Best Horror of the Year
Author: Ellen Datlow
Date: 2024-01-15 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: The Best Horror of the Year: Volume Fifteen
Description: From Ellen Datlow—"the venerable queen of horror anthologies" per the New York Times—comes a new entry in the series that has brought you thrilling stories from Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, the best horror stories available. For more than four decades, Ellen Datlow has been at the center of horror. Bringing you the most frightening and terrifying stories, Datlow always has her finger on the pulse of what horror readers crave. Now, with the fifteenth volume of the series, Datlow is back again to bring you the stories that will keep you up at night. Encompassed in the pages of The Best Horror o
Publisher: Start Publishing LLC
Rights: All Right Reserved

Also Edited by Ellen Datlow

A Whisper of Blood

A Wolf at the Door and Other Retold Fairy Tales (with Terri Windling)

After (with Terri Windling)

Alien Sex

Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales

Black Heart, Ivory Bones (with Terri Windling)

Black Swan, White Raven (with Terri Windling)

Black Thorn, White Rose (with Terri Windling)

Blood Is Not Enough: 17 Stories of Vampirism

Blood and Other Cravings

Body Shocks: Extreme Tales of Body Horror

Children of Lovecraft

Darkness: Two Decades of Modern Horror

Digital Domains: A Decade of Science Fiction & Fantasy

Echoes: The Saga Anthology of Ghost Stories

Fearful Symmetries

Final Cuts: New Tales of Hollywood Horror and Spectacles

Haunted Legends (with Nick Mamatas)

Haunted Nights (with Lisa Morton)

Hauntings

Inferno: New Tales of Terror and the Supernatural Lethal Kisses

Little Deaths

Lovecraft Unbound

Lovecraft’s Monsters

Mad Hatters and March Hares

Naked City: Tales of Urban Fantasy

Nebula Awards Showcase 2009

Nightmare Carnival

Nightmares: A New Decade of Modern Horror

Off Limits: Tales of Alien Sex

Omni Best Science Fiction: Volumes One through Three

The Omni Books of Science Fiction: Volumes One through Seven

Omni Visions One and Two

Poe: 19 New Tales Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe

Queen Victoria’s Book of Spells (with Terri Windling)

Ruby Slippers, Golden Tears (with Terri Windling)

Salon Fantastique: Fifteen Original Tales of Fantasy (with Terri Windling)

Screams From the Dark: 29 Tales of Monsters and the Monstrous

Silver Birch, Blood Moon (with Terri Windling)

Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers (with Terri Windling)

Snow White, Blood Red (with Terri Windling)

Supernatural Noir

Swan Sister (with Terri Windling)

Tails of Wonder and Imagination: Cat Stories

Teeth: Vampire Tales (with Terri Windling)

Telling Tales: The Clarion West 30th Anniversary Anthology

The Beastly Bride: And Other Tales of the Animal People (with Terri Windling)

The Best Horror of the Year: Volumes One through Fourteen

The Coyote Road: Trickster Tales (with Terri Windling)

The Cutting Room: Dark Reflections of the Silver Screen

The Dark: New Ghost Stories

The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy

The Devil and the Deep: Horror Stories of the Sea

The Doll Collection

The Faery Reel: Tales from the Twilight Realm

The Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest (with Terri Windling)

The Monstrous

Troll’s-Eye View: A Book of Villainous Tales (with Terri Windling)

Twists of the Tale

Vanishing Acts

When Things Get Dark: Stories Inspired by Shirley Jackson

The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror (with Terri Windling, and with Gavin J. Grant and Kelly Link) Volumes One through Twenty-one

The Best Horror of the Year Volume Fifteen © 2024 by Ellen Datlow

The Best Horror of the Year Volume Fifteen © 2024 by Night Shade Books, an imprint of Start Publishing LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Start Science Fiction, 221 River Street, 9th Floor, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

Night Shade Books™ is an imprint of Start Publishing LLC.

Visit our website at www.nightshadebooks.com.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover illustration Shutterstock/Wilqkuku

Cover design by Jennifer Do

Print ISBN: 978–1-949102–72-7
eBook ISBBN: 978-1-59780-668-8

Printed in the United States of America

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Stephen Graham Jones, Stefan Dziemianowicz, and Shikhar Dixit for their recommendations.

Thanks to The Nightfire blog for keeping me informed as to the horror novels published in 2021.

A big thanks to Tegan Moore and Theresa DeLucci for helping me in my reading.

And a special thank you to my patient and supportive in-house editor, Jason Katzman.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Summation of the Year 2022—Ellen Datlow

Solivagant—Angela Slatter

Gate 9—Jeffrey Ford

Flaming Teeth—Garry Kilworth

On the Hills, the Knitters—Steve Toase

New Fox Smell—Livia Llewellyn

The Harvester of Ladslove—Steve Duffy

Incident at Bear Creek Lodge—Tananarive Due

The Myth of Pasiphaë—Andy Davidson

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Reporter—Daniela Tomova

In the Wabe—Alison Littlewood

New Meat(™)—Jordan Shiveley

Eyes Like Small Black Stones—David Surface

Bb Minor, or The Suicide Choir: An Oral History—Gemma Files

Lifelike—Gary McMahon

The Zoo—Gemma Amor

Dinner Plans with Baba Yaga—Stephanie M. Wytovich

The Collection—Charlie Hughes

Tell-Tale Tit—Margo Lanagan

The Last Box—Luigi Musolino (translated by James D. Jenkins)

1855—Jacob Steven Mohr

Enough for Hunger and Enough for Hate—John Langan

Honorable Mentions

About the Authors

Acknowledgment of Copyright

About the Editor

SUMMATION 2022

Here are 2022’s numbers: There are twenty-one pieces total in this volume, including novelettes, one novella, one piece of flash fiction, and one poem. The story lengths range from 200 words to 20,000 words (not counting the poem). There are eight stories and one poem by women and twelve stories by men. Ten stories are by contributors living in the United States, two in Australia, one in Canada, five in the United Kingdom, one in Norway, one in Germany, and one in Italy. Nine of the contributors have never before been published in any volume of my Best of the Year series (although one was published in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror Third Annual Collection).

AWARDS

The Horror Writers Association announced the 2021 Bram Stoker Awards® winners at a banquet in The Curtis Denver, a Doubletree Hilton Hotel, Saturday May 14, 2022.

The 2021 Bram Stoker Awards® went to:

Superior Achievement in a Novel: Stephen Graham Jones, My Heart is a Chainsaw (Gallery/Saga Press); Superior Achievement in a First Novel: Hailey Piper, Queen of Teeth (Strangehouse Books); Superior Achievement in a Young Adult Novel: Erica Waters, The River Has Teeth (HarperTeen); Superior Achievement in a Graphic Novel: Alessandro Manzetti (author) and Stefano Cardoselli (author and artist), The Inhabitant of the Lake (Independent Legions Publishing); Superior Achievement in Long Fiction: Jeff Strand, “Twentieth Anniversary Screening” (Slice and Dice) (self-published); Superior Achievement in Short Fiction: Lee Murray, “Permanent Damage” (Attack From the ’80s) (Raw Dog Screaming Press); Superior Achievement in a Fiction Collection: Gemma Files, In That Endlessness, Our End (Grimscribe Press); Superior Achievement in a Screenplay: Mike Flanagan, James Flanagan, and Jeff Howard,—Midnight Mass, Season 1, Episode 6: “Book VI: Acts of the Apostles” (Intrepid Pictures); Superior Achievement in an Anthology: Ellen Datlow, When Things Get Dark: Stories Inspired by Shirley Jackson (Titan Books); Superior Achievement in Non-Fiction: Michael Knost, Writers Workshop of Horror 2 (Hydra Publications); Superior Achievement in Short Non-Fiction: Angela Yuriko Smith, “Horror Writers: Architects of Hope” (The Sirens Call, Halloween 2021, Issue 55) (Sirens Call Publications); Superior Achievement in a Poetry Collection: Christina Sng, Angela Yuriko Smith, Lee Murray, and Geneve Flynn, Tortured Willows: Bent. Bowed. Unbroken. (Yuriko Publishing).

HWA Lifetime Achievement Awards were given to Nancy Holder, Koji Suzuki, and Jo Fletcher.

The Specialty Press Award was given to Valancourt Books.

The Richard H. Laymon President’s Award was given to Sumiko Saulson. The Silver Hammer Award for service was given to Kevin J. Wetmore. The Mentor of the Year Award was given to Michael Knost.

The Seventh Annual FINAL FRAME Horror Short Competition winners are:

Best Writing in a Short Film: Becoming Emma Braintree, written and directed by Joshua Koske, based on the short story by Aaron Dries.

Second Runner-Up to Grand Prize: Every Time We Meet For Ice Cream Your Whole Fucking Face Explodes, written and directed by Anthony Cousins, based on the short story by Carlton Mellick III.

First Runner-Up to Grand Prize: The Thing That Ate The Birds, written and directed by Sophie Mair and Dan Gitsham.

The 2022 Shirley Jackson Awards were presented in person at the Boston Book Festival October 29, 2022, in partnership with Readercon. The winners of the 2021 Shirley Jackson Awards are:

Novel: My Heart Is a Chainsaw by Stephen Graham Jones (Saga Press-US/Titan Books-UK); Novella: Flowers for the Sea by Zin E. Rocklyn (Tordotcom); Novelette: “We, the Girls Who Did Not Make It” by E. A. Petricone (Nightmare magazine, February 2021); Short Fiction: “You’ll Understand When You’re a Mom Someday” by Isabel J. Kim (khōréō magazine, August 2021); Single Author Collection: Folk Songs for Trauma Surgeons: Stories by Keith Rosson (Meerkat Press); Edited Anthology-tie: Professor Charlatan Bardot’s Travel Anthology to the Most (Fictional) Haunted Buildings in the Weird, Wild World, edited by Eric J. Guignard (Dark Moon Books) and Unfettered Hexes: Queer Tales of Insatiable Darkness, edited by Dave Ring (Neon Hemlock).

The Shirley Jackson Awards, Inc., also is committed to promoting the legacy of Shirley Jackson and, as part of this mission, presented a Special Award to Ellen Datlow in recognition of the anthology When Things Get Dark: Stories inspired by Shirley Jackson (Titan Books, 2021).

The 2021 World Fantasy Awards were given out at the 48th World Fantasy Convention banquet at the Hyatt Regency, New Orleans, November 5, 2022.

The Life Achievement Award winners: Samuel R. Delany and Terri Windling. Novel: The Jasmine Throne by Tasha Suri (Orbit US/Orbit UK); Novella: And What Can We Offer You Tonight by Premee Mohamed (Neon Hemlock Press); Short Fiction: “(emet)” by Lauren Ring (The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, July/August 2021); Anthology: The Year’s Best African Speculative Fiction (2021), ed. Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki (Jembefola Press); Collection: Midnight Doorways: Fables from Pakistan by Usman T. Malik (Kitab); Artist: Tran Nguyen; Special Award-Professional: Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda, Monstress Volume Six: The Vow (Image Comics); Special Award Non-Professional: Tonia Ransom, Nightlight: A Horror Fiction Podcast

Judges: C. S. E. Cooney, Julie Crisp, C. C. Finlay, Richard Kadrey, and Misha Stone.

NOTABLE NOVELS of 2022

The Unfamiliar Garden by Benjamin Percy (Mariner Books)—Absorbing from its opening scene of a grisly murder—is a dystopian novel about what happens when a comet crashes into earth and, five years later, when after a long drought rains return to the Pacific Northwest, the parasitic fungus it brought along flourishes. I hadn’t realized it was the second book in a series, but it stands perfectly well on its own.

The Book of the Most Precious Substance by Sara Gran (Dreamland Books) is the first novel of Gran’s I’ve read since her 2003 Come Closer, which I loved. This one is about a rare occult book of sex magic that draws a book dealer dealing with tragedy in her life and others who want to sell and/or buy it.

Road of Bones by Christopher Golden (St. Martin’s Press) is a terrific supernatural thriller about two friends who want to create a reality series about Siberia’s Kolyma Highway, also known as the Road of Bones, 1200 miles paved with the frozen dead of the Soviet gulags. Seems the perfect place to search for ghosts that they don’t really believe in. After meeting a local guide, they drive to his village to start their documentary, finding it almost deserted. A very good read for both the sweltering temperatures of summer or the icy winter.

Girl in Ice by Erica Ferencik (Scout Press) is another cold weather read as a linguist in dead languages is asked to join a research team off Greenland where a young girl—thawed out alive from frozen ice—speaks a language no one understands. The linguist is still mourning her twin brother’s supposed suicide at the research station and decides to take the opportunity to do her own investigation into her brother’s death as well as help the mysterious girl communicate. Fascinating science fictional premise that occasionally gets the best of the plot itself.

Manhunt by Gretchen Felker-Martin (Nightfire) is a ferocious, absurd, grisly, moving post-apocalyptic voyage into a hellish landscape in which men have become uncontrollable, violent rapists and cannibals as result of a virus, transwomen are the heroes, and terfs are the enemy out to kill every transgender woman they can. Plenty of body horror and a full-out obsession with sex. The cover image is disturbing and brilliant.

Echo by Thomas Olde Heuvelt (Nightfire) is a suspenseful horror novel about the aftereffects of a mountain climb gone wrong in the Swiss Alps, when two climbers go up and only one returns. The survivor, afflicted with terrible injuries, claims amnesia as to what happened but memories of his experience haunt and threaten him and those he loves. The details and dangers of mountaineering are gripping.

The Fervor by Alma Katsu (G. P. Putnam’s Sons) is a powerful historical horror novel taking place mostly in 1944 during the period thousands of Americans of Japanese ancestry were forced into internment camps around the US. It’s also an sf/horror medical thriller, with mysterious toxins from the sky infecting those who come in contact with them.

The Furies by John Connolly (Atria/Emily Bestler) is actually two short novels featuring Connolly’s ongoing character, private eye Charlie Parker, who rights wrongs and too often for his own taste commits violence to reach those ends. There are usually ghosts or other supernatural elements to his books, and these two works are no exception. In the first, The Sisters Strange, Parker becomes embroiled in coin theft and the man/entity from whom the coin has been stolen. The second, The Furies, is focused on a vengeful ghost child and some truly evil men. Both novels are powerful reads.

Hokuloa Road by Elizabeth Hand (Mulholland) is a mystery with super-natural undertones about Grady, an untethered young man from Maine who is hired as caretaker of property for a wealthy philanthropist on Hawai’i. It seems like a dream job but the disappearance of a woman he meets on the plane preys on him as he’s convinced she’s met with foul play, as have the many other people who have disappeared in the region over the years.

Blitz by Daniel O’Malley (Little, Brown and Company) is the enjoyable third book in the Chequy series that began with The Rook, about a secret organization of humans with supernatural powers whose job is to keep the world safe from dangerous, otherworldly incursions. In this volume we learn more about the Chequy’s inner workings and about the different powers its members have. Moving back and forth between London during the blitz and contemporary times, there’s humor, suspense, horror, and some bloody gore.

White Horse by Erika T. Wurth (Flatiron Books) is an engrossing debut about a hard-drinking, self-destructive urban native living in Denver—angry and in despair because she was abandoned by her mother as a child. When she is given and touches the traditional bracelet owned by her mother, the woman begins to experience disturbing visions leading her to question her and her family’s mysterious past.

Shutter by Ramona Emerson (Soho Crime) is coincidentally another powerful debut about an indigenous woman haunted by ghosts. In this novel, the protagonist is a forensic photographer working for the police in Albuquerque. She’s been seeing ghosts since her childhood and has always tried to hide the truth from others, making her seem standoffish and odd. Usually, the ghosts don’t want anything from her, but one, appearing at a supposed suicide scene becomes intrusive, bullying, hostile, and impossible to ignore.

Dead Water by C. A. Fletcher (Redhook Books) is an excellent supernatural novel about an ancient curse accidently released on a northern Scottish Island. Both natives and visitors are threatened by “walking water” as the island is cut off from the mainland during a storm.

Sundial by Catriona Ward (Nightfire) is the perfect combination of twisty, horrifying, and, at times, grisly. A seemingly normal suburban household is anything but, as the surface calm of domestic life begins to crack, forcing a woman to journey back into her past life, to Sundial, a cultish desert compound where she grew up with her twin sister. One of the best horror novels of the year.

The Pallbearers Club by Paul Tremblay (William Morrow) is an intriguing novel about a teenage loner in the 1980s, who decides to start a club for voluntary pallbearers, hoping it’ll look good on his college applications. Only two people sign up, one a strange girl who enjoys taking photos of the corpses with her polaroid. The book is funny, melancholy, and with occasional spurts of horror.

Daphne by Josh Malerman (Del Rey) is a powerful teen slasher coming-of-age tale about a female high school basketball team seemingly stalked by a former (dead) player who has a grudge against them and the town.

Blood Mountain by Brenda S. Tolian (Raw Dog Screaming Press) is a mosaic novel about a mountain goddess of the Sangre de Cristo range in Southern Colorado. The goddess seeks revenge on those who defiled and disrespected her. The book can be read as a collection of twenty-five stories and vignettes as well as a novel. Four of the sections are reprints.

Where I End by Sophie White (Tramp Press) is a beautifully voiced, horrific novel about a teenager and her grandmother who live in isolation on an Irish island caring for the girl’s bedridden mother. The layers of the story unfold like an onion, one rotten at the core. Harrowing, glorious body horror (in an unexpected way), and one of the best novels of the year.

Just Like Home by Sarah Gailey (Tor) is a creepy whopper of a novel. A woman returns to the house she grew up in to care for her estranged mother. Horrible things took place in the house, things that not only tore apart the family but the entire town. As with the White novel above, the story becomes increasingly unsettling as the reader realizes certain truths about the roles played by each member of the family. Chilling. Another best of the year.

ALSO NOTED

Gwendy’s Final Task by Stephen King and Richard Chizmar (Cemetery Dance Publications) is the final volume of the supernatural trilogy begun with the novella Gwendy’s Button Box. Ghoul n’ the Cape by Josh Malerman (Earthling) is more weird than horrific as the Cape enters a bar to recruit the ghoul into accompanying him across the country to warn against the nefarious entity, the Naught. It’s Alive! by Julian David Stone (Greenleaf Book Group Press) is a fictionalized history of the period building up to the making of the movie Frankenstein with Boris Karloff. The Clackity by Lora Senf (Atheneum Books for Young Readers) is about Evie, a girl who lives in the “seventh most haunted town in America” with her aunt, who disappears into the “slaughter house.” In order to rescue her aunt, she makes a deal with a denizen of the house. Hound of the Baskervilles by Adam McOmber (Lethe Press) is an erotic retelling of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic. Dr. Watson is the protagonist, with him going to the moors of the Baskerville estate to confront both the mysterious deaths that have taken place there and his own queer desires. The King of Crows by Bill Davidson (Dark Ink) is a dark detective novel that switches between 1976 and 2016. The Living Must Die, also by Davidson (Black Bed Sheet Books), is a new take on the zombie novel. All the White Spaces by Ally Wilkes (Atria/Emily Bestler) is about a young stowaway on an Antarctica-bound expedition, in the wake of WWI, who is desperate to fit in with the crew. When the ship is forced to winter on land those onboard are faced with a supernatural threat that might destroy them all. Leech by Hiron Ennes (Tordotcom) has been described as a sf gothic or “Wuthering Heights with worms.” Fellstones by Ramsey Campbell (Flame Tree Press) is about an adoptee who fled the village where he was brought up as soon as he could, changing his name and trying to start a new life. Years later, his adopted sister finds and persuades him to return home to help their parents. The Last Storm by Tim Lebbon (Titan Books) is a near future horror novel about people surviving the mostly parched lands of North America and one person who thinks they can save the world as a rainmaker, with dire consequences. The Ghost That Ate Us by Daniel Kraus (Raw Dog Screaming Press) is a purportedly “true” account of a nine-month haunting at Burger City in Iowa that ended in the gruesome death of six people. Gallows Hill by Darcy Coates (Poisoned Pen Press) is about a haunted winery. Always the First to Die by R. J. Jacobs (Sourcebooks) is about a former horror movie actress who returns to the Key West estate where the seemingly cursed movie that upended her life was filmed—and a Category 4 hurricane is about to hit. Fairy Tale by Stephen King (Scribner) is about a teenager who meets a recluse harboring a secret in a shed that he protects until he dies. It’s then on the teenager and the man’s dog to save the world from what’s in that shed. The Wakening by JG Faherty (Flame Tree Press) is about an elderly, retired priest plagued by the demon he exorcized as a young man. Night Birds by Lisa Snellings and Alan M. Clark (IFD Publishing) is a short dark fantasy novel about a girl growing up in a small South Carolina town in the sixties. Strange people reside in the town, plus there’s magic and ghosts and a mysterious figure stalking the girl. Saturnalia by Stephanie Feldman (The Unnamed Press) takes place in a future Philadelphia where an annual pagan festival is celebrated to take the residents’ minds off the unfolding slow apocalypse caused by climate change. Dead Silence by S. A. Barnes (Nightfire) is a sf/horror novel about a salvage crew that discovers a long-missing luxury spaceliner that unfortunately harbors dangerous secrets within. From Below by Darcy Coates (Black Owl Books) is about another missing ship—this one more local—as a dive crew explores a sixty-year-old wreck off the Swedish coast, three hundred miles off course. The Violence by Delilah S. Dawson (Del Rey) is about what happens when seemingly placid families are afflicted by a condition dubbed “the violence,” which causes individuals to suddenly experience bouts of rage and violence toward those around them. The Hollow Kind by Andy Davidson (MCG Farrar, Straus and Giroux) is about a woman and her eleven-year-old son fleeing an abusive marriage to the estate she’s inherited from her grandfather. Once there, she comes to realize that they are no safer within these haunted walls than they were from where they came. They Drown Our Daughters by Katrina Monroe (Poisoned Pen Press) is a debut about another woman leaving a rocky relationship (this time with a woman) with child in tow, to return home, where things are just as bad if not worse. Ghost story and gothic combined. Hawk Mountain by Connor Habib (W.W. Norton) is a psychological thriller about a single father and his young son whose life is interrupted by the appearance of a man who bullied the father when they were teenagers. Mary by Nat Cassidy (Nightfire) is a debut about a middle-aged woman experiencing such disturbing bodily changes during perimenopause that she’s fired from her job in New York and moves back to her hometown. But her symptoms worsen. Dark Observation by Catherine Cavendish (Flame Tree Press) is a gothic novel about a British woman working underground in the Cabinet war rooms during early WWII. Secrets, occult happenings, and ancient evil abound. Black Tide by K. C. Jones (Nightfire) is an sf/horror novel about what happens after a destructive meteor shower unleashes unexpected horrors in its aftermath. Rootwork by Tracy Cross (Dark Hart Books) is a debut novel about three sisters who visit their Hoodoo-practicing aunt in Louisiana the summer of 1889. Coming of age is difficult enough without needing to maneuver through the reality of racism and segregation. Hidden Pictures by Jason Rekulak (Flatiron Books) is about a woman just out of rehab who is hired to babysit a five-year-old boy who loves to draw. One day he draws what appears to be the image of a murder, and his drawings grow more and more detailed, mature, and sinister over time. Such a Pretty Smile by Kristi DeMeester (St. Martin’s Press) is about a serial killer who mutilates “troublemaking” girls on the cusp of womanhood and the mother and daughter who are both starting to question their sanity—especially the mother who experienced a trauma many years before. Run Time by Catherine Ryan Howard, (Blackstone) is about the filming of a psychological horror movie in an isolated house in Ireland and what happens when certain plot points in the script begin to happen on the set. Woman, Eating by Claire Kohda (HarperVia) is about a young woman like many others of her age dealing with life and love in the adult world. But what she really wants is to eat the Japanese food of her dad’s heritage. However, that’s the one thing she can’t do—because as a vampire she can only digest blood. Siren Queen by Nghi Vo (Tor.com) is about a Chinese American girl who plans to become a star in pre-Code Hollywood, no matter the cost. And the cost can be great, when the business is rife with dark magic, blood sacrifice, and monsters (human and inhuman). Just Like Mother by Anne Heltzel (Nightfire) is about what happens when two cousins who escaped the cult in which they were raised reunite twenty years later. A Black and Endless Sky by Matthew Lyons (Keylight Books) is about two estranged siblings who reconnect after one of them divorces and go on a cross-country road trip back to their hometown of Albuquerque. But after one of them has a strange accident, things start to get very weird—and not in a good way. Hide by Kiersten White (Del Rey) is about fourteen competitors for a ton of money—all they have to do is hide for a week in an abandoned amusement park and not get caught. Ghost Eaters by Clay McLeod Chapman (Quirk) is about a new drug called Ghost, that enables users to see ghosts—unfortunately, not only those you want to see, but all the ghosts from around town, which has a grim and bloody history. And those ghosts are so attracted to the drug that they’ll do anything to get at it—on your skin or in your body. The Hacienda by Isabel Cañas (Berkley) is a gothic debut in the spirit of du Maurier’s Rebecca. A young woman whose father was executed during the overthrow of the Mexican government in the 1800s marries a widower and moves to his country estate. Hoping for safety and security, instead she’s haunted by visions and strange behavior by those around her. Sleep Walk by Dan Chaon (Henry Holt) is about a mercenary on a road trip across a slightly futuristic US, plying his skills as he goes. A mainstream comic, slightly awry journey, as is so much of Chaon’s fiction. The Silverberg Business by Robert Freeman Wexler (Small Beer Press) is a dark, hardboiled weird novel about what happens when a Chicago private eye travels home to Galveston, Texas in 1888 and is asked to find a missing person. A Child Alone With Strangers by Philip Fracassi (Talos Press) is about a child who upon awakening from an accident-induced coma emerges changed—being able to read the thoughts and “see” the feelings of other people. Babysitter by Joyce Carol Oates (Knopf) is a crime novel taking place in the ’70s focusing on a series of child abductions and killing perpetrated by the “Babysitter” killer. The Devil Takes You Home by Gabino Iglesias (Mulholland) is about what happens when a desperate man, still grieving for his dead daughter and who has already crossed the line into criminality by becoming a hit man, agrees to a dangerous heist with a junkie friend. Pest by Michael Cisco (Clash) is a weird visionary novel by a writer who specializes in the weird. A yak that began life as a man tells his story. Anybody Home by Michael J. Seidlinger (Clash) is a weird tutorial by a home invader on the step-by-step system he uses in his criminal activities. My Annihilation by Fuminori Nakamura translated from the Japanese by Sam Bett (Soho Crime) begins with an unknown person in a room determined to steal another’s identity. Left with a suitcase and a manuscript whose first line is “Turn this page and you may give up your entire life,” a decision must be made. Of course it’s the wrong one or there would be no book. Eerie and very nicely executed.

