blessing from the soon-to-be divine being. They caress her bare feet, believing that the skin of the chosen one has the power to cure all kinds of ailments.

    As the strongest men hoist the girl¡¯s sedan chair over their shoulders, the villagers march onto the street, banging drums and blaring trumpets on the way to the forest. I climb up on a raised platform, shouting the truth to anyone who¡¯ll listen: ¡°I used to be believed in the tales of our God in the Mountain, and how its kingdom is a grand palace of light and splendor. Those are lies! Its kingdom is a deep void that devours life and light!¡±

    As expected, no one pays attention to my words. A few curious glances are cast my way, which, at first, made me think that my message has jolted them awake, but then their friends whisper in their ear, and those curious gazes turn into scowls. After a while, my voice grows tired, and I make my way back home.

    Some nights, I dream about the cave at the foot of the mountain. The voice that calls out to me is more animal than human and it beckons me to go inside. Once I enter, the opening disappears, and I find myself enveloped in the god¡¯s musky odor, like that of an animal in heat. I move towards the source of the voice at the end of the cave.

    ¡°Closer, my Divine Bride,¡± it seemed to say.

    The brittle rocks and sticks crunched and crumbled beneath my feet as I drew closer to the source of the red glow, which illuminated a path littered with human and animal bones. The wet, veiny walls were lined with lipless mouths, baring rows of sharp, yellow teeth and flicking long black tongues. Above me, I beheld hundreds of thousands of eyes staring down at me, shimmering like stars in the vast expanse of space. The god¡¯s true form was a horrific, unfathomable mass. I saw no grand kingdom or benevolent deity. Only a nightmare lay before me.

    I jolt awake, my nightgown drenched in sweat and the sheets stained with urine. The beast haunts my dreams now. Every night, I relive the Honoring. My fingers are gnarled, with several of them missing fingernails from when I clawed desperately at the closed entrance of the cave. A curious but shaken young guard eventually cracked it open, giving me the chance to escape. I had barely made it out with my sanity intact. When I returned to the village, the Three Fathers were furious, and my family was ashamed. They demanded to know why I had dishonored the god. In shock, I struggled to find my voice, which I had partially lost from screaming in terror in that cave, pleading for help.

    Not wanting to be forced back, I did what I thought would save me: I burned my face with my mother¡¯s hot iron. No god would want a half-face that resembled a melted wax candle. As for the guard who saved me, he was taken deeper into the forest and was never seen again.

    After the absence of a Divine Bride, the god nearly destroyed the village. But the villagers acted swiftly and selected another girl to offer to the god. When my voice had returned, I recounted what I had seen to many, but they refused to accept my words. Some accused me of lying, while others believed I had become delusional. The beast in the mountain has enslaved the villagers'' minds, and they find comfort in the Honoring, decorated with pomp and circumstance. I carry the burden of truth and will keep telling it until my last breath, hoping someone will listen.

    I wash up and toss the damp bed sheets into the washer. Peering out of the window, I see the sun rising, casting its golden light over the verdant green fields. The fruits and plants in the gardens have been revitalized. Later on, I catch a couple of roundfaced kids with mischievous grins, loitering around my garden. They reach up and pluck the large, plump plums off the branches, and sink their teeth into their juicy sweetness.

 Sisters Hammer

    The birds outside her bedroom window warn the other birds to fly far from the house. Something terrible is about to happen. The ants and the roaches sense it, too. They crawl up the wall and squeeze through a tiny crack in the window.

    Sister waits for the sign.

    The lamp on the nightstand wobbles and tips over the edge. It lands with a soft thud on a pillow she throws on the floor. The books and dolls and other cute trinkets on the shelves all come down. She can hear Ma and Pa rush out of the bedroom, their footsteps racing down to the end of the hall to the baby room where it lives. The creature¡¯s shrill cut through her skull like a chainsaw.

    Sister wishes they¡¯d never brought it home. They should¡¯ve left it to rot in whatever wilderness they found it in, but they were desperate, and the Devil smelled it. They want her to call it Brother.

    It¡¯s not Brother, she told them. My real brother was born a stone and we buried him next to Gramma and Grandpa.

    That earned her a hard slap.

    Call him Brother or else, they warned.

    What they¡¯ve brought home isn¡¯t human, but that doesn¡¯t matter to them. The family has a son. Finally, a son. He¡¯ll carry the family name and inherit the world. What about me? Won¡¯t I get anything? She asked and she remembered the way they laughed. They told her, you¡¯ll have a name and a house when you marry.

    When you marry...the words roll around in her mouth like bitter-sour candy she spits out.

    She slips into her warm, fuzzy slippers. As the Big Sister, it¡¯s her duty to feed the not-so little beast in the baby room. It¡¯s got an appetite equivalent to a blue whale. Blue whales eat up to four tons of krill a day. The creature eats four kills a day. It eats and eats, yet its body never grows except for its large misshapen squash-like head.

    She puts on a thick warm jacket and earmuffs and mittens. She wraps a scarf around her neck then pokes her head out the door anticipating the storm. The creature¡¯s howls nearly blew their house down once and the neighborhood like the wolf in the Three Little Pigs story. But to her surprise, the neighbors didn¡¯t march onto their front porch, demanding Ma and Pa to get rid of the creature.

    They weren¡¯t enraged at all. Instead, they vomited a long string of complements to the thing with the kind of cute baby tone. He¡¯s got a strong voice! Oh, yes, he¡¯d make a great leader! Leadership requires a strong voice!

    Pa and Ma beamed with pride.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got a BIG VOICE, too!¡± Sister yelled but instead of receiving praises and gifts like the creature, she got an ear-clap and a scolding.

    She heads toward the kitchen through the living room. Her eyes straight ahead, not daring to glance at the door leading to the basement. Pa calls it the Workshop. He keeps it bolted from the outside. That¡¯s where he kept the dogs, cats, birds, and other little critters he¡¯d catch. But the creature¡¯s taste has moved on to bigger things.

    She stops. Her ears piqued. The hairs on her arms prickle up. Someone is on the other side of the door. She hears them humming. She recognizes the tune. The voice, too. She heard it during recess at school. Six girls double jump-roping on the blacktop, singing the song. They were happy. Big toothy smiles that reached up to their eyes. They were six best girlfriends, but now there exist only four.

    Sister passes by the two lost girls at school all the time. They smile from the posters taped to the fences with other smiling lost girls. They¡¯re everywhere. Their faces printed out in black and white are pinned onto the cork surface of the noticeboard. Their names are spelled out on the school marquee where underneath it is a mountain of white flowers and teddy bears and candles. She remembers Ma took one of the stuffed toys, a white rabbit. Ma reasoned it was no good leaving the toys outside when the cleaners were going to throw them out anyway.

    The humming stops.

    ¡°Is someone up there?¡± a tiny voice asks.

    Another cries, ¡°Help us, please!¡±

    Sister stumbles back. Her bones chilled. No one¡¯s there, she tells herself. No one.

    She scurries to the kitchen and opens the walk-in freezer. She tightens the scarf and draws the jacket closer. She keeps her eyes to the shelves stocked full of meat wrapped up in saran wrap, but the hanging meat on the hooks at the end of the room swings into her peripheral vision like ghostly apparitions.

    They still look like people. She can make out the shape of their heads and shoulders. They hang upside down as the hooks hold them up a few inches off the floor by the heels. They¡¯ve been drained and skinned.

    She grabs a slab of meat off the shelf and rushes to the door.

    Locked. Her heart quickens. She pulls on the handle again. The door remains stubborn.

    The chains rattle.

    A raspy voice calls out to her. Sister! Please help...

    She shakes her head. They¡¯re not alive. It¡¯s her morbid imagination. The lights playing a trick on her eyes.

    The chains clink again. Footsteps behind her.

    Its shadow casts over her.

    Sister, please help. Save us. Its cold breath brushes against the back of her neck prickling the skin, raising the little hairs.

    ¡°You¡¯re not real,¡± she whimpers.

    We are here.

    ¡°Not real...¡±

    We can¡¯t rest. Free us.

    ¡°I-I can¡¯t.¡±

    Our souls are lost. You can end this.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what I can do.¡±

    More chains rattle. More voices join in.

    Kill the beast! You free us. You free yourself.

    Their voices are louder and clearer. But they¡¯re not here, she tells herself again. If they¡¯re not real, then they wouldn¡¯t be there. She dares herself to turn her head a smidge, sneaks a sideway glance. Lidless eyes stare back at her. Cloudy eyes that were once dark brown. Its tongue dangles from its jawless head.

    She lets out a shriek, but the sound can¡¯t penetrate the air-tight freezer. She bangs on the door beating the steel surface until her knuckles become purple. The door swings open. She lurches forward and falls over tripping on the slab of meat she grabbed off the shelf. Pa is standing in the kitchen with his black rubber apron and machete.

    ¡°Ghosts! Monsters! They¡¯re in the freezer, Pa!¡± she sobs, pointing to the freezer.

    Pa looks in. ¡°There¡¯s nothing.¡±

    ¡°But I saw... I heard them!¡±

    ¡°Stop playing, Girl!¡± he growls, ¡°Your brother¡¯s been waiting for his breakfast. Your mother won¡¯t be able to keep him calm much longer. You know he doesn¡¯t have patience.¡±

    Sister wipes the tears off and nods. The creature needs to be fed.

    Pa picks up the machete and unlocks the door to the Workshop. The odor of the scared things waiting in the basement wafts into the kitchen. She can taste their salty snot and tears, their urine leaking down their inner thighs, and the shit smeared on the walls. The stink lingers for a while even after Pa shuts the door and trudges down the creaky steps. Then, the screams. They puncture through the kitchen floor, clear and sharp like knives.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    Sister pulls out a roasting pan from the bottom cabinet. She hums loudly to herself, drowning out the screams. She hulls the chunk of meat onto the pan and loads it into the oven. She cranks up the knob. The light inside switches on and the oven begins to hum along with her, too. The meat glistens as its icy coating starts to thaw.

    Psst. Psst.

    She looks around the kitchen. Sees no one. Not Ma or Pa.

    Psst. It calls out again.

    And then it dawns on her. The noise is coming from the oven. The meat¡¯s center has sunk in, forming a toothless mouth. It tries to smile as if to make attempts to ease her fear. Then, in a bitter voice, it introduces itself as one of the many lost girls. One of the older girls, fatter and lonelier than the others Pa found at a high school.

    Sister stumbles back, stunned. ¡°You¡¯re not real!¡±

    Oh? But I¡¯m here. You put me here.

    She shakes her head.

    ¡°I¡¯m just doing what they need me to do."

    You know what they do, see what they do, and you do what they do. That¡¯s the problem.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t kill anybody. I don¡¯t eat anybody; I¡¯m not like that monster.¡±

    You might as well be like the monster, might as well have been the one to have killed us ¡®cuz you do what they tell you to do. So many souls are lost in this house, so many of us who are restless and angry and scared.

    ¡°What do you expect me to do? I can¡¯t do anything about it.¡±

    You can end it.

    ¡°How?¡±

    What does your Pa have in the Workshop?

    She shrugs. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m not allowed down there.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t see anything when I was there. Your Pa kept us in another dark room. But I know he¡¯s got some tools in the Workshop. How do you think he slices us up? Cut us up like a steak dinner for that beast.

    ¡°I¡¯ll get in big trouble if I go in Pa''s Workshop. I can¡¯t¡­¡±

    The meat sighs.

    When your Ma and Pa are gone one day, who do you think will be the one to feed the beast? Who¡¯ll kill for the beast? It¡¯ll be you. You¡¯ll be the one to clean up its mess. And you¡¯ll be the one to come up with excuses for it¡ªhe¡¯s really a good boy but boys like him got big appetites.

    ¡°No, it won¡¯t be.¡±

    You¡¯ll be trapped in this cycle. It¡¯ll keep going round and round.

    ¡°No.¡±

    You know, I could¡¯ve been someone. I could¡¯ve had a future, but I can¡¯t now. I¡¯m dead. Your Pa killed me, and your brother is going to eat me. How many more of us will have to die to keep it alive?

    ¡°No! I won¡¯t let that happen anymore!¡± She won¡¯t let it. Not today, not tomorrow.

    Then find a way to end it.

    The timer dings. No more screams. The house is quiet.

    She pulls out the soft dark pink meat. Its mouth gone. She pokes it. The meat is warm on the outside but cold in its core. Raw is tastier. More flavorful. That¡¯s what Ma says the creature wants. Ma¡¯s the only one who can talk to the creature. It hasn¡¯t yet learned how to speak, not even a word.

    But nature, Ma said, has a way for him to speak to her. Its vines. Long, long vines branching out from the one large horn on its bulbous forehead. Sister couldn¡¯t hear him say a word, except grunts and cries.

    That¡¯s because you need to stop talking and start listening, Ma told her. To live well is to listen to the men of the world. Listen to the father, listen to the brother. When you marry, you listen to your husband, listen to your son.

    But Sister doesn¡¯t want to listen to Brother.

    Footsteps ascend the creaky basement steps, and Pa emerges from the Workshop sweaty and tired and grumpier. He frowns.

    ¡°What did I tell you earlier?¡± he asks.

    ¡°Fix up Brother¡¯s breakfast,¡± she answers.

    ¡°That¡¯s right, and you¡¯re behind schedule. Do better. Come on, get to it.¡±

    Sister nods.

    Pa wipes the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. ¡°I¡¯m going to shower. Help your mother with the laundry, too.¡±

    He heads toward the bathroom, his boots leaving a faint red trail of boot prints. Once she hears the shower turn on, she dashes to the bathroom and peeks through the crack of the door. The curtains are drawn around the tub with steam beginning to fog the room. Seeing the small heap of clothes on the tiled floor, she grabs Pa¡¯s black pants. Her hands search through the pockets, shaking in frantic search for the key. Her clumsy fingers let it slip from its grasp and it drops to the floor. She swoops down to grab it.

    ¡°What do you have there?¡±

    Her heart jumps out of her chest.

    Ma stands at the end of the hall with her arms crossed in front of the door to the baby room. ¡°I was just going to take Pa¡¯s clothes to the laundry room,¡± Sister answers.

    Ma narrows her eyes, scrutinizes her from afar. Her gaze falls on the bundle of clothes in Sister¡¯s arms.

    ¡°Why do the laundry now? Go get your brother¡¯s breakfast!¡±

    Sister¡¯s stomach growls. She¡¯s hungry, too. But she doesn¡¯t tell Ma. Brother¡¯s breakfast comes first. She nods and drops the clothes, stuffs the key in her pocket and hurries back to the kitchen with Ma, who takes the meat to the baby room. She waits and listens for the right time.

    The shower shuts off. The metal rings of the shower curtain slide across the metal pole. She hears the medicine cabinet open, and all the things in it being shuffled around.

    Her fingers toy with the key in her pocket. She approaches the door to the Workshop and sticks and turns the key in the socket. It clicks. She glances over to the baby room. Ma is still inside feeding the beast. Pa is humming to himself and running the faucet.

    She opens the door and steps in, closing the door behind her. The stinging smell of bleach strikes her nose. She slaps a hand over her mouth to keep from gagging. All the blood rushes to her ears, heart pounding loud in her chest. Terrified of what she¡¯ll find downstairs.

    She makes her way down the steps, light pressure on the steps like they¡¯re brittle bones. She freezes at the slightest squeak. She expects Ma or Pa to barge through the door in a fury and catch her, but they don¡¯t come.

    She looks around, surprised to see the tiled floor and walls white as bone and the steel surface of the meat grinder shines like new. She smells another odor mixed in the bleach, its metallic taste sticks to the roof of her mouth.

    Is someone out there? I¡¯m so cold. It¡¯s so dark inside. I know you¡¯re there, say something.

    The voice of a girl cries through a stainless-steel door on the other end of the room with a large padlock.

    ¡°I come to end it,¡± Sister says, voice quivering. ¡°I-I¡¯m going to free you all.¡±

    How¡¯re you going to end it? The beast is bigger and stronger than you are.

    ¡°I think I know what to do.¡±

    She spots Pa¡¯s machete hanging on a hook on the wall alongside a dozen other tools. Meat cleaver, sledgehammer, and blades of different lengths and sharpness lined up according to size. All clean of blood. All imbued with the screams of their victims.

    Take the sledgehammer. It¡¯ll take out the beast in seconds.

    Its head is hard like a squash. Smash it.

    The lost girl behind the door begins to sob.

    ¡°Why are you crying?¡± Sister asks.

    I wish you¡¯d come a little earlier. And I¡¯m so cold. And it¡¯s so dark inside.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    The lost girl¡¯s tears leak through the bottom of the door. Thick blood oozes toward Sister¡¯s feet. She reaches for the sledgehammer. The weapon drops from her hand as she struggles to lift it up. More bloody tears flow out in a steady stream. With both hands, she lifts the hammer over her shoulder and bolts for the stairs. The adrenaline rushes through her in waves.

    The door flings open, and a great shadow blocks the doorway. Pa¡¯s cold, hard gaze falls on the hammer. ¡°What do you plan to do with that, Girl?¡±

    ¡°I--I...¡± she sputters.

    ¡°Give me the hammer!¡± he growls.

    She shakes her head. Not today, not tomorrow. She tightens her grip on the hammer¡¯s long handle. Pa charges down and grabs it with his large, calloused hands. She refuses to let go, but Pa¡¯s strength overpowers her, and the weapon is wrenched from her grip. The face of the hammer sends a blow to Pa¡¯s head. He plunges head-first to the bottom of the stairs. His neck bent in an unnatural way with a knob jutting from the side. Sister¡¯s hand flies over her mouth to hold back the scream.

    Pa¡¯s wide panicked eyes stare up at her, the life in them dimming like the way she¡¯d seen the soul of a large dog disappear when he hit it with the truck. It didn¡¯t struggle as he hauled it to the back of the truck. When she looked at it through the back window, she saw the soul inside clinging to life and sending a silent and desperate plea for help. The light in its eyes died.

    The blood river rises, and the hands of the lost girls reach out and drag him into its depths.

    ¡°What¡¯s that noise? What¡¯s going on?¡±

    She hears Ma draw closer to the Workshop, but the sudden burst of the creature¡¯s wailing detracts her from the door. She runs up and finds Ma going back into the baby room. Sometimes the creature can be calmed by a song. Ma starts to soothe it with the same song the lost girls hummed. But the creature grows more agitated.

    She hears the struggle inside. The choked screams. The desperate clawing at the door. Then, all becomes quiet again.

    She braces herself and opens the door. The smell of rot sits in the air, sticks to her skin and constricts her throat. As her eyes adjust to the darkness, the creature starts to take form, its gigantic head appears like the rising moon over Earth. The creature¡¯s vines sprawl across the walls and ceiling, pulsing like veins. They hang Ma up on the wall and smaller branches of vines have poured out from where her eyes and tongue should be.

    ¡°Do you want to play a game? Close your eyes, dear Brother, and count to ten.¡±

    Sister picks up the stuffed one-eyed bunny, its seams unraveling. She holds the toy up for it to see, the hammer waiting behind her.

    The morning after, the house is quiet. The birds fly in. They chirp and nest in the tree in the backyard garden. The ants march over three mounds of dirt where vines have grown and spread across the yard and up the sides of the house to its roof. As the vines¡¯ growth stops, something blooms on the plant, not one or two, but many around the garden.

    They grow eyes and ears. Their mouths, rows of tiny, pointed teeth, open wide. Their appetites are large. The birds stop singing.

 A Black Cat Tells a Story

    On lazy afternoons, I like to take a stroll on a path not far from the stream. Sometimes I¡¯ll venture over, dip my paws into the cool water and have a little drink. If I¡¯m lucky, a curious fish might swim by, and I¡¯ll snatch it up for a second lunch. Then, I¡¯ll find a spot for a nap until my nose catches a whiff of something delectable and I feel his soft fingertips scratch the top of my head. I¡¯ll wake up to a fried anchovy being offered from his palm.

    Crisanto isn¡¯t my owner; he¡¯s a long-time companion. On some days, we don¡¯t see each other; we go off and do our own thing. And then there are days, when I¡¯ll sit beside him while he waits for Dalisay, a young woman he loves who lives in a wealthy village on the other side of the stream. He¡¯ll strum on the bandurria and hum a song to himself. When she finally shows up to their discreet meeting place, his face lights up. The look of love they share between each other burns brighter and hotter than the sun. She¡¯ll wrap her arms around his neck and pull him close until they¡¯re nose to nose.

    They don¡¯t waste a minute of their short time together on these afternoons. He¡¯ll hold her in his arms and whisper endearing words in her ears. They¡¯ll make love on the grass. And I¡¯ll sit nearby licking my paw, savoring the taste of that fried anchovy. Every now and then, I¡¯ll look over and watch them lie side by side in happiness.

    These lazy afternoons by the stream are truly what makes life blissful. I look forward to them every week. But today, something is off. My whiskers prickle: they feel a dread. I smell an awfulness in the air. Only creatures like me can sense these things. I sniff the air again. I smell the sweat of raging anger.

    I slow down and approach the area with great caution. The couple are nowhere to be seen. Instead, in their place, are five men. I recognize the Chief of the wealthy village. He has his long sleeves rolled up and a splatter of red across his crisp white buttoned-up shirt. He lifts the bolo over his head. And right before he drives it down to the ground, I hear a weak cry, ¡°No, Papa.¡±

    He wipes the blade clean with a cloth.

    ¡°Don¡¯t touch them,¡± he says to the other men who look shaken but remain loyal and silent witnesses. ¡°Let them rot here,¡± he spits on the ground. ¡°My family¡¯s honor has been saved from this disgrace.¡±

    As if taking life away from another being isn¡¯t enough, the Chief kicks the bodies down the slope. They roll down to the bank of the stream.

    On this day, I learned that not every love story, no matter how pure and good-natured its characters are, ends with ¡°happily ever after.¡±

    *****

    Crisanto was born to a poor family; the youngest of four children. He hardly ever saw his father, but when his father did return, he¡¯d bring a pack of smokes and drink. His mother cared for him and his siblings the best she could, but she was hardly home, too, as her time was spent working long hours at the garment factory.

    Although familial love was a rarity in his own home, Crisanto discovered friendship with the cats loitering around the neighborhood. He¡¯d leave out a bowl of treats. That was how I met the poor boy. I¡¯d fight my way to get my share, but he¡¯d bring out more for me when the others had gone. Most boys like him grew up to be exactly like their parents. Everyone thought he¡¯d turn out like them or worse. If he had a few dollars to his name, people suspected he got it through peddling or begging. But I saw the good light in him. I sensed his goodness by the gentle way he scratched the sweet spot under my chin and when he nuzzled his nose against my cheek. He was his own light in the darkness, until the day he crossed paths with the only love he ever had, and on that day his light burned brighter.

    When his family fell on harder times, he took up a gig at the town square as a side street performer. He assembled a ukulele out of a candy tin box and fishing lines and gathered a bouquet of roses from a nearby garden. The latter almost killed us. The owner¡¯s dogs had chased us down the street for a good twenty minutes.

    He offered any passerby a song and a rose. The price: whatever amount they felt his musical wooing service was worth. He¡¯d serenade and win their crush¡¯s hearts for them or renew the love between disgruntled couples.

    He had an amusing voice; a tinge off key, a little off rhythm, but some found his songs sweet and charming. His voice, especially, caught the attention of one young woman. Their eyes met. The connection was instant. I was a witness to their first gaze. In that moment, Crisanto began to sing to her. He strummed faster on the strings; his fingers followed the rhythm of his heart, now invigorated by a new emotion he¡¯d never felt before. The passion in his voice grew stronger; suddenly much more in tune.

    He drew in a small crowd. They listened. They watched him serenade the young blushing woman. Once the song ended, they broke into applause. He bowed, relishing the first time having an audience. When he looked up, the young woman was gone.

    His heart sank; head down, shoulders drooped.

    ¡°With my luck, I¡¯ll never see her again,¡± he said.

    I reached up to him, scratched the spot above his knee. ¡°My dear friend, Crisanto, she¡¯ll return,¡± I reassured him, ¡°With that passion you unleashed in your song today, how can she not?¡±

    Of course, to his human ears what he heard weren¡¯t words of reassurance, but ¡°meow, meow, meow.¡± He chuckled and mimicked my words back to me, then scratched my head.

    Once the Chief and his men have left, I race to the spot where they stood but nothing could have prepared me for the horrific scene. The sight of two bodies, side by side, shakes me to the core. My whiskers stand straight up.

    My first instinct is to deny. It can¡¯t be them! I move in closer. I circle the bodies; two, three, four times, each time telling myself that it can¡¯t be them. I can¡¯t determine for sure. Thick blood coats their shattered faces. I only smell the pain they endured, the grief in their hearts. Then, the faint whiff of the fried anchovy. I find the little piece beside his hand. My stomach churns; my appetite is dead. It hits me, right now, that I¡¯ll never see them again.

    I snuggle between them, their bodies still warm. But soon their warmth starts to fade and, as the sun sets, they¡¯ve become stone cold. Their skin darkens fast to a deep purple color with sores opening up. Maggots swarm the bodies. I try to swat them away but it¡¯s no use. They consume the flesh until there¡¯s nothing left, just the bones which begin to sink into the ground.

    By dawn, their bodies are gone, and two tall green bamboo shoots have grown in their place. Throughout the day, more bamboos grow along the bank. Somehow, I can still feel their presence around me. I hear the strumming of his bandurria, and their voices singing together in perfect harmony.

    *****

    The young woman did return. I looked up at Crisanto to say, ¡°Ha! I told you so!¡±¡ª¡°meow, meow.¡± His face lit up; his smile so wide I thought his face would split. He plucked a rose from the bouquet and gave it to her with an exaggerated bow.

    She smiled back, took the flower, and thanked him.

    ¡°May I ask for your name,¡± he asked.

    ¡°Dalisay.¡±

    He strapped on his ukulele and began to play around with the notes in different keys until he found the right one. He came up with the lyrics on the spot, choosing words to rhyme with her name. He stumbled a few times; sang a note just a tinge off-key, off rhythm. A sweat droplet formed on his temple. I wasn¡¯t sure if it was from the sweltering heat of the sun, or his jittery nerves. I wondered what happened to that fiery passion he had shown. But, surprisingly, Dalisay found it entertaining. She laughed. He laughed with her, too.

    Every day, she¡¯d stop by his spot. Sometimes she¡¯d stand behind the small crowd he¡¯d drawn. He possessed other talents besides singing and playing the ukulele: juggling knives (until one close call almost severed a fingertip); telling folk tales with puppets he¡¯d fashioned out of socks, paper bags, shoelaces and dolls he¡¯d dug up from a dump.

    When the show was over, she¡¯d drop a dollar into the collection jar. Crisanto spent a portion of it one day on two cans of cold coffee from a vending machine, in the hope she¡¯d chat and have coffee with him. He was filled with delight when she accepted. For a whole afternoon, they were in their own world; the noise of traffic and pedestrians around them were shut out.

    Dalisay was, unlike Crisanto, born into an affluent family, the youngest daughter of a village chief. She came downtown accompanying her mother and two sisters, who spent their time in luxury shops. While her sisters fussed over designer shoes and jewelry, she roamed outside the shops to watch the various performances. When it was time to go, she told him she¡¯d come again, and she gave me a good scratch under my chin before parting.

    ¡°She¡¯s the one!¡± I exclaimed. A lady who''s not afraid to touch a scruffy black cat like me. Crisanto basked in the afterglow of the meeting. While it made me happy to see my dear friend had found love, I was na?ve about the courting rules of humans. Someone of her social standing and wealth couldn¡¯t possibly consider someone like Crisanto, who was, in society¡¯s view, at the bottom rung of the ladder.

    They skirted around the unspoken rules. They met up and drank coffee from the vending machine with six feet between them. They pretended to be strangers, walking along together in the crowd, only to steal a touch; hands brushed against one another, eyes locked then turned away, mouths passing on a secret smile. These small moments weren¡¯t enough; they itched to be closer. They snuck into an alley where they embraced each other tight, afraid to let go because that would mean the moment would end and they¡¯d be forced to go their separate ways again.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    The situation elated and depressed him. He yearned to see her more. So, he took it upon himself to serenade her from outside her window.

    ¡°What a terrible idea,¡± I tried to tell him, but he nodded and petted my head and said, ¡°Yes, I also think it¡¯s a romantic plan!¡±

    With whatever foolish courage he had, he took the ukulele and played outside her window. Dalisay and her sisters listened from the balcony. They giggled and cheered him on. The neighbors listened, too, from their balconies or porch. All were amused, except for the Chief. He looked at the young man like one who had discovered a rat in the kitchen¡ªutter disgust and disdain.

    The Chief was a prideful father. He wanted no one beneath their status to associate with his family, much less a street performer courting one of his daughters. He set his guards upon chasing us out. They wrangled the ukulele from Crisanto¡¯s clinging hands, then smashed it on the street.

    The following night, he serenaded again outside her balcony window, with only his impassioned voice.

    Looking back on this incident, I should¡¯ve stopped him. But of course, an idiot does what an idiot does; and this idiot was an idiot in love.

    As I expected, the Chief sent out his men to get rid of him. They roughed him up a bit, spat on him and gave him one last warning, ¡°Get outta here, boy! If you come back, we¡¯ll do more than a spanking.¡±

    The next day, while he was preparing for a puppet show, an old woman approached him with a white box and a rose. She said she was a housemaid for the Chief''s family and had come on Dalisay¡¯s behalf to deliver a message and the white box with the rose. She glanced from side to side, making sure no one was listening, and whispered something into his ear. She gave him the box before hurrying away as if fearing she¡¯d be caught.

    Crisanto opened the box. It was a brand-new bandurria. He held the pear-shaped instrument in awe, like a father cradling his newborn child, with a hand under its delicate short neck.

    *****

    The Chief and his men return with bolo knives strapped over their shoulders. My claws come out. I ready myself to pounce on their faces and dig my nails into their eyeballs. But Crisanto and Dalisay¡¯s voices stop me. They tell me to wait. Revenge is coming but the time isn¡¯t now.

    I do everything in my power to hold myself back. I stay close. I watch the men. They gawk at the tall bamboos in wonder, but the Chief isn¡¯t swept by the beauty surrounding him. He orders the men to cut down every bamboo.

    The men balk.

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t feel right,¡± one says.

    The Chief¡¯s expression darkens. He bores his menacing glare through each of his men¡¯s eyes, daring them to challenge his word.

    They pick up their bolo knives and begin to cut into the bamboos. But on the first strike, they stop and touch the deep wound they''ve cut into the wood. Their fingers are smeared with blood. The bamboos sway back and forth; the wind howls like it¡¯s in pain. Then something happens that shouldn¡¯t happen in a tropical climate: the warm air drops. It gets so cold; the men can see their breath. Suddenly, they become aware that something is watching them. Their eyes dart from side to side.

    ¡°What the hell¡¯s wrong with all of you?¡± the Chief growls.

    ¡°I see them. They¡¯re not dead!¡±

    They point in every direction and cry.

    ¡°It¡¯s her!¡±

    ¡°And him!¡±

    ¡°Their shadows are around us! They¡¯re everywhere!¡±

    ¡°ENOUGH!¡± the Chief barks, ¡°Cut them all down!¡±

    He swings the bolo knife and hacks into the wood. With each strike, blood spurts out; the wind¡¯s cries have turned into screams; the air has become frigid. But the blood continues to flow hot from every bamboo he cuts down. Blood splatters onto his face and clothes. Blood soaks the ground; it gushes into the rising stream coloring it dark red.

    The Chief looks at his men with his large, crazed eyes; face drenched with sweat and blood. The men pale; afraid to move in the middle of a grisly field with bamboos rolling into the stream like bodies. They witness the corpses of Crisanto and Dalisay being swept away by the red currents.

    The wind around them moans, ¡°No, Papa!¡± The words crystal clear in the voice of his dead daughter.

    *****

    A fish swam up to me. It circled around my legs. I raised one paw, claws out, and struck. It swam away. Disappointed, I trudged up the slope and found a good spot for a nap; it was under the shade of a tree. Then, the whiff of a fried anchovy tickled my nose. A hand stroked my head, the other offered the fish in his palm.

    I sat with him while he strummed on the bandurria to pass the time, waiting for her to come to their discreet meeting place. When she finally appeared, his face lit up. They ran towards each other and wrapped their arms tight around one another. They savored the moment. After they made love, they lay in the grass, basking in the afterglow, and talked about the future.