MAGAZINES, WEBZINES, and Journals

It’s important to recognize the work of the talented artists working in the field of fantastic fiction, both dark and light. The following created dark art I thought especially noteworthy in 2022: Ed Binkley, Matthew Jaffe, Vincent Sammy, Garry Nurrish, Pedro Marques, Fonklor-32, Laura H. Rubin, Richard Wagner, Vince Haig, EV Shipard, Dave Senecal, Yaroslav Gerzhedovich, R. Mac Jones, Ben Baldwin, Mario Sanchez Nevado, Dan Sauer, Nick Greenwood, K. L. Turner, Dan Verkys, Christopher Shy, Jason Van Hollander, Dave Elsey, Ellie Nesbit, Raki Sy, Neil Williams, Daniele Serra, Paul Lowe, Mona Finden, Rosemary Pardoe, Eva Carollo, Anton Horbanko, Thijs Van Ebbenhorst Tengbergen, Sam Dawson, Lynne Hansen, Julian Bustos, Ryan Mills, and Milena Grzegorzewska.

BFS Journal edited by Sean Wilcock is a twice-yearly non-fiction perk of membership in the British Fantasy Society. It contains reviews, scholarly articles, and features about recent conventions. BFS Horizons edited by Pete Sutton is the fiction companion to BFS Journal. There were notable dark stories and poetry by Martyn Sullivan and Sage Tyrtle.

Rue Morgue edited by Andrea Subissati is a reliable, entertaining Canadian non-fiction magazine for horror movie aficionados, with up-to-date information on most of the horror films being released. The magazine also includes interviews, articles, and gory movie stills, along with regular columns on books, horror music, video games, and graphic novels.

Dead Reckonings: A Review of Horror and the Weird in the Arts edited by Alex Houstoun and Michael J. Abolafia published two issues in 2022, filled with reviews, commentaries, the enjoyable regular column by Ramsey Campbell, and essays about prose works, music, and movies. The fall issue had a con report by Darrell Schweitzer on the World Fantasy Convention in New Orleans.

The Lovecraft Annual edited by S. T. Joshi is a must for those interested in Lovecraftian studies. The 2022 issue has 260 pages of material, including an essay on Lovecraftian motifs in the original Star Trek TV series. That’s probably the most interesting and the most accessible piece in the issue for casual readers of Lovecraft.

The Green Book: Writings on Irish Gothic, Supernatural, and Fantastic Literature edited by Brian J. Showers is an excellent resource for discovering underappreciated Irish writers. Two issues were published in 2022. The first, #19, is a portrait of the Dublin Theosophy scene. The issue includes writings by Katharine Tynan, William Butler Yeats, Ella Young, A. E. (George William Russell), and others. Also included is a column by Mike Ashley about James Stephens and Algernon Blackwood. Issue #20 offered another ten profiles of Irish writers of gothic, supernatural, and fantastic fiction (it’s part of an ongoing series), including Bram Stoker and Charlotte Riddell.

Ghosts & Scholars, the long-running journal celebrating the works of M. R. James, brought out two issues during 2022, the first edited by Carole Tyrell and the second by Helen Grant. In addition to the articles and reviews were strong dark tales by Steve Duffy, Victoria Day, David Longhorn, and an unfinished story by James, completed by John Linwood Grant.

Supernatural Tales edited by David Longhorn is a reliable venue for excellent short supernatural fiction and had a very good year in 2022, publishing excellent fiction in all three issues. There was notable fiction by Jane Jakeman, Sam Dawson, James Everington, Chloe N. Clark, David Buchan, Lynda E. Rucker, Michael Chislett, Tim Foley, Steve Duffy, Paul Crosby, and James Machin. The Duffy is reprinted herein.

The Dark edited by Sean Wallace is a monthly webzine that publishes dark fantasy and horror. In 2022 there was a better representation of horror than previously, with notable dark fiction by Meg Elison, James Bennett, Seán Padraic Birnie, L. Chan, Octavia Cade, Kay Chronister, Kristi DeMeester, Becca De La Rosa, Rebecca Hirsch Garcia, Ai Jiang, Jack Klausner, Angela Liu, Suzan Palumbo, Tegan Moore, H. Pueyo, Nelson Stanley, Kali Wallace, Alison Littlewood, Aliya Whiteley, Steve Rasnic Tem, A. C. Wise, Richard Strachan, and Tony Richards.

Nightmare magazine edited by Wendy N. Wagner is a monthly webzine of horror and dark fantasy. It publishes stories, articles, interviews, book reviews, and author spotlights. There was notable short fiction and poetry in 2022 by Martin Cahill, Susan Calvillo, Adam-Troy Castro, Spencer Ellsworth, Kiyomi Appleton Gaines, A.L. Goldfuss, Sarah Grey, Jonathan L. Howard, Robert Levy, Clara Madrigano, R. L. Meza, Ray Naylor, Gregory L. Norris, Endria Isa Richardson, Shannon Scott, Jordan Shiveley, Carlie St. George, James L. Sutter, A. C. Wise, Rowan Wren, Hannah Yang, Gordon B. White, Maria Zoccala, Marie Ness, Amanda Sorg, Angela Liu, and a collaboration by Emma Osborne, Jess Essey, and Cadwell Turnbull. The Shiveley story is reprinted herein.

Pseudopod edited by Shawn Garrett and Alex Hofelich is the horror section of the Escape Artists original podcast. During 2022, there were notable dark stories by Emily Rigole, Chris Matson, Frank J. Oreto, and Greg Stolze.

Phantasmagoria is a chunky magazine of horror, science fiction, and fantasy edited by Trevor Kennedy. I’ve only just been made aware of its existence, although it’s now up to twenty-six regular issues and six special issues, the latter focusing on one writer. The 2022 Special Edition Issue #6 celebrates Brian Lumley, with interviews, reprinted stories, and loads of photos and illustrations of his work by an array of artists.

Weird Horror edited by Michael Kelly published two issues during 2022, with columns by Simon Strantzas and Orrin Grey, book and movie reviews, and fiction. There was notable dark fiction by William Curnow, Derrick Boden, Ashley Stokes, Brian Evenson, J.T. Bundy, Daniel David Froid, Armel Dagorn, Steve Rasnic Tem, and Megan Taylor.

Dark Matter is a publishing house and magazine edited by Rob Carroll. Seven issues of dark science fiction and horror came out during 2022, featuring original stories, the occasional reprint, interviews, art features, and with interior art throughout. There was notable horror by Lyndsey Croal, Ai Jiang, Rich Larson, David Worn, R. L. Meza, and Mary G. Thompson.

The Ghastling is an attractive, bi-annual magazine of dark fantasy and horror edited by Rebecca Parfitt, which has apparently been around since 2014, although this year was the first I’d heard of or seen it. There was notable fiction in 2022 by Pamela Koehne-Drube and Maud Woolf.

MIXED-GENRE MAGAZINES AND WEBZINES

Underland Arcana edited by Mark Teppo is a quarterly mixed bag of mostly weird fiction. During 2022 there was strong dark fiction by Erica Sage, Joshua Flowers, Charles Wilkinson, John Klima, and Kimberley Moore. Vastarien edited by Jon Padgett had an excellent year. It’s always got an intriguing mix of weird, often dark fiction and non-fiction essays. During 2022, there was notable dark fiction published by Wendy N. Wagner, Lindz McLeod, Alvaro Zinos-Amaro, Michelle Muenzler, John Brownlee, Scott McNee, Kyla Lee Ward, Daniel Braum, Romana Lockwood, LV von Hessen, T. M. Morgan, Dyani Saban, Venezia Castro, Sean Phelps, Matt Sadowski, C. O. Davidson, Aaron Worth, Stephen Hargadon, and Ivy Grimes. Kaleidotrope edited by Fred Coppersmith is a quarterly webzine. In 2022, it published notable dark stories by A. C. Wise, Richard E. Gropp, and Rhonda Eikamp. Conjunctions edited by Bradford Morrow and published by Bard College, is a prestigious journal of mixed genre and non-genre material. It was brought back from the edge of extinction after a March announcement that it would be shuttered after its fall issue. However, in May, Bard recommitted to financing the magazine for at least three more years. The fall issue, number 78: Fear Itself had more horror than usual and what it includes is quite good. The best poetry and stories are by Brian Evenson, Jeffrey Ford, Mary Kuryla, Shane McCrae, Julia Elliott, Joyce Carol Oates, Quintan Ana Wikswo, Rob Walsh, Bronka Nowicka, Stephen Graham Jones, and Genevieve Valentine. The Ford story is reprinted herein. Bourbon Penn edited by Erik Secker is a reliable bi-annual source of weird, often dark tales. The cover art is consistently intriguing and beautiful (even when grotesque). There was excellent dark fiction published in 2022 by Amanda Baldeneaux, Fred Coopersmith, Maureen O’Leary, Rich Larson, Jess Koch, Josh Pearce, Travis Schuhardt, Jeffrey Ford, Thomas Ha, Chris Kammerud, and Steve Toase. The Toase is reprinted herein. Not One of Us edited by John Benson is one of the longest-running small press magazines regularly publishing horror. It’s a quarterly, containing weird, dark fantasy and horror fiction and poetry. There were notable stories and poetry in 2021 by Jennifer Walker, Stephanie Smith, Simon Bestwick, Sonya Taaffe, Eric Horwitz, Michael Fowler, Sarah McGill, and Alexandra Seidel. Sunday Morning Transport edited by Fran Wilde and Julian Yap is a new subscription-based weekly, publishing science fiction, fantasy, and horror. There were notable dark stories in 2022 by Kat Howard, Madeline Ashby, and Cassandra Khaw. Aurealis edited by Dirk Strasser is an Australian webzine of mostly science fiction and fantasy that began as a print magazine but went exclusively digital several years ago. It published notable dark fiction by J. P. Townsend, Greg Foyster, and Leon D. Furze during 2022. Tor.com regularly publishes short stores in all genres on its website. During 2022, strong horror stories came out by Daniela Tomova, David Erik Nelson, and Stephen Graham Jones. The Tomova is reprinted herein. Uncanny edited by Lynn M. Thomas and Michael Damien Thomas is a monthly webzine publishing fantasy, speculative, weird fiction, and occasionally horror. It also includes poetry, podcasts, interviews, essays, and art in the mix. In 2022 there were notable dark stories by DaVaun Sanders, Stephen Graham Jones, Samantha Mills, Radha Kai Zan, John Wiswell, Emma Törzs, and Margaret Dunlap. Penumbra: A Journal of Weird Fiction and Criticism edited by S. T. Joshi published its third issue in 2022, with nine new stories, two classic reprints, eleven poems, and eleven non-fiction pieces. There was notable new fiction and poetry by Frank Coffman, Darrell Schweitzer, and Geoffrey Reiter. Southwest Review’s autumn issue was promoted as a “horror issue,” but most of the stories and poems are weird rather than dark. There’s work by writers representing all of the Americas, with notable dark stories and poetry by Alexis Dubon, Iglesias Gabino, Edmundo Paz-Soldán, Cristhiano Aguiar, Leira Araújo, Carolina Rodriquez Mayo, and Adrian Van Young. With translations by Jenna Tang, Zoe Perry, Katherine M. Hedeen, and Olivia Lott. Three-Lobed Burning Eye edited by Andrew S. Fuller is a mixed-genre online zine published triennially. In 2022 there was notable dark fiction by Thomas Ha, Steve Toase, Corey Farrenkopf, Katie McIvor, and Michael Kelly. The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction edited by Sheree Renée Thomas has been publishing consistently good science fiction, fantasy, and horror for seventy-four years. During 2022, there was notable horror by Octavia Cade, Karen Heuler, Jennifer Hudak, Charlie Hughes, Mark H. Huston, Aigner Loren Wilson, Ai Jiang, Robert Levy, Yvette Lisa Ndlovu, Sam J. Miller, Taemumu Richardson, Paul Tobin, Aliya Whiteley, Alexandra Flores, Linda Niehoff, Charles Andrew Oberndorf, C. B. Blanchard, and Brian Trent. The Hughes is reprinted herein. The Deadlands: A Journal of Endings and Beginnings published by Sean Markey, with Editor-in-Chief E. Catherine Tobler, is a monthly online speculative journal publishing fiction, poetry, and non-fiction about death. Not all the material is horror, but in 2022 the journal published strong dark stories and poetry by Leah Bobet, Gunnar De Winter, Jenn Grunigen, Josh Rountree, Gretchen Tessmer, KT Bryski, Ava Navarro Ulriksen, Jonothon Pickering, and Emily Henry Burnham. Nightmare Abbey edited by Tom English is a new magazine combining classic ghost and horror stories with a sprinkling of newer writers and stories. Also included are interviews (the first issue has one with Ramsey Campbell) and articles on movies and old TV programs. There were notable new horror stories by Steve Duffy, Helen Grant, David Surface, John Llewelyn Probert, and Gregory L. Norris. Wrongdoing Magazine edited by Pascale Potvin was a Canadian magazine of fiction, poetry, art that hailed from Canada. Alas, it only published four issues in two years, and has now shuttered its doors. The most recent issue was quite promising. There were notable stories and poetry by Livvy Krakower, Aurora Bones, April Summers, Brett Harrington, Laura McVey, Jennessa Hester, and Joachim Gage.

ANTHOLOGIES

Into the Forest edited by Lindy Ryan (Black Spot Books) has twenty-three new stories and poems written by females about Baba Yaga, the infamous witch of Eastern European lore, who lives in a giant hut built on chicken legs. There are notable stories and poems by Stephanie M. Wytovich, Octavia Cade, Jill Baguchinsky, EV Knight, Mercedes M. Yardley, Sara Tantlinger, and Yi Izzy Yu. The Wytovich poem is reprinted herein.

Even in the Grave edited by James Chambers and Carol Gyzander (Neoparadoxa) is an anthology of twenty horrific ghost stories, all but three new. There are notable stories by Randee Dawn, Trevor Firetog, Alan Burd, April Grey, and Jonathan Lees.

Other Terrors: An Inclusive Anthology edited by Vince Liaguno and Rena Mason (William Morrow) is an original anthology of twenty-four stories and poems that celebrate otherness in horror, and explores the fears experienced by those considered “other.” There are notable stories by Shanna Heath, Usman T. Malik, Jennifer McMahon, Annie Neugebauer, Hailey Piper, Christina Sng, Linda D. Addison, Maxwell I. Gold, Eugen Bacon, Holly Lyn Walrath, Stephen Graham Jones, Tananarive Due, Michael Thomas Ford, M. E. Bronstein, and S.A. Cosby. The Due is reprinted herein.

Screams from the Dark: 29 Tales of Monsters and the Monstrous edited by Ellen Datlow (Nightfire) is an all original anthology of stories and one novella with human and inhuman monsters. The Garry Kilworth is reprinted herein.

Horror Zine’s Book of Werewolf Stories edited by Jeanie Rector and Dean H. Wild (Hellbound Books) has twenty-five stories, all but two of them new. The best are by Stephen M. Dare, Gordon Linzner, Nancy Kilpatrick, Michael J. Moore, Terry Grimwood, and Meg Smith.

Picnic in the Graveyard: An Anthology of Cemetery Horrors edited by Brhel and Sullivan (Cemetery Gates Media) features twenty-two new stories taking place in cemeteries. There are notable ones by J.A.W. McCarthy, JG Faherty, and Michael Kelly.

The Hideous Book of Hidden Horrors edited by Doug Murano (Bad Hand Books) is an interesting volume of sixteen new stories and poetry about horrors that might not be immediately obvious. All the stories are worthwhile, but for me the standouts were by Josh Malerman, Annie Neugebauer, Sarah Read, Jo Kaplan, Alan Baxter, Sara Tantlinger, Lee Murray, and Richard Thomas.

Monstroddities edited by Ben Walker (Sliced Up Press) features twenty-two new stories and poetry about monsters and weird phenomenon. Some of the stories are quite odd indeed. There is notable work by Ai Jiang, Tiffany Morris, Die Booth, Angela Sylvaine, Stephanie Rabig, David Sandner, Eve Harms, Maxx Fidalgo, Caitlin Marceau, and Joe Koch.

The Zinzolin Book of Occult Fiction, edited by Brendan Connell (Snuggly Books) is the first in a series of anthologies celebrating out-of-print occult fiction. This volume contains twenty-two British stories published between 1888 and 1911. The Vermilion Book of Occult Fiction edited by Brian Stableford is the second volume in the series and features eighteen stories from France in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, many published in English for the first time. With an introduction by Brian Stableford.

Classic Monsters Unleashed edited by James Aquilone (Black Spot Books) features thirty stories (and a poem) riffing on monsters such as Dracula, Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, the invisible man, and others. Two of the stories are reprints. There are notable new stories and poetry by Alessandro Manzetti, Maurice Broaddus, Geneve Flynn, Jonathan Maberry, Tim Waggoner, Ramsey Campbell, Simon Bestwick, David Surface, Carlie St. George, Sam Eads and Joshua Viola, Linda D. Addison, and Gary A. Braunbeck.

Literally Dead: Tales of Halloween Hauntings edited by Gaby Triana (Alien Head Press) is an all-original anthology of nineteen ghost stories. The strongest are by Lee Murray, Jonathan Maberry, Jeff Strand, Catherine Cavendish, David Surface, and Lisa Morton.

A Quaint and Curious Volume of Gothic Tales edited by Alex Woodroe (Brigids Gate) contains twenty-three new stories, all by women. There was a notable story by Erica Ruppert.

Wily Writers Presents six, mostly reprint anthologies of stories written by their writing collective. Tales of Dread edited by Lisa Morton, Tales of Nightmares edited by Loren Rhoads, Tales of Evil volume edited by Angel Leigh McCoy & Alison J. McKenzie has notable new stories by Bob Lock and Alison J. McKenzie, Tales of Darkness edited by Yvonne Navarro, Tales of Foreboding edited by E. S. Magill and Bill Broden, and Tales of Shadows edited by Weston Ochse (Automatism Press). Wily Writers Presents Tales of Evil edited by Angel Leigh McCoy & Alison J. McKenzie is an anthology of eleven stories (three of them new) published by the writing group. There are notable new stories by Bob Lock and Alison J. McKenzie.

Dark Stars: New Tales of Darkest Horror edited by John F. D. Taff (Nightfire) is intended as an homage to Kirby McCauley’s landmark 1980

Dark Forces. While it doesn’t quite live up to that volume (McCauley included the likes of Isaac Bashevis Singer, David Grubb, Edward Gorey, and Joyce Carol Oates). Dark Stars does showcase twelve excellent new works by some of the major and/or up-and-coming voices in the field. The book includes a Foreword by Josh Malerman and an Afterword by Ramsey Campbell. The novella by John Langan is reprinted herein.

13 Haunted Houses edited by Curtis M. Lawson and Joe Morey (Weird House Press) is exactly what it sounds like, featuring thirteen new stories. It includes an Introduction by Lawson and an afterword (about a supposedly real haunted house) by Morey. There’s notable work by Richard Gavin, James Chambers, and Ramsey Campbell.

Damnable Tales: A Folk Horror Anthology Selected and Illustrated by Richard Wells (Unbound) has twenty-three classic tales by Walter de la Mare, Shirley Jackson, Thomas Hardy, and many of the other usual suspects.

Major Arcana: Great British Horror #7 edited by Steve J. Shaw (Black Shuck Books) is an annual anthology series of new stories, all but one of eleven stories by Britons. Each story this year takes one of tarot’s major arcana as its theme—often quite loosely. The guest contributor in this volume is Lynda E. Rucker. Some very interesting stories by writers new and established.

Chromophobia edited by Sara Tantlinger (Strangehouse Books) has a title and theme that don’t match up at all. The book has twenty-five new stories, some focusing on color, but few about the intense fear of color characterizing the psychological disorder which defines the word “chromophobia.” Despite this, there are notable dark stories by EV Knight, Jaye Wells, Christine Makepeace, K. P. Kulski, Lillah Lawson, and J. P. Lamping. And a very well-told non-horror story by Bindia Persaud.

Nightscript Volume Eight edited by C. M. Muller (Chthonic Matter) is an annual anthology of new weird and/or dark fiction. The 2022 volume featured eighteen stories, the strongest and darkest of which were by Patrick Barb, Christi Nogle, Daniel Braum, Luciano Marano, John Garland Wells, Grace Lillie, Dixon March, and LC Von Hessen.

The Leaves of a Necronomicon edited by Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. (Chaosium) was a labor of love by Pulver, but he unfortunately died before it was published. The book follows one copy of the prized, occult volume which promises power but usually imparts madness and death upon its owners. There are twenty interconnected (yet individually satisfying) stories, the best by Cody Goodfellow, Nate Pederson, Nikki Guerlain, Jean Claude Smith, E. Catherine Tobler, Damien Angelica Walters, and Ross E. Lockhart.