    They had dreams of a life together. They spoke about these dreams on Sunday afternoons. They''d run away and build their home and family. They¡¯d do it far, far away somewhere; it would be just them in their own world.

    While they dreamt about building their world together, I felt someone was lurking. I sniffed the air. It was a scent I¡¯d smelled before. A mixture of cigar and strong cologne. I followed the scent trail. I found the peeping Tom. It was one of the Chief¡¯s men, hidden in the tall grass. His eyes fixed on the couple. A sneer on his lips.

    I bared my fangs; my claws; all my anger. ¡°Hsss! Hsss!¡±

    He fell on his ass. He took one look then bolted. I ran after him, and by the time I came back to the stream they were gone.

    The following day, while Crisanto was packing up his instrument after a performance, he found a small black box addressed to him. I detected something foul inside. It was a horrible distinctive stench. He yelped when he opened it. He kicked it away. A dead rat rolled out of it. The maggots had half-eaten the creature. I knew what the message meant. One glance at his face, and I knew he knew, too. But the threat wasn¡¯t enough to scare him away.

    They were going to run away. They¡¯d travel as far as they could. They¡¯d hide away somewhere in the mountains. Maybe sail across the sea to another country.

    *****

    At night, the mansion appears like a mournful face. It is silent with the occasional outburst of weeping inside, behind shut doors and shuttered windows. Only a single lamp by the first-floor window softly glows in the large, darkened place. The Chief slouches in his ivory throne chair nursing a glass of whiskey, his eyes staring off somewhere.

    I hop off the fence, make my way to the back garden. The old housemaid who delivered the bandurria to Crisanto rests in a rocking chair on the patio, looking as mournful as the house. She beckons me to come closer; she¡¯s got a little treat in her hand: a fried anchovy. It would be rude of me to decline such an offer.

    ¡°Oh, I had a feeling you were going to come by,¡± she says, giving me a gentle scratch behind the ear. ¡°It¡¯s been a miserable week; the mistress is beyond consolation and her other daughters can¡¯t stop crying either,¡± she wipes the tears from her eyes, ¡°but that wicked and hateful man doesn¡¯t give a damn except for his pride, his honor.¡± She spits out the last word from her thin lips like she¡¯s tasted a vile spoiled fruit.

    ¡°Make him pay, my friend,¡± she continues, ¡°for what he did to my little Dalisay and your friend, Crisanto.¡± She opens the door that leads to the kitchen and encourages me to go inside.

    There¡¯s a heaviness in the house. It fills up the space, seeps into the cracks in the wall spreading its gloom like an infectious disease. Upstairs, the mistress and her daughters wail, overwhelmed by the sickness of grief. A stench of booze comes from the sitting room.

    The Chief pours himself another glass of whiskey. He downs it in one gulp. The lamp beside him flickers before it dies out. He straightens up in his throne chair, alert and on edge. "Who¡¯s there?¡± his words stumble drunk from his lips.

    I creep closer.

    ¡°Show yourself! Don¡¯t hide from me,¡± he shouts, ¡°I¡¯m not afraid of ghosts. And I don¡¯t fear the ghost of the selfish daughter who dared to dishonor her family!¡±

    The closer I get, the bigger I grow. I feel my limbs stretch longer and stronger. I grow as large as a panther.

    I clamp my claws into the chair¡¯s arms. The wood breaks from my grip.

    I tower over him. I can rip his head off in one bite. It¡¯s so tempting to do it, but it¡¯s not me who will serve his punishment. His fear reeks of whiskey and his cowardliness. He is shaking, whimpering, and uncontrollably urinating under me. The glass slips from his grip and shatters on the floor.

    ¡°N-not me! Not me! Don¡¯t kill me,¡± he begs, ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, so sorry, so sorry...¡±

    I lean close to his ear, making him feel the sharpness of my teeth. ¡°You¡¯re the wretched creature,¡± I growl, ¡°for what you did your soul is destined to spend eternity in a hell like no other.¡±

    ¡°Tell me what I can do. What can I do to be forgiven?¡±

    ¡°Go to them. Give them the blessing you denied them in life.¡±

    The light of the lamp flickers on. The Chief leaps to his feet. He looks around the room, bewildered by the emptiness in front of him. He anxiously scans the space but finds only my eyes staring up at him. He¡¯s alone. His eyes are as large and crazy as when he cut down the bamboos, raged with madness, but this time something in him has snapped. There¡¯s no rage in his eyes; it¡¯s terror.

    He goes to a cabinet drawer and grabs one of the most expensive drinks in his collection: a bottle of cognac. Then, he calls out for his old housemaid to wrap up some suman in banana leaves, remembering it was his daughter¡¯s favorite rice cake. When the housemaid asks him what the cognac and suman are for, he says nothing and takes the food with him and runs out of the house without a word, leaving her baffled. Of course, I know where he¡¯s heading. I run out the door, too, into the dark night.

    The bright full moon shines the way to the bank of the stream. I watch the Chief stumble in the dark. He pours every drop of the cognac into the water and places the suman on the ground. Then, getting down to his knees, he pleads for Dalisay and Crisanto to forgive him and that they have his blessing, and he hopes the food offerings will be enough to appease their spirits.

    I wait with bated breath. At first, there¡¯s only silence. No signs that the spirits have heard him. He takes it as a good sign, perhaps the calm means peace. He begins to laugh until he¡¯s in tears. But it ends abruptly as a dark figure of a woman rises from the water. Her face hidden behind the long curtains of black hair. Beside her another figure in the form of a man rises. The moonlight sheds a faint light on his face.

    The Chief catches a glimpse of a hanging jaw attached to a single thread of muscle. His instinct to flee kicks in. He scrambles to his feet but steel strings sprouting out of the soil seize his ankles, his arms, his legs. He struggles to break free. He screams for help, but his scream is cut short by the steel strings whipping themselves around his neck; the fourteen strings of the bandurria.

    They pull him towards the rising water. The last thing he sees before submerging into the stream, now a turbulent river, are the unforgiving cold white eyes of Dalisay and Crisanto.

    The river rages on and floods the town. With no time to gather their things, people head to the mountains, away from the water charging through their homes. I run up the mountain, too. Cold and soaked to the bone, I take shelter under a tree with a little girl whose cries stop as soon as I curl up beside her.

    The people wait to return the next morning when the river has calmed. On the way down they stop and listen to a bandurria being played. My ears perk up. I know that music. No one can, however, pinpoint where the music is coming from. It surrounds us.

    ¡°Look over there,¡± shouts a girl.

    She points to the river, and everyone¡¯s eyes search the water until they''ve spotted Crisanto in a dinghy strumming on his bandurria, and beside him, Dalisay resting her head on his shoulder, listening.

    I long to join them, but I know I can¡¯t go where they¡¯re going. It¡¯ll be a while before I can see them again. I crawl up to the little girl¡¯s arms, and watch the river carry the couple far, far away to the world beyond.

 Undead Reflections

    Caterpillars turn into butterflies. Ugly ducklings turn into swans. Then there''s me¡ªundead. I''m not the only undead in the world. Everywhere I go, I encounter hordes of undead people. Yet I''m still alone. No one communicates anymore; all that escapes their mouths are grunts and raspy breaths, like a room full of smokers gasping for air.

    Every day, I try to pick up fragments of my former life, piecing together memories of a world long gone. It all unraveled when a lab-grown virus, clumsily unleashed by a scientist with butterfingers, brought about the apocalypse.

    First, you''ll cough and feel a subtle tickle in your throat, but by the end of the day, swallowing becomes difficult. It''ll feel like you''ve got a cactus lodged in your throat. Your body rejects all food and drinks. Three to five days later, you simply drop dead, but then you come back.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    There are still a handful of survivors scurrying about. They run off and hide as soon as they catch sight of me. There''s one little creature that doesn''t run away scared from me. He follows me around, wagging his tail enthusiastically as he barks joyfully at my side.

    Are you hungry, Buddy?

    He barks twice and spins around.

    I''m hungry, too. I crave for something human: a hand, some brain matter, and the rich, buttery flavor of fat that tantalizes the palate. I long for the human touch, and I see that the other undead do too.

    For now, I guess it''s you and me, Buddy.

    Just you and me.

 The Girl Who Turned into a Manananggal

    <h2>Hair & Skin</h2>

    Girlie was born with soft, black hair that was as lush as a bird¡¯s nest. All the nurses couldn¡¯t believe how fine, how voluminous and how delicate her hair was. Her smell was different too. And her skin! Unlike most newborns, with their distinct, unpasteurized milk-like scent and their soft-as-egg-white skin, Girlie smelled of wet air after a spring rain. And her ivory skin; it was as velvety as the petals of sampaguitas.

    As she blossomed from a bubbly baby into a penguin-waddling toddler, every encounter she had with the family, (the aunties, uncles, cousins, distant relatives and honorary lolas and lolos) compliments rolled out of their tongues like church songs of praise. ¡°Oh, such lovely black hair!¡±, and ¡°Oh, such soft, pearly skin for a cute little child!¡± Her mother and father were, of course, proud to hear all of this. After all, Girlie was a combination of their finest genes.

    But as more years passed on and as she gingerly stepped onto that rickety, rackety bridge between the prepubescent stage and adolescence, she no longer heard those compliments. Instead of the adoring looks she¡¯d grown accustomed to receiving, she felt the burn of the grownups¡¯ stares with secret jokes dancing behind their brown irises and closed lip smiles.

    Confused, Girlie wondered why things suddenly went sour. Did she do something bad? Was she afflicted with something they knew, and she was the only one blissfully unaware?

    She peered at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her long black hair was still fine and voluminous, but now there was fur everywhere on her gangly body¡ªlegs, arms and pits, and even some peach fuzz on her upper lip. Her brows had also thickened and bridged over the glabella to make one long, thick caterpillar.

    She had tried to shave them all with a razor, only for them to sprout again, twice as thick and twice as stubborn!

    ¡°Oh, look, the Swamp Thing!¡±

    Her mother pointed and cried in laughter, when Girlie had emerged from the tub. Her long, sopping wet hair that hung down like the column roots of a banyan tree. Upon hearing those words, she sank back into the water.

    And her skin¡­

    Girlie recalled one afternoon when an auntie tutted her. She was on the summit of the jungle gym, surveying the playground like a far-sea explorer with a paper towel tube for a telescope. Seagulls called, waves rushed up, winds roared, and then¡ª

    ¡°Stay out of the sun! You¡¯ll get too dark!¡± the auntie had warned with frightening urgency.

    ¡°Too dark? Was it that awful to be dark?" Girlie asked herself.

    Under the bright light, she inspected closely the skin of her arms, face, shoulders, and legs. Skin as smooth as sand dunes and as brown as roasted chestnuts.

    She had overheard one auntie say to her mother and to the other aunties, who had gathered around her like a flock of eager little birds excited to peck at the gossip bread, ¡°Girlie was so cute as a baby! But now¡­ Maybe a witch had cursed her. She¡¯s starting to look more like a manananggal!¡±

    Mom and the other aunties shrieked with laughter. And this crumb of gossip was then pecked by a cousin, another chismosa in the family. He then shared it with the other cousins and anyone well within earshot. Whenever Girlie would walk into a room, whispers whirled about her like a swirl of rustling leaves, and eyes lit up with every secret joke. And when she passed by again, they waved their hands to their noses. Some even pinched their noses for a more emphatic cruelty.

    ¡°The stink of a manananggal,¡± they murmured amongst each other.

    She smelled her hands, her feet, her pits. Though she had scrubbed herself from head to toe, and doused herself with perfume, when she passed, they still scrunched up their faces and pinched their noses. Still, they whispered, with a little more disgust, ¡°Ew, ew, ew¡­that¡¯s a manananggal, for sure!¡±

    Was it true? Was she becoming a manananggal? A vampiric creature of the night whose body would split in half and fly away, leaving behind its legs, as it hunted for prey.

    Again, she looked closely at her arm, and brushing the short hairs aside, spotted a patch of gray scaly skin. Days later, more and more patches of gray scales appeared here and there on her arms and legs, shoulders, and neck.

    Papaya soap! Mother believed that it would fix things right up and brighten up the skin. But all it did was irritate Girlie¡¯s skin further and further. Then the scales spread further.

    <h2>Eyes, Nose, & Teeth</h2>

    Her eyes once sparked with youthful energy and an appetite for adventure. But now, they had darkened with a hidden rage. They had also become more sensitive to sunlight. Only at night did she see things clearer. Her eyes magnified objects a hundred times like no other human.

    ¡°Your mole looks like it has a mouth of its own. Do you talk to it sometimes?¡± she told one of the aunties who had a short stubby cactus of a mole on her chin.

    The auntie¡¯s eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared.

    And her sense of smell... how much it had sharpened! She smelled all sorts of things no one else could. Every odor was ten times stronger! When she passed by the cousins, it was her turn to scrunch up her face and wave a hand to her nose.

    ¡°You stink of pigs rolling in piss!¡± she told them, and to the elders, she blurted, ¡°Did you bathe in old sour milk?¡±

    Glaring, they stomped their feet and scowled.

    ¡°Oy, Girlie, that¡¯s not nice!¡± Mother scolded; eyes fired up with anger.

    She couldn¡¯t care less. When pushed to apologize, she bared her teeth. Sharp gasps rippled about the room, then stunned silence. Without apology, Girlie stormed out of the living room, raced up the stairs and shut herself in her room with curtains drawn.

    She peered in the mirror, carefully studying her teeth. They were larger, pointier! Like the teeth of a wolf! Maybe she was indeed becoming a manananggal.

    Her appetite changed. Her palate desired meat¡ªnot just meat, but raw flesh. She had a taste of raw meat, when a slab of steak had been left on the counter, waiting to be cooked. She took a nibble, then another bite, then another after another until she had devoured it all. The insatiable appetite for blood had overwhelmed all her senses; the craving was far too strong for her to resist.

    Her appetite grew stronger and stronger by the day. More than once she found herself burning a hole with her stare through the back of a classmate¡¯s neck. Delicate, sweet, delicious supple flesh...if only she could just have a little nibble, a little bite, a little sip of his blood.

    ¡°Why are you looking at him like that?¡± a girl sitting in the desk next to hers asked, an amused yet bewildered expression on her face. Other heads around them turned, even the boy with the fleshy neck.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Girlie¡¯s cheeks were on fire. ¡°I...¡±

    ¡°You like him, don¡¯t you?¡± a sneer on her lips. Then, loudly, she announced to everyone with an exaggeratedly sweet voice about Girlie¡¯s burning carnal passion for the boy with the fleshy neck. The room broke into fits of laughter, made hearts with their fingers, howled ¡®woooo!¡¯ and made dumb faces.

    The excitement was, however, cut short. The students stood dumbfounded and scared. The girl who started it all hung in the air. Her neck¡ªher very life¡ªwas in Girlie¡¯s supernatural grip. The tighter the grip, the more her eyes bulged. Like a golden tortoise beetle, her color changed from different shades of pink to red to maroon. She would have turned purple if it weren¡¯t for the teacher, who was forced out of his own little world by all the noise, putting a stop to the chaos.

    ¡°See me after class!¡±

    But the order was directed only at Girlie, who then dropped the girl. She fell to the floor like a ragged doll, gasping for air. Then she shrank back into her chair and hid behind her black curtains of hair.

    When the school bell had rung and all the students fled quickly like escaped prisoners, Girlie stood before the teacher and principal. Her eyes peered at them through the black curtains as her fidgety fingers picked at the gray scaly patch on the back of her left hand.

    The teacher scrunched up his nose and frowned. ¡°I know it¡¯s difficult to be your age. All emotions rush up at you all at once. So many feelings, so many hormones running amok. But it¡¯s no excuse for your bad actions.¡±

    A two-week suspension. And the loss of privilege to attend the school¡¯s Autumn Dance.

    The world needed to burn. It needed to be flung straight into the sun by a Great Power! But her lips remained sealed. She only grunted in reply, pretending to accept the punishment given with silent grace.

    The teacher nodded, seemingly satisfied. The principal nodded, smiling in self-congratulation for putting his foot down and validating his authority. Both remained oblivious to her glowing fury.

    <h2>Wings & Blood</h2>

    She ached all over. Her muscles were sore, and her bones were throbbing. Her shoulder blades burned; something was poking out from the gray scaly skin. With her nimble fingers, she reached over and felt a strange leathery hardness protruding from an opening.

    She stripped off her shirt and turned to the mirror. Large bat-like wings appeared from her back. They unraveled and stretched out twice the length of her arms. Stunned, she stood with mouth agape, both awed and horrified. And as suddenly as they appeared, the leathery wings darted back into her, leaving a clear syrupy pus along the slits in her flesh from which they came.

    And then there was another pain. A dull throbbing ache in her belly had emerged, just below her belly button. Looking down, she noticed another red slit, this time across her waist. It stung when touched, and little droplets of blood trickled onward to the ground. And then her world began to shatter. The no, no place...the unspoken and forbidden spot now leaked blood and soaked her underwear.

    I¡¯m dying, she thought. Panic rose steadily, and once it seemed as if the floor was crumbling under her feet, the world spun uncontrollably around her.

    At first, she told no one of her impending doom, until during dinner, when Mother thought she looked rather ill and asked what was wrong. It wasn¡¯t until that moment that the dam burst, and the waterworks streamed down Girlie¡¯s cheeks.

    ¡°I think I¡¯m dying! Dying!¡± she cried.

    ¡°Dying?¡±

    ¡°Yes, dying!¡±

    Then Girlie spilled out her horror of finding blood...down there...

    Confused, Father and the uncles furrowed their brows.

    ¡°Where?¡±

    Hiccups. Snot. Sniffles. ¡°Down...there...¡±

    The cousins scrunched up their noses. ¡°Wait, what? Where?¡±

    ¡°DOWN THERE!¡±

    Mother and the aunties glanced at one another. Amused grins split their faces. The cactus-like mole also flashed a broad smile.

    ¡°You¡¯re not dying,¡± they said, chuckling.

    ¡°I¡¯m not? Then why is it happening?¡± Sniffles. Snot. Hiccups.

    ¡°Oh, you¡¯re still too young to know!¡± one said.

    ¡°It just happens; it¡¯s natural,¡± another chimed.

    ¡°But know that you¡¯re not dying!¡±

    The aunties threw their heads back and cackled. And Mother handed her what looked like a diaper. But Girlie still could not understand why all these things were happening. Why, why, why was all she thought. No one at the table would answer. Or perhaps they were too embarrassed to talk about such things.

    <h2>Flight</h2>

    On the night of the full moon, a strange sensation swept through her. During the day she had felt tired and lethargic. Already she had napped twice in the afternoon, and yet an overwhelming drowsiness still lingered. Then, as night approached and the moon shone through the window, she was alert and hungry...very hungry.

    The gray scales now covered her from head to foot. Her fingers stretched long with sharpened claws. Her fangs protruded outwards, and her eyes beamed; blood-red and sharp. With eager ears pointed she listened to the heartbeats near and far.

    Her family¡¯s bulging eyes back in abject terror. Their jaws dropped in unison. Then her wings popped out, expanding from wall to wall, spreading their darkness across the room. As they flapped and lifted her up, the cut around her waist widened until she detached completely from her lower body, leaving puddles of blood. With a joyful scream, Girlie shot through the window into the full moon night.

    She¡¯d never felt so free!

    And never so ravenous!

    The stray cats were the first to disappear. They slinked into the dark alleys, sniffing the dumpster, when suddenly their whiskers and tail went rigid, sensing an unsettling presence hovering above them. They hissed, yowled and bared their fangs, and scratched the air. And then...silence.

    The working young man who¡¯d haul the trash out into dumpsters in the alley, thought it very odd not to see the scavenging street cats he¡¯d grown familiar with. He scratched his head, searched around and whistled hoping they¡¯d hear him call. But then the hairs on his neck and arms stood straight up, and his spine went rigid. He dared himself to look up, and when he did, it was instant regret.

    When the young employee didn¡¯t return from trash duty, the restaurant owner grew impatient and believed the boy was loitering in the alley again, to have a smoke. The owner went out to check but stopped abruptly when his foot stepped into a puddle. Letting out a miserly grunt, he lifted his foot and saw that his sock was soaked in red.

    The light from the wide opened back door shined on a severed leg and a severed cat¡¯s head with a missing eye floating in a large pool of blood. Hearing wings flapping above, he looked up and nearly jumped out of his skin. He scrambled back in and screamed for help.

    When the cops arrived, they cordoned off the alley. They took pictures of the gruesome scene and spoke with the owner, though they struggled to hide their amusement while taking notes of his description of a winged creature. But dispatch radioed them about a sighting of a creature matching the description: glowing furious eyes, bat wings, a mouth with rows of bloody fangs, and entrails dangling at the waist.

    As the town slowly became more alert about this winged creature, the school gymnasium roared with unbridled excitement. The walls vibrated from the DJ¡¯s music. The Autumn Dance was on fire. The students swirled on excited feet. They swung and leapt and flipped in time to the beat. The music muffled the noise of a rooftop window breaking. The flapping of wings was welcomed as they spread a cool breeze for those feeling hot and stuffy.

    Feeling his mouth grow parched, the boy with the fleshy neck, sweating profusely from dancing, went straight for the refreshment. As he gulped down a cup of punch, something slimy slithered across his neck like someone was licking him. But satisfying his thirst and appetite was more urgent, and so he poured himself another cup and shoveled a couple of cookies into his mouth. He stopped mid-bite when he felt it again.

    This time he looked up.

    <h2>The Morning After</h2>

    She woke up in the middle of the school¡¯s football field. To her great relief, the gray scales and wings were gone. And at some point, in the blurry chaotic night, her legs had found her and reattached themselves to her body.

    She sat up and inhaled the fresh morning air, listening to the sirens of a fire truck and ambulances blaring somewhere off in the distance.

    As she was about to jump to her feet, something moved beside her, and glancing over, she realized she wasn¡¯t alone. The boy with the fleshy neck, now riddled with hickeys, sat up next to her, grinning stupidly.

    ¡°Oh, what a night!¡±

    Girlie shrugged. ¡°It was okay.¡±

    ¡°I thought it was a fun night! Just wild!¡±

    She looked over to the school buildings. Plumes of smoke rose from the gymnasium, its windows broken, and bloody handprints scaled the walls.

    ¡°I guess I really surprised everyone,¡± she said.

    ¡°Yeah, they won¡¯t be bothering you anymore. That¡¯s for sure.¡±

    The faint echoes of her classmates¡¯ screams still rang in her ears.

    ¡°So, what should we do now?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t really want to go home just yet...¡± Her family must be furious. Home was the last place she wanted to go.

    ¡°You hungry?¡± He glanced at her, hopefully, his stomach grumbling.

    Hers also cried for food.

    ¡°I don¡¯t usually eat breakfast but, yeah, I could eat.¡±

 The Walking-Corpse Eater

    In the middle of the calm night, having been woken up by a tapping on the window glass, she finds herself alone in the darkened room, softly illuminated by the silvery moonlight coming through the window.

    When she had gone to bed, her parents were snuggled up on either side of her. Their great backs were walls of protection from creatures that lurked underneath the bed. Ease came to mind and sleep quickly took over as gentle as the beach waves that washed over her half-buried body in the sand.

    Now she¡¯s alone.

    The realization freezes her muscles. She stares up at the ceiling. Afraid to move, even to flick her eyes over to see what¡¯s tapping on the window. It comes in threes. Three rhythmic taps then three seconds of silence.

    It¡¯s here, she says to herself as she brings up the blanket over her chin. It¡¯s the creature that comes for the forever sleepers!

    Lola¡¯s forever sleep has brought many relatives together who, for years, have long been separated by vast distances. Now the family has come together from all over the world to the little white house planted in the middle of a sea of paddies and coconut fields.

    *****

    She was put up in her mother¡¯s childhood room upstairs on the second floor--now converted into a semi-sewing and storage room with a bed in the corner. The aunties and uncles asked her if she remembered them, despite having been a toddler when she last saw them. So, her memories of them, of course, were blurred or non-existent.

    But those memories were fresh in their minds as if they had seen her the other week still in diapers. And then there were the older cousins. One of them, carrying a toddler she had never met, told her that she was now an ¡°auntie¡± to the drooling, blubbering creature on their hip.

    I can¡¯t be an auntie. I¡¯m seven, she thought. The elders still called her nene, which meant ¡®little girl.¡¯

    After every nephew, niece, and cousin had been smothered in welcoming hugs and kisses on the cheek, the grownups crowded into the bedroom, where Lola swayed on the threshold between earth and heaven. While the family mourned, the ghosts of past generations watched and guarded in sorrow within the walls.

    The kids weren¡¯t allowed inside the room yet. Their parents left them, as the children saw it, to suffocate under the thick layer of humid air in the living room. Rather than lie on the antique floral sofa or languish in boredom, they tried to catch the little gray house lizards scurrying on the walls.

    The lizards squirmed in the kids¡¯ hands then were let go. But one girl thought it would be funny to step on a lizard¡¯s tail and watch it struggle to escape. To her delight, it separated itself from its tail and dashed under the sofa, leaving its limp tail behind under her foot. She picked it up and waved it teasingly in front of her cousins¡¯ faces. Nene screamed and knocked the girl¡¯s hand away.

    The fits of giggles and shrieks broke the somberness that cloaked the house earning the children a severe scolding. They were to shut up and be respectful! Lola was resting and needed everyone to be quiet.

    Bored and stifled by the heat, they lounged on the sofa, trying to think of something else to do. Then, one cousin, whom Nene called manoy¡ªolder brother, started to sniff the air. He asked them if they noticed a strange smell. They sniffed the air; their noses followed the invisible trail of a sour milk-like odor. It led them just outside the opened door of Lola¡¯s bedroom.

    An auntie emerged from the bedroom and flung the windows open. The fresh air poured in, circled the room and made its way down the hall to fill the rest of the house. But the sour milk odor remained.

    A couple of magpie-robins flew in and darted around the room. They narrowly missed the children¡¯s heads. The city cousins screamed. Their nerves shaken as they weren¡¯t used to wild winged animals flying around so freely in the house.

    Their auntie scolded them. The children fell silent. Once again, languishing in boredom, they itched to fill the bright afternoon with excitement, but no one spoke a word for fear of flaring up their auntie¡¯s anger again.

    Manoy gestured for the cousins to gather around him. He wanted to tell them about the Bicol asuwang na lakaw. The children scooted closer. Manoy had lived in the village all his twelve years of life. He would know the secrets and myths about the village. They turned their ears to him, even Nene, who usually didn¡¯t enjoy scary stories, was curious and leaned close.

    Manoy''s face darkened, but his eyes held a mischievous spark, and he whispered, ¡°When people sleep forever, it comes to the house at night and eats the body when no one¡¯s looking. Sometimes, it¡¯s already in the house just waiting for the person to go into their forever sleep. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s here now in Lola''s bedroom.¡±

    He sniffed the air again.

    ¡°That¡¯s the smell of the asuwang na lakaw. If you¡¯re quiet, you can hear it.¡±

    He pressed a finger to his lips.

    ¡°Do you hear that? Tak-tak-tak...tak-tak-tak...¡±

    *****

    Tak-tak-tak.

    The tapping on the window continues.

    Nene buries herself under the blanket and peeks through a small opening.

    She sighs. Why did he tell them those things? It¡¯s his fault that I¡¯m awake!

    ¡°Mama! Papa!¡± she calls out, but instantly regrets it as the creatures underneath the bed have probably heard her and sensed the fear in her trembling voice. It¡¯s impossible to go back to sleep now. She hugs her pillow tighter.

    She can smell the sour milk odor wafting in from the hallway into the room, thickening in her throat with every raspy breath she takes. Without warning the window slams closed with a violent force, and cracks branch out across its glass surface. From the corner of her eye, a blurry, shadowy thing scurries by. She clasps a hand over her mouth to keep the scream inside.

    It is a shadow that can take on many shapes. A man or woman in the day and something else at night. It can disguise itself as a friend. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    *****

    She recalls the arrival of a few more guests, accompanied by nurses, who claimed to be Lola¡¯s old school friends. They were ancient beings with liver-spotted brown leathery skin hanging loose and thin over their hunched skeletal bodies.

    Manoy walked up to meet them, nobly showing his foreign-born cousins how to properly greet elders. He took a gnarled and shaky hand from each of the guests and pressed it to his forehead. Another auntie, who emerged from Lola¡¯s bedroom teary-eyed and upset, scolded the other children for not following Manoy¡¯s lead in welcoming the newly arrived elders. Like her cousins, Nene was hesitant but greeted the elders as she was told.

    They smelled like flowers, but underneath the flowery scent was the stench of soured milk. The old man smiled, revealing a row of yellow sharpened teeth hidden behind thin pale lips.

    *****

    Those teeth.

    The memory ripples down her spine like a hundred dirty, rough fingernails tapping on her soft youthful skin. Her eyes widen as a shapeless shadow stretches across the wall. She keeps still, breathing in and out slowly, and eyes the shadow. Her nerves prickle in frightful anticipation of its next move.

    The bedroom door creaks open, its old copper hinges groaning, and the shadow slips into the hallway. Its feet padded, as gently as raindrops on wood, across the floor. A gust of wind from the window sends the door crashing into the wall. The knob breaks and with a heavy thud drops to the floor and rolls under the sewing machine table.

    She remembers asking Manoy what would happen if the asuwang na lakaw were to successfully eat the forever sleeper. He told her that the sleeper¡¯s spirit would be lost. Because the body is like a beacon whenever a spirit wants to visit the world of the living, the spirit would lose its way home.

    Come on! Go out there!

    Nene tells herself.

    Make sure it leaves Lola alone. The creature can¡¯t hurt me. It only eats forever sleepers. I¡¯m sure I am alive and awake and not afraid of anything. I¡¯m not afraid of the asuwang na lakaw!

    She grips the blanket, fearful of letting go of the only shield she has between her and the unknown creatures crawling in the night, but courage finds her and with some of her fears dispelled she slips off the blanket. She lowers her head to see under the bed to make sure that nothing is waiting to pull her under.

    A sigh of relief emits from her lips when she confirms that there is nothing. She slides off the bed and picks up a long wooden back scratcher off the night table.

    Just in case it charges at her. It¡¯s better than going out there without anything to strike it!

    Down the moonlit hallway, she catches not one but two shadows darting around the corner. They run down the stairs, fast and light on the steps. She tightens her grip on the backscratcher and tiptoes down the creaky steps which clap like thunder. She leaps over the last two steps and lands quietly on the floor on both feet.

    Outside in the backyard gathered underneath the straw grass roof of the bahay kubo, her mother and father have joined the aunties and uncles for gossip and drinks. The men light up cigarettes and throw their heads back as they take a shot of a clear liquid, while the women laugh and casually sip the clear liquid drink. In between their tapering laughter and drinking are bouts of tears and stifled sobs. They seem unaware of the night creatures that have crept into the house.

    A sudden urge comes to her to run out to the backyard and tell them that the asuwang na lakaw is here to eat Lola! But then she decides against the idea.

    They won¡¯t believe me, she figures. Mother will be angry that she¡¯s not in bed sleeping, and father will tell her that monsters only exist in imaginations then be frustrated with her for interrupting the party. She¡¯s on her own to protect the forever sleeper.

    In the living room area, Lola sleeps in a beautiful silver casket with images of flowers and palm leaves carved along its sides. Earlier that day, after Lola passed and was placed in the casket, the large family stood before the casket, bowed their heads, and clasped their hands together in prayer. Then, after the prayers, she went straight to the casket and traced the intricate design with her fingers. The act pleased her playful fingers that longed to touch the grooves and curved lines since she first walked into the room.

    Standing on her tiptoes with a hand on the casket¡¯s edge for balance, she gazes down at Lola¡¯s sleeping face. The peach-colored blush makeup and lipstick imitate the warmth and liveliness that life brings, but the forever sleep has already crept into the skin and drained the natural colors of life hours ago.

    *****

    Earlier that day, Nene witnessed the forever sleep happen when her mother dragged her into the bedroom to give Lola a final kiss goodbye.

    ¡°Lola wants to see you one more time,¡± Mama said with eyes brimming with tears. The old woman, whom for years she saw only in pictures and recalled a brief memory of being hugged and kissed by her as a toddler, laid limp on a bamboo chaise lounge with pillows tucked behind her for comfort. Lola was drained of energy and color, unable to sit up and gesture for Nene to come closer.