Human Monsters edited by Sadie Hartmann & Ashley Saywers (Dark Matter Ink) has thirty-four new stories (and one poem) of psychological horror and terror. The strongest pieces are by Linda D. Addison, L. P. Hernandez, Josh Malerman, Andy Davidson, Stephanie Nelson, Dana Vickerson, C. S. Humble, S.P. Miskowski, Nat Cassidy, Gemma Amor, Samantha Kolesnik, Andrew Cull, Sam Rebelein, and Francesca McDonnell Capossela. The Davidson is reprinted herein.

Close to Midnight: An Anthology of New Horror Short Stories edited by Mark Morris (Flame Tree Press) is the third annual, unthemed anthology edited by Morris for this publisher. It includes twenty stories, the most notable by Adam L. G. Neville, Steve Rasnic Tem, Ramsey Campbell, Rio Youers, Sharon Gosling, Alison Littlewood, Seanan McGuire, Philip Fracassi, Jenn Ashworth, Carole Johnston, Laura Mauro, and Conrad Williams. The Littlewood is reprinted herein.

Screaming in the Night: Sinister Supernatural Tales Volume 1 edited by R. E. Sargent and Steven Pajak (Sinister Smile Press) contains fifteen stories, with notable work by Alexandr Bond, Daniel O’Connor, Steven Pajak, and Scotty Milder.

Isolation: The Horror Anthology edited by Dan Coxon (Titan Books) is a cleverly themed response to the Covid pandemic that has affected everyone around the world. The twenty stories (all but five new) are varied and well-written, and ten of them are really good. The Slatter is reprinted herein.

Terror Tales of the West Country edited by Paul Finch (Telos) continues this series of regional horror covering the United Kingdom. In this volume there are fifteen stories, three of them reprints. The interstitial material is by Paul Finch. There are notable new stories by John Llewellyn Probert, A.K. Benedict, Dan Coxon, Stephen Volk, S. L. Howe, and John Linwood Grant.

Found edited by Andrew Cull and Gabino Iglesias (Vermillion2One) contains eighteen new stories about found footage horror. The strongest are by Robert Levy, Kurt Fawver, and Alan Baxter.

Damnation Games edited by Alan Baxter (Clan Destine Press) is an excellent, all-original anthology of nineteen hard-edged supernatural mystery and crime stories. Not all are horror but most are. There are notable stories by John F. D. Taff, Geneve Flynn, Philip Fracassi, Gemma Amor, Dan Rabarts, Kaaron Warren, Gemma Files, Chris Mason, Aaron Dries, and Cynthia Pelayo. The Amor is reprinted herein.

Blood Bank edited by Marc Ciccarone and S. C. Mendes (Blood Bound Books) was created to fund the charity Hagar’s House, a sanctuary for women and children in New Orleans. All but two of the fourteen stories are new. There are notable stories by Patrick Freivald, Livia Llewellyn, Jeff Strand, Kealan Patrick Burke, Kristopher Triana, and Jay Wilburn. The Llewellyn is reprinted herein.

A Woman Built By Man edited by S.H. Cooper and Elle Turpitt (Cemetery Gates Media) has twenty-one new stories—all by women—of women struggling against the patriarchy. The strongest are by Olivia White, Laurel Hightower, J.A.W. McCarthy, Lea Storry, Holly Cornetto, and Lindz McLeod.

Gothic Weird Horror Short Stories edited by Gillian Whitaker (Flame Tree Press) is a large volume featuring forty-four classic, contemporary, and new stories of weird horror. The usual suspects include Arthur Machen, Lucy Clifford, E. F. Benson, William Hope Hodgson, and Louisa May Alcott, the contemporary reprints include Ramsey Campbell, Reggie Oliver, and Lucy A. Snyder. The best of the new stories is by Timothy Granville. With a Foreword by Mike Ashley.

Haunted Tales: Classic Stories of Ghosts and the Supernatural edited by Lisa Morton and Leslie Klinger (Pegasus Books) is a big reprint anthology of twenty stories originally published between 1838 and 1929.

Mother: Tales of Love and Terror edited by Christi Nogle and Willow Becker (Weird Little Worlds) features thirty-three new stories and poems (most but not all horror) about mothering in all its forms (negative and positive). There are notable stories by Sarah Read, Eric Reitan, Steve Toase, John Langan, Gemma Files, R. Leigh Hennig, and Frances Lu-Pai Ippolito.

Hybrid: Misfits, Monsters, and Other Phenomena edited by Donald Armfield and Maxwell I. Gold (Hybrid Sequence Media) contains twenty stories and poems on the theme of outcasts, otherness, mutations, etc. One story is a reprint. There are notable works by Philip Fracassi, Jeffrey Thomas, Lee Murray, and Michael Bailey.

The Valancourt Book of World Horror Volume Two edited by James D. Jenkins and Ryan Cagle (Valancourt Books) presents twenty-one stories from around the world, all but two published in English for the first time. There were notable stories by Luciano Lamberti, Kostantinos Kellis, Zhang Yueran, Braulio Tavares, Yasumi Tsuhara, and Val Votrin.

Death in the Mouth: An Anthology of Original Horror from People of Color edited by Sloan Leong and Cassie Hart (Kickstarter) has twenty-six stories. The strongest are by Amaranta Darcie Little Badger, Sloane Leong, JL Akagi, Ishi Karki, and Rivers Solomon. Multiple artists have provided illustrations for each story.

Shattered and Splintered: A Horror Anthology edited by Laurel Hightower and James Sabata (Aea Press) was created to raise money for the Glen Haven Area Volunteer Fire Department in Colorado. It includes twenty stories, all but four published for the first time. There are notable stories by Gabino Iglesias, Hailey Piper, Donyae Coles, S. A. Bradley, and S.H. Cooper.

Howls from the Dark Ages edited by P.L. McMillan and Solomon Forse (Howl Society Press) has seventeen stories and one poem, with a Foreword by Christopher Buehlman. The contents are by members of a horror book club that meets on Discord. There were notable stories by Brian Evenson, Piper Hailey, Linda Ragsdale, Christopher O’Halloran, and Ethan Yoder.

MIXED-GENRE ANTHOLOGIES

Diet Riot edited by Nico Bell and Sonora Taylor (self-published) is a body-positive anthology of twelve original stories, some horror. There are notable stories by Sonora Taylor, Die Booth, and Nikki R. Leigh. Orphans of Bliss: Tales Of Addiction Horror edited by Mark Matthews (Wicked Run Press) has ten stories that are, unfortunately, often more depressing than horrific. The most notable are by S. A. Cosby, Kathe Koja, and Josh Malerman. Children of the New Flesh: The Early Work and Pervasive Influence of David Cronenberg edited by Chris Kelso and David Leo Rice (11:11Press) is an odd hybrid of articles about various short films the director made in the sixties and seventies, a few pieces of fiction strewn throughout the book, an interview with Cronenberg, and a final set of notes about Videodrome. There’s notable fiction by Brian Evenson, Gary J. Shipley, Michael Cisco, John Reed, and Tom Over. An intriguing package for Cronenberg fans. At Midnight: Fifteen Beloved Fairy Tales Reimagined edited by Dahlia Adler (Flatiron Books) has fourteen retold, and one new fairy tale of fantasy and dark fantasy (not seen). Celtic Weird: Tales of Wicked Folklore and Dark Mythology edited by Johnny Mains (The British Library) has twenty tales ranging from the 1820s to the 1980s, with three weird lost tales translated from the Gaelic. Our Shadows Have Claws: 15 Latin American Monster Stories edited by Yamile Saied Méndez and Amparo Ortiz (Algonquin) contains new young adult stories with illustrations by Ricardo López Ortiz. Gaslight Ghouls: Uneasy Tales of Sherlock Holmes, Monsters and Madmen edited by J. R. Campbell and Charles Prepolec (Belanger Books) is primarily for Holmesian enthusiasts, but the twelve new stories are entertaining, and a few—by Angela Slatter, Wendy N. Wagner, Charles R. Rutledge, Steven Volk, and Simon Kurt Unsworth—are more than that. The Ghosts and Scholars Book of Follies and Grottoes edited and introduced by Rosemary Pardoe (Sarob Press) is a mixture of weird fiction and horror featuring thirteen stories, eight of them new. The best and darkest of the new ones are by Chico Kidd, C.E. Ward, John Ward, and Rick Kennett. Chiral Mad 5 edited by Michael Bailey (Written Backwards) is another mixed genre anthology in this unthemed series. There are notable dark stories and poetry by Jonathan Lees, Wrath James White, Paul Michael Anderson, John Langan, and Josh Malerman. Looming Low II edited by Justin Steele and Sam Cowan (Dim Shores) is a follow-up to the 2017 volume of weird, often dark fiction. The twenty stories are all new and there are notable horror stories by Nadia Bulkin, Gemma Files, Gwendolyn Kiste, Brian Evenson, Clint Smith, Jeffrey Thomas, Simon Strantzas, Michael Griffin, A. C. Wise, and Erica Ruppert. The Files is reprinted herein. Underland Arcana Deck Two edited by Mark Teppo (Underland Press) reprints all the previous four 2022 issues. Ornithologiae edited by Mark Beech (Egaeus Press) is themed around birds. Its twenty-six entries of stories and poems are rich with weirdness, often complex, sometimes dark and always rewarding in their reading. All but one are published for the first time. The macabre cover art and the beautiful (and strange) interior full page and spot illustrations by classic artists are a joy to behold. A gorgeous package with notable dark stories and poetry by Douglas Thompson, Martin Jones, Charles Wilkinson, Albert Power, Rebecca Lloyd, Richard Gavin, and David Surface. The Surface is reprinted herein. Revelations: Horror Writers for Climate Action edited by Seán O’Connor (Stygian Sky Media) is an anthology of twenty-two reprints donating the proceeds to climateoutreach.org. Included are stories by Stephen King, Sarah Langan, Joe Hill, Sarah Pinborough, Joe R. Lansdale, Tananarive Due, and others. From the Waste Land edited by Clare Rhoden (Drugstore Indian Press) is an anthology of nineteen stories inspired by and celebrating the centenary of T. S. Eliot’s poem. The stories are often dystopian, and occasionally hover into a tone of horror. The best of these are by Eugen Bacon, Geneve Flynn, and Rebecca Fraser. The Gargoylicon edited by Frank Coffman (Mind’s Eye Publications) is a clever mini-anthology of poems and very brief stories about gargoyles. Most of the thirty pieces are published for the first time. With an Introduction by Frank Coffman. There’s notable work by John C. Mannone, Colleen Anderson, and Ann Thornfield-Long. Asian Ghost Short Stories (Flame Tree Press) is another generous helping of new and classic tales, not all dark or horrific. Over 400 pages of reprints by Lafcadio Hearn, Usman T. Malik, Rudyard Kipling, and others, and nine stories published for the first time. Fright 1 edited by Gwee Li Sui, Annaliza Bakri, and Jason Erik Lundberg (Epigram Books) is a new annual anthology of dark stories from Singapore. The volume includes eleven stories, all of them winners and finalists for the 2022 Storytel Epigram Horror Prize, a monetary award sponsored by Storytel audio company. There are notable pieces by Kelly Leow, Kimberly Lium, Teo Kai Xiang, and Tan Lixin.

COLLECTIONS

Mr. Gaunt and Other Uneasy Encounters by John Langan is one of two collections by Langan published by Word Horde in 2022. This first is a reissue of five early stories plus one additional new story. Elizabeth Hand provides an introduction and the author provides extensive story notes. The second is Corpsemouth and Other Autobiographies comprised of ten reprints and one new story. Sarah Langan provides an introduction, and the book includes extensive story notes by the author. It’s time to read or reread these stories by a master of the horror short form.

All That’s Lost by Ray Cluley (Black Shuck Books) is an excellent second collection by a writer whose short fiction gets better and better. Several of the seventeen stories in the book were reprinted by me in Best of the Year anthologies and the five new stories are a treat.

The Spirit of the Place and Other Strange Tales by Elizabeth Walter (Centipede Press), collects all thirty-one of the author’s ghost and horror stories within its 700-plus pages. With an introduction by Dave Brzeski, and photographs and bibliography. Walter was brought up in Wales but lived mostly in London. She died in 2006.

Painfreak: The Ultimate Edition by Gerard Houarner (The Evil Cookie) takes all the stories from earlier collections and chapbooks by the author, and adds a couple of new stories and some other extra material.

Les Femmes Grotesques by Victoria Dalpe (Clash Books) is a debut collection with nineteen stories published since 2013 in various anthologies and magazines. Four of the stories are new.

Malign Providence by Jonathan Thomas (Centipede Press) collects fifteen reprints from various anthologies, most published by Hippocampus Press. The book is a limited edition that is signed by the author and the cover artist, David Ho, and the interior illustrator, Francesco Giani.

This Isn’t Anywhere You Know: sorrows, eulogies, and laments by Gary McMahon (Black Shuck Books) has sixteen stories by the author, whose work has appeared multiple times in this series. There are four excellent new ones included, one reprinted herein.

Convulsive by Joe Koch (Apocalypse Party Books) brings together fifteen violent, gory, beautifully rendered short stories published between 2018 and 2021. Koch’s work is not for everyone but is definitely worth a look.

Behind a Broken Smile by Penny Jones (Black Shuck Books) is the first full collection by this talented writer of dark and sometimes uncanny tales. A mini-collection of six stories was published in the Black Shuck Shadows Book 13 in 2019. The excellent new collection contains two of those stories plus nineteen others, eight of them new. With an Introduction by Robert Shearman.

The Flowering by Alison Littlewood (Black Shuck Shadows #30, November) is a mini-collection of six stories by the talented author, one of them new.

Chasing Spirits by John Llewellyn Probert (Black Shuck Shadows #31, November) is a charming, if horrific, trio of original stories about a not very good writer who becomes embroiled in supernatural events against his will.

Liminal Spaces: Horror Stories by Deborah Sheldon (IFGW Publishing) features twenty-four stories of supernatural and psychological horror, six of them new.

Effects Vary by Michael Harris Cohen (Cemetery Gates Media) is an impressive debut collection with twenty-two, sharply written dark stories, two of them new.

All Our Hearts Are Ghosts & Other Stories by Peter Atkins (Shadowridge Press) presents ten stories originally published between 2012 and 2020, in addition to story notes, a comic script, and a piece of fiction that gives a bit of backstory to three supporting characters from Atkins’ script for the movie Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth.

This Attraction Now Open Till Late: Strange Sights and Shadows by Kyla Lee Ward (Independent Legions Publishing) is the first collection by the author, and includes thirteen stories, four of them published for the first time, two others first published in other venues in 2022. There is an especially fun (not horror) story about gargoyles grumbling at not getting their fair attention.

Fugue Devil Resurgence by Stephan Mark Rainey (Black Raven Books) marks the thirtieth anniversary of the author’s first collection Fugue Devil. This new edition contains twelve stories, three from the original collection, several published since Fugue Devil, and four new ones.

The Howling Terror and Other Lovecraftian Horror Stories by Tony Richards (Weird House Press) features five long, new pastiches of Lovecraftian horror.

The Harmony of the Stars by Charles Wilkinson (Egaeus Press) contains ten stories in which music plays a a role, originally published in venues as varied as Bourbon Penn, Supernatural Tales, and Interzone. One story is new.

Ghostwritten: Four Novellas by Ronald Malfi (Titan Books) is an excellent collection of four new, interconnected but standalone novellas about dangerous books.

Weird House Press published several collections by Tim Curran, including The Brain Leeches and Other Eldritch Phenomena, Alien Horrors, and Horrors of War. The Brain Leeches and Other Eldritch Phenomena has thirteen Lovecraftian stories, one, a novella published for the first time. Horrors of War brings together eight raw, visceral pieces filled with graphic violence focused on historical and more recent wars. Three of the stories are published for the first time. Cover and interior illustrations are by Brad Moore. Alien Horrors has twelve stories, three of them new.

Breakable Things by Cassandra Khaw (Undertow Publications) is an important debut collection by a quickly rising star in horror. Included are twenty-three beautifully written, sharply etched bite-sized stories of grief and anger and how they can metamorphize into horror. One story is new.

Starless and Bible Black by Susan York (Midnight Street Press) is the first collection by this British writer, and includes seventeen stories, eleven of them new. The reprints were originally published between 2018 and 2021.

We’re Here to Hurt Each Other by Paula D. Ashe (Nictitating Books) is a strong, exceedingly grim debut horror collection of twelve stories, eight of them new.

The Puppet King and Other Atonements by Justin A. Burnett (Trepidatio Publishing) is an excellent debut by a writer better known as Executive Editor of Silent Motorist Media. If you enjoy the weird work of Michael Cisco and Thomas Ligotti, this is for you. All but four of the fourteen stories are new.

Cut to Care by Aaron Dries (IFWG) is a strong debut collection of ten really well-written horror stories by an Australian writer. All but three are published for the first time. With an introduction by Mick Garris.

Burn the Plans by Tyler Jones (Cemetery Gates Media) is a very good debut collection of fifteen stories, five of them reprints.

Something in the Water and Other Stories by Douglas Wynn (Weird House Press) is this author’s debut collection of twelve, mostly Lovecraftian stories, four of them new.

Hell Hath No Sorrow like a Woman Haunted by RJ Joseph (The Seventh Terrace) is a debut collection with twenty-four stories, almost half of them published for the first time.

Her Wan Embrace by David Barker (Weird House Press) is a collection of forty-two supernatural horror stories and poetry, some Lovecraftian. Nine of the stories appear for the first time. With cover art and interior illustrations by Dan Sauer.

Every Crawling, Putrid Thing by David Busboom (Trepidatio Publishing) is a debut collection with fifteen stories, seven of them new, including a couple of entertaining horror tales about vicious dinosaurs.

A Bouquet of Viscera by Bridgett Nelson (self-published) is a debut collection of eight stories, half published for the first time, most of them pretty grisly.

Cruel Stories by Donald Tyson (Weird House Press) includes sixteen stories, nine of them published for the first time, one of those a novella.

The Black Maybe: Liminal Stories by Attila Veres translated from the Hungarian by Luca Karafiáth (Valancourt Books) is the strong English debut of Hungary’s leading horror writer. It includes ten stories and novellas, all but one published in English for the first time. Steve Rasnic Tem provides an Introduction.

Hard Places by Kirstyn McDermott (Trepidatio Publishing) collects fourteen of the Australian author’s best stories, published between 2001 and 2022, some of them Aurealis and Ditmar Award-winners. The 2022 story appears for the first time.

A Different Darkness and Other Abominations by Luigi Musolino (Valancourt Books) edited and translated by James D. Jenkins is an outstanding collection, the first published in English by this prominent Italian horror writer. It includes eight stories and three novellas, all but two published in English for the first time. With an introduction by Brian Evenson. One story is reprinted herein.

An Unheavenly Host by C. E. Ward (Sarob Press) is the author’s fourth collection of horror and consists of eight stories, four of them never before published.

Let Your Hinged Jaw Do the Talking by Tom Johnstone (The Alchemy Press) is the author’s second collection and contains sixteen stories, four published for the first time. Two of the reprints were chosen for earlier volumes of my Best Horror series. With an introduction by Colleen Anderson.

The Autopsy: Best Weird Stories of Michael Shea edited by Linda Shea and S. T. Joshi (Hippocampus Press) is a welcome collection of some of the late writer’s best work in weird fiction. It includes eleven stories and an Introduction by S. T. Joshi.

Lies of Tenderness by Stephen Volk (PS Publishing) is the fourth collection by this British author. Included are seventeen stories, six of them appearing for the first time. Volk provides story notes for each story. One story was reprinted in my Best Horror of the Year Volume Thirteen.

Drowning in the Sky by Rebecca Lloyd (Egaeus Press) is the author’s fifth collection of short stories. There are twelve weird, dark, and often horrific stories, five of them published for the first time.

17 Stories of Death & Desire by Andrew Lyall (self-published) is a promising debut with seventeen stories, all but four of them published for the first time.

Days of Utter Dread, by Graham Masterton with Dawn G Harris (Head of Zeus) contains ten stories, two of them published for the first time. Two stories (one of the new ones) are co-written by Masterton and Harris.

What Remains When the Stars Burn Out by P. L. McMillan (Salt Heart Press) has twelve stories, some supernatural, some sf/horror four of them published for the first time.

The Fall: Five More Tales From the Gulp by Alan Baxter (13th Dragon Books) features five novellas set in an isolated town in Australia that is known for its strangeness and multiple disappearances.

Mestiza Blood by V. Castro (Flame Tree Press) has fourteen entertaining stories, all centered on the Chicana experience-ghosts, monsters, and monstrous humans galore.

Growth by Elin Olausson (Dark Ink) is an impressive debut of twenty stories, twelve published for the first time.