    So, mother gently nudged her closer.

    The air was infused with the sour-milk stench, though no one else was fazed by it. The aunties stood close fanning themselves with woven reed hand-fans then fanning their fading mother who moaned and groaned as she fought to stay awake. One auntie lifted Lola¡¯s hand and nudged Nene¡¯s head down so that her forehead touched the hand.

    Lola¡¯s eyes fluttered open, and her lips parted softly taking in shallow breaths. Then, suddenly, a pair of large strong hands picked Nene up from under her arms and was told to give her Lola a kiss on the cheek. For a long moment, as she was about to bring her lips to the liver-spotted sunken cheek, Nene caught a glimpse of something frightful in the elder¡¯s brown eyes. A glimpse of the future.

    Someday, like Lola, her own mother would lie on this bamboo chaise lounge, struggling to stay awake as the forever sleep would rush up and pull back like the cold waves at the beach, each time pulling away the warmth of life. Then, after mother, it would be Nene''s turn to sleep forever when she would be old and withered on the chaise lounge drawing her last breath. The thought gripped around her heart like gnarled icy fingers.

    *****

    The realization still clings to her. All living things go to sleep forever, but she has years...decades...before it happens.

    Goosebumps appear on her arms as a shadow looms over her, shrouding a heavy cloak of dread. From the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the shadow squatting on the other end, atop the casket. It returns her gaze with unblinking red eyes. Its putrid stench churns her stomach. Opening its mouth, it unfurls its long, wet tongue and licks the casket''s glass.

    She stands frozen in terrible fright. Something wet and warm trickles from between her legs and runs down the inside of her thigh. It pools into a small puddle at her feet.

    The creature can¡¯t hurt me! She remembers telling herself earlier. It only eats forever sleepers. I¡¯m not afraid of the asuwang na lakaw!

    She swings the backscratcher as if it''s a sword and strikes the shadow, yet the creature sits, unfazed by her. She strikes again and the shadow disappears into smoke, and from the smoke two small, fat and frumpy creatures hop off the casket onto the floor.

    They¡¯re just frogs...

    Her heart calms.

    She takes a deep breath and releases it in a soft cry.

    The frogs peer up at her with black-buttoned eyes before hopping out of the room.

    Outside, the party continues in the bahay kubo. Laughing and crying and drinking; they remain oblivious to how close she had gotten to the asuwang na lakaw and how she ventured down the stairs on a quest to protect the forever sleeper.

    As she turns to run back up the stairs, a flickering light catches her attention. A breeze rushes in from an opened window billowing the lace curtain. Once it has settled down, a light from outside casts a dark yellow glow on a figure standing in the corner. Though it startles her, its presence brings warmth and calm and a sadness that aches her heart.

    ¡°Lola?¡± she utters.

    Lola smiles and blows a kiss to Nene then melts into the walls joining those who¡¯ve passed and stayed in the house. Forever and ever, she¡¯ll be in the house watching and guarding those who live in it and those who come and go.

 The Farewell Night

    It was only 9 p.m. when I was abruptly awoken by an inexplicable sensation. The luminescence emanating from the neon lights and passing vehicles of the bustling city seeped through the slats of my blinds, casting an otherworldly glow around the room. My skin prickled, as the hair on my limbs and nape stood at full attention.

    Although I lived alone on the fourth floor in a small studio, an unmistakable presence permeated the room. I sat upright in my bed, my attention immediately captured by a formless silhouette occupying the corner beside the entrance.

    The figure advanced toward me, its faceless form radiating an unspoken sense of dread. I felt a chill run down my spine, and a single droplet of icy sweat traced a path down my cheek. My breath came out in white puffs as I watched, paralyzed with fear.

    As it took another step, the figure began to take on a more tangible form. The hazy outline solidified into a man, whose balding head and rotund belly came into focus. His hands were snugly tucked in the front pockets of his denim jeans, and his shoulders were hunched forward, giving him an air of dejection.

    As his eyes met mine, a glimmer of familiarity sparked within me, and a sly grin spread across his features, revealing a face I had thought was lost forever. A maelstrom of emotions, including relief and grief, surged through me, catching me off guard.

    ¡°Dad, I wasn¡¯t expecting you,¡± I said, after what felt like an eternity of silence.

    ¡°You scared me for a second.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, sorry, I didn¡¯t mean to startle you,¡± he replied, his voice warm and gentle.

    ¡°So, what brings you all the way out here?¡± I asked, genuinely curious.

    His gaze wandered around the room. ¡°I thought I¡¯d come by and see how you are. You moved so far away from home. I never got the chance to get a look at this new place of yours. Is this how you¡¯re living these days?¡±

    With a disapproving shake of his head, he gestured towards the indistinct masses of debris scattered haphazardly across the room, resembling nothing than amorphous, shadowy blobs. Upon closer inspection, the smudgy outlines revealed themselves to be an eclectic mix of take-out containers and rumpled clothing, some freshly laundered and others in dire need of a good wash. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, emanating an unpleasant odor that had started to fill the entire studio.

    I sat there in silence, bracing myself for the familiar sound of his voice launching into one of his classic lectures about the importance of doing chores as you go or the perils of leaving home without knowing how to properly take care of oneself.

    After a brief moment of hesitation, I spoke up. ¡°I was actually planning on cleaning up soon. It¡¯s just been hard to find the time with work being so busy lately.¡±

    Dad¡¯s expression softened slightly, but his disapproval lingered. ¡°You know, you never invited your mom and me to come visit.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m still getting settled,¡± I lied, reluctant to admit the truth aloud. The distance was a necessary buffer for my own sanity. I could still hear the echoes of my mother¡¯s temper tantrums and my dad¡¯s defeated sighs in my mind. It didn¡¯t seem worth it to bother sharing any details with them.

    ¡°But it¡¯s been a few years,¡± he grumbled.

    ¡°Yeah, I know¡­¡±

    With a heavy sigh, he lowered himself onto the small sofa chair by the bed, resting his hands on the armrest. ¡°It¡¯s a pretty decent size studio you have here. Not too big, not too small.¡±

    ¡°Are you staying long?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not quite sure yet. The plan is to stay until the first light of the new day, but after that, who knows where I¡¯ll end up.¡±

    ¡°Go where?¡±

    He shrugged, and chuckled. ¡°That¡¯s the greatest mystery. I¡¯ll be finding that out soon enough. In the meantime, I¡¯m here to see you before then.¡±

    ¡°Okay, well, then why don¡¯t we take a walk and get some fresh air? I can show you around Seoul.¡±

    He looked at me skeptically. ¡°Are you sure? You looked zonked out earlier from work.¡±

    ¡°I was but I¡¯m wide awake now,¡± I said, waving my hand dismissively. ¡°Anyway, I know you never get to travel much. It¡¯ll be fun, and you¡¯re only here¡­¡± I paused as the words got stuck in my throat. ¡°¡­for one night¡­¡± The words came out softer and bittersweet.

    He nodded and said, ¡°Yeah, sure, we can do that. Let¡¯s go out.¡±

    As I rummaged through my closet for a jacket, a new sensation crept over me. It was an eerie feeling, like there was something else in the room with me. I could sense it lurking in the shadows, something that wasn¡¯t human. With trembling fingers, I reached for the light switch. As the room flooded with light, the shadowy figure disappeared. Dad was also gone, and I noticed that the front door was left wide open.

    I heard his voice echo down the hall as he called out to me, ¡°Come on! Let''s not waste the night!¡±

    *****

    The frigid air seeped into my bones. Even the slightest breeze felt like a knife slicing through butter. I hastily zipped up my jacket and shoved my freezing hands into its pockets. But Dad seemed unfazed by the cold, dressed only in jeans and a flannel shirt. He stood there, hands on hips, surveying our surroundings.

    My neighborhood had a relatively peaceful nightlife compared to other areas of the city. On the opposite side of the street stood a convenience store, where a couple of delivery motorcyclists were taking a break on a bench, chain-smoking and guzzling down cans of sweet Americanos. Customers strolled by the fruit stands at a corner market, while a few lingered outside a bar, smoking and chatting.

    ¡°So, this is where I live,¡± I said.

    Dad nodded. ¡°Seoul seems nice.¡±

    Though, I sensed his subtle disapproval. He said it with a frown on his face.

    ¡°What is it?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Is it safe around here?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s generally safe.¡±

    We ambled down the narrow alleyway, then made a turn at the corner market, which led us to a longer alleyway lined with bars and fried chicken restaurants. The area was bustling with people, mainly college students, streaming in and out of the establishments.

    The path led us to the busy main street, where pedestrians were hurrying along. Delivery motorcyclists zoomed by, deftly navigating through the crowd, without colliding with anyone. As we walked, we passed several food vendors with their tents set up. The warmth emanating from the tents beckoned to me, and the aroma of the food made my mouth water.

    One of the vendors smiled and waved for me to come over and sit on a stool at one of the few red plastic tables. She was selling fish cakes and blood sausages, and my stomach rumbled at the sight of them. I realized I had forgotten to eat dinner and decided to order a couple of skewered fish cakes with a cup of broth and a small plate of blood sausages. She sliced the sausages into several pieces and added a teaspoon of salt on the side. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Dad gazed at the food in front of me.

    ¡°Do you want to try some?¡± I offered.

    He pointed at the fish cake. ¡°How does it taste?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll have to taste it to know.¡±

    I handed him a skewered fish cake, but it slipped from his fingers and landed on the table. As Dad leaned over to retrieve it, a businessman in a suit and carrying a briefcase entered the tent.

    A light bulb switched on in Dad¡¯s head. He got up and rushed into the man, disappearing in the blink of an eye. The man clutched his chest and collapsed, shaking uncontrollably.

    The vendor panicked and hurried to the man¡¯s aid, calling out for help and asking if he was alright. However, she stepped back as the man sprang to his feet, straightened his tie, and picked up his briefcase.

    ¡°I¡¯m alright,¡± he assured the vendor whose pale face was frozen in shock. He then plopped himself down on the stool in front of me, taking a large bite of the fish cake.

    ¡°Not bad,¡± he said with a nod of approval.

    ¡°Dad?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± he grinned. Although the face before me wasn¡¯t his, the sparkle in his eyes assured me it was him. Together, we devoured the other skewer before moving onto the blood sausages.

    After a while, he said, ¡°There¡¯s a question that I want to get out of the way.¡±

    ¡°What is it?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s something that I kept wondering about¡ªwhy did you leave?¡±

    ¡°You and Mom have already asked me that question before.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I know, but I¡¯ve this feeling that you never told me the real answer.¡±

    ¡°Real answer? Dad, it¡¯s not that complicated. I got hired at a company and I¡ª¡±

    ¡°No, really. I know you could¡¯ve gotten work back home, but you decided to fly halfway across the world instead.¡±

    I hesitated, reminiscing on the memories of my parents¡¯ reaction when I told them about my decision to move overseas. There was no sense of congratulation, no expression of pride, nor a hint of joy. Instead, there was an outburst of anger and bitter words that penetrated deeper than any sword. Their words struck at the very core of my being, leaving me wounded and bleeding. It wasn¡¯t the first time, as such things had happened since as far back as I could remember.

    I shook my head. ¡°If I tell you why and how I feel, you¡¯re just going to get mad. You and mom never liked it whenever I spoke my mind.¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t get mad. Really, I promise.¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡±

    ¡°Just tell me.¡±

    ¡°Alright then,¡± I began, unsure of how to approach the topic delicately, ¡°I needed to figure myself out. I wasn''t sure what I wanted to do, and I wanted to know what it¡¯s like to live on my own. I didn¡¯t have any freedom while living with you and Mom. The only way for me to get that was by leaving.¡±

    He scoffed. ¡°What do you mean? You make it sound like you were in a prison.¡±

    ¡°What I mean is that you can¡¯t shelter someone forever. Everyone needs to find their own way and make their own decisions. You can¡¯t control someone¡¯s every move and expect them to grow.¡±

    ¡°We were only trying to protect you and keep you from making mistakes.¡±

    ¡°Making mistakes is part of the learning process on how to live. I only wish that panic isn¡¯t always my knee-jerk reaction when something goes wrong or doesn¡¯t go my way.¡±

    ¡°So, do you like living here? Are you glad to have moved so far?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, and I¡¯m glad I did it.¡±

    He frowned but said nothing more. Walked in silence as I paid for the food, and I led the way to an urban stream where people took long walks, jogged or biked even during the cold night. We settled on a bench near the water.

    Breaking the silence, he said, ¡°I may not have been the perfect father, but there must be some good memories we made together.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, of course, there are good ones with you.¡±

    ¡°What do you remember?¡±

    ¡°I remember when you took me on my first motorcycle ride on a red Harley-Davidson. I was four. You were going so fast, and it was the most thrilling thing I''d ever felt, like we were flying as fast as eagles. The long stretch of road seemed endless, and I didn¡¯t want it to end.¡±

    His eyes lit up. ¡°Ah, I remember that day. You sat in front of me, and I told you to hold on tight to the handlebars. You were the one who kept telling me to step on the gas because you wanted the bike to go faster.¡±

    There were memories of dull evenings spent with him watching his favorite TV shows while I read in my own corner, the peaceful morning drives with him dropping me off at school, and the sound of him cooking in the kitchen with Fleetwood Mac playing in the background. As the years went by, the vibrant sounds, smells, and colors of those memories gradually faded like an aging photograph, a neglected painting, or a worn-out record.

    ¡°I also remember the walks we used to take on the pier and watch people fish,¡± I said, holding onto the memory tightly, afraid it¡¯d slip away from me and be forgotten. ¡°We didn¡¯t go as much once I got to middle school, and then we stopped going altogether. I guess I was just a moody teen who was too cool to be seen with a parent.¡±

    ¡°Now you¡¯re a moody adult,¡± he said, chuckling.

    ¡°But now, I wished we would¡¯ve kept having those walks.¡±

    He jumped to his feet and reached out to take my hand. ¡°We¡¯re here now. Let¡¯s keep going,¡± he said with enthusiasm.

    As we strolled along the stream, I felt a shapeless shadow following us, and an uneasiness began to build within me. The back of my neck prickled, and I couldn¡¯t shake off that dreadful feeling that time was ticking, pushing me closer to my end. Death was near, and I couldn¡¯t escape the sense of foreboding that hung over me.

    ¡°There¡¯s something following us,¡± I said.

    Dad glanced over his shoulder. ¡°Ah, yeah, don¡¯t mind it. It started following me when I arrived here.¡±

    ¡°Do you know what it is?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t exactly know. But I¡¯ve a feeling that it¡¯ll let me know when it¡¯s time to go and guide me where I need to be.¡±

    ¡°And you don¡¯t know where it¡¯ll take you.¡±

    ¡°No, I¡¯ll have to wait and see.¡±

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you scared?¡±

    ¡°I was but not anymore. When I was at the hospital, I feared the end, and then it came to me¡ªthis shadow¡ªand it told me to trust it and just let go.¡±

    ¡°What happened when you did?¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t in control anymore. I drifted through a whirlwind of colors. Then, as I was about to go into the realm of light, I turned back because there were things that I wish I¡¯d done and words I wish I¡¯d said.¡±

    ¡°Like what?¡±

    He stopped and pondered, gazing up at the black velvet sky. ¡°Well, for one, we¡¯ve never had a drink together.¡±

    It was almost midnight. We ended up on a long street busy with people entering and exiting bars and restaurants. Dad suggested having one last cold beer and a cigarette.

    We sat on a bench outside a convenience store with our beers and a pack of cigs. I couldn¡¯t believe I was having a drink and a cig with him. Two things he used to indulge in but would have flipped his shit if he¡¯d ever caught me doing the same.

    Dad didn¡¯t bring up anything else about his intentions to make amends.

    He¡¯d never been the type of person to admit his mistakes or apologize, even for the tears and belt marks he had inflicted on me. Maybe, this time would be different. Perhaps, he¡¯d utter the words he¡¯d never spoken before.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he uttered.

    ¡°You¡¯re what?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. That¡¯s what I wanted to tell you.¡±

    He took a drag of the cig and flicked it onto the sidewalk.

    ¡°I was taking you to your violin lessons,¡± he continued. ¡°On the way there, you asked me if you could go to a friend¡¯s birthday party. I said no, but you insisted and had an attitude about it. So, I pulled over, and I screamed ¡®shut up¡¯ in your face. And then I hit you. I smacked you into silence. That was when I saw the light in your eyes die. You were only nine. And since then, the distance between me and you got bigger and bigger. The next thing I knew, you were leaving. I always knew why you wanted to leave, but I didn¡¯t want to admit it. I¡¯ll never forgive myself for how things turned out.¡±

    I finished the beer and threw the empty can into the bin. ¡°It¡¯s too late now to fix things.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°I wish we could go back to those days when we were just riding on the Harley.¡±

    When a motorcyclist delivering food parked near our bench to have a smoke, Dad had another brilliant idea. He jumped out of the businessman¡¯s body, leaving the bewildered man looking around in confusion before staggering away. Dad then possessed the motorcyclist, taking over his mind and body. He reached into a backpack strapped onto the back of the bike and pulled out an extra helmet, tossing it to me.

    He drove the bike as I saddled up behind him, my arms around his waist. We rode through the alleyway and onto the flow of traffic on the street. He accelerated when we reached a tunnel, and we sped and weaved around the cars.

    As I stole a glance over my shoulder, the shadow still trailed behind us, creeping along the walls, steadily drawing nearer. The bittersweet realization that all good things must come to an end washed over me. The ride through the city was both fleeting and precious. And with a heavy heart, I clung to Dad even tighter, hoping to prolong this moment just a little while longer. For in this moment, I felt as though I had finally recaptured a fragment of a memory that had slipped away from me over the years.

 Dinner with Mrs. Fallen

    ¡°Flora! Come in, come in! I could use some company.¡±

    ¡°Oh, no, I can''t, Mrs. Fallen. I just wanted to stop by and ask if everything''s alright.¡±

    ¡°Why wouldn''t it be?¡±

    ¡°These past few days I couldn''t help but notice that you and your husband have been fighting more often. You know, the walls in these apartments are thin. You can even hear someone snoring next door.¡±

    ¡°I''m so sorry about that. My husband and I have been arguing about¡­about¡­ oh, looks like I''ve forgotten what it was. A lot of things, I suppose. Lots of random things that had been pent up over the years!¡±

    ¡°Oh, um, okay, well, try to keep the volume under control. You wouldn''t want the lady next door to you overhearing anything. You know how she likes to run her mouth around the neighborhood.¡±

    ¡°Of course, of course.¡±

    ¡°Okay, now that''s sorted, I should get going. It was ni¨C¡±

    ¡°Are you hungry, Flora?¡±

    ¡°I''m pretty hungry. I just got off work, and I need to¨C¡±

    ¡°I''m fixing up some dinner. You must be hungry being on your feet all day at the store. I could also use company. Won''t you please join me for dinner?¡±

    ¡°Well, I''ve got dinner at home already.¡±This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    ¡°Like what? Tater tots? Leftover stale pizza? That''s no proper dinner, young lady. Please come in. I''ve got something better cooking up in the kitchen.¡±

    ¡°It sure does smell good in your home, Mrs. Fallen.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m making meat pies.¡±

    ¡°Meat pies? Okay, you''ve got me. I''ll have dinner with you.¡±

    ¡°Wonderful! Come in, come in! Make yourself comfortable.¡±

    ¡°I don''t think I''ve ever been inside your place. It''s nice. Everything is so¡­so clean.¡±

    ¡°I keep the plastic on the furniture because it''s easier to clean, and no stains will ever get on the fabric.¡±

    ¡°And the carpet too?¡±

    ¡°And the carpet.¡±

    ¡°Is Mr. Fallen home? Will he be joining us for dinner?¡±

    ¡°No, he won''t be. He left me the other day.¡±

    ¡°Oh, sorry, to hear that. If you need anything, you just let me know, okay? I remember when my dad left my mom, it was hard on us.¡±

    ¡°Surprisingly, we left things on good terms before he went.¡±

    ¡°Where did he go?¡±

    ¡°He went somewhere far away, somewhere exotic. I can picture him sitting on a lounge chair at a beach and sipping on a Pina colada.¡±

    ¡°That sounds nice.¡±

    ¡°Yes, it does sound rather pleasant. Actually, I''m going on a trip, too.¡±

    ¡°Oh? To where? And when?¡±

    ¡°Somewhere warm and quiet. I plan to leave right after dinner. I''ve already made the necessary arrangements.¡±

    ¡°Do you need help in the kitchen? I can¨Coh, whoa¡­ you sure made a lot of meat pies.¡±

    ¡°Twelve, so far. The thirteenth is about ready.¡±

    ¡°Here, let me help you with that.¡±

    ¡°I''ve got everything under control, Flora. But thank you anyway.¡±

    ¡°At least let me help set the table.¡±

    ¡°No, no, it''s alright. Please have a seat in the living room. You can watch something on the television, if you like.¡±

    ¡°Mrs. Fallen¡­¡±

    ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°Your fridge¡­ um, I think it''s bleeding.¡±

    ¡°Ah, so it is.¡±

    ¡°T-t-that really is blood!¡±

    ¡°Use your inside voice, Flora. The walls are thin. I wouldn''t want the lady next door overhearing anything.¡±

    ¡°Oh god!¡±

    ¡°I wasn''t expecting this. I wanted to have a nice dinner with good company before I leave. I guess you''ll have to join me on the trip.¡±

    ¡°Mrs. Fallen, please¡­¡±

    ¡°Just so you know, it''s a one-way ticket.¡±

 Us, the Church

    The time on the lock screen flashes: 12:44 PM. She slaps the phone back on the nightstand. The empty spot beside her on the bed is still untouched. She assumes he slept in the downstairs office again, buried in piles of paperwork. But no matter how busy he gets, he always takes the time to check up on her. She wonders why he didn''t wake her up for lunch.

    "Don''t forget that you''re eating for two," he usually reminds her.

    "I know."

    Sometimes her appetite isn''t there. For Evelyn Soriano, the past couple of months have been a messy blur. There''s a hole in her chest. An immeasurable black hole where light and happiness go to die. It appeared on the day she found Dad and her stepmom dead. It has only grown bigger since then, even long after the memorial service and the scattering of their ashes. The hole almost sucked her into its vortex.

    To this day, she clings to its edge with just her fingertips. And when she thought she had no feelings left to spare, a month later, on a sunny afternoon, she received ten missed calls and Mama Larang''s voice message: "It''s your mother. She''s gone. I''m so sorry."

    Estranged mother, who took a knife and plunged it into her throat. Despite not having seen her for twenty years, Evelyn felt a twinge of pain in her chest. The hole grew slightly bigger.

    She throws off the blanket and caresses her round belly, imagining how it will feel to hold the baby when it''s born. She wonders whose face it will resemble the most, Mr. Soriano''s or hers. Perhaps it will inherit their best features. And as it grows up, she wonders what kind of person it will become. A thought crosses her mind: can the baby sense her grief? Can it experience her spiraling depression? Whatever the mother eats and feels, she passes onto her offspring. She read that somewhere, maybe in someone''s status post or a meme.

    Her feet search the floor for her slippers. She gets out of bed, steadying herself with a hand on the nightstand, and waddles over to the coat stand to retrieve her bathrobe.

    As she pulls open the long, silky curtains, sunlight floods the previously dark and gloomy room. The window offers a wide view of the expansive garden in the backyard. Several gardeners in beige uniforms are scattered throughout, tending to the roses and salvia perennials. However, what catches her eye is the hexagon-shaped wooden stage being constructed. She can''t recall arranging for the construction. She browses through the calendar in her mind, trying to figure out if she has forgotten about a planned event. Regardless, she has already made up her mind to cancel it anyway. The emotional crisis in the family hasn¡¯t yet passed. Too soon, too raw to force a smile and welcome guests to the house. It¡¯s all too soon.

    One of the carpenters stops hammering, his back stiffens, and he peers over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the window. Evelyn quickly shuts the curtains, unsettled by something about his smile. It feels as though he knows her, even though she''s certain she has never met or seen him before. The unfamiliarity of the gardeners and carpenters made her uneasy.

    From the hallway, she hears Mama Larang''s lighthearted singing voice coming from the kitchen downstairs. The anticipation of her aunt''s visit brings comfort to Evelyn. Mama Larang has been a constant source of support, saving her countless times from being consumed by the gaping hole of grief. She has been there for Evelyn, cradling her like a baby while she fought against the maddening grips of grief.

    *****

    She makes her way to the kitchen, believing she can get through another day without falling apart, until something stops her halfway: the piercing gaze of her mother. It has been twenty years since she last saw her mother''s pinched face and hard stare. The memory takes her back to the night of their escape from the compound. Dad had told her not to look back, but she couldn''t resist. She caught a glimpse of her mother standing by the window on the second floor, watching them run, her dark eyes piercing through as if to convey that no matter where they ran, she would always find a way to watch over them.

    And now, the late matriarch, portrayed in an oil painting framed in gold, is perched on the fireplace mantle, overlooking a table filled with food and wine. Mother always hated photographs, believing that they captured and imprisoned people''s souls.

    The elaborate altar dwarfs the humble tribute Evelyn had set up for her dad and stepmom. In a corner, a simple table adorned with white candles and flowers picked from the garden surrounds the framed photographs of the departed couple.

    Disturbed, she strides into the kitchen and finds her beloved aunt singing and swaying her hips to a song. The unease she felt from seeing her mother''s image momentarily fades away. Mama Larang, a tiny lady in her mid-50s with a fondness for vibrant flowery clothes and bug-eyed leopard-print sunglasses, cooks by the stove with a smile on her face.

    Evelyn often wonders what she would have done without her aunt in these past two months. She is grateful that Mama Larang is there to take care of household duties while she navigates through the challenges of pregnancy and the overwhelming grief. Mama Larang is also a source of companionship when Mr. Soriano is away on business, providing comfort in their cozy countryside home. It is for these reasons that Evelyn struggles to find a delicate way to broach the subject of the portrait.

    She listens to the older woman talk about her day: meeting an old friend at the craft store, buying fresh cut lilies to bring some cheer to the somber Soriano house, and planning to meet a few friends later in the evening.

    Meanwhile, Mother remains etched in Evelyn''s mind like a scar, a faded memory but never truly gone. And then she blurts it out, "Did you hang up that painting in the sitting room?"

    ¡°What is it you say, dear?¡±

    ¡°The painting in the sitting room,¡± she repeats, ¡°did you put that up?¡±

    ¡°Ah, well, I felt the room was missing something.¡±

    ¡°I want it taken down.¡±

    ¡°Taken down?¡±

    ¡°Yes, the portrait,¡± Evelyn can¡¯t believe she has to tell her aunt about it, when the old woman knows the reason.

    Mama Larang glances over at the clock on the wall. ¡°Have you eaten yet?¡± She takes out a plate from the cupboard, puts a couple of chicken drumsticks, scoops up rice from the rice cooker and piles it on the plate. ¡°You need to eat for the sake of yourself and your child,¡± she places it on the table, ¡°I¡¯ll have to make some more for the workers out in the back.¡±

    ¡°Why did you put it up?¡± Evelyn asked.

    Mama Larang sets the plate of food on the dining table and ushers the heavily pregnant Evelyn to her seat. She snaps her fingers and says, ¡°Fork and spoon!¡± She grabs the silverware from a drawer. ¡°You need a fork and spoon to eat with.¡±

    ¡°Auntie! You¡¯re ignoring my questions,¡± Evelyn snaps, watching the older woman fiddle with the silverware in her hands.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, dear, what were you asking?¡±

    ¡°Why did you put up that altar?¡±

    ¡°Because she was your mother and my only sister,¡± she sits herself in a chair beside her and drops the silverware onto the plate.

    ¡°Yeah, and?¡±

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, like so what?¡±

    Mama Larang purses her lips. ¡°Don¡¯t disrespect the dead, Evey! I feel that despite her mistakes, we need to learn how to forgive."

    ¡°Forgive?¡± Evelyn scoffs. ¡°Twenty years ago, she chose them over her own family¡ª me, my dad, and you. Have you forgotten about that?¡±

    ¡°No, I haven''t forgotten. But she had deep convictions that were impossible to break, and the Church--¡±

    Evelyn cuts her off, ¡°--you and I know that it wasn¡¯t a church."

    ¡°Call it whatever you want, but it was her home, and it was ours, too, for a time,¡± she closes a hand over Evelyn¡¯s, ¡°I mean, it wasn¡¯t all that bad living there. And you said to yourself before that you sometimes missed the freedom you had running around in the wild.¡±

    Evelyn shifts uneasily in her chair and bites the inside of her lower lip. It''s true, she hates to admit it to herself. There were times when she would dream about the vast forest that had surrounded the compound.

    She misses playing by the lake and daring the other kids to jump off the short cliff with her into the water. But those fond memories are overshadowed by things she can''t even bring herself to speak of. The rituals she witnessed the Church perform. It was what happened when one reached a certain age, Mother had explained. Those dark memories fill her with deep humiliation and shame for having taken part in them.

    Not taking part, she reminds herself. I was, like the others, coerced.

    Manipulated and brainwashed.

    Guilted.

    ¡°I missed the innocence of my childhood days,¡± she says, ¡°and that¡¯s why we moved here, to the countryside,¡± actually now that she thinks of it, the idea belongs to Mama Larang who insisted the move would do Evelyn and her husband good, ¡°but the other things that happened there I can¡¯t¡ª¡± the muscles in her throat tense up so tight words refuse to leave.

    ¡°That¡¯s why when your mother became the High Priestess, she put an end to those horrific practices.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Her head snaps up and she wonders if she has heard her right.

    ¡°She became High Priestess and changed the Church for the better!¡±

    The floor is falling away from under her feet. ¡°No, no, no¡­¡±

    Mama Larang places her second hand atop Evelyn¡¯s. ¡°It¡¯s different now, Evey, you should forgive your mother; forgive the Church.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious, Auntie! Do you hear yourself? Have you forgotten the sick things they made us do? The killings and the ¡®loving¡¯ rituals¡­¡± her blood bubbling, ¡°my God¡­have you forgotten?¡±

    Mama Larang shakes her head. ¡°No, I haven¡¯t forgotten! But listen to me¡ª¡±

    ¡°We vowed to cut all ties from the Church and that meant cutting off ties with her too.¡±

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t do it!¡±

    Hearing those words from the woman she had trusted for years turns Evelyn''s stomach.

    ¡°She was my dearest sister,¡± Mama Larang continues, ¡°we¡¯ve been through it all together and I loved her, flaws and all, so to cut her out of my life completely was something I just couldn''t do.¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    ¡°No, no, no... after everything we¡¯ve gone through to rebuild our lives; to have a fucking normal life?¡±

    ¡°The Church isn¡¯t like what it used to be; your mother changed¡ª¡±

    Evelyn slaps both palms flat on the table. ¡°IT''S NOT A CHURCH! It wasn¡¯t a church then, it¡¯s not a church now; no matter how much you claim that your mother changed it, its roots are still the same.¡±

    Mama Larang leans back in stunned silence. After a moment passes, with the tension in the air refusing to loosen, she says, ¡°She loved you, Evey, so much,¡± lifting up the sunglasses to wipe a teary eye with a finger, ¡°a week before her death, she told me the one thing she regretted in her life: it was letting you go.¡±

    Now, more irritated than before, Evelyn gets up from her seat. She doesn''t want to hear any more about her mother and the Church. First, her dad and stepmom are dead, and now she finds out that the only relative on her mother''s side has betrayed her trust.

    ¡°Where are you going?¡± asks Mama Larang.

    ¡°I¡¯m heading back to bed.¡±

    ¡°No, sit down, you need to eat. It¡¯s not good for the baby, if you¡ª¡±

    ¡°Right now, Auntie, I feel exhausted, and I don¡¯t have much of an appetite,¡± she says making her way to the door, and as she opens the door, she adds, ¡°I want the portrait down.¡±

    She leans back against the closed door, her eyes shut tightly. Her heart pounds against her chest, beating in rhythm to the carpenters hammering in the backyard. She reminds herself to tell her husband to cancel whatever event is being planned. She''s in no mood to host a party or entertain guests.

    When she opens her eyes, she sees Mother looking at her from the fireplace mantle. Her hands curl up into fists as she fights off the urge to stride over to the painting and hurl it somewhere far away, preferably into a deep pit doused with gasoline and set on fire. She calls out to Mama Larang and instructs her to put away the table of food as well.