MIXED-GENRE COLLECTIONS

The Adventurists by Richard Butner (Small Beer Press) is the author’s first full collection of stories. It contains sixteen stories published over his long career, and while none are out-and-out horror, there is some uncanny work here. Extenuating Circumstances: Stories of Crime and Suspense by Joyce Carol Oates (Mysterious Press) features twenty-four stories imbued with darkness. Three Against the Dark: Collected Dr. Venn Occult Detective Mysteries by Frank Coffman (Mind’s Eye Publications) contains eight supernatural detective stories featuring a nineteenth-century alienist, a Jesuit priest, and a plucky young woman. A good example of this sub-genre of dark fantasy. Boys, Beasts, and Men by Sam J. Miller (Tachyon) is the author’s first collection, with a mixed-genre batch of fourteen stories published between 2013 and 2022 (one for the first time). One story is an unusual take on John Carpenter’s The Thing. Eastmouth and Other Stories by Alison Moore (Salt Modern Stories) is the author’s second collection with twenty-one stories, three new. Although most of her work is mainstream, there are the occasional dark stories, some of which can be considered horror. The Envious Nothing: A Collection of Literary Ruin by Curtis M. Lawson (Hippocampus Press) has twenty-two stories, almost half new. The Coffin Maker’s Book of Dark Tales by Curtis M. Lawson and Joshua Rex (Weird House Press) contains twelve mostly dark, sometimes weird stories, six by each of the authors. Chasing Whispers by Eugen Bacon (Raw Dog Screaming Press) features thirteen stories of sf, fantasy, and dark fantasy—many permeated with African history and folktales. The Man Who Loved Kuras and Other Stories by Brian Howell (Salt Modern Stories) is a fascinating collection of twelve strange stories, more than half new, many dark. The Art of Broken Things by Joanne Anderton (Trepidatio Publishing) is the second collection by this Australian award-winning author. It includes thirteen stories of sf/f/h, two of them new. A Slice of the Dark and Other Stories by Karen Heuler (Fairwood Press) includes sixteen stories, half of them new. Heuler’s work can be playful, eerie, darkly surreal, and sometimes all three at the same time. She writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories with equal ease, the only thing they have in common is their originality. Zothique: The Final Cycle: The Complete Zothique Stories of Clark Ashton Smith edited by Ronald S. Hilger (Hippocampus Press) is a companion volume to The Averoigne Chronicles published in 2021 and is the second in a projected series. The volume uses newly restored and corrected texts and includes twenty-five pieces of fiction and poetry. With an introduction by Donald Sidney-Fryer. The Transgressionists and Other Disquieting Works by Georgio de Maria translated by Ramon Glazov (Talos Press) contains the title short novel and a second short novel—which along with three shorter works—are their first English translations from Italian. Surreal, sometimes horrific. Our Fruiting Bodies by Nisi Shawl (Aqueduct Press) is the author’s second collection, and covers her mixed-genre work published between 2003 and 2018. And At My Back I Always Hear by Scott Nicolay (Word Horde) is the author’s second ambitious collection of eight darkly weird stories and novellas—two of them new (one of these science fiction). Long Memories and Other Writings by Peter Cannon (Hippocampus Press) collects Cannon’s reminiscences about his twenty-year friendship with Frank Belknap Long and six of his fiction pieces using Long as a character or riffing upon Long’s work. As the Tide Came Flowing In by Sonya Taaffe (Nekyia Press) includes ten dark fantasy and uncanny poems (one new) and a new novelette. Singing and Sighing, Collected Stories Volume One by D. P. Watt (Zagava) is a beautifully produced hardcover, showcasing twenty weird, often dark, and sometimes grotesque stories, three of them new. With an introduction by Douglas Thompson. The Ana Log and Other Anomalies by Michael Gray Baughan (Independent Legions Publishing) has thirteen weird stories, six of them new, a few of them horror. All Nightmare Long by Tim Lebbon (PS Publishing) is a large volume of twenty-three science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories, two of them new. With an introduction by Sarah Pinborough and story notes by the author. Spontaneous Human Combustion by Richard Thomas (Keylight Books) is the author’s fourth collection, and is a mix of fourteen science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories, one of them new. Brian Evenson provides a Foreword. The Nectar of Nightmares by Craig Laurence Gidney (Underland Press) is the author’s third collection, with fourteen stories, one new. Seven Empty Houses by Samanta Schweblin translated by Megan McDowell (Riverhead) is the second collection of this Brazilian writer who now lives in Berlin. The six stories and one novella are not horror but weird enough for some to be of interest to more eclectic readers. Four of the works are new. Fantasy Kit by Adam McOmber (Black Lawrence Press) is the author’s third collection, and contains thirty-five very brief, subtly dark stories, most previously published in literary journals. Where Night Cowers by Matthew M. Bartlett (JournalStone) features nineteen weird, dark stories, one new. Bad Dolls by Rachel Harrison (Berkley) contains four entertaining dark fantasy stories about friendships and families—only one about an actual doll. The Eldritch Equations and Other Investigations by Peter Rawlik (Jackanapes Press) is a collection of three pieces of weird, Lovecraftian detective fiction and a novel. Stealing God and Other Stories by Bruce McAllister (Aeon Press) showcases eighteen stories of fantasy, dark fantasy, and horror originally published between 2008 and 2021. Whatever genre McAllister writes in, his heart and talent as a wordsmith shine through. My Lady of Plagues and Other Gothic Fairy Tales by Elana Gomel (Weird House Press) is a beautifully produced collection of sixteen dark fantasy stories, five of them published for the first time. With effective interior color illustrations by Nick Greenwood. Scenes From a Village by Jeffrey Thomas (Oddness) is an interesting, mostly dark fantasy chapbook of three original vignettes about a village in Southeast Asia. A Study in Ugliness by H. Pueyo (Lethe Press) is the debut collection by this Argentinian-Brazilian writer and contains ten varied stories, three of them new. The stories are published in English and Portuguese. What I Was Afraid Of by Eric Hanson (Tartarus Press) collects nineteen, never previously published stories. Some are weird and disconcerting, some are dark. Palimpsest by Caitlin Marceau (Ghost Orchid Press) is the debut collection by this Canadian writer and has fourteen dark fantasy and horror stories, two of them published for the first time. How to See Ghosts & Other Figments by Orrin Grey (Word Horde) is the fourth collection by this prolific author of uncanny and dark short stories, two of the eighteen appearing for the first time. There are story notes by the author, and Silvia Moreno-Garcia has provided an Introduction. Black City Skyline and Darker Horizons by Barry Lee Dejasu (Hippocampus Press) is a debut collection of fifteen stories, nine of them published for the first time. Some are weird, a few are Lovecraftian. T.E.D. Klein provides a Foreword. Manchester Uncanny by Nicholas Royle (Confingo) has sixteen stories, most of them offbeat but not horror. Three of the stories appear for the first time. Turning of the Seasons: A Dark Almanac by J. S. Breukelaar and Seb Doubinsky (IFWG) is a chapbook of dark fantasy and horror stories, vignettes, and poetry by the writers. Dark Arts by Eric Stener Carlson (Tartarus Press) is an intriguing collection of twelve weird, dark stories, all but two published for the first time. Moonless Nocturne: Tales of Dark Fantasy and Horror Noir by Hank Schwaeble (Esker and Riddle Press) is a good mix of ten sf/horror, mystery, and horror stories, four of them new. Parallel Hells by Leon Craig (Sceptre) is an interesting debut collection with thirteen strange, occasionally dark stories, seven of them published for the first time. A Sliver of Darkness by C. J. Tudor (Ballantine) is another debut collection, this one by a writer who has made a name for herself writing award-winning thrillers. Included in the volume are eleven fantasy, crime, and horror stories, all but three published for the first time. Life Ceremony by Sayaka Murata translated from the Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori (Grove Press) is a weird collection of twelve stories, all but one new. The stories about cheerful cannibalism and another of unusual eating habits are the standouts for me. Holy Terror by Cherie Priest (Subterranean Press) is the first story collection by an author best known for her steampunk novels. Included are thirteen stories and novellas, and a poem. One story—which is fascinating—is new. The Fig Garden and Other Stories by Mark Valentine (Tartarus Press) is a collection of eleven weird and usually dark stories, two of them new.

CHAPBOOKS AND NOVELLAS

Paradoxes From Hell by Thomas Ligotti (Cadabra Press) reprints two prose poems and a short story, previously published but difficult to find (all revised for the volume). With illustrations by Jonathan Dennison. The Babysitter Lives by Stephen Graham Jones (Audible) only available on audio for now, is about a haunted house where two children were murdered by their mother and a babysitter, who eleven years later who is hired to sit for a pair of twins on Halloween Eve. Nicholas Royle’s Nightjar Press missed a year, but published several chapbooks in 2022 with high-quality stories, some of them dark. The best of the dark ones were “The Lake” by John Foxx, “Medlar” by Joanne Done, “Guest” by Françoise Harvey, “The Country Pub” by David Gaffney, and “The Lake” by Livi Michel. Tor.com published the horror novellas Lucky Girl or How I Became a Horror Writer: A Krampus Story by M. Rickert, a powerfully, disturbing piece of work about a struggling writer who hosts Christmas dinner for four strangers she’s met at the local diner on Thanksgiving. They tell ghost stories, some disturbing, even gruesome, and those stories proceed to taint all of their lives. Also Malcolm Devlin’s And Then I Woke Up, a gut-wrenching, moving tale about a plague that makes people believe they are in the middle of a zombie-type apocalypse scenario. Is it real or a delusion? Either way it’s disrupted the world (these two latter novellas were acquired and edited by me). Halloween Beyond: Piercing the Veil is a chapbook with three dark fantasies by Lisa Morton, Lucy A. Snyder, and Kate Maruyama (Dark Tide). Helpmeet by Naben Ruthnum (Undertow Publications) is a fascinating, grotesque tale of body horror as a nineteenth-century wife cares for her husband, a man nearing death from a mysterious plague that is eating away at him physically. House of Pungsu by K. P. Kulski (Bizarro Pulp Press) is a beautiful re-envisioning of a Korean folk story about three generations of female captives of a decaying palace and what happens when the daughter unexpectedly begins to menstruate. Twenty Years Dead by Richard Farren Barber (Crystal Lake Publishing) is about a man attempting to find the answer to his father’s abandonment twenty years earlier—from the dead man himself. Consume by Kourtnea Hogan (Bizarro Pulp Press) is about a teenager’s obsession with another classmate that eventually devolves into body horror. Nature’s Perfume by Mark Towse (JournalStone) is about what happens when four friends embark on a trip to the Amazon before adult responsibilities subsume them. Bad things occur. What Moves the Dead by T. Kingfisher (Nightfire) is a retelling of The Fall of the House of Usher—with fungi. We Can Never Leave This Place by Eric LaRocca (Trepidatio Publishing) is a post-apocalyptic dark fantasy about what happens after a young girl’s father’s dead body is returned to her and her mother by two strangers. The Inamorata, or, Death’s Beloved by Joshua Rex (Weird House Press) is a gothic about a great violinist who in 1799 is persuaded by Count Canis to travel to the castle Teethsgate for a new commission. (Perhaps the violinist and his father might have taken heed from the foreshadowing here?)

POETRY

Star*Line is the official quarterly journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association. During 2022 it was edited by Jean-Paul Garnier. It regularly publishes members’ science fiction and fantasy poetry—and occasional horror. It also publishes reviews of other poetry magazines, collections, and anthologies plus a market report. There was notable dark poetry in 2022 by Avra Margariti, Rob Cameron, FJ Doucet, Ai Jiang, Brian Hugenbruch, Vanessa Jae, Emmie Christie, and Jeanette Gibson.

The 2022 Rhysling Anthology edited by F. J. Bergmann and Brian U. Garrison selected by the Science Fiction Poetry Association (Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association) is used by members to vote for the best short and long poems of the year, and can be considered an annual report on the state of speculative poetry. This year’s volume, covering the year 2021, is more than 280 pages, and is divided into Short Poems and Long Poems. It’s a great resource for checking out the poetic side of speculative and horror fiction. The volume includes a history of past winners.

The Hand that Wounds by David E. Cowen (Weasel Press) is a fine collection of reprinted and new poems.

Foundlings by Cindy O’Quinn and Stephanie Ellis (self-published) is an excellent collection of found poetry inspired by Linda D. Addison and Alessandro Manzetti—using some of their words.

Tombstones: Selected Horror Poems by G.O. Clark (Weird House Press) is a very good collection that reprints horror poems from three different periods of Clark’s oeuvre, with the fourth section mostly comprised of poems published for the first time, with a few reprints.

Escaping the Body: Poems by Chloe N. Clark (Interstellar Flight Press) is a lovely collection of reprinted and new poetry, some of it dark.

Dwarf Stars 2022 edited by Adele Gardner and Greer Underwood (Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association) collects the best very short speculative poems published in 2021. The poems are ten lines or fewer and the prose poems one hundred words or fewer.

Spectral Realms edited by S. T. Joshi (Hippocampus Press), is a showcase for weird and dark poetry. Two issues came out in 2022. In addition to original poems there’s a section with classic reprints and a review column. During the year, there was notable poetry by Max I. Gold, Geoffrey Reiter, Ian Futter, Darrell Schweitzer, Paul Grant, Holly Day, Scott J. Couturier, Ngo Binh Anh Khoa, Carl E. Reed, and Rebecca Fraser.

Girls From the County by Donna Lynch (Raw Dog Screaming Press) is a powerful collection of folk horror, true crime, ghosts, predators, and work reflecting fears of the city.

Ballads for the Witching Hour by Adam Bolivar (Hippocampus Press) contains about fifty weird and dark poems and brief plays, mostly about the enigmatic character Jack. More than half are new.

The Gravity of Existence by Christina Sng (Interstellar Flight Press) is an excellent collection of short poems about monsters, ghosts, and retellings of fairy tales by this accomplished poet.

The Rat King by Sumiko Saulson (DookyZines) is the author’s fifth collection of poetry, and in addition to including some relatively light poems about classic monsters, is a powerfully intimate exploration of pain combined with sharp social commentary.

Elegies of Rotting Stars by Tiffany Morris (Nictitating Books) is a powerful debut collection of almost thirty-five short poems, most of which are published for the first time. The language is by turn sharp and lush, and the imagery is dazzling. Morris incorporates Mi’kmaq words and phrases in a successful attempt to reclaim her Canadian-Mi’kmaw heritage.

Kubrick Rhapsody by Alessandro Manzetti and Karen Runge (Independent Legions Publishing) is an interesting collection of poetry inspired by Stanley Kubrick movies. Included are four short stories by David J. Schow, John Skipp, Craig Spector, and Richard Christian Matheson also inspired by Kubrick.

Crime Scene by Cynthia Pelayo (Raw Dog Screaming Press) is a powerful and poetic examination of crime and its victims posed as a series of reports on different aspects of several murders.

I Awaken in October: Poems of Folk Horror and Halloween by Scott J. Couturier (Jackanapes Press) provides a generous offering of new and reprinted poems published between 2017 and 2022. With illustrations by Dan Sauer.

Möbius Lyrics by Maxwell I. Gold and Angela Yuriko Smith (Independent Legions Publishing) is a beautifully structured poetic call and response between two talented horror poets.

New World Monsters by Chris McAuley and Jeff Oliver (Blood Bound Books) is an illustrated book of horror poetry. Some of the poetry is written be each writer singly, a few are collaborations. Illustrations throughout are by Dan Verkys.

Halloween Hearts by Adele Gardner (Jackanapes Press) is a poetic celebration of Halloween in all its manifestations. Most are reprints. With a Foreword by S. T. Joshi and interior illustrations by Don Sauer.

A Predisposition For Madness by Aurelio Rico Lopez III (Hybrid Sequence Media) present fifty short poems about insanity.

We Are the Ones Possessed by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda (Clash) features thirty-one poems about death.

Poetry Showcase Volume IX edited by Angela Yuriko Smith (Horror Writers Association) is an annual anthology of some of the best poetry that the members of HWA have to offer. Always excellent, there were standouts by Stephanie M. Wytovich, Geneve Flynn, Sara Tantlinger, Gary Robbe, and Christine Sng.

Under Her Skin edited by Lindy Ryan and Toni Miller (Black Spot Books) is a collection of new works of poetic body horror by over seventy women. There are notable poems by Lee Murray, Stephanie M. Wytovich, Tiffany Michelle Brown, Donna Lynch, Sara Tantlinger, Aimee Lowenstern, Antonia Rachel Ward, and Tiffany Morris.

NON-FICTION

Ramsey Campbell: Master of Weird Fiction by S.T. Joshi (PS Publishing) is considered by Joshi to be a preliminary monograph introducing readers unfamiliar with the author’s work to some of his major stories and novels. The book includes detailed synopses and thematic analysis of the included works. Arthur Machen: Hieroglyphics and other Essays edited by S. T. Joshi (Hippocampus Press) is a selection of Machen’s essays on philosophy and science, many of them criticizing the latter for destroying mystery and imagination. The volume also includes reviews and literary criticism. Lovecraftian Proceedings No. 4 edited by Dennis P. Quinn and Elena Tchougounova-Paulson (Hippocampus Press) is the official organ of the Dr. Henry Armitage Memorial Symposium established in 2013 as part of NecronomiCon, in Providence, Rhode Island. There are fifteen essays. A must for Lovecraftian scholars. H.P. Lovecraft: An Introduction to his Life and Writings by Arthur S. Koki (Hippocampus Press) is the author’s master thesis on Lovecraft written for Columbia University in 1962. It was the first detailed account of Lovecraft’s life, and is presented here with minimal editorial alterations. With a Foreword by S. T. Joshi, and an Introduction and bibliography by Koki. After Engulfment: Cosmic and Neocosmicism in H.P. Lovecraft, Philip K. Dick, Robert A. Heinlein, and Frank Herbert by Ellen J. Greenham (Hippocampus Press) discusses the somewhat more optimistic (than Lovecraft) lens through which several science fiction writers saw the human condition in its relationship to the cosmos. H.P. Lovecraft Miscellaneous Letters edited by David E. Schultz and S. T. Joshi (Hippocampus Press) includes correspondence with Seabury Quinn, Carl Jacobi, C. M. Eddy and his wife, and others. Also letters to journals on a broad range of topics including criticism and philosophy. Horror Film and Otherness by Adam Lowenstein (Columbia University Press) posits that the horror genre challenges us to recognize that we are all vulnerable to becoming or being seen as the other. The author analyzes the engagement with different forms of otherness in landmark films by directors such as Jennifer Kent, Jordan Peele, David Cronenberg, Tobe Hooper, and others. Lovecraftian People and Places by Ken Faig Jr. (Hippocampus Press), an important addition to the library of Lovecraft enthusiasts, is a scholarly study of the English ancestry of H.P. Lovecraft, providing detailed histories of some of the places in which he resided, and their influence on his work. The Alchemy Press Book of the Dead 2021 by Stephen Jones (Alchemy Press) is an alphabetically organized necrology of more than five hundred individuals who made significant contributions to the science fiction, fantasy, and horror fields compiled by Jones. With copious photographs and images. It’s a fabulous opportunity to learn about recently passed creators who made a difference to our field. The Lure of the Unknown: Essays on the Strange by Algernon Blackwood (The Swan River Press) with an Introduction and notes by Mike Ashley collects essays, reviews, talks, and anecdotes by one of the major writers of supernatural horror stories of the first half of the twentieth century. The book is a fascinating look into some of the inspirations for Blackwood’s tales. Nightmare Fuel: The Science of Horror Films by Nina Nesseth (Nightfire) begins by taking a crack at explaining the fear reaction to horror movies—what and why it is. It also provides a brief history of horror films, delves into how sound and music enhance the experience of watching horror, why some horror movies, or parts of them, tend to linger longer than others, and how the link of movie violence to real-life violence has never been proven. All in all, a fine read. A Haunted History of Invisible Women by Leanna Renee Hieber and Andrea Janes (Citadel Press) is an entertaining and thought-provoking book detailing the historical instances that influence stories of hauntings, starting with a harrowing description of the Manhattan Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911 during which 146 workers, most of them immigrant women, died as a result of greed and malfeasance by the factory owners. The hauntings of this space and others within the book are looked at with skepticism, noting that they are all embraced and (bring in money) to the paranormal industry. The book includes famous and unknown women who were victims, delving deeper into the supposedly resulting hauntings than most books of this kind I’ve seen. What the Daemon Said: Essays on Horror Fiction, Film, and Philosophy by Matt Cardin (Hippocampus Press) is an impressive collection of the author and scholar’s essays about Thomas Ligotti’s work, introductions to other writers’ works, and essays on religion and horror. The Facemaker by Lindsey Fitzharris (Farrar, Straus and Giroux) provides the history of plastic surgery-medical procedures developed during the first world war in order to ameliorate as much as possible the horrific ravages of the new weaponry of the time. Dark Carnivals: Modern Horror and the Origins of American Empire by W. Scott Poole (Counterpoint) is a fascinating, discomfiting dive into the relationship of American horror cinema to the violent history of the American Empire. The idea of horror movies being influenced by real events is not a new one, but Poole devastatingly pins the pervasiveness of this on the real life horrors that have always been part of our history.

ODDS AND ENDS

The Inferno by Dante Alighieri with art throughout by Jim Agpalza (Oddness) using the 1884 translation by James Romanes Sibbald and an Introduction by Anna Tambour. Songs From Lovecraft and Others by S. T. Joshi (Hippocampus Press) is a collection of scores: songs with lyrics by H. P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, Edgar Allan Poe, and others put to music composed by S. T. Joshi. Deathcap and Hemlock by Julie Stevens is a website with clever, fake recipes/Microfictions written by multiple people. https://www.deathcapandhemlock.com.

Fables, Folklore & Ancient Stories: African Folk & Fairy Tales (Flame Tree Press) is a small size, hardcover collector’s edition edited by J. K. Jackson and with a new introduction by Professor Lérè Adéye mí plus a glossary. The tales are from all over the African continent, and the book is divided into three sections—origin stories, animal stories, and stories about humans. Journals: Volume I: 1993–2001 by Matt Cardin (Sarnath Press) is the first of two proposed volumes on the personal journey of a writer of the weird, his thoughts, excerpts of stories he began and abandoned, ideas for stories. Spectrum: Fantastic Art Quarterly Volume Two edited by Cathy and Arnie Fenner (Underwood Books) is a beautiful, oversized book filled with art and artist interviews and profiles. This issue is mostly dedicated to the late Jeffrey Catherine Jones, with interviews with the artist’s friends and colleagues, and many pages of art. Also, there are 20 questions asked of Art Director Irene Gallo plus an interview (and art) with Ed Binkley, a piece about inspiration by Grand Master Donato Giancola, and more.

SOLIVAGANT

ANGELA SLATTER

It’s Monday morning when Magda Doubinsky discovers all her chickens are dead.

Slaughtered.

Every egg crushed too.

A poultry genocide.

Even from here I can see the bright red flecks on the snow. Not just near the ramshackle coop, but scattered the length and breadth of the front yard. Feathers too, although only the dark-coloured ones really show.

There’s nothing wrong with Magda; she’s a nice old lady. The neighbours can’t imagine who’d do this sort of thing as they gather outside her house, clucking, offering sympathy to the distraught woman. Magda’s been in the garden all morning now; she’s shifted from seeking help and howling to simply telling whoever walks by what’s happened. Gathered quite a crowd, she has. The attention’s paying her back a thousandfold, so I guess that’s something. Making a connection with one’s fellow humans.

Who would do such a thing?

Who indeed?

I’ll have to go out soon, go across the road, stop peeking through the dusty blinds that I really need to clean. Go and make my presence known so no one looks in our direction. There’s some leeway, everyone knows I work late (because everyone knows just about fucking everything in this teeny-tiny town), stocking shelves at the Mart on Carrow Street, and I sleep late as a result. But there’s only so much grace that buys you—folk are naturally suspicious of those who don’t conform to the norm. My own mother used to regard anyone who wasn’t an early riser as some sort of deviant. Possibly still does.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” I say in a low voice.

He can’t hear me, of course, slumbering dead as he does. We’ve been here, what? Six months? It’s been nice. Settled. Quiet. Then he fucking does this. He always does something like this.

A batch of cookies can be whipped up in under twenty minutes, and hand-delivered to Magda’s door. I’ll make myself presentable while they’re in the oven, remove last night’s makeup that’s a little like a melted clown face because I was too lazy to take it off when I got home. A new layer applied will cover a myriad of sins. I head to the kitchen.

“Tea, dear Kitty?”

Magda’s delighted with the offering; no one else had thought to bring anything to sweeten their sympathy. When I turned up, she shooed the stragglers of her audience and ushered me inside. It’s dark; smells nice in here, clean, and sort of like spices and potpourri. Like stepping into the specialist bath and bedlinen shop on Main. It shouldn’t do so well in such a small place, but apparently it’s hit the town’s weak spot for long, luxurious soaking and high thread count sheets.

“Thanks, Magda, yes.” Through the dim hallway lined with old photographs—like really old, daguerreotypes and tintypes, plus a few faded ones from maybe the 1970s or ’80s but nothing later than that. I wonder if all these people are dead, and there were no children to keep the line going, no one to take new photos. I don’t look too close, don’t ask questions about lost families. The kitchen, when we step into it, is surprisingly bright. A lot of windows, a lot of clear glass rather than the ones at the front that’re frosted and coloured in spots, with heavy curtains to keep out the sun. Feels like two different buildings.

“Sit, sit.”

I obey—it’s a bad habit—and slide onto a bench seat against a wall; outside’s a backyard, overgrown, almost tropical-looking but for the snow on every branch and leaf. There’s a long heavy table in front of me, an ancient refrigerator in a nook, a woodfire stove that looks like it came with the ark but is keeping the room toasty warm. Warmer than our whole house on its best days. That’s the problem with renting, and renting cheap: lucky if there’s a lick of insulation. If there is, it’s probably asbestos.

She’s little, is Magda, quite tiny. Surprisingly so—after a few seconds of staring as she bustles around the space I start to think she might actually be shrinking before my eyes. I blink, shake my head. I’m tired, a little dizzy, a little anaemic. I look again: she’s stabilised. Short, but normal short.

“Milk?”

“No, thanks. Black’s good, whatever you’ve got.”

“I mix my own blends! My mother used to do it, and her mother before her.”

Ah, crap. What have I let myself in for? But when she puts the pretty floral teapot in front of me, with the paired pretty floral cups (their glaze a little crazed with age—but aren’t we all?) the steam coming from it smells intoxicating.

“Rose petals, blackberries, lavender, a little lemon peel—every batch is different because I don’t measure anything. I like surprises.” She smiles until she doesn’t because, I imagine, she’s remembering what she found this morning. Poor Magda. Poor chickens.

“Are you okay, Magda?” I ask as she pours the tea, then hurries back to the counter to collect the cookies I brought—transferred from my dingy plastic plate to an ancient porcelain thing, much better than anything I own. “I’m so sorry about . . . you know.”

“Not very pleasant to wake up to,” says she, eyes darkening and narrowing behind big, black-framed glasses. But the hand that passes me the teacup on a matching saucer doesn’t shake. This little old lady’s not for the frightening it seems. Still, I wonder how she’d go if she knew what had done for her chickens? She finishes kindly, “But you didn’t do it.”

I never do anything.

“Maybe a fox?” I suggest. “A big one. A mean one.”

“Maybe,” she says, grabbing a cookie like it’s done her wrong. “Or something.”

I reach over, take one; still soft, the warmth is fleeing, though the dot of jam is just under molten. Not bad. I could have eaten them at home, but then I’d miss out on the company. Why today, though? Of all days? Why come over today? It’s no sort of anniversary, nothing that might make me nostalgic. And I’ve seen so much grief over the years, my own, other people’s—why this little old lady?

Funny how death can bring people together.

Yeah, real funny.

“And how are you, Miss Kitty? Seen that boyfriend of yours lately?”

“Some,” I say. “He travels a lot. I’m alone a lot. It suits us.”

“Well, I guess folk like their space.” She nods, chews. “Delicious. No one bothers you in that house on your own?”

“Nope. How about you?” Chickens notwithstanding.

“No one’s tried to break in here since 1985.” She sits back with a smile, as if the memory is very pleasant, and a shiver runs up my spine, does a tumble-turn at the base of the neck, and runs back down.

“What happened in 1985?” I ask.

“Just some silly boys got taught a lesson.” A wider smile, surprisingly white teeth, and I think she’s kind of boasting, bigging herself up. As if she could have done anything; maybe there was a husband here then, took care of matters. I imagine a big bear of a man with hands like hams. Suddenly I regret coming over; but equally I want to tell her everything. That I’m sorry, really sorry, and I know who did it. And I’m really, really sorry.

Instead I swallow down the last mouthful of cookie, drink too fast the tea that’s still hot. The burn on my tongue, in my throat as the liquid passes by, is a sort of a comfort—I’ll regret it later—but for now it’s an intensity that breaks through the daily numbness. I stand.

“Well, I’d better go, Magda. I’ve got a few chores to do before work tonight. Thanks for . . .” I gesture around. “Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“You’ve done enough, Kitty. Thank you for your kindness. The Kane boys are going to clean up the bodies soon, and Abel Tasker’s bringing more chickens tomorrow.”

“Do you need any help paying for them?” I reach for the wallet in my back pocket, remember I left it at home because why would I need it to visit a neighbour? But it doesn’t matter because she’s shaking her head. I’ll go to the feed’n’seed and put a hundred bucks of credit on her account, just to smooth things along. My conscience mostly.

“I’m not impoverished, missy, thank you very much.” But she doesn’t sound offended. I’m reminded of my Great-Aunty Ede who could tell you off without making you feel bad. Should have been a diplomat, should Ede. My hostess walks me out.

“Bye, Magda.”

“Bye, Kitty Lang.”

I can feel her eyes on me as I cross the road, but when I turn at my door to wave, she’s gone.

I hate the cans.

They’re unreasonably heavy. Peas are the worst. Or second worst. Any of your canned meats are hefty but you kind of expect that. Peas, though? Seriously. Should definitely be lighter than they are.

The advantage of cans is that they fit together nicely, a good and simple system of interlocking. Boxes not so much. Boxes are kind of ass when it comes to stacking; too light, especially cereal, easy to knock over. Then you’ve got to start again, and then Beanie Donaghy, Night Manager at the Mart, wants to have a word with you, thank you very much. I try to avoid those chats. I really do my best to do so.

However, sometimes it is apparently unavoidable.

Like an hour ago when I had to restack a bunch of Reese’s Puffs, which meant I was behind a schedule of some sort but of which I was not aware, because Lord forbid I should finish anything early. Beanie had subsequently walked along all the aisles and stuck bright yellow Post-its on anything she felt was not my best work. I couldn’t help but feel she’d made extra slog for herself just because she didn’t like me—my makeup in particular and my attitude in general. And the attitude, I guess, because I go out of my way to be an asshole at times; but the makeup’s a masterpiece and should be acknowledged as such. I don’t know why but there’s just something about Beanie that makes me slather on that extra layer of black eyeliner, one more slick of red lipstick, and ensure my hair’s dead straight, with the bangs cut precisely just below my brows so it always looks like I’m peering from behind a curtain. I do this because I once heard her boyfriend tell her I was hot and maybe she should try that look sometime. Which, coincidentally, was around the time Beanie decided she didn’t like my attitude. I mean, seriously. I don’t want her dumbass boyfriend, but I do like irritating a woman stupid enough to think I do.

It’s been a long six months.

“Hey, baby.”

His voice in my ear, and I didn’t even hear him come up to me. I should be used to it. It shouldn’t make me startle after all these years. But it does. Has a different effect nowadays. Once it would send me into a fever of want, how quiet he was, how he’d just appear. It’s been a while since I felt that way; now I’m just afraid. And it makes me feel even more alone than I usually do when I’m sitting in whatever house in whatever town we’ve washed up in, and he’s sleeping in a cellar or beneath the floorboards, up in the attic or in a crawlspace, anywhere the sunlight can’t find him.

And I don’t make friends anymore because if—when—he finds out, they get treated like Magda’s chickens and we have to move all over again. It’s always him. Except once in the early days. That was all me.

I did something terrible, and I’m sorry for it, but there’s no going back and fixing it, is there? It wasn’t that girl’s fault, and he’d never intended anything except making a meal of her; I tell myself I can’t remember her name. I didn’t know any better then, and he was all I had. He’d taken everything else, hadn’t he? But because I was so new to him and his life, I was terrified he’d replace me quick-smart if I wasn’t good. Didn’t realise how far he liked to push and tease my insecurities because it made me obedient, didn’t it? Fearful and obedient. I didn’t realise then that you don’t throw away someone like me so easily, even if you tell them every day how worthless they are. Compliance is a price above rubies, after all.

The red hair’s always a surprise, no matter how many times I see him, kept long and in a ponytail. The scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, a little faded but still evident, green eyes, thin lips, big ears. Black T-shirt stretched across a chest that’s wide but not muscular, greyhound belly I used to love to slide my hand down, heavy boots, long legs in black stovepipe jeans, black leather jacket over the top the only concession to winter. It’s been a long while since that’s made me burn. It’s two a.m., almost my quitting time. There’s a glow in his cheeks, a false warmth. Stolen. Hopefully not from around here; hopefully he did what he’s meant to: go elsewhere, another town, running as fast as he does, riding the night, leaving no trace.

“Why?” I say.

“Why what?” Feigned ignorance.

“Why Magda’s chickens?” I want to beat him around the head with this can of beets.

“Magda? First name basis? Have you made a friend, my kitten?” And his tone’s dangerous so fast.

“Don’t be an idiot. Everyone calls her that.” I shrug like I don’t care. “She’s an old lady, she’s done you no harm. And what did the chickens ever do to you? It was stupid.”

“Maybe I was just feeling . . . foxy.” He laughs. It’s a loud bark that manages, somehow, to echo around the Mart. Sure to attract Beanie, who’s probably watching me on the security cameras to make sure I’m not pocketing canned ham or other high-value items.

“Stupid,” I say again. “Shitty. You’ll draw attention and I’ll have to get us out of here.”

“But you’re so good at it—”

“Lang? What did I tell you about goofing off with friends?” Beanie rounds the corner of the aisle faster than you can imagine, her heeled boots click-clacking. Man, she must have been booking it from the little office out back. Nothing, Beanie, you told me nothing because I don’t have any friends and no one’s ever visited me before. Not even him. The fact he’s here tells me he’s getting ready to start some shit.

But I don’t say any of that. I bow my head, look out from under my bangs (because a little passive-aggressive fucking never hurt anyone, and it feeds whatever whirlpool of ache lives within me) and speak very softly. “I’m sorry, Beanie.”

“I should fire you.” Her lips, smothered in a peachy pink gloss, pucker like an asshole as if she’s considering it. She’s a reasonably attractive girl, it’s just her personality that leaves a lot to be desired. And it’s cute she thinks I think she can fire me, however, speaking of passive-aggressive fucking; her dad owns the place and he hired me and he’s got tastes his little girl doesn’t want to know about.

Oh, nothing creepy, but Big Bill Donaghy—terror of the loading dock, darling of little old ladies with handfuls of coupons, and scourge of the town council’s rezoning ambitions—has a penchant for being told what to do and ridden around as if he’s a pony with a bit in his mouth. Once a week we meet at a Motel 6 a couple of towns over. He doesn’t seem to care if anyone thinks it’s an affair—eligible widowman as he is—but certainly wouldn’t want anyone knowing what it really is. And Billy-boy’s aware he’s unlikely to find anyone else in Hope’s Bluff who’s going to keep his secrets for a low-paying job of restocking shelves plus an extra envelope of tax-free cash every week. There’s a notice in the window I want to see: “Man seeks rider. Will provide own saddle. No funny stuff.”

Maybe it is a little creepy. It’s just so hard to tell anymore.

“Beanie, is it?” The only sign of mockery is that Cinna’s voice rises a couple of notches. There’s that shiver, doing its thing up and down my spine again, but Beanie’s too dumb to know what’s good for her. I swear that girl would hear a rattlesnake shaking its booty and go right on over to have a word with it about the noise it was making and would it mind keeping things down. I don’t like her, but not enough to see her at the end of his fingers, dangling with her cute clicky-clacky boots a foot off the ground. Although maybe it’d be funny? No. No, it would not.

“Cinna,” I say gently. “Do what you will. I can’t be bothered with her at the best of times.”

Beanie’s expression is priceless. The least I could do is hate her. Isn’t indifference just the worst?

Cinna narrows his eyes, long nose almost twitching as if he might sniff the lie on the air. But I haven’t spent all these years around him without learning a thing or two. If I don’t care, why would he? He loses interest faster than you can imagine, it’s as if a light goes out.

“Cinna?” Beanie says, only she pronounces it “sinner” and I think maybe I can’t save her; maybe she’s determined to be dead. But then he laughs. Should have known that would tickle him.

“I’ll see you at home, Cinna. Beanie, I am sorry, it won’t happen again.” I look at the man who’s the only lover I’ve ever known and say quite clearly: “I’ll be there soon.”

He wanders off, deprived of his fun. He might wait outside, hang around and spy on me to make sure I don’t detour, don’t drop in on any friends. I learned that after a while, that it wasn’t worth it, making connections.

Beanie stares at me for a moment, then decides there’s nothing more to add, nothing that wouldn’t sound stupid. Or stupider. She turns around, click-clacks back towards the office.

Me? I grab another can, lift it into place, notice my hand’s shaking enough to blend the beets. Resting my head against the price strip on the edge of the shelves, realise how it might be sharp if I pushed at just the right angle, just hard enough. How it would be to have warm red drip down my face. To feel anything acute instead of this dull, constant lonely ache. But I don’t. That’d ruin my makeup.

Sluggish when I wake, the curtains keep the room dark.

The marks in the soft underflesh of my upper arm will be pink and they throb; he didn’t need what he took, but he wanted to take it. Because I’d yelled at him when I got home, stupidly fearless, hating him for drawing attention. So he chewed. Teaching me a lesson. What have you learned? Are you going to be a good girl, Kitty? Gone, now, from the bed with its saggy mattress, back in the basement where the one window’s been painted over black. In a tea-chest he had before I met him. Hardly a traditionalist. When he was made, someone stuffed him in and he can’t seem to be parted from it; it’s where he had his first rising.

What woke me? The phone flashes that it’s almost eleven a.m., but there’s no alarm, no ringing. Thud. I shake my head, instantly regret it. Thud thud. Someone kicking a wall? Or the sides of a tea-chest? No. He never rouses in the light time. Thud thud thud!

“Miss Kitty Lang? Are you alright in there?”

Magda, knocking on the front door.

Damnit.

No one knocks but the Mormons and the JWs and the occasional guy from the gas company looking to read the meter.

I should never have gone over there. Should never have shown my face. Baked cookies, had tea, what the fuck was I thinking? No one would have had any reason to look to our doorstep, to think Cinna might have been around, might have been given to chicken slaughter when he couldn’t get what he really wanted. When he was bored. When he decided the rules didn’t apply.

Don’t kill someone, just bleed ’em a little.

If you’ve got to kill ’em, then make it fast. Don’t toy with ’em.

Never a child.

Always old people who’ve had a life already.

Roam out of town—don’t shit on your own doorstep.

A list of rules repeated like a mantra. Like a decaying orbit, chipped away by circumstance, excuses and whim.

Don’t come to the house, Magda, he can smell you when he wakes. He’ll know you’ve been here. Think that because I expressed concern I care. That you’re important to me. That you’re a friend. A pet.

He always kills the pets first.

Roll up, out of bed, stumble across the bedroom because during the day I’m careful of light, trip on the dining room rug, stub my toe on the corner of the coffee table, make it to the door. Fling it open. Squint into the bright winter, all that snow reflecting back at me. From Magda’s expression I can tell I look like shit. Though there’s something about what he does to me that makes the ageing slow down, without the thick makeup I look . . . older. Sicker.

He, however, just doesn’t age. Eternally a teenager, with all the entitlement and cruelty and arrogance that entails. Never got the chance to grow out of it. Or that’s what I tell myself even though I know it’s a choice. He got away with being an asshole when he was warm because he was pretty and fun; he continued to be that way because why wouldn’t he? I’m shivering, just in a singlet and pair of boxers, and I realise too late she can see all the marks he’s made on the canvas of me over the years.

“Are you okay, Kitty?”

“Just a little under the weather, Magda.” My voice is ragged, throat sore from dehydration. I clear it, but that doesn’t fix anything. “Can I help you with something?”

She holds up a casserole dish. “I thought you might like a homemade meal that you didn’t have to cook yourself. Just heat it up. It’s mac’n’cheese, not that boxed crap.”

My favourite. I’m reaching for it before I think, then I stop. She looks at me, curious as an owl. “You can’t be here, Magda. I can’t take that.”

I clench my fists, pull them back to my sides. Her expression falls, but the casserole dish stays up high, an offering.

“Kitty Lang, I can tell something’s wrong in your life. And I’m willing to bet it’s that no-good boyfriend of yours. I had one of those myself and I know how to—”

“Sshh! Magda, you’ve got to go because I can’t protect you!” And slamming the door in her face, I turn, put my back to the wood and slide down it into a boneless puddle of person. I hold in the sobs until I hear her leave, out the squeaky garden gate, snow boots shuffling across the freshly salted road.

I really could have done with some of that mac’n’cheese. With something someone else had made just for me. Not just trouble.

I take a break, stand outside in the darkness of the Mart parking lot. Bummed a cigarette from Effie on the registers even though I don’t smoke but I just want the comfort of that tiny speck of heat and light. The orange flare in the dimness, while I jitter on the spot, my heels tap-tap-tapping on the asphalt. The advantage of the smoke is that it almost covers—or at least obscures—the stink from the dumpster where things are rotting. I think about Magda and I imagine what’s happening at her little house.

Cinna’s crossing the street, silent and sleek, graceful as any dancer or killing machine. Leaps over the fence like he’s got wings, then slinks through the yard. Scoping the locks. He doesn’t need an invitation. Prefers not to have one. Besides, what fun is permission? He’ll wait for the lights to go out, the blue flicker of the television to die against the windows. Magda’s old. He won’t take his time. Won’t get much out of her. But he’ll do it because he wants to.

Who’ll discover her? Can’t be me. Won’t be me. She lives on her own. Maybe the Kane boys checking the branches on those trees; maybe Abel Tasker will drop by, see how the new chickens are going. Find Magda Doubinsky doesn’t answer the door and worry because she’s aged and alone. They’ll break in or maybe someone’s got a key. Find her wherever Cinna left her. Maybe he’ll make it seem like an accident, a heart attack. Or maybe he won’t bother, he’ll let it look like what it is. Folk often won’t believe because they just don’t want to. But there’ll be some who know better.

I’ll need to start making plans in the morning, leave a passing-decent interval before we go. The lease is almost up, not that it matters. I’ll tell Beanie Cinna’s got a new gig, a permanent one, in another place, a big city. Chicago. Yeah, Chicago’s good. Meanwhile, we’ll go in the opposite direction, find another little pitstop on the way to the world. I’ll shed Kitty Lang like a coat, pick a new name from the false identities at the bottom of my bag, all those old licences, stolen, recycled over the years. Take Billy-boy’s rolls of cash from the cave I hollowed in the mattress. Fill the newish Ford F-250 with gas; pack the few bits of clothes we carry. When Cinna wakes one night soon, we’ll load his tea-chest, strap it down; roll on into the night. Or maybe I’ll need to meet him in the agreed-on place, the spot we always choose when we arrive, somewhere out of town, an old barn, abandoned farmhouse. In case of emergency.

“Kitty Lang!”

Beanie’s voice scares me shitless. I was so far away, so deep in figuring what I need to do to get us outta here. Don’t know how long I’ve been on break. Enough of a stretch for Beanie to lose her shit, apparently. I stub the life from the cigarette and hurry towards the automatic doors of the Mart, towards the artificial brightness and Beanie Donaghy with her halo of light and her clicky-clacky boots.

She’s shaking her head as I walk by; she says, “Kitty Lang, I ought to—” And I snap. Flow at her like an oil slick until I’m right in her grille, lips drawn in a snarl and growling, “What, Beanie? What the fuck you oughta do?”

Maybe she sees all the years in my face that I normally hide. Maybe she sees how many of them I’ve been alone despite a constant companion I should have ditched an eon ago; how deep that isolation has eaten into me. Maybe it’s just the sawing tone of my voice, but she steps off, hands going to her crotch as if she maybe just peed herself a little with fright.

A few moments, me hanging there in the doorway like a threat to see if she’s got a snappy comeback, but nope. Just Beanie and her mouth dangling open. I straighten, jam my hands into the pockets of my jacket, go back to stacking cans. I can do that even with tears blurring my vision.

But late in the afternoon, when I finally wake, when I go to check the mailbox for bills, I see Magda in her garden. She’s feeding the new chickens, throwing corn kernels, bright yellow bits of sunshine on the snow. The old lady notices me—no wonder, I’m like a fucking garden gnome by the dead rosebushes—and raises a hand. A tentative wave. I’m so happy and relieved, I wave back. I’m so happy and relieved, I leave my own yard and go across to her in my dressing gown and slippers, shivering my ass off like a belly dancer. I’m so happy and relieved that I throw my arms around her tiny, scrawny form and cry on her like I’m trying to drown her in the deluge.

There’s more tea. This one tastes like liquorice, which I wouldn’t normally like. But it’s soothing.

“Now,” she says as she sits, puts a bowl of mac’n’cheese in front of me, and I realise I haven’t had anything for about a day. My stomach’s curling back against my spine. Next there’s a plate of chocolate cake; I use my fingers like a bad child, eating too fast and get the hiccups and heartburn. Doesn’t slow me, though.

“Now,” she says again when I’m washing it all down with more tea, “tell me.”

And I do.

What he is, what he’s done.

What I’ve done.

How, when I got home this time, I didn’t say anything to Cinna. To do so would have been to feed his urge to destroy, whatever made him want to take away anyone or anything I might care about. He’d just repeat what he’d been doing all these years. Any friends early on as we moved around the country, before I learned not to connect. Of the family I’d had, only my mother remained because there’d never been any love lost between us. My father and sisters, four aunts, two grandparents: all gone. All the same way. All in one night. It’s one of those historic true crime cases, like Villisca, those axe murders or the start of them anyway, before they crisscrossed states like a bloody tapestry. Unsolved.

Although I read something a few years later where my mother said it was me; that I’d killed them, then fled. But it wasn’t. Not really, he just followed me home. And no one’s ever managed to find us. I think Momma’s in one of those old people places now; she sold her story, made some money I should think. I used to keep track of her from sheer curiosity. It’s sixty years she’s been dining out on those lies. Feathered her nest telling folk how her oldest daughter did some terrible thing because she could believe it of me just because we didn’t get along. Or maybe she’s dust too, the last link to my once-upon-a-time.

I tell Magda how he’s been the only person I’ve had in the world for so long. How maybe I was less afraid of death than of coming back from it, which was what he threatened at least once a month. It would hurt, he’d say, it would hurt a lot—and I’m a coward that way.

Darkness has fallen again while I’ve been here, talking and eating and crying with Magda hovering over me like a concerned grandmother, a proper one, like I used to have. It’s the first time in forever that I haven’t felt it happen, haven’t sensed how it drops like a curtain across the world. It’s only when I turn my head, looking outside, see my reflection against the black mirror night makes of the window—then I hear him moving.

Through Magda’s winter jungle of a yard, around the house—I’ve known him so long, I can feel it. But oh my God, there was that moment: that moment when I did not and what a glorious moment of hope that was. Freedom tastes almost metallic-new on my tongue, right up until I spot him out there, and he comes close, starts to tap on the glass. Then I see his expression, and his fingertips as he pulls away are blistered.

“What have you done? Magda?” I ask breathlessly. No wonder she was safe last night; he couldn’t have gotten in even if he’d wanted to.

“I told you, I had one like that myself,” she says and tweaks up the sleeves of her shirt to show the raised scars in the crooks of her elbows, faint yet distinct, “but I also had a grandmother who knew a thing or two about handling his type.”

And she looks right through the pane, right at Cinna, with all those faded marks on display, and she gives him the finger. Twice, both hands rising like knives to the ceiling, and she calls him something so coarse it shocks even me, but I also want to write it down to use later myself. If I have a later.

“Magda,” I sort of breathe her name as a warning. “Don’t antagonise him.”

I want to ask more questions, find out how she does this, but then she steps to the window, chin jutting, and stares him down until he melts back into the blackness, and that just takes my breath away. “He can’t get in here. We’ll deal with him tomorrow.”

“He might run.” Cinna’s got his own keys to the Ford, but he doesn’t tend to drive, not on his jaunts—easier to trace licence plates, less so a man who can slip between shadows. He likes me to do it, besides, loves a chauffeur.

“He won’t go anywhere until he gets you, girl.”

The way she says “girl” sounds a little like “bait” and I am not comforted by that.

“He won’t go anywhere until you’re with him or dead. They don’t like rebellion. They break your spirit. Make it so you’ve got no one left in the world. Kill anyone you care about.”

“Kills the pets first,” I say quietly.

She steps away from the window, rests a hand on my shoulder. “Is there anyone else he might go after, Kitty? Anyone at all?”

And even as I’m shaking my head, even as I’m thinking He can’t get in here, I’m picking at another thought. It starts small, but it’s insistent. Like a fluffy white dog that wants your attention. And you don’t wanna kick it because, hey, it’s just a little dog. So soon enough it’s hanging off the hem of your jeans, gnawing.

He can’t get in here, no.

But he knows where to find Beanie.

So I’m running down the street, towards the Mart and its lights bright as a fucking spaceship. All I can think is that I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die how he’s going to kill me, and I don’t want to come back. And I really don’t want to die for someone called “Beanie”. I mean, fuck it. What sort of name is Beanie anyway?

But I don’t need any more deaths on my conscience.

Not even Beanie’s.

Fuck it.

I left the house with Magda yelling on the doorstep. Stopped in at home to put on some actual clothes, because if I’m going to die I don’t want it to be in my slippers and robe. And I’m on foot because I found he’d taken the truck. Lucky nothing’s far from anywhere in Hope’s Bluff. But the blacktop’s icy and I keep sliding, haven’t fallen over yet, so I’m sort of surfing along the rime-kissed roads. To my credit I stay upright until I get to the parking lot, then I misjudge the step up to the kerb, and finish by rolling onto my feet, the right knee bruised, but the jeans untorn.

Effie’s on the register, looking so bored she just might die. Got to love teens. “Where’s Beanie?”

The girl looks at me, barely moves a muscle yet manages to convey that the “boss” is out back. I limp along the aisles, doing a headcount to make sure the evening staff are all present and accounted for; that he hasn’t decided to extend his massacring skills from chickens to people. Slap my hand against the office door. Panic for a few seconds, thinking it’s locked, then remember I need to turn the handle.

It opens, almost swatting Beanie as she sits, boots up, at the desk that’s too big for the little room. There’s a romance novel in one hand and a powdered donut in the other.

“Beanie! Thank God.” Not something either of us ever thought to hear from my mouth. “Have you got your car here?”

Sometimes the boyfriend drops her off. “What—Lang?”

“Do you have your fucking car?” I yell. She drops her donut, poof, snowstorm on her black sweater.

“Yes!” she yells back, trying to clean up.

I reach in and grab her wrist, pull her upright. “Keys?”

“Pocket.”

“Good, c’mon.” And I’m dragging her along behind, this girl I don’t even like but don’t want to see die, trying to figure out my plan—because do I have a plan? The fuck I do.

And I am out here with nothing on me, not a weapon of any sort because I am dumb.

I am the stupid girl who accepted a Coke from a cute boy in a drugstore. I’m the stupid girl who let him walk her home, after she’d told him all her secrets. I’m the stupid girl who woke one night not too many days later to find most of her family dead in their beds. And I’m the very stupid girl who got in the 1961 Ford Pickup with Cinna when he told me to, even though he was covered in blood and grinning from ear to ear. Because there was nowhere else to go, and only my mother left.

Clicky-clack, clicky-clack, clicky-clack. Her boots sound like train wheels on tracks. If I drag her any faster she’ll start puffing steam. She gets out: “Where are we going?”

And it’s interesting to note that Beanie is simply obeying me—maybe she’s just like her old man, likes to be ordered around a bit—and I’m thinking, Yes, Kitty Lang, where are we going? Just where the fuck are we going? And I think how maybe she’s a lot like me, how I’ve been trained to be, because there’s a certain relief in obedience, in abdicating responsibility.

“Beanie, we are going for a drive. We are going to drive until we come to the sun again.” And I sound like Peter Pan with his “second star to the right and straight on until morning” bullshit. And I’m dragging this girl behind me because I know I’ve been mean. Because when I saw her expression the first time her father favoured me over her and she mistook its nature, I didn’t correct her. I let her heart break a little and I just played on it like an asshole. I’m dragging her behind me because of that other girl whose name I won’t remember, but whose face I’ll always see painted red by my hand, because I was afraid of being alone—except it just made me more alone, didn’t it? Did not see that coming.

We’re heading past the registers, Effie raises a brow and it probably counts as a heavy calisthenics programme for her. Out the automatic doors, where we pause for a second for Beanie to point to her new red Ram 1500, then we’re stepping (carefully) down from the kerb and moving towards it as she bloops the key, and the taillights flash. She hands me the keyring when I open my palm.

“Well, when are we coming home?”

“Yes, Kitty, when are you coming home?”

Cinna’s voice is cold as an ice storm and he’s standing in the middle of the parking lot where he wasn’t a moment ago. No sign of the truck, but then there wouldn’t be, would there? Around the corner or in an alley where I couldn’t see it. All he had to do was wait. Because I’m a stupid predicable girl he trained too well.

“Just go away, Cinna. Just leave me be. Leave me here.”

“But that’s not how the game’s played. I don’t like being alone on my own.” He grins.

“I’m tired. I’m old. Let me go.”

“Oh, baby, you look so good for your age! Very well preserved.” But he puts a finger to one cheek, as if considering. “Although you’re a little slower nowadays, and getting ornery. So, maybe it is time for some new blood.”

He hasn’t moved but he doesn’t need to. He can stand in the one spot all night and never seem any less dangerous. He looks at Beanie.

“Lang, what’s he—”

“Hush, Beanie.”

“Now is that any way to speak to your successor?” drawls Cinna. She wouldn’t last a week. He’d snap her neck after the third question in a row.

“Lang, why’s he—”

“Beanie, quiet.”

“Does she have your organisational skills, though?” He takes two steps— one forward, one backward, like the start of a dance.

“Lang, how’s he—”

“I swear to God, Beanie, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’m gonna marry your dad and you’re gonna have to call me ‘Mom’.” Which, as threats go, is quite surprisingly effective.

“C’mon, Kitty Lang, one last chance. What do you say? Let’s go now and I’ll forget you did this.” He holds up his hand, palm forward, and I can still see the blisters from whatever sacrament’s on Magda’s windows. “You and me, alone together. Forever.”

It takes everything I’ve got to drag an answer up from the bottom of what’s left of my soul. To not do what’s easiest, what’s habit. To not abdicate. To not obey. I say, “No.”

And then push Beanie out of the way because I know what’s coming. Push her out of the way just as he reaches me, nails longer and sharper than they’ve any right to be, and he wraps one hand around my throat, hooks the meat of my upper arm with the other and rips. It feels like someone’s cutting my strings; and it’ll start hurting in a moment. Behind him I can see something small moving surprisingly fast, what looks like a baton clasped in one hand. I shouldn’t watch, shouldn’t stare, should just listen to the patter of my own blood on the ground. But I can’t help myself, I do stare, and Cinna moves, doesn’t he? And though she’s surprisingly fast, she’s still too slow. Because Cinna fucking moves.

Not very far but just enough so whatever Magda is trying to stick in his back goes into the right not the left side of his ribcage. His expression spasms, and smoke rises from whatever’s embedded, but he drops me and swings around, one arm describing a wide arc until the back of his hand catches Magda in the face, lifting her off her feet and sending her flying across the lot. She hits the dumpster with a resounding clang. She hits so hard I half expect her to shatter.

I struggle-sit and watch Cinna fight to get hold of the stake she’s stuck in him. White wood, maybe ash, maybe rowan. Not enough to kill him, not in the right place, but enough to hurt. His fingers grasp it, pull, let it go as soon as it’s out—fresh burns on his palm livid in the lights from the Mart. Cinna staggers a bit, straightens, stares at me as if my betrayal was the last thing he could have predicted. He points a blistered finger at me.

“I’ll see you—you know where to go.” His tone makes it clear I’m to conform. That he anticipates obedience. As always. Then he’s gone—not as fast as usual, however. Normally I blink and he’s vanished, but this time I see him limping away.

Beanie rolls up from wherever I threw her, then helps me and we limp over to Magda. I’ll never get the details about what happened in 1985, never get that mac’n’cheese recipe, never have those random tea brews again. The old lady’s broken, head at the wrong angle, eyes staring, her black-framed glasses fractured on the ground beside her. But her expression’s serene—that’s what strikes me. She wasn’t afraid, there’s no horror there. She wasn’t terrified of Cinna. She’d faced her own worst once and I guess nothing was ever scary after that. She looks so tiny, so light, but I know she’s going to be a considerable weight in my chest.

It’s five hours before the sheriff lets me go.

And that’s with Beanie vouching for me, saying I’d tried to help, pointing at the wound on my shoulder that the doctor at the little hospital shook his head over as he sewed me up. There’s a bottle of painkillers in my pocket for when the injection wears off. The sheriff, who’s got the worst breath, tries to get me to say it was a bear or mountain lion—and I do not know how that’s going to make Magda any less dead. Beanie just insists it was a knife; I don’t bother to correct her. Eventually the deputy gently escorts an interrupting Beanie outside; I call after him that he should get her coffee and a donut because, well, it seems only fair.

I tell the lawman it was Cinna. I give him the licence plate of the F-250; I don’t believe they’ll find it, though. There are too few cops around here, no resources—why do you think we’ve always chosen places like this? Nope, the truck’ll already be hidden inside that old barn ten miles outside of Hope’s Bluff; he’ll expect me to be there too, come nightfall, like the obedient girl I am. Sheriff’s picked over the remains of the stake, half eaten away by Cinna’s blood, still can’t get his head around the idea that sweet little old Magda stabbed someone with it.

Dawn’s breaking by the time he tells me not to leave town.

Beanie’s waiting in the lot, sitting in the driver’s seat of that bright red Ram 1500, door open, her clicky-clacky boots dangling. She’s sipping a coffee and got one hand buried in a Krispy Kreme bag. So, that’s something, I guess.

“Need a lift?” she asks, and her voice is kind of small, like she’s worried I’ll just tell her to fuck off.

I consider it a second, for old times’ sake, then say, “You got a prybar in that thing?”

She nods, looking vaguely offended that I’d ever doubt it. I nod back, climb into the truck.

We don’t go home. There’ll be what can generously be termed a police presence going through everything I own. They won’t find anything, but I don’t want to be around while they’re making a mess. Picking through the few artefacts of my life that actually meant something to me.

We don’t go home, though, because I’m expected elsewhere.

Beanie’s obedient, following my directions. She even lets me finish the last of the glazed donuts. It takes a while to get where we’re going because the roads are windy and the place is well-hidden behind thick stands of trees and rises, perfect for an illegal still or meth lab or general lair. We drive right up to the barn and Beanie’s suddenly less obedient when I tell her to stay in the truck.

In fact, she’s downright obstinate and insists on following, saying: “I know what I saw.” She gets out and goes to the toolbox in the back, rummages, hands me a compact prybar, sturdy; takes an impressive claw hammer for herself and slides a pink boxcutter into a pocket.

“You won’t need that,” I say, and hope I’m right.

He hasn’t even bothered to padlock the doors and we push them way, way open. The barn’s still dark as barns are wont to be, but there are spears of light coming through all the holes in the walls, so many it’s as if some Bonnie and Clyde shootout happened here.

There’s the F-250, midnight blue like it’s part of the shadows. Closed, but not locked, streaks of blood bubbling away some of the paint on the driver’s side. It takes a little time to find the tea-chest, however; he’s made a bit of an effort, made a cubbyhouse with some old bales of hay. Between us we demolish the fort and drag the crate out into the day.

I lever the lid off, then kick the front panel in, a creaking of nails, a splintering of wood. In the seconds before the cold winter sun does its job, I see him there in the bottom of that box, curled around himself like a sleeping fox or a snake, oblivious. He looks so small, smaller than Magda, and I can’t believe I’ve been afraid of him all these years.

Then that pale wiry body begins to smoke, shrinks further, bursts into flames, even the red hair kind of burning in on itself until there’s nothing left. Just like that, he’s gone. The person I’ve known for the longest time. The person who’s made me the loneliest. The worst. Yet, somehow, I can’t help but feel like my chest’s got a hollow ring to it.

I look down at myself, at my hands; I touch my face.

Got to admit, I sort of thought I might go too. That whatever linked us would pull me after him. But there’s no change. No sudden ageing, no wrinkling, no inferno. There’s just Beanie looking at me, waiting for an explanation, and me not knowing where to begin.

GATE 9

JEFFREY FORD

We had less than a half hour to get from one plane to another. The airport was crazy with holiday travelers. I had on a backpack, dragged a small roller suitcase and held my five-year-old daughter’s hand. I walked as fast as I could and she ran and hopped to keep up. The thoroughfares of the terminal could be measured in miles. I watched those beeping carts go by and wished I had the balls to pretend to be impaired. Instead, my gut and bad knee and the cigarette addiction I was hiding from Suzie and the kids latched on like lead remoras and said, “Not so fast.” At one point in the scurry, Karlee tripped and fell. I managed to keep her from hitting the floor by grabbing tight and jerking my arm up. She dangled like a doll and I set her down easy. I stopped, let go of the suitcase, and kneeled to speak to her.

“I’m going too fast. I’m sorry,” I said. She rubbed her eyes, still sleepy from the flight, and said, “Are we meeting Mommy soon?”

“No, babe, we gotta go on one more plane before we see her.” She lowered her head, her bottom lip curled, and as her brown hair came down around her face, I noticed tears forming in the corners of her eyes. The kid was exhausted with the whole rigmarole and I couldn’t blame her. Air travel was a 96% on the all-time bullshit scale. I hugged her and told her not to cry, which is always a stupid thing to say. In that instant, a brain storm moved in from my own North Sea, and I said, “Would you like to ride on my shoulders?”

Instantly, she perked. Pushing back, she gave me a skeptical one-eyed squint but still smiled. “Up here?” she said and patted my neck.

I nodded. “You’re gonna have to hold on tight.”

“OK,” she said.

I stood and lifted her under the arms, way up so she could get her legs around my neck. As soon as she was up there, I grabbed her right calf, so even if she fell backward, I wouldn’t lose her. For her part she clasped her fingers under my chin.

“Giddyup,” she said and slammed the heels of sneakers into my chest. I laughed, and grabbing the suitcase, I struck out again for Gate 9. On our right, I noticed we were just passing Gate 53. “Shit,” I murmured and tried to put on some speed. From above, came Karlee’s voice, “I heard that, Steve.” Mommy was mommy, and even though I was her biological father, I was Steve and had never been anything else. I was uncertain if that conferred more or less grace upon me.

The only thing that saved me to that point were those electric walkways. By the time I’d cover the quarter mile between them, I was bent over and wheezing, on my last legs. And then, like an answered prayer, we’d be caught up and whisked along, smooth silence, for a measly hundred yards before being deposited back into the rat race of the concourse. Still, it was enough for me to straighten up part way and catch my breath.

I thought Karlee had fallen asleep. Her arms were still around my neck and her hands beneath my chin. I was just beginning to lose feeling in the hand I had clutched on her calf. We were passing Gate 32, and I was having delusions of grandeur of making the flight with ten or fifteen minutes to kill wherein I could get a cup of coffee. That’s when Karlee knocked on my head the way you would a door, leaned down to put her lips next to my ear and said in a breathy voice, “I have to pee.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. My mind went instantly blank. For as smart as I always believed myself to be, I’d never planned for this contingency. The moment she spoke, all of the inherent issues were brilliantly evident to me. I never traveled with the kids without my wife. I thought, when I finally tell her about this, she’s going to shake her head and pronounce me a rank amateur of a parent.

To the left of us, a few yards forward was the entrance to a women’s bathroom. On the other side of the thoroughfare there was a men’s room.

“Did you hear me, Steve?” she asked.

I nodded. We were an obstacle in the flow of foot traffic. I walked on as far as the bathroom, Karlee wriggling on my shoulders. I had to decide something pretty quick. My first thought was that I could take her into the men’s room with me. But then I thought of what Suzie would do with our son, Munro, if they were in the same situation. I couldn’t see her taking him into a lady’s room. He was older, though, by two years. Still, it didn’t seem right, and I had a vision in my head of a line of guys at the urinals, holding their stinky dicks, pissing with the sound of torrents of rain washing down a storm drain. They all turned to look at us and for some reason raised their right hands in unison as if an act from a Broadway show.

So that was out, and no one was going to be understanding of me taking her into the women’s bathroom. If I’d had more time, I’d have railed against the fact that the airport didn’t have those family bathrooms where mom, dad, and the kids could all hang as a nuclear unit while one of them took a piss. I needed quick thinking, imagination and action, all of which were in short supply in my travel addled mind.

As we stood there, Karlee still on my shoulders, an older woman walked by on her way to the bathroom. She looked up at Karlee and waved to her with a big smile on her face. Karlee let go of my chin with one hand and I assumed it was to wave back. At age five she was already a social creature like her mother, open hearted and affable. My son was more like me, quiet and sketchy. Before I knew it, I was saying, “Excuse me ma’am, would you mind taking my daughter into the bathroom? We’re running late for our gate and she really has to go.” I realized immediately; I could have been more eloquent. My plea oozed desperation.

The white-haired woman stopped, looked us up and down, continuing to smile, but did not answer immediately. I lifted Karlee and set her down on her feet. She hopped around while we waited for an answer. I could tell right away the kid was fine with having this nice old lady escort her. During the pause, which lasted less than a second, I looked the woman over to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake in trying to enlist her help. She didn’t seem to be over seventy-five, but her brow and cheeks were rippling with wrinkles, reminding me of Prune Face from the Dick Tracy comic. I thought better to sweep that thought immediately out of my mind as Prune was a villain in the old strip. Instead, I took in her necklace of hot pink beads, like giant pearls from a black light poster. Her dress was a shade of turquoise and on her breast she wore a pin in the shape of an odd insignia—a stylized eye with a centered arrow pointing straight up from the top of the lid, and a mirror arrow on the bottom side pointing straight down. The pupil in the silver-wire eye was a perfect circle of green glass.

“Certainly,” she said, nodding. She lifted her left arm, to reposition the strap of her big pocketbook and with the opposite hand reached toward Karlee. “Thank you,” I told her. “You’re really getting me out of a jam. “Are you OK with this?” I asked Karlee.

“Steve,” she said and shook her head.

“Relax, dad,” said the woman with a smile. “My name is Edna Gray, and I have years of experience. I’m a parent too. Two boys, two girls. They’re all at least as old as you.”

I mustered a laugh, but it didn’t matter because the two of them were off, hand in hand, discussing something. They disappeared through the open entrance, and I realized I had to pee. Not wasting a second, with my roller suitcase in tow, I bolted across the thoroughfare to the Men’s room. Despite my vivid imagining there was no chorus line at the urinals. It was empty. The place stunk of turnips and turpentine, and I wondered what poor soul gave birth to that stink. There was a definite chemical edge to it.

I pissed with alacrity and efficiency, assuring myself that there was no way Karlee was even on the bowl yet. She had on a pair of tights under her dress, which would slow things down. I zipped it up, gave my hands the most cursory washing, dashed out of the bathroom and across to the entrance of the Women’s Room. There was no one standing there, and I breathed a sigh of relief that Karlee didn’t have to come out and not find me there. While I waited for them, I thought about how a cigarette would really hit the spot at that juncture—a little nicotine kick to help me run the remaining mile gauntlet to Gate 9. After that I checked the time on my phone. If she hurried out of there, we’d have a good fifteen minutes.

Back in high school I ran the mile in just a little over four minutes. It’d been twenty plus years since high school. Staring into the distance, I came up with a half-assed algorithm that factored in age, weight, general health, the tendency of my left Achilles tendon to go out, the cigs, of course. The number that popped up at the end of this evidence-based process was ten. I figured, even limping along, I could do a ten-minute mile. Nothing to be proud of but realistic. Right then, I heard a distant sound beneath the general hubbub of the airport, like a roll of thunder in the next county, and realized it was a toilet flushing. It was everything I could do to prevent myself from picturing our arrival at Gate 9.

I expected any second to hear Karlee’s voice, and pictured Suzie meeting us at the gate in Columbus. She’d gone on ahead, since she had a speaking gig in town for two days. She took Munro so we only had to have one kid in day-care. I couldn’t get away because of work, so it was me and Karlee. Suzie and I talked it over and she told me I could do it no sweat. As far as bathing, dressing, feeding, I was aces. Suzie was just so confident with the kids, though. No happenstance could distract her. She was imbued with steadfastness and courage. The difference between us was like the difference between a real parent and a wax parent from Madame Tussaud’s, we appeared similar, but . . .

I looked up and there was no little girl holding the hand of a wrinkled old lady exiting the women’s room. Instead, it was a middle-aged woman in a blue dress, shoulder length brown hair, who came into view. I must have taken a step forward in anticipation of meeting Karlee, and in doing so had landed perilously close to the plane of the entrance. The woman in blue made a face at me and said, “Back off, creep.” I put my hands up in front of me and stammered an apology. I told her, “My little girl is in there,” and she shook her head before disappearing into the flow of the thoroughfare. It was clear she didn’t believe me.

I checked the time on my phone, and a good four minutes had passed since I’d calculated that I only had fifteen left. “Jesus Christ,” I said under my breath. “Let’s get on with it.” I paced back and forth, did a whole ten trips before I checked the time on my phone again. I looked up and noticed a woman in a white business suit, carrying a briefcase, approaching the entrance. Her long blonde hair was spiraled into a bun on top of her head. She looked wealthy and for some reason, although in most circumstances I would think the exact opposite, I immediately believed she would be trustworthy.

“Excuse me,” I said. “If you see an old lady and a little girl in there, could you tell them we need to hurry?

At first she looked put out by my request, but once she heard it all the way through, she smiled and nodded and I breathed a sigh of relief. She disappeared through the entrance, and in my imagination, I pictured us arriving at Gate 9 and it being completely empty but for an over exaggeratedly pleasant young man behind the counter. He made a fake pity face I wanted to punch and informed me we’d just missed the flight. As that was playing and replaying behind my eyes, I witnessed a veritable wave of women charge through the entrance to the bathroom. There were no less than ten. They came from every direction at once and they all walked swiftly and stiffly as if urgently needing to piss. I stepped back to let the caravan pass with the relief of knowing I had my agent with the briefcase in there.

Seconds passed, minutes passed, and the ladies of the wave began filtering out onto the thoroughfare, their strides easy and relaxed. At this juncture, behind my eyes, I was punching the attendant behind the counter at Gate 9. Landed a couple dead center on his tractor seat of a face, a couple to the ribs. As he slipped down toward the floor, I heard a voice say, “Excuse me, sir.” I came to as if I’d been in a trance, my heart was pounding and there was sweat on my brow like I really had gone rounds with that simpering shit. It was the woman in white. She shifted her briefcase from one hand to another and said, “I didn’t see them in there. They must have been in one of the stalls. But I thought I might have heard a child’s voice. It was either that or the weird sound of a toilet flushing.” With this, she turned and walked away.

That was it. I had no idea how much time was left. I was trembling slightly. I took out my phone and dialed my wife. She picked up immediately and in a harsh whisper said, “I’m in the middle of my panel on Trigonometric Reconstruction.” Fearing she might hang up on me, I yelled, “Wait, Karlee is missing”.

“Hold on,” she said and I could hear her leaving the lecture hall and going through a door into silence. “What did you just say?” she asked.

“Karlee. I asked this nice old lady to take her into the bathroom, and she did. But I’ve been standing here for I don’t know how long and they haven’t come out.”

“How long has she been in there?”

“More than ten minutes. We’re gonna miss our next fucking flight.”

“Why are you calling me?” she asked Her question brought me up short and I didn’t know what to say. “Can you tell me what I should do?”

Then her words came like a blaring horn in my ear. “What are you waiting for? Get the fuck in there and grab her, you idiot. Who knows what could be going on?”

I hung up quick and lunged toward the entrance. As I did, there was a woman approaching I didn’t see at first. We nearly collided in the doorway, and I said to her, “I’m sorry, but my wife told me to go in here.”

She looked at me with wide eyes and backed slowly away.

“To get my daughter,” I added.

She turned and departed..

“Sorry.” I called after her. Then I passed through the opening into a realm of gray tile. Gray tiles on the floor, all the way up the high walls, the shelf that held the sinks. I looked down the row of stalls and its large emptiness made me slightly dizzy. There was some scent in the air that stood the hair at the back of my neck on end, and the place was dead silent. As I stood there, the brightness of sun that shone through the semi opaque window at the far end, set high up by the ceiling, drained away as no doubt some massive cloud rolled in.

“Karlee,” I yelled.

I listened hard. This time I heard a drip here or there, the secret whir of the water in a leaky tank. I had Suzie’s mandate, so I let go the suitcase on wheels, dropped the backpack, and barged forth, pushing stall doors open to see inside. I went down the long row of twenty compartments, and, hoping I could catch anybody who had been hiding and tried to flee, I walked back to the entrance again and then down another twenty on the opposite tiled wall. Now all manner of visions swept through my head. I was frantic, expecting to see Karlee’s body, limp in one of the stalls. My thoughts went back to her patting me on the neck earlier and saying, “Up here?” I saw her face—big green eyes, her smile.

I came to the last stall and it was locked from within. I rattled it and screamed for whoever was in there to open up. There was no response, so I got down on the floor and started pulling myself under the door. When I was halfway through, I heard the distant voice of the terminal loudspeaker announce that our plane was boarding. It was clear I was just going to have to forget making that flight. What good was getting there on time if Karlee wasn’t with me?

I was out of breath from all the exertion, and it took a little while for me to make it, but eventually I got in there. You’ll never believe this, but the toilet was gone as if it had been ripped out of the floor, and in the dark jagged opening where it had been, I could see a ladder running down into the underground. I realized Karlee had been kidnapped. It was like somebody had a hand in my chest and squeezed my heart. My mind went into a tornado of confusion and I was blithering, choking.

What cut through the bullshit was a vision of having to confront Suzie with the news. In it both she and Karlee were standing with their arms folded waiting for my explanation. I took out my phone and turned on the flashlight. There was nothing else to do but descend, which I did, nearly losing my step twice and plummeting thirty feet. I finally arrived on the ground safely, but not before a couple of bats flew past my face. Turning and scanning with the flashlight, I was amazed. There were actual stalactites and stalagmites all over, like a cavern instead of the airport basement I’d expected.

I walked forward to where the rocky vault opened wider and I could see from where I stood that below me, down a sloping incline, there was a road through the underground darkness. There was also a street light with an old brown Cadillac parked under it. I could definitely make out a figure in the front seat. I started down the hill, wondering what I was going to have to do to get Karlee back. I was not in the best shape and could feel my Achilles tendon acting up. The fear, as I waited outside the women’s bathroom, had drained me, and left me exhausted. Still, I knew I might have to fight to the death. It was ridiculous, but on some occasions, life does reveal its absurdity. Either way, Karlee’s life was in danger. Old Steve was just going to have to reach back for something extra. First time in my life I ever wished I had a gun.

I approached the car. Both front windows were open and the driver was smoking a cigarette. I ducked down and she turned suddenly to look at me. “Hey, are you that guy whose kid was boosted?” she asked.

“You know about it?”

She flipped open her wallet and showed me some kind of badge. “Detective Sinch. I’ve been assigned to it.”

“Can you help me?”

“Get in,” she said.

I did and she started the car. It was cold underground, like late autumn, complete with wind, and she wore a big canvas coat the color of an impala. Her face was lightly covered with acne and she had a pretty big nose and a crew cut. Not a minute passed between cigarettes; a chain smoker if I ever saw one.

We drove into the pitch black of the underground. I don’t know how she stayed on the road. “I got a source who tells me your daughter’s kidnappers are holed up in an abandoned house out behind Spies Orchard.

“How did you find out about it?”

“We keep an eye on everything.”

“Well, you didn’t keep a very good eye on my daughter,” I said, unable to believe I’d said it.

“That’s the breaks mother fucker.”

I nodded.

We drove deeper and deeper into the dark and she leaned forward and pushed the radio button. The songs came and went. We were certainly driving further than I’d expected. I asked if she had a plan.

She told me, “I’m just going in blazing. I’ll mop these jack offs up and then we free the kid.”

“Don’t be reckless,” I warned. “You’ll end up shooting the kid.”

“Take five,” she said and lit another cig.

A song came on the radio and Detective Sinch gave a whoop, turning the sound up. “Love this one,” she said and sang along in a voice worse than mine, to the tune of “Your Violent Breath.” There was banjo and pedal steel, and a lazy sweetness to the tune. The only line I could remember was, “I lean in close, for a wanton kiss, and suffer a fifth of death. Your beauty is dangerous, but oh, my lord, that violent breath.”

As the last notes of the song sounded, we came up out of the underground on an inclined ramp running through a tunnel that released us into a rural night scene. The moon was bright, and we passed miles of barbed wire fences, behind which were lumbering shadows—cows perhaps, horses—that made strange choking noises. Returning to the world above, made me yet more nervous, knowing we’d be facing off against the kidnappers soon.

“OK, here we go,” said Detective Sinch, turning off the radio. She pulled into the opening of a dirt road that snaked through pine trees. The car slowed and with her free hand she put her index finger to her lips. “Don’t do anything until I tell you to,” she whispered. The car came to a halt. She turned it off and we cautiously got out. I noticed she had two guns, one in each hand, both some kind of 9-millimeter.

“You’ve got two guns,” I said. “Can I get one?”

She moved toward the house. “Fat chance,” she said. Once the words were out of her mouth, she took off running. Before I could even marshal the effort to follow her, she was on the broken-down front porch of what appeared in the dark to be a log cabin. It all happened so fast. I heard the door squeal open and then she shrieked, “Fuck you, shit heels.” The shooting started and I hit the ground, praying for the first time since I was a kid that one of those bullets didn’t hit Karlee.

I crawled on my belly toward the porch, the shooting went on and on, and then Sinch came stumbling backwards through the door with a spray of blood coming from her neck. On her way to the ground, she took aim and shot her killer, who stood at the door. A direct hit to the gut. He fell forward onto the porch. I got up and ran to the Detective, but she was obviously dead by the time I reached her. I grabbed one of the guns. I had no idea whether it was loaded.

Before stepping over the writhing body in the doorway, I kicked his gun away into the yard. He wasn’t going anywhere. Inside, in a living room area, there were two men, obviously killed by Sinch. I listened hard but didn’t hear any other noise in the house. I went back to the guy in the doorway. “Where’s my daughter?” I asked.

“Look, you’ve got a chance to live,” I said and aimed the gun at him. I wasn’t so sure of what I was saying. He was bleeding out all over the place. He shook his head.

I aimed as best I could and pulled the trigger. The gun fired and scared the shit out of me. The bullet smashed through his shin bone and revealed a jagged white edge before the blood came and the errant bits of meat landed.

“Next I’m gonna shoot you in the balls,” I said.

“No,” he pleaded.

“Where is she?”

He laughed an overexaggerated laugh.

I took aim.

“She’s in the bathroom down the hall. I dragged her in there myself. She’s been in there since we got here.” Then he laughed more and pointed at me.

I shot him in his big balding head and shut him up.

Down the hallway from the living room, there was a body dead on the floor. It was Edna Gray, the old woman who’d taken Karlee into the bathroom. It looked like Sinch had drilled her through the left eye. Her glasses were still on her face, but the one lens was shattered and covered in blood. Next to her open hand lay a .38 Special. There was a fold out chair next to the bathroom door, as if the old lady had been sitting guard. I breathed deeply and then knocked on the door. “Karlee, “I called. “It’s Steve. I’m here.” There was no response.

I almost tried the doorknob but stopped myself. After waiting a few more breaths, I knocked again. Silence but for the night wind outside. I sat down on the chair, thinking I’d just wait a while to go in. I had a picture in my mind of Karlee, curled up, asleep in the empty bathtub with a bed pillow under her head and a blue blanket over her. Then I waited and waited, fearing I’d lose the image if I moved.

FLAMING TEETH

GARRY KILWORTH

Icouldn’t find reference to the island anywhere. The discovery of a new island in a remote southern corner of the Pacific Ocean, well clear of normal shipping routes, is remarkable enough in an age where we can see the earthwork of an ancient king’s burial from space. How had it remained unknown? True, we had passed through a forbidden area, a nuclear test zone, but we had been taken against our will by an unmanageable storm and Chris informed us that it had been many years since those tests had taken place.

My first thoughts were that it might have appeared recently from the ocean depths. But then, the landscape of the island was thickly forested and was abundant with wildlife. The two explanations that we all liked best, was that it had either been shrouded in mist for eons or it had slipped through a portal from a parallel world. Mystery takes mastery over pragmatism on a planet that is rapidly going to wrack and ruin through selfishness. At that time we didn’t know that it had for centuries been deliberately hidden from stray shipping, due to the savage nature of the island’s only inhabitant.

The lagoon was stocked with fish with a hinterland that seemed almost primordial. We were prepared to stay there until the lawyers tried to oust us. I imagined at the time that every mother’s country would want to wrest it from us. In fact, it would only take a few muscled bouncers to throw us into a boat and send us packing. We agreed among us that if it had to be given to any nation, it should be the nearest Polynesian archipelago.

The yacht belonged to Jill and me, but we had guests on Hilda: two other couples. We were in the for’ard berth, while the other two couples had twin berths aft, one either side of the ladder to the top deck. There were James and Sally to port and Chris and Juliana to starboard. We found the whole adventure quite exciting. Within a short time we had separate huts spaced out along the beach and began to live suburban lives. Naturally, there were times when we got together, for a barbeque or an evening’s entertainment, but it was a similar arrangement neighbours and friends have who live in the same street.

James and Sally were a very private, respectable, upright pair, only ever married to each other. James was in insurance and Sally in local government. Acquaintances, they took a four month unpaid vacation to come with us when they heard we were sailing round the world. Chris and Juliana were not married. He was an engineer, a world traveller with his work, and had been married three times. She was Italian and had worked in a variety of jobs from shop assistant to restaurant manager. Chris had answered my advertisement for a competent sailor. We needed another experienced navigator and helmsman on board in case I got sick or fell overboard. He told me he was between projects and would enjoy the voyage. That left Jill and me. I am a retired ex-serviceman and Jill an artist, a painter and sculptor who could work anywhere. Neither of us had been married and to my knowledge neither of us had any intention of becoming so. We had been together for almost three years.

After a week on the island it became clear we were not alone.

“There’s a wide track which runs through the rainforest, just two miles east,” said Chris.

“What sort of a track?” I asked. “Wheel ruts?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing mechanical. It’s just flattened undergrowth. Trees broken, here and there. Too uniform to be a storm or anything like that. Something has blundered through the rainforest.”

Juliana asked, “Are there great beasts on these islands?”

“An animal? You mean an elephant, or rhino, something like that? Borneo once had a small rhinoceros, but I’m sure that’s extinct. We’ve killed ‘em all off. There won’t be any elephants, unless imported.”

James chimed in here. “Natives? I mean, a local tribe?”

Chris shook his head. “There were trees that’d been snapped. Not cut but broken. In fact, I didn’t see any signs of machete use, anything like that.”

“Some of us will go out with you tomorrow, Chris, and have a closer look.”

Chris’s mouth tightened. “You’re not satisfied with my assessment.” “Yes, of course I am. I’m not doubting it. But several heads are better than one. If we’ve been blown off course to this island, maybe someone else has. I just hope we got here first and that means it’s ours. I mean to keep it. We must keep it,” I added quickly. “Chris, you’re a reasonable sailor. How about this. New Zealand’s about seven days fair sailing. You take the Hilda, sail to Auckland and register our claim. You need to tell them we wish to retain sovereignty but are willing to come under their national umbrella. I’m sure the Kiwis have some sort of arrangement with the Cook Islands like that. What do you think?”

Chris looked at Juliana. She shrugged as if to indicate that it really didn’t matter to her, one way or another.

Turning back to me, Chris said, “Let’s go into the forest tomorrow and I’ll show you what I saw. Then we’ll discuss what to do about it.”

I nodded in agreement and we all went back to our huts for an evening meal. Sometimes the group ate together, but tonight we needed to discuss the situation with our partners. Once the lizard we were having as our main meal was cooked and put on our banana-leaf plates, Jill told me she understood Chris’s annoyance.

“He thinks you don’t trust his judgement,” she said.

“Well, he’s a bit too sensitive for my liking,” I replied.

“I think you chose him to be the one to leave because he’s the biggest threat to your leadership. Are you sure you want to let him have the Hilda? We’ll be trapped here till he gets back. What if someone falls ill or has an accident?”

“In which case I’d use the sat phone to call for help. The boat wouldn’t be of any use in an emergency. They can reach us much faster than we can get to them.”

Nothing more was said on the subject. The next morning Jill, me, and Chris set off for the area where the forest had been levelled. It was a good three miles from camp and I was glad Chris and I had cut a path on previous hunting expeditions. Forcing a passage through a dense, virgin rainforest is a slow, exhausting business. On arrival at the “track” I could see that it wasn’t easy to decide what had caused it. The undergrowth had been flattened, but not uniformly and the odd tree had been broken, but none of the hardwoods with strong buttresses. It looked as if an animal had blundered through, not caring about what was in their way. Were we in Africa, I would have suggested one of the pachyderms or a small herd of ungulates, but since neither of these were to be found on a coral island I was completely mystified. I fell back on my theory of intruders.

“What do you think?” I asked Jill. “Human destruction?”

“But what with? she asked. “I’m puzzled about the broken trees. As you said last night, Chris, there’s no vehicle tracks.”

“Balloon tyres?” I suggested.

“In the jungle?” said Chris, scathingly. “Come on.”

For the next two hours we followed the track, until we came to a river. There on the muddy banks on either side were large prints, but of what we couldn’t decide. The mud was too sloppy to retain the shape of feet. It was simply a few holes about 25 to 30 centimetres deep. Even so the creature must have been huge and heavy, though it was difficult to guess the actual size. The only scenario I could come up with was that a large creature of some kind, possibly an elephant. Maybe one or more had been imported to the island at some earlier time. However, that would have meant we were not the first to put foot on these shores, which unsettled me.

“You don’t think,” asked Sally, when we got back to camp, “something from another era could have survived the passing of time?”

James snorted. “A dinosaur?” he scoffed. “No, I don’t.”

“What about crocs, then? They’re from that period.”

“Well yes, but . . .”

“Well yes and no buts. You can stop sneering now, Mr. Know-it-all. What about mammals?” she persisted, ignoring the glare he gave her. “Australia was roamed at one time by huge marsupial lions—in prehistoric times.”

Jill replied, “They weren’t big enough to cause such damage to trees, Sally. I had to provide artwork once, to an Australian museum on their marsupial ‘monsters’ as they called them. The lion was the largest and it was the size of the boars we have today. Now if you were talking about mammoths, then yes, the destruction would be consistent with such a creature. But really? A herd of hairy mammoths surviving all the changes the world has gone through over thirty-thousand-years? I doubt the island is even that old. It’s surely one of those volcanic islands that’s risen from the seabed without being detected. However, I have a good idea what this creature is—it’s so obvious I wonder none of you have thought of it too.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A giant.”

We all stared at her. It was me who broke the silence.

“That one they found in the Amazon basin was supposed to be the last unknown giant.”

“There was a another one found recently in Low’s Gully, in the barely explored rainforest area below Mount Kinabalu. Let’s face it, giants have been with us since the first cave woman gave birth to a baby. They’ve mostly kept to themselves, where they could, but with the human population growth there’s been confrontation. It’s only a couple of centuries since we stopped killing them. So long as we don’t bother this one, it might not bother with us.”

She was right. It was possibly not the only explanation for the tracks in the rainforest, but I couldn’t think of another one.

James said, “They’re not always placid vegetarians.”

“No,” I replied, “but there’s a lot of false information about giants. You get it when people aren’t familiar with a creature. Wolves for instance. I read the other day that there wasn’t a single person killed by wolves during the last century, despite the increase in numbers of packs. Most people have never come across a giant. The media feeds on ignorance. They like a sensation and print stories about giants killing and eating humans.”

“I hope you’re right,” said James. “All the same, Sally and I want to go back with Chris on the yacht.”

“Whoa!” cried Sally. “Who said I wanted to leave?”

James shot her a fierce but hurt look. “Well, I’m going and I assumed my wife would support my decision on the matter.”

She appeared indifferent to his anger.

“Jimmy, daaarling, if you think I’m going to rush back to that stuffy old office in Broad Street, Bury St Edmunds you’re very much mistaken. This is the adventure of a lifetime and I’m not going to end it prematurely because you’re frightened of a silly old giant. I’m staying here.”

James set his jaw. “Well, I’m going.”

As it happened James had a bad case of diarrhoea that night. A man given to eating too much and already overweight, he had continually been down with stomach problems since we left home. At home, Sally could control his diet, but not on board the boat, and certainly not on the island. By the time he managed to stagger out of his hut the next morning, Chris and Juliana had sailed. He railed at Sally for a while, then started on me, but he was in no condition to keep up a tirade of verbal abuse and finally went back to his bed. I wondered if we would have trouble with him once he threw off the stomach troubles, but in fact two days later he was as meek as a lamb. There was almost a spark of enthusiasm about him which made me think that maybe he was glad he’d been overruled by his wife and was now prepared to experience an adventurous time.

Three days after Chris and Juliana had left, we needed to go hunting. We had stores, but I only wanted to use those in an emergency. We went into the rainforest in a careful and vigilant manner now. There was no way we wanted to disturb a giant, if giant there was, especially with a surprise party. If Jill was right about there being one of those early offshoots of the human race, then it was best we gave it a wide berth. To be on the safe side, I had a rifle with me. I had brought it with my personal gear onto the island from the yacht. It was only a small-bore weapon, but hopefully it would deter any attacking giant.

The women stayed in the camp to keep it occupied in case a boat or ship came by. James and I went out to forage and hunt for edible wildlife. This time we found a glade where there were three blackened lumps of wood. One of the stumps was still smouldering. Here we found definite prints of a barefooted man whose feet were around five times the size of my own. That would make him going on for ten metres in height. A big fellah, by any standard.

“What do you make of that, James?” I asked. He did not like ‘Jimmy’ or ‘Jim’ except from his wife. “It seems to be a giant and this is probably where he had his fire.”

“Very small fire.” His tone was grudging. It seemed he had gone back to being angry with me for not waking him before the yacht left.

“True.” This much was puzzling.

“Well, at least we know we have a giant here. I hope to God he’s friendly,” said James, frowning. “Hadn’t we better get back to the girls? They may be in danger.”

I told him the women were quite able to take care of themselves and that I’d left Jill with a hand axe, but actually I realised it wouldn’t be of much use. It was illegal to harm giants anyway. They had the same status as homo sapiens. If a giant attacked one of us, we could claim self-defence, but there would be a lot of messy courtroom dramas to go through and the L.P.G. wouldn’t let it rest. There would be bad general media coverage, bad social media coverage, and probably a great deal of street harassment to contend with. Actually killing a giant was only one step down from strangling a baby orang utang. They were an endangered group along with the Oceanian pygmies and others.

I managed to shoot a pig and we went back to camp, and of course found Jill and Sally alive and well. We told them about the footprints and the smoking charcoal and they both took it well. We had a good meal, which included fish as well as the pork, Sally having caught a red snapper on a line. We still had some vodka and whisky, and so ended the evening feeling satisfied and jolly. However, I had trouble sleeping and went for my usual walk along the beach when it occurred. It was as always, a balmy night with the waves from the lagoon lapping at the shore. The moonlight picked out hermit crabs going about their business. I could hear rustlings and murmurings in the undergrowth above the sands, but all this was normal. There would be creatures moving around and there would be plants waving in the wind. Then, at the end of the bay I found myself smelling the smoke of a fire.

I climbed some rocks on the headland, to see where the smoke was coming from. It was rising from the same area where we found the three charred stumps. Cautiously, I made my way along a narrow path we had fashioned ourselves and emerged on the edge of the clearing. Looking into the glade, which the moon lit up like a cosy living-room in a Suffolk cottage, a jolt of fear went through me. Sitting there about to raise the carcass of a whole pig to his mouth was a huge man. He was covered in hair except for around his jaws where the beard was singed or had been burnt clean away. There was a thickness about him: his torso and limbs. And his feet and hands were huge. The strangest thing about him though was his mouth. Flames were licking and hissing from it as they would from a small fire fed by unseasoned wood. Open as it was, I could see burning logs for teeth. It was the most frightening sight I had ever witnessed. My legs shook and my heart thumped.

Freeze or run? The two choices of a terrified creature.

I froze.

The next moment, he rose to his feet. Up and up and up he came. I knew he had seen me even though I was partly hidden by shadows. He peered at me with reddish eyes as if he were witnessing a phantom emerging from the night. Though he was monstrously huge to my idea of an ordinary man, in a forest where some of the yellow meranti trees were eighty to ninety metres in height it was not surprising that he’d remained hidden until now. He was almost completely naked, except for a thick bamboo pipe which sheathed his penis. It was held in place by a cord which encircled his waist. For a moment I couldn’t take my eyes away from that extremity. The size of it caused me both to shudder in awe and to want to laugh at the same time.

The pig was dropped and he took a step towards me, but he still seemed unsure of what to make of me. I think he was as much bewildered by my presence as I was by his. Suddenly I thawed and now I ran. I took to my heels and ran like an athlete back along the track towards the camp. Although the blood was pounding in my ears and I wouldn’t have heard an air raid siren at that point, I had the feeling he wasn’t following. It was a good thing, because my lungs became unbearably painful and the breath caught in my throat. After a while I had to stop, gag, and suck in air. Looking back, there was nothing crashing through the undergrowth after me. By the time I walked into camp I had gathered myself together and was to outward eyes, fairly calm.

Sally and Jill were up and tending the fire, it being close to dawn by this time.

“I’ve seen the giant,” I croaked.

That day we tried to fortify our position on the beach, burying sharpened spikes around the hutted area, dragging large tree trunks and covering them with thorned creepers, digging pits and laying grass trapdoors over them, but I—having seen our possible enemy—knew that anything we built would not stop the creature from attacking us if it wanted to. By the evening we were exhausted, and James was talking about building a raft.

“I don’t think that feasible,” I said. “It would take a great deal of time and effort, and then we’ll be abandoning a place of sufficiency for possible starvation and thirst on the largest ocean in the world.”

“You’re the sailor,” he snapped. “You can do it.”

“I’m not sure we can build a craft sturdy enough to keep it together for very long. One squall would probably be enough to tear it to pieces. A bamboo deck and pandanus sails? I’m no Captain Bligh.”

“What’s a mutiny got to do with it?”

I believe James was thinking I was questioning his motives.

“The mutineers set Bligh adrift in a small boat and he navigated his way over 4000 miles to Timor. All he had was a sextant and charts. But the boat was a sturdy craft and he was a brilliant navigator. I rely on electronic devices to tell me which way to go. It’s not on, James. We have to dig in and wait for Chris and Juliana to return.”

Luckily, an hour later, Chris managed to contact us on the solar-powered sat phone for the first time since he’d berthed in New Zealand. Our phone hadn’t been working since James dropped it into a tide pool. Drying it had taken several days and only now were we able to get a signal.

“What’s been the problem with the phone?” he asked first of all.

“It got wet and even when it was thoroughly dried out, it wouldn’t take a charge at first. I think it’s serviceable now.”

“Good. Okay. Now listen, we’re on our way back. I reckon a few days should do it. How are you coping. Food? Water? Any sickness?”

“All fine, but we’ve got company. A giant. One that seems to breathe fire. He hasn’t bothered us yet, but we don’t know his disposition. We’ve tried fortifying the camp, but the barricades are pretty flimsy.”

There was a short period of silence where I thought we’d lost Chris, but then he came through again.

“Ah, I was hoping he wouldn’t be anywhere near you. It’s a big island. He’s known to the authorities. That’s why the island is uninhabited, and it ”.

I swallowed hard, knowing the other three were listening. The fruit bats were gliding overhead, going to their roosts for the night. They gave the evening an ominous spooky feeling.

“So, is he dangerous?”

“The Kiwis wouldn’t commit themselves. They just said to get you off there as soon as possible. Just try to keep out of his way. He might not be interested and may wander off to some other part of the island. The good news is. The island’s yours—ours—though whether we want it or not under the present circumstances . . .”

“They can keep it. It’s his. Just get us off as quickly as you can. Can’t they send a faster craft for us? A helicopter?”

“Expensive. Very. Do you want to lose your nice big house?”

I looked at Jill and she shook he head firmly.

“No,” I replied, hollowly.

“They’ll come if you ask for them. If it looks like he might get hostile, that’s the time to put out a mayday. A Pacific islander did go missing in the region a short time ago, but that could have been anything. Storm, hidden shoal, accident, anything. The guy was in a small canoe—a va’a—those things can be upset by a big fish. Anyway, I’m on my way. Talk again in a couple of days.”

“Okay. Before you go, does he have a name? The giant?”

“Name? Oh, yeah. Hold on, I’ll have to read it to you. Juliana, where’s that bit of paper, sweetheart? Thanks. Yes, there it is, they call him Yameyame Vakasequruqurubati. I’m sure I’m not pronouncing it right.”

“That’s a bloody mouthful. What’s it mean in English?”

“Flaming Teeth.”

“Huh. Why use one syllable when ten will do.”

“Yeah,” Chris said, “anyway, when a tooth burns down to the gum, he rams another lump of wood in its place. It has the advantage of cooking his food as he’s eating it.

Sally said, “He must be the biggest mammal on the earth.”

“No, that’s the blue whale, Sal. Good try though.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. Just you hurry up and get here.”

Shortly after Chris had cleared down Jill let out a cry.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, thinking she’d been bitten by something.

“There—there along the beach!”

The rest of us turned to look. The bay was concave and was around a mile long. There at the far end, almost on the point, stood a huge silhouette with a fiery face. I knew now that it was only his mouth that burned, but from a distance as darkness fell it looked like his whole face was alight.

“My God, he’s big,” breathed Jill with awe in her tone.

I was tempted to ask her whether she meant the whole man or some special part of him, but it was no time for flippancy.

“Is he coming this way?” asked James with a trace of fear in his voice. “I can’t tell, can you?”

So far as I could ascertain he was as still as a beacon.

“I don’t think so,” I replied.

“We need a guard,” James said, quickly. “I’ll take the first four hours,” and he picked up the rifle.

“There’s only a couple of rounds left,” I told him. “We’ve used most of the ammo hunting our food.”

“Well, that’s pretty stupid,” he retorted, “with a bloody giant on our heels.”

It was useless to argue that we’d only just learned of the presence of a giant, so I left him thinking he’d scored.

Jill said, “Not four hours. Two. We can all take a shift.”

James shook his head. “Sally doesn’t know how to use a gun.”

“Then you’ll have to show me,” said the woman in question. “It can’t be that hard.”

“But,” argued her husband, “you have to know how to use one—you know, safety catches, how to aim and . . .”

“Jimmy, how many guns have you fired in your life?”

“Well, I had an air rifle as a boy. But a man, you know . . .

“Don’t say it, James,” came in Sally. “Just don’t say it.”

I let them get on with it. The darkness came down like a shutter, as it does near the equator. We piled branches and logs on the fire, to light up the perimeter as much as we could. I got the yacht’s fire axe, but it was merely a comforter. I knew that I couldn’t fight a giant with a hand axe. I don’t think any of us got much sleep. In the morning, we had a surprise waiting for us. There on the sands, not thirty metres away, was a pile of fruit and a haunch of wild pig.

“The giant’s left us a gift,” cried Sally. “He wants to be friends.”

James replied, “How did he get so close when we had a watch?”

Flaming Teeth had managed to get within thirty metres of the camp without being heard or seen, which since he had a mouthful of fire—not too difficult to see at night—meant that one of us had fallen asleep on duty. I said nothing though, since everyone was hanging on their nerves.

The “gifts” were welcome however, since the hunter-gatherers amongst us didn’t want to go into the forest. Our water source was a stream that trickled from the top of the headland just a few metres away, so we were able to stay together in a tight but nervous ball and wait for the yacht. We had the choice of a mayday, but it had to be a life or death situation. So far it seemed he was a tame giant. We could hear him moving around in the forest, doing something with trees and branches, but so long as he didn’t enter the camp I wasn’t too worried.

As the hours passed, I began to reflect on our time on the island. At first I had been full of optimism and enthusiasm. We had found a very valuable piece of real estate by accident which might change our lives forever. There was lush rainforest in the interior which led to some spectacular volcanic peaks that had been fashioned by an eruption. You could see bird and animal shapes in the frozen lava—and anything else your imagination allowed. God or science was an extraordinary sculptor, depending on your beliefs. The beaches were remarkably clean for the century. One or two plastic items had been washed up, but there was a swift current out in the deep which I think took most flotsam and jetsam past the island and on to somewhere else. It was an idyllic setting in a garden of plenty and it was such a shame we had to leave it.

The next three days passed without any serious event. Food was left for us almost on a nightly basis which saved us from having to go into the forest to hunt. Sometimes we could hear him breathing fire, but the closer we came to leaving, the more I felt positive. The Hilda was getting nearer to all the time. Chris called every evening and he felt that things were in hand.

“Alles in ordnung,” he would joke, in a German accent.

Then one night Jill wandered further than usual into the edge of the rainforest. She came back with a frown on her forehead.

“Hey, Dougie, what were those deadwood fences called, on that New Zealand farm?”

“Thorn fences. Why?”

“Well, I think the giant’s built one, just inside the rainforest.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rose.

“He has?”

James looked up from the fire. “Has what?”

“Nothing. I’m not sure. I’m just going check on something.”

I picked up the rifle and went to investigate. I came back a while later after following the thorn fence both ways.

I went back to the camp.

“He’s built a pen,” I said. “A bloody cattle pen, ten feet high. It’s all the way from one headland to the other. We’re trapped inside.”

James went white with fear.

“He’s got us corralled.” He was quiet for a minute or two, then he added, “The food he leaves. He’s fattening us up.”

“Oh, my God,” murmured Sally. “Oh, my God.”

I tried to calm things. “Chris will be here in the morning. We have to hold out one more night. Flaming Teeth won’t know we have a rescue boat coming. We have to be ready to walk out to the reef in the morning, during low tide. We can’t wait for Chris to bring the dinghy into shore. Hopefully Chris can manoeuvre the yacht close enough to the reef for just a short swim.”

Sally said, “He’ll see it first, if he’s looking out to sea. The giant. He can see much further than us.”

“You’re right,” I replied. “Tell you what, I’ll call Chris tonight. He’s very close now. He should get to us before dawn. Thank God the tide will be out at that time. We’ll wait for him on the reef. Hopefully the boat will be hidden by darkness till it reaches the reef. Then we can swim for it.”

I called Chris and told him the plan. We spent a restless few hours waiting for the right time and around three in the morning we set out over the shallows of the lagoon. It was slow and tortuous going without torchlight. There was a gibbous moon, but it kept ducking behind a cloud and leaving us in darkness. We held hands, forming a string. Everyone was wearing thick trousers and boots to prevent coral lacerations. Once or twice someone trod on something squashy—a moray eel or octopus caught in the shallows—but the boots kept us safe from dangers like stone fish spines, which are deadly.

Eventually we made the edge of the reef. Beyond the coral rim that fringed the island was deep water. A coral cliff plunged fathoms down to the ocean floor. Down there were monsters. Large man-eating sharks, manta rays, massive lion’s mane jellyfish, sea-snakes with venom many times more deadly than a banded krait’s. Staring into the dark, we took off our boots and held hands for the next three hours on the precipice of the solid world.

The water began to rise as the tide came in, until we were up to our waists. There was a quiet panic amongst us. It was a half-awake beast that threatened to suddenly jump up and cause havoc. Then darkness slipped away suddenly. Within minutes it would be bright sunshine. We would be fully visible to anyone on the shore. James was peering fearfully at the forest pale, muttering a prayer, while the rest of us stared out to sea.

I was terrified.

And then there it was, the Hilda, ploughing through choppy waters. Chris would have the engine full on and as much sail as the yacht could take.

“He’s coming!” said Jill. “Come on, Chris. Come on.”

We were all willing the Hilda on and always, always when you’re watching a vessel hull-up out on the water, mentally urging it to reach you, it seems not to be moving at all. In the words of Coleridge, which only came to me while writing this account, it was like a painted ship upon a painted ocean. My gut was taut and I was shivering violently. On, on it came, painfully slowly to our eyes until suddenly it was there, closing on us, some thirty metres from the reef, where it swung round and presented its starboard to us.

At that moment there was a loud roar from the beach. We looked back, almost as one. Flaming Teeth stood on the edge of the lagoon. His cavernous mouth was blooming red-and-yellow fire. Smoke poured from his nostrils. Then he began wading towards us, the now deeper water of the lagoon slowing his progress. His weighted penis swung back and forth like a pendulum. Without another word we all leapt into the water and began to swim towards the Hilda. Chris was on the deck, aiming a rifle at the giant. However, he didn’t fire because, as he told me later, he thought we were safely out of the monster’s reach at that point.

Jill reached the yacht first. She was always swifter than me. Chris had thrown a scrambling net over the side and she was trying to climb it, exhausted by panic and the swim. Chris put down the rifle to lend her a hand. I got there next. Looking back, I could see Sally nearing the boat. James though, was struggling with his poor ability as a swimmer. Flaming Teeth had reached the edge of the reef. It was obvious he wasn’t going to follow in deep water.

Hanging onto the net I reached out for Sally to pull her up. During that time the giant undid the cord from his waist. He pulled the bamboo piping from his penis and swung it round his head like a bolas. He was obviously an expert with the weapon. It flew out and wound itself around James’s neck. James let out a gargled scream and was pulled rapidly towards the reef like a hooked fish. The giant reached out and grabbed his victim by the hair and waded swiftly towards the shore.

Chris grabbed the rifle from the deck and began shooting, but the yacht was bouncing on the heavy chop and destroying his aim. Flaming Teeth looked back at us and his fiery mouth roared like that of a dragon. I swear it was a shout of triumph. Smiling, he held the squirming James by one leg, dangling him above the ground. Next, he let go of the poor man, pretended to try and catch him, but then let him fall to the floor. James was his feet in a second and running. The giant let him get almost the water’s edge, before stepping forward. James screamed and tried to climb into the hollow of a driftwood tree-trunk, but Flaming Teeth plucked him out like a mouse from his hidey-hole. He dangled the wriggling man at eye level by the head and huffed into his face.

Finally, one of Chris’s shots hit Flaming Teeth in the shoulder. The giant jerked and grunted, but remained standing, still staring at us. Then the nasty smile came back as he put James between his burning teeth. We watched the pale figure going into the furnace, squealing in terror, writhing in pain. A second later Flaming Teeth bit down on his victim taking head and shoulders. The torso and the legs fell, to be caught in his left hand as he chewed. Several of us screamed at that moment, both men and women, at the horror of the spectacle. In a blink the giant was gone, into the dense rainforest.

“We have to go after him,” cried Sally, frantically. “My poor James. We have to save him from that monster.”

The rest of us looked at one another. It was one of those times when shock warps what has actually been seen. James was dead meat, charred dead meat, we had all witnessed it, but Sally’s recollection had stopped at the point where James had been struggling in the giant’s grip. Jill and Juliana tried to comfort her, but she became hysterical for a while and had to be taken below for a sedative.

Chris and I were left on deck, staring at the island.

“No point in making a landing,” said Chris. “We’ll just have to report it.”

Six months later, at the inquest the coroner informed us that the island had been removed from the charts over a hundred-and-eighty years ago.

“Giants live a long time. He’s been there for over four hundred years. Perhaps they knew he had acquired a taste for human flesh?”

Chris said, “They’d have been a lot wiser to put out signs, warning people to stay away.”

“Well, it was a long time ago. Maybe they did have signs at one time? Who knows? People did things differently then. There’ll be warnings now, but sadly in your case, too late.”

Sally asked, “What’ll happen to him? What will they do to the murderer?” Naturally, she sounded quite bitter.

“Nothing I imagine,” said the coroner, tidying his desk, probably to hide his embarrassment. “What prison could they put him in which would be more secure than where he is now?”

And so the whole episode came to an end, at least for everyone except Sally, for whom it would never come to an end. She said she would spend the rest of her life in the determination to have Flaming Teeth punished. How she hoped to achieve that, or what sort of punishment she envisaged she didn’t say.

The other day I spent a few pleasant hours in my garden. Jill and I had weeded and planted some new species in the flower beds, then we took out the sun loungers and both read our books. However, our cat disturbed us when she came out of the hollyhocks with a mouse in her jaws. She dropped the terrified wriggling creature on the lawn and played with it, before picking it up with her teeth and breaking its back. She then returned to the hollyhocks to eat it.

I ran into the house and threw up in the toilet.

ON THE HILLS, THE KNITTERS

STEVE TOASE

The knitters moved to the elephant five years after the plague ended. Sam and I watched them walk up past the village, carrying their possessions in rucksacks and wheelbarrows.

When the wheels caught on broken limestone, they helped each other, carrying the barrows between them over the rough ground.

The elephant wasn’t ours. We never asked for the three hundred foot knitted effigy to be dumped on the mountainside above the village. We didn’t put it there, but it had been sprawled across the rocks so long, longer than I’ve been alive, we felt it was part of the village. When the wind blew in the right direction, we smelled it in the street, the decay of the wool rotting in the summer sun like dead lambs. Sometimes lengths of orange yarn floated down the slope to catch in the gutters. As kids, we collected the strands and wove them into bracelets, telling ourselves that the elephant would protect us from evil, though we never knew what evil it could defend us against. Exchanging them and wearing them around our wrists as friendship bands.

We were offended that the knitters never asked permission, not that it was ours to give. The lack of etiquette that none of us really cared about put a distance between us and them.

When we were kids, we’d dare each other to spend the night inside the elephant. Sam and I did it one summer when we were eleven. Or we told people we sheltered within the woollen corpse, when we really sat outside rather than shelter under that decaying orange skin. I still remember sitting high above the valley, looking at the lights in the village and listening to the elephant shift in its decomposition. Maybe we felt the knitters were taking part of our childhood away.

The first time they came down to the village for supplies, no one spoke to them. We all know each other. We’ve all been to each other’s weddings and funerals. The knitters would have stood out anyway under normal circumstances, but the way they dressed? All their clothes were woollen, bright-coloured yarns knitted into patterns that seemed to have a meaning we could never understand. Even their shoes were felted and fitted, torn to pieces by the limestone. We got used to seeing blood on the paths, though it never seemed to bother them. They left scabbing trails along the shop floors that did not shift no matter how much we scrubbed them.

We were sat on the village green when they first spoke to us. Sam and I were sharing a bottle of Thunderbird and watching the sky change. Somewhere in the distance a radio played in one of the houses, just painting the air with music.

Three of the knitters stood around us, silent as the elephant decaying on the hill. We sat up and shielded our eyes from the sun, waiting for them to speak first. They did not.

“What do you want?” Sam said, climbing to his feet, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“We need to buy some wool. Where can we buy some?”

“Nowhere around here,” I said, standing up beside Sam.

“We have money,” the oldest girl said. She wore a jacket knitted into multicolour panels, her plaited hair held back by a thin length of crochet.

“There’s nowhere to buy any,” Sam said. While we were talking the other two knitters had moved to either side of us. We stepped back, knocking over the bottle of Thunderbird, watching it seep into the worn grass.

“Our sheep will be here soon. We just need to make some repairs.”

“No one around here has any wool to give you.”

She reached out her hands. I flinched, but Sam let her grip his palm.

“Thank you anyway.”

They walked away and left us searching through our pockets for more coins to buy more Thunderbird.

Over the next few weeks, their outfits became more ragged and the amount of elephant stuffing clogging the gutters seemed to increase. We wondered if they were destroying the sculpture. Harvesting it for their own use. Then their sheep arrived and they penned them on the village green.

We just watched as the trucks drove down the narrow streets and unfurled ramps, the herd of animals quickly chewing up the pristine grass. The drivers began to erect hurdle fencing around the flock, paying little attention to the gathering crowd of us villagers. Sam’s dad walked up to one of the deliverymen and grabbed his arm, until he saw the man’s expression.

“You can’t leave those here,” he said. “They don’t belong here.”

The driver climbed into his cab and passed over an invoice.

“Delivery note says to bring them to the village, so we brought them to the village.”

“But they’re not meant for us.”

“Don’t care who they’re meant for. They’re delivered.”

“Don’t you need someone to sign for them?” Sam’s dad said, looking once more at the paper in his hand.

“Doesn’t need a signature. They’re delivered. My job’s done.”

“Must be for those incomers up the mountain. You need to take them up there.”

The driver called over the others and pointed up the narrow track. They shook their heads and laughed at Sam’s dad. I think that was the moment when things went really bad.

Later that day the knitters came down and herded the animals up to the elephant. Some of the men had been drinking all day and came out of the pub to shout abuse at them, but it was ignored. You could see the knitters’ point of view, but somehow it felt like everything was going to get worse.

The next day the sheep were wandering back down the hill. Several had fallen to smash to pieces on the rocks. The knitters came down to gather them back. They said nothing. Made no attempt to blame anyone or confront anyone. Just walked around in silence gathering in the animals. We noticed that most of the creatures had already been shorn, and soon after we saw the skeins of wool dyed and left to dry on wooden racks along the cliff edge. Those were the next target.

It started with slashing the yarn one night, the next pushing the racks to shatter where the sheep still lay rotting. No one confessed, even among the closed conversations happening behind the village’s closed doors. The next morning we looked out of our windows. The knitters stood in the streets, clumped together in groups with a single person in the centre. We got up to leave our houses, go to our cars, the newsagents. We watched them, waiting for an attack, but they did nothing. They stayed in their little clusters and did not retaliate.

Shame tastes of salt and sweat and we all shared it that morning, because we knew we were all complicit. And yet shame does strange things. Some people, it makes them prostrate themselves on the floor, begging for forgiveness before the universe takes retribution. Others it makes them double down. Bury the shame deep with layers of violence. After that morning I knew which way the village was going.

When Callum stepped up to the group of knitters on the village green, I was certain he was going to offer his hand in apology. To reach some kind of agreement. An accord. The only hand offered was a fist. The knitter was an older man, maybe a decade older than Callum, and it took four good punches until he fell to the green, scuffing up grass and mud as Callum stamped on his hands and legs, kicking him in the stomach and back. No one stopped him. Not the other knitters, not my fellow villagers and not me, and in those few moments we all became complicit.

When he finished, Callum walked back to his house and slammed the door as if sealing himself away gave him some solidity or purchase on the decision. On the green, the knitter lay bleeding, and none of his community went to pick him up. We could have left, gone back to our own houses. Instead we watched as he first pushed his swollen hands into the dirt, then dragged his knees up under him, and finally stood. Only once he was upright did the other knitters go to his aid. I caught his eye, and looked for anger in his expression, but there was none. There was no rage or desire for vengeance. Just sadness as if something had been lost, as if a mutual respect that could have worked toward something bigger had evaporated. Something better had bled out of that one man’s wounds.

They left then, carrying him back up the path, the rest of the men, women and children walked behind him. What happened that day transformed us as much as him. A boundary had been crossed and from then on things could only escalate.

The plague had devastated the moors. Taken three out of every ten of us, and left many others with scars as deep as any quarry. We went from communities of workers to cemetery villages haunted by the living. We just wanted to grieve in private. The elephant on the hill and the knitters it attracted gave us no chance to do that.

More came over the next few weeks. We did not know if this was planned, or if they sent out messengers to bring their people to them. Every few days a group of twenty or thirty would arrive, two or three families, and walk the foot-shredding path to the elephant.

We let them pass, watching them in silence. They were not cowed or apologetic. Or fearful. They paid us no attention whatsoever and instead ignored us as they walked through our streets to make their way to their new community. At night we saw their fires on the hill and heard their singing on the air, but when they saw us they never spoke unless spoken to, and that was rare.

One day Sam and I were sat on the benches drinking when a group was cutting across the village green. Worse for wear, Sam finished his Thunderbird and ran over to the group, bottle held low. I followed him, unsure what I was going to do if he lost control. Stop him or follow him. He grabbed the sleeve of a woman in her forties, stretching the red and yellow wool, close stitching revealing the holes as it deformed.

“Why there?” He said, holding on until she turned to him. “Why are you going up there?”

“We’re going home,” she said in a soft voice.

“And where’s home?” Sam continued, the words slurring so much I couldn’t tell if it was with anger or alcohol.

She pointed up the hill, and unhooked his fingers from her jumper.

“Home is up there,” she said, and carried on walking to catch up with her travelling companions.

“Forget about them,” I said to Sam. Two hours had passed and his silence had deepened with each bottle.

Instead of answering, he looked up the slope. Somewhere out of sight they were singing and the flames of their fires smudged the sky.

Pushing himself to his feet, he walked in the direction of the hill path.

“Just leave them alone. They’re not bothering us. They never pressed charges against Callum.”

Sam shook his head and carried on walking.

“Shouldn’t be there,” he said. “No right to just be there.”

I ran after him, trying not to stumble and fall, a task much harder as we started up the track. Even with our outdoor shoes on, the limestone cut through to our feet, and more than once I fell, tearing open my knees.

Taking such a direct route, there was no way to sneak up and that was never Sam’s intention anyway. The path opened up into the centre of their camp, near the head of the elephant. He was there to show them something. An idea hooked inside his head. I stood behind him, not wanting to make it look like I supported everything he was about to do. No one looked up or stopped their conversations. In the firelight, the song carried on.

All around us people knitted. Some worked on small patches of cloth, others vast blankets, needles clattering in the dark. Even with the lack of light it was clear the work they’d done on the elephant. The repairs and replacements. I walked over and ran my hand over one of the ears.

“We’ve been busy.”

The man was the one beaten by Callum. His eye was still closed and the scar across his face suggested it would stay that way. I stepped back.

“We work in shifts to repair it,” he said. “Uses a lot of wool, but we have sorted that problem now.”

If I listened past the singing and the clattering of needles I heard something else. The sound of livestock a bit further out on the moor. Smelled them too. The reek of lanolin and shit.

“We didn’t want any more conflict with you all, so we arranged to have the sheep delivered to the other side of the moor and then drove the flock here.”

I glanced over toward Sam. He still stood in the middle of the camp, staring around and not speaking. Slowly he walked across to one of the wooden frames. I followed him. Closer now, I saw it was a loom, the woman sitting in front threading through the wool, her feet occasionally pressing the pedal to the dirt underfoot. Firelight reflected off the pattern.

“It’s beautiful.” Sam was entranced by the design, stepping closer until he was directly behind the weaver. She did not seem bothered by his presence and continued to work while he breathed sour alcohol over her shoulder.

In the firelight, the patterns danced. The design seemed to curve in on itself in a way that defined the threads as if the colour bleached between them, I saw eyes staring back at me and the glistening of teeth. Something twisting and seething in the fabric. I felt myself focus more on the precise details, on the fibres in the wool that didn’t quite lay flat, snagging on those pressed down as the woman operated the loom. The sound of the wood shifting under her direction was setting the rhythm for the singing at the nearby campfires, and the voices were melding with the distant cries of the sheep calling into the darkness.

“What is it?” Sam asked. He seemed closer to the loom now, though he hadn’t moved.

“Home,” the woman said without turning, falling silent and letting her words be replaced by the clatter.

“You need to leave. The night is no time for outsiders to be here, and we don’t want your families to come looking for you up here.”

At first I thought Sam was not going to leave with me, and the sinking feeling returned. The sensation of watching someone disappear in front of you, even while they were still there. The sensation of a void opening up somewhere behind your ribs and all your organs compressing through it as their life drains away. We’d all experienced that during the plague so many times. I hoped I would never feel it again. I was wrong.

I grabbed Sam’s arm and dragged him toward the path. Drunk and tired, walking in the dark with only the vague light of the campfires above us, we struggled to stay upright, and arrived home with more scars and cuts than we left the camp with.

I called for Sam the next day, his mother sending me upstairs to his room. He sat by the window, staring up at the slope.

“Hangover?” I said, sitting on his bed and picking up a magazine to flick through. He didn’t answer and kept fixated on the distant hill