    Flies are already hovering around the bowls and plates on the altar. She swats them away and begins to gather the plates together, but she nearly drops a plate of papaya slices when a black beetle pops out from among the black seeds and crawls onto the table.

    She flicks it off, and it lands on its back on the floor. Its six little legs flail about wildly, grasping at the air in an attempt to flip itself over.

    Another black beetle emerges from the seeds. This time, she tosses the bowl back onto the table, accidentally knocking over the wine glass. The papaya slices spill out from the bowl, and the black seeds scatter across the white tablecloth, which has turned reddish from the spilled wine. Tiny black legs sprout from the seeds, their antennae wavering.

    She stumbles back.

    The table becomes overrun with more black beetles.

    An odd feeling stirs within her, a familiar sensation that shakes her nerves violently, rendering her senses numb. It''s a memory she has locked away, bound in chains and buried deep within the recesses of her mind. Now, it resurfaces before her eyes¡ªthe scene of the day she discovered her parents'' bodies.

    Black beetles were present at Dad''s house. They were the first thing she saw when she opened the back door to the kitchen. She had rung the bell multiple times, but no one answered the front door. A sense of dread weighed her down, and she crumbled under its weight.

    Dad was slouched at the table, his eyes and mouth transformed into dark, gaping holes from which the beetles poured out in an endless stream. Her stepmom lay sprawled on the floor behind the counter, with the insects freely roaming in and out of her eye sockets, mouth, and every orifice of her body.

    It will forever remain a cold case in the books, but Evelyn doesn''t need a detective to solve it. She knows who is responsible. They didn''t need to set foot inside the house. Their High Priestess sits upon the fireplace, as if it were her throne, and in her calm reddish-brown eyes, the world is reflected upside down.

    Dad had once warned her about people with eyes like that.

    They can perform miracles, he had told her, and they can conjure up nightmares.

    They¡¯ve no light in their soul and they¡¯re so consumed by their own selfishness and their hate for those who aren¡¯t with them, the world appears upside down in their eyes.

    The beetles lead her to the home office, crawling in and out of the gap under the closed door.

    The familiar sense of dread returns, growing heavier with each step closer to the door. She reassures herself that behind the door, Mr. Soriano is working hard, as he does every day. He puts in long hours for the sake of the family they are building together. She envisions finding him at his oak wood desk, looking up and asking about her well-being, as well as the baby''s, and inquiring if she has eaten yet.

    ¡°Let¡¯s take a stroll outside before dinner,¡± he¡¯ll suggest, then he''ll pause for a moment, look down at his work, and add, ¡°just give me another five minutes to wrap things up here.¡±

    She¡¯ll nod and say, ¡°Okay, I¡¯ll be waiting.¡± Then, she¡¯ll close the door to let him finish his work.

    That¡¯s how it¡¯ll go, she tells herself again.

    She raises a trembling hand to the doorknob.

    Her heart beats as loud as the hammering.

    She turns the knob.

    The door cracks open.

    An odor reminiscent of spoiled fruits and eggs wafts into her face, causing her to instinctively raise her hand to shield her mouth and nose. A wave of sickness churns in her stomach, threatening to rise up to her throat. She clenches her teeth tightly, determined to suppress the nausea.

    She peers into the room.

    The high-back swivel chair behind the desk has its back turned to her.

    The flies circle the top of his slumped head like a halo.

    She doesn¡¯t need to see his face. She knows there''ll be three deep holes of darkness from which the beetles flow out in droves, eating his once-handsome face. The pain in her chest becomes unbearable. She wants nothing but to die on the spot.

    Now she¡¯s alone.

    The people she loved are gone. She¡¯s left with no one.

    ¡°It¡¯s going to be alright, dear,¡± Mama Larang¡¯s voice comes up from behind her.

    Startled, Evelyn staggers back against the wall. ¡°Stay away from me! Get out of my house!¡±

    Mama Larang lifts her sunglasses, leaving them perched on her head. For the first time, Evelyn gazes into her aunt''s reddish-brown eyes, which have always been concealed behind the bug-eyed sunglasses, avoiding direct eye contact with anyone.

    Dad¡¯s voice whispers in her ear: Run.

    With one hand cradling her large belly, Evelyn forcefully pushes Mama Larang aside and dashes towards the front door. However, her escape is short-lived as a pair of strong arms wrap around her waist, restraining her. Looking up, she sees that the arms belong to one of the carpenters. Another person, a gardener in beige uniform, joins in to assist the carpenter, holding her down on the floor. She kicks and screams, while they remain composed and unaffected.

    Mama Larang kneels beside her with a syringe in hand. ¡°It¡¯s going to be alright, dear,¡± she says again and inserts the needle into Evelyn¡¯s forearm.

    A sob escapes Evelyn¡¯s throat. ¡°Why are you doing this? Auntie, stop...¡±

    ¡°Oh, my dearest niece,¡± Mama Larang says, and strokes her cheek wet from tears, ¡°don¡¯t be afraid, your mother will be arriving soon, and she¡¯ll make it all better; all the world will be right once again, this I promise you.¡±

    Whatever the syringe contains, its effects are instant. Evelyn''s limbs become limp and useless, and a wave of drowsiness engulfs her, pulling her into unconsciousness. The last image she sees is her reflection upside down in Mama Larang''s eyes.

    *****

    When she regains awareness, the bright glow of the lock screen displays the time in the dark room: 12:44 AM. The phone slips from her weak grasp, landing on the floor. The lethargy slowly fades, but a lingering feeling remains. She has no recollection of climbing the stairs to the bedroom, getting into bed, or falling asleep. The space beside her remains untouched and unusually cold. Perhaps her husband is still downstairs in his office, engrossed in piles of paperwork.

    She throws off the blanket, her arms still weak like jelly but gradually regaining some strength. As she does, she feels the baby shifting positions inside her, accompanied by a strong kick. She gently touches the spot where she felt the kick, connecting with the little life growing within her. The baby seems restless and hungry, responding to her touch.

    At that moment, her stomach growls, reminding her of her own hunger. She struggles to recall if she has eaten dinner, the recent events clouding her memory.

    ¡°I should get something to eat,¡± she mumbles to herself.

    She reaches for the lamp''s switch, hoping to illuminate the room. However, when she presses it, there is no light. She tries again, flicking the switch on and off repeatedly, but the light refuses to turn on.

    Her feet search the floor for her slippers as she carefully gets off the bed. With a hand resting on the nightstand for support, she waddles over to the window, accidentally knocking over the coat stand in the process. Grasping the long silky curtains, she pulls them open, inviting a soft current of moonlight to stream into the room. The moon overhead casts its glow upon the silhouette of evergreen trees and mountains. Yet, its light fails to penetrate the pitch-black darkness of the garden below. Within that abyss, there was a presence that seemed to watch her, beckoning her to descend and join it.

    A cold shiver runs up and down her spine, chilling her to the core. Something¡¯s not right. She feels it. That dreadful feeling hasn¡¯t left. Memories begin to trickle back into her consciousness, piece by piece. The black beetles. Mother¡¯s altar. And then, it hits her¡ªthe realization that she didn''t ascend the stairs on her own; she was carried.

    As her thoughts race, the coat stand suddenly lifts off the floor, propelled by a pale hand attached to a long, slender arm. Stepping out from the dark corner of the room, a naked man with a sickly pale complexion steps forward.

    Evelyn shrieks. Her body was scared stiff.

    He maintains his smile, his wide unblinking eyes fixed on her. The sight of his grin sends chills down Evelyn''s spine. She can sense his excitement, his anticipation of something unknown. His gaze falls upon her swollen belly, and a wave of fear washes over her.

    Without uttering a single word, the pale figure takes a step forward, causing Evelyn to instinctively stumble back, her movements fueled by panic. The sudden movement triggers a sensation she can''t ignore. Something bursts and releases, and a rush of fluid cascades down her legs, creating a pool at her feet.

    At that moment, the adrenaline kicks in. Panic grips her as she desperately scrambles towards the door, her heart pounding. With every step, she silently pleads for the unborn baby to hold on, to stay inside until she can reach her husband''s home office. There, she knows she can find the only landline phone and dial 911 for help.

    The thought of returning to the bedroom and searching for her dropped phone is out of the question. Every second counts, and she must act swiftly to ensure her and her baby''s well-being.

    The naked intruder stands in the doorway, his presence sending a wave of fear through Evelyn. But as her eyes adjust to the dimly lit hallway, she notices the delicate glow of a candle floating towards her. The candle is held by the hands of another intruder, a woman, who bears the same crazed eyes and unnerving smile as the man. She beckons Evelyn to follow her down the steps, her candlelight guiding the way.

    Reluctantly, Evelyn finds herself drawn towards the woman, her body trembling with fear and the increasing intensity of labor pains. With each step, the contractions grip her abdomen, forcing her to pause and brace herself against the pain. Finally, they reach the sitting room, where Mama Larang is carefully lighting the white candles on Mother''s altar.

    The room is filled with a sense of danger. Evelyn''s labor intensifies, and she collapses onto the plush sofa, her hands tightly gripping the cushions for support as she faces each sharp wave of pain.

    *****

    Mama Larang puts her sunglasses on the altar, kisses her hand and touches a corner of Mother¡¯s portrait to pass on the kiss to her beloved late sister. ¡°Before I left the Church with you and your father,¡± she says, seating herself next to Evelyn, ¡°I promised your mother that I¡¯d look out for you; that I¡¯d be there when you needed me; and I¡¯ve done just that,¡± she strokes Evelyn¡¯s large belly, places an ear to it. ¡°There she is! Oh, what a joy! I can hear her moving inside you; what a precious thing she is going to be.¡±

    ¡°You murdered my family,¡± Evelyn¡¯s voice breaks.

    ¡°Because it is the only way for you to return to the only family that matters¡ªus, The Church,¡± Mama Larang cups her cheeks, wipes a tear with a thumb, ¡°Your mother sacrificed herself to be with you. And tonight, you will be reunited with her. Daughter will become the Mother, and the Mother will become the Daughter.¡±

    Evelyn throws her head back, pain and despair etched on her face as the labor pains surge through her body. With each agonizing wave, she clings tightly to the cushions, seeking some semblance of support.

    From the depths of the shadows, figures begin to emerge, their naked forms gliding towards Evelyn with a sense of purpose. These are the followers of the Church, their bodies adorned only by the flickering torch light that casts dancing shadows across the room. They heed Mama Larang''s command, lifting Evelyn high above their heads as if she were weightless.

    Together, they carry her, marching through the dimly lit corridors until they reach the garden. The night air is heavy with anticipation, illuminated by the glow of torches that line a carefully prepared stage. Upon reaching the designated spot, the followers gently place Evelyn on a bed.

    She finds herself unable to resist the overwhelming force inside of her. A guttural scream tears its way out of her throat, echoing through the night. In response, the followers¡¯s voices rise in yodels and chants. The intense energy of the night, the charged atmosphere that surrounds them, compels them to surrender to their most carnal desires.

    Their bodies merged into a collective act of love and passion. They move as one entity. They moaned and cried in unrestrained ecstasy. They¡¯ve now surrendered themselves completely, giving in to those urges that have taken their souls.

    Evelyn bears witness to this surreal spectacle, her senses overwhelmed. The raw energy of their collective envelops the garden and her very being. Still gripped by the throes of labor, she grits her teeth fighting back against the pain pulling her in and out of consciousness. Within her, an indescribable power struggles to rip through as if something primal and otherworldly is clawing its way into existence. The followers of the Church gather around, their eyes on the miracle.

    They forced Evelyn to bear witness as they placed a mirror between her trembling legs, showing her the creature that¡¯s slithering its way out of her. The followers continue their chants, pushing her onward, as she braces herself for the final, climactic moment when the miracle will be unveiled.

    Evelyn¡¯s breath catches in her throat. What she sees in the reflection freezes her in terror: Mother¡¯s reddish-brown eyes.

    ¡°Our High Priestess is reborn!¡±

 Out of Her Grave [Final Story]

    The last face I see before my life is choked out of me is my lover¡¯s face. My god, what a goddamn coward he is. He doesn¡¯t even look me in the eye when he wrings my neck hard with his gloved hands as if it¡¯s a wet, dirty rag. How did I ever think that he¡¯s a hopeless romantic?

    I asked him once how he''d feel, if suddenly I stopped seeing him.

    ¡°Devastated,¡± he answered with a kiss.

    I was truly touched. I thought back then I snatched the man I dreamt of spending the rest of my life with, though he had already made vows to another woman under God. What had mattered to me was that he loved me, and we were going to have a life together one day after he served his wife the divorce papers. He sealed that promise with a blue sapphire ring.

    But he isn¡¯t devastated once the flame of life in me was extinguished. Instead, he looks relieved. He cries into his hands, then starts to cackle.

    His eyes shine with tears, and he smiles. I know what he¡¯s thinking. My death has made his life a little less complicated. Just before the last breath leaves me, I wish I hadn¡¯t answered that ad.

    The ad online read: ¡°In search of a hard worker with an upbeat personality who can handle basic maintenance and cleaning, maintain a professional appearance, and work well unsupervised.¡± It was the payment that caught my eye. No other household paid as much as this family was offering.

    The Reyes family¡¯s house is one of a dozen houses guarded within a high brick wall like a fortress on a hill looking over the cityscape. I¡¯d never been in such a big house before. One room was as big as my entire apartment.

    After a brief meeting with their then-housekeeper, I wandered into the kitchen and poked my head in the fridge, looking for something to quench my thirst, when he strode in and stood behind me. His unexpected presence startled me, and I ended up dropping the carton of pomegranate juice, spilling it all over the tiled floor.

    I imagined the man of the house to be a tall, unearthly handsome being in a dark well-fitted suit who lighted up the room with his kindness and charm. So, when I finally met him, I was surprisingly a little more disappointed than in awe.

    He looked ordinary with his neatly combed dark hair, caterpillar-like eyebrows, and black beard, but behind the round pair of glasses were brown eyes so piercing I felt them cut through me. He carried an air of authority around him, and it shadowed over me like an approaching storm.

    We both noticed that the juice had wet his house slippers. I thought he¡¯d get mad over the spilt drink. Instead, he chuckled, and his intense stare softened, sparkling with amusement. Just as I was about to apologize, the housekeeper swooped in with a rag and got on her hands and knees to clean the mess up, simultaneously apologizing to Henry and shooting daggers at me.

    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± he said. ¡°She did nothing wrong; it was my fault for startling her,¡± and giving me a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, he added with a wink, ¡°I¡¯ll go pick up more juice for you, if that¡¯s what you wanted.¡±

    I left the house, feeling like I didn¡¯t get the job, judging by the stern looks the housekeeper kept throwing at me after the little incident. But when he called me later that evening to say I was hired, I was surprised.

    At sunset, with me in the trunk wrapped up in blue tarp, he drives up to the mountain, fumbling with the radio dial for an oldies station. He and his family own a sprawling two-story granite stone house near the Rocky Mountains overlooking a pristine and calm lake. It¡¯s their home away from their city home.

    After a few months of working for him, he kindly suggested that I join him and his family at their second home in the summers. He said that I''d enjoy the warm sunny weather and the quiet beauty of the surrounding nature. Of course, this offer came with the condition that I worked a few hours a day, including weekends, as their housekeeper. But on my time off, I was more than welcome to make myself comfortable in the TV lounge. Sometimes he joined me, and we watched whatever was on the channel. Other times, he brought out a board game from the storage closet, and we played for an hour or more.

    Then, there were the lost hours¡­

    When his wife and kids went out to do some shopping in town, he stayed behind, claiming he had a lot more work to catch up on. He said it with a twinkle in his eye and a wink, when his wife wasn¡¯t looking. Goosebumps rippled all over my arms, and I went red. All along he had planned on burying himself deep inside of me, reserving each of my three penetrable orifices on certain days. The Hole-y Trinity, he used to call them.

    And what a lovefool I was to let him. I never thought that after telling him about our own little creation growing inside me that he¡¯d be burying me instead. Because he¡¯s a scared grown boy.

    The car stops. He finds a good spot in the woods, miles from the closest hiking trail and a few yards from where his property line ends. He brings out his shovels and starts ripping the earth, digging as deep as he can, without a break.

    He tosses me in without the tarp and covers me up with the cold earth like a boy throwing out his broken toy into the garbage can, until he''s sure not a part of me poked out that¡¯d catch a random passerby¡¯s attention.

    No flowers, no Lord¡¯s Prayer. Not a single tear dropped for me. Well, at least, Henry didn¡¯t think to take his chainsaw and cut me up into pieces and feed me to starving wild animals that roam the forest. I¡¯m glad about that. Because I¡¯m going to crawl out of this pit and come back and take him down with me.

    Piece by piece, I¡¯ll chip away bits of his sanity, bits of his soul, and bits of his body. I yearned for him to endure my heartbreak and pain, and not a second of relief or mercy would be given to him. Because judgment was without mercy to one who had shown no mercy.

    Vengeance fills my soul to the brim. All the creatures in the woods stand stock still, heckles raise before they scamper away, daring to never return. The woods are lifeless, not a bug in the dirt or on a leaf.

    The winds howl for me, and the moon shines a silvery beam upon my unmarked grave. My soul awakens with a burning fury.

    *****

    I¡¯ve a thousand eyes. I see through the eyes of the fly darting across the air, the eight eyes of a spider dangling from the broken ceiling fan, the five eyes of a roach scurrying across the floor toward the dark space under the desks¡ªthree eyes that detected dark and light and two eyes to detect movements. I hover over the living, breathing beings unseen.

    Henry is bored.

    The meeting is stretching close to nearly its second hour and yet the chairperson rambles on. His eyes flicker over to the clock on the wall, and restlessness is starting to make him fidget¡ªshaking his right leg, twirling the pen between his fingers.

    I know what will calm him down, and it¡¯s in the inner pocket of his blazer. He has the same thought, too. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lock of my hair tied up in a rope string. I remember him snipping a lock of hair when I had just died, and my essence slipped out of the body. He wanted a piece of me with him.

    Keeping the lock in a fist, he rubs his chin with it, pretending to ponder and show concern over the chairperson¡¯s points. Then, he rubs the hair against his cheek, closing his eyes and reminiscing about the times we had together.

    Henry was my first kiss, though he claimed it was accidental. We were in his car on our way to drop me home. He leaned over to help fasten my seatbelt when he turned his head and brushed his lips against mine. It lasted a few seconds, long enough for the moment to burn in my memory¡ªthe warm and softness of his lips, and the musky smell of his lust.

    He didn¡¯t say sorry, instead he said, ¡°Oops, that was an accident¡­¡± And I sat there dumbfounded, unsure what to do or say, but when he told me not to say a word to his wife, I simply and numbingly nodded.

    He explained that his wife might not believe that it was ¡®an accidental slip of his lips,¡¯ so he couldn¡¯t keep me around.

    I didn¡¯t want that at all!

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Mr. Reyes, I won¡¯t say anything.¡±

    He clasped his hand over mine, caressing my knuckles with his thumb. ¡°Good, good,¡± he said, grinning. ¡°Also¡­¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir?¡±

    ¡°You can call me Henry.¡±

    The second kiss, however, wasn¡¯t an accident. Henry and his wife had waltzed into the living room, giddy from the Christmas party they had attended. I was at their house babysitting their nine-year-old son and six-year-old daughter for extra cash. While the Missus went upstairs to check on the children, Henry waved a mistletoe above our heads. He couldn¡¯t wait any longer.

    He already showed enough restraint and went in for the kill. This time, he slipped his tongue out. It was like a fat slug sliding along the seam of my mouth and leaving a trail of its slime.

    I should¡¯ve opened up and bit that tongue.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    Hard.

    Henry¡¯s eyes shoot open, and he groans. The other directors and executives sitting at the long mahogany table all turned to him. Their faces scrunch up in disgust as he coughs and spits out blood on the papers in front of him.

    Shocked and embarrassed, he hurriedly gathers up his papers and notebook and throws them into his briefcase. Excusing himself, he heads out of the conference room and into the restroom at the end of the hall. He sticks out his tongue and inspects the nasty injury in the mirror.

    He hisses. Along the side of his fat pink tongue are my bite marks. A piece of flesh dangles near the tip, oozing blood. He quickly rinses his mouth and presses a handkerchief to the wound.

    I draw close to Henry¡¯s ear and whisper the words he said to me that Christmas night, ¡°I couldn¡¯t, you know, help myself.¡±

    He swerves around with a hand clutching to his pounding heart. His widened eyes darted around the room.

    The door swings open, and he raises a fist, ready to strike, but the man takes a step back in surprise. Henry instantly recognizes him as the associate director of marketing¡ªConnolly¡ª and hastily apologizes.

    ¡°Jesus! What has gotten into you?¡± Connolly asks. ¡°Are you alright? You just bolted out of that meeting!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±

    His colleague raises a skeptical brow as he eyed the bloody handkerchief. Henry shoves the cloth back into his pocket, telling him that it¡¯s not a problem and that he had started to doze off at the meeting and accidentally bitten his tongue.

    Connolly chuckles. ¡°Ah, yes, the meeting was as dull as ever. All meetings are a waste of time and could be delivered in an email. Meetings are a circle jerk for loud ramblers.¡±

    Henry rinses his mouth once more. Spitting into the sink, he¡¯s relieved that the bleeding has slowed down. His spittle isn¡¯t as red as before.

    ¡°I should get home now,¡± he says. ¡°I promised my wife that I¡¯d make it in time for dinner.¡±

    Just as he¡¯s about to head out the door, Connolly calls out to him. ¡°By the way, you left this behind in the conference room,¡± he says, holding up my lock of hair tied with a rope string. ¡°I thought you might want it back.¡±

    Henry¡¯s face pales. ¡°Thanks,¡± he mutters, snatching the hair from Connolly¡¯s hand.

    ¡°So, whose is it? Who is the lucky lady?¡± Connolly unzips his pants and pisses into the urinal.

    ¡°My wife¡­ She can be quite sentimental. She thought we should carry a piece of each other whenever we¡¯re not together. I guess, in a sense, there¡¯s not a day where we¡¯re apart.¡±

    Connolly cringes. ¡°Oh, good lord, that is absolutely fucking cheesy.¡±

    ¡°Yes, well, you know how women are.¡± Henry stuffs the hair into his pocket and leaves for the parking garage.

    I want to show him how sentimental I am about our secret love and how I couldn¡¯t rest in peace in the unmarked grave he had lovingly dug for me.

    As he drives, I snuggle up to him like how I used to when we went on one of our excursions at night. He phoned the missus and said he¡¯d be at the office all night until morning because his boss dumped a large stinking mountain dung of paperwork. But I was in the office waiting for him to hang up. And once his wife was convinced and had accepted his promise to make up for his absence later, we were off together in his loud, fast Porsche.

    But this time he¡¯s driving the Benz. It¡¯s a smooth, calm drive with a jazz band playing on the radio. He has the window open letting the cool breeze brush his hair, as I snuggle closer, wrapping my arms around his shoulders from behind and my lips near his right ear. Then, in the rearview mirror, our eyes meet.

    Henry doesn¡¯t realize he has veered off the lane, until the car beside him blares its horn and he corrects himself at the last second, barely escaping collision.

    He snaps his head around searching for me. His hands are still on the steering wheel and his foot on the gas. But he doesn¡¯t see the traffic in front of him has stopped at the red light.

    The crash happens fast. A loud, terrible screeching of metal being ripped and crushed. Glass shattered and flew everywhere.

    I run a hand through his hair, which is now wet with blood as glass shards are wedged in the wound. His face is smeared with blood and ruined by a nasty gash on his cheek. His eyes flutter open as he comes around; he¡¯s relieved to be alive, though the relief is a fleeting moment. His expression is quickly awash with horror.

    *****

    The family gathers around poor, pervy Henry. Heavily sedated, he¡¯s lying in the hospital bed, looking helpless and weak. His wife sits by his bedside, stroking his hair and squeezing his hand, while their young son, holding onto his little sister¡¯s hand, awkwardly stands behind his mother, unsure of what to do or say.

    Seeing him in such a state, expectedly, breaks the family¡¯s hearts, but what they don¡¯t know is that even in an unconscious state, Henry is still a sick little demon. Unlike the rest of his limp limbs, his dick rises like a tent pole, and the corner of his lips twitch into a slight smile.

    He¡¯s reliving a sweet memory; an afternoon delight we had together. While his wife was out shopping with her girlfriends and his kids were in another room, he had me sucking him off in his study. He was working at his desk with his pants slipping down past his knees. Every fifteen seconds, his fingers paused on the keyboard, his body tensed up, and he¡¯d muffle the loud groan trying to pry his mouth open. But then, the 15 seconds turned to 10, then to five, and then zero.

    He went rigid, and a scream forcefully escaped his lips. I remember that moment vividly. I, too, became tense, but not for the same reason as him. In the midst of this, his little daughter rushed into the study, asking, ¡°Are you all right, Daddy? Did you get hurt?¡±

    Panting as if he had just run a marathon, he straightened himself up, careful not to show that he was nearly pants-less. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. ¡°No, no, no. I¡¯m alright. Thanks for asking, honey. Go back to your room and play there.¡±

    She nodded and shut the door behind her.

    Now, Henry is replaying that afternoon many times over, while his family is on the verge of tears. But on his tenth replay of that fateful afternoon, I tweak the moment just as he reaches the climax. Instead of waves of pleasure, agony throbs throughout his body, and he desperately pushes himself up, attempting to shake me off. The harder he tries, the deeper my teeth sink into him, gnawing through the skin and muscles. Tearing off his prized and beloved scepter, I swallow it whole, like how he always wanted me to do.

    He jolts awake into the real world, howling in terror.

    The scene terrifies his kids, clinging onto each other and crying. Henry¡¯s wife rushes out of the room to find the nurse. As she returns with two nurses in tow, Henry starts convulsing. One nurse holds him down, while the other injects a dose of sedatives into his bloodstream.

    No one knows why he woke up screaming. By the time he finally comes around, and the grogginess of being drugged out for hours has faded, Henry can¡¯t remember why either, though that horrible feeling still lingers. His body twinges with pain, and his trembling hands lift the blanket. He wants to be sure that his precious scepter is still there. When he sees that it is indeed in its rightful place, he cries out loudly in relief, much like a child who has just found his long-lost cherished toy.

    His wife fills in the gap in his memory about the car crash, recounting how the firefighters pulled him out of the wreckage and how lucky he is to have been saved in time before the vehicle suddenly exploded. He¡¯s well aware of his luck, being the sole survivor, while another man tragically died on impact.

    Looking lovingly at the one who¡¯s been the most loyal and faithful to him, he tells her that he can¡¯t wait to return home. The accident has forced him to realize she and their kids are what matters to him most. This time, he promised to be at home more often. They¡¯ll go on a trip to Europe this summer, from Paris to the canals of Venice. He rambles on and on about the landmarks they¡¯ll visit and the cuisines they¡¯ll enjoy. It¡¯s all the things he once promised me.

    His words, however, don''t seem to move his wife. Narrowed eyes, pursed lips ¨C I know that look well. She''s pissed about something. Henry finally falls silent as she pulls out a zip lock bag from her purse and tosses it onto his food tray, scaring off the fly that had been dancing along the edge. The fly buzzes angrily, circling around his head before settling in the far corner of the wall. What they don''t know is that I, through its thousands of tiny eyes, am staring down at their soured faces with an unobstructed view.

    Inside the zip lock is his memento of me¡ªthe lock of hair. A nurse found it in his pocket while they were undressing him and carefully placed it with his other belongings to return to his family.

    I know that his wife had her suspicions about what Henry and I did behind closed doors. No doubt she smelled the musk of our fucking that hung thick in the air. But one word of protest could unravel the family. And so, from across the kitchen island, all she could do was quietly watch me sweep the floor, dust their furniture, and wash the bedsheets reeking of mine and Henry¡¯s fluids. Her eyes were full of quiet contempt simmering behind a fa?ade of calm composure.

    That very same glare is now fixed on Henry. ¡°The kids and I are going on a very, very long visit to my parents¡¯ house.¡±

    ¡°Okay, when will you come back?¡±

    An icy silence fills the room as she gets up from the chair to leave, turning a deaf ear to Henry¡¯s desperate pleas for her return. He pushes the tray table aside and attempts to get out of bed, but suddenly, a blinding, sharp pain shoots through him. His legs fold under him, and he collapses.

    Oh, my sweet, sick Henry.

    His legs have turned red and swollen, resembling cased sausages riddled with boils of varying sizes, some as large as marbles, extending from thighs to toes. Inside each fatty purple boil, something is moving. The slightest movement he makes triggers a rippling effect down his spine, radiating to his throbbing legs.

    Hearing his pleas for help, the nurses rush in but stagger back, their faces draining of color. After overcoming the initial shock, one of the nurses quickly snaps on a pair of medical gloves and gently touches one of the boils. As it bursts, it squirts a yellowish ooze with an awful odor. From the gaping hole emerges a red centipede with hundreds of yellow legs. It falls to the floor with an audible "plop!" and quickly scampers under the bed.

    More boils pop and emit the foul odor as centipedes and roaches pour out of them, crawling all over his legs. The nurse sweeps the insects off Henry, yet more seem to emerge from the holes.

    The doctor believes it¡¯s a bacterial infection and suggests applying a topical antiseptic cream to help. But the wounds don¡¯t heal. Soon, necrosis creeps in. I¡¯ll start with the tips of his toes. He liked having his toes kissed and suckled, and he especially relished the feeling of my tongue rubbing between them.

    His toes blackened. The nails slip off. The rot inches its way to his ankles creeping up to his legs. The nurses rotate shifts every other hour, wiping off the pus with a cloth then cutting a sliver of the rot where underneath it is the new skin, pink and raw. But the rot always returns.

    He is whisked away to the MRI room. Despite Henry being unable to move anything below his waist, the doctor finds nothing out of the ordinary in his lumbar region. Nothing that explains his condition. No sign of a herniated or ruptured disc, not even a pinched nerve.

    An unusual detail catches a nurse¡¯s eye. She directs the doctor¡¯s attention to a minuscule black object in the shape of a ring at the lowest part of the spine. The doctor dismisses it as a defect in the machine, and they run Henry through the machine again, but the images once again show the black ring-shaped object. Gently pressing a finger against the spot in Henry¡¯s lower spine, the doctor asks him to rate the level of pain on a scale of zero to 10, with 10 being the highest.

    ¡°Two.¡±

    Something is lodged in there.

    The doctor presses a little harder.

    ¡°Seven!¡±

    When the doctor presses much harder, a sharp unbearable pain radiates through his body, reaching beyond the scale of 10, as if a bullet pierced right through him. The round object is growing a millimeter a day, and the pain growing sharper and ripping through the muscle fibers. Soon, Henry finds himself on the operating table succumbing to the anesthesia.

    As the doctor presses with greater force, a sharp, unbearable pain radiates through Henry¡¯s body, going beyond the pain scale tenfold, as if a bullet is piercing him. The round object continues to grow, a millimeter each day, while the pain grows sharper, tearing through his muscle fibers. Before long, Henry finds himself on the operating table, yielding to the embrace of anesthesia.

    The surgeon opens him up, carefully probing around Henry¡¯s lower spine until the source of his pain is found¡ªa blue sapphire ring. The promised ring he gave me. The one buried with me in my unmarked grave.

 The Other Me

    I''ve had friends, but they never stayed.

    Dad brings back home a playmate for me.

    A kid my age without a home,

    No soul to miss them when they''ve flown.

    My new friend and I play make believe

    In Candy Land, chasing delights

    Then pirates we become, raiding ships,

    Seeking adventures in faraway lands.

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    By sunset, I take my friend to another place.

    The Secret Garden. It''s down in the cellar.

    Behind the wine rack, a steel door stands,

    Guarded by chains and three heavy-duty locks.

    Beyond lies realms untouched, waiting to be explored,

    With feasts and treasures galore.

    There''s also another friend behind that door.

    Let''s unlock the locks and undo the chains.

    The garden is a little dark.

    ¡°Don''t mind the funny odor,¡± I tell my friend

    Who runs back up the steps, grabs the knob,

    And bangs on the cellar door, but it won''t budge.

    ¡°Mom locked it from the outside,¡± I say.

    Only through the garden, can we find our way.

    And there, the Other Me, will lead us on

    Through the shadows, until the dawn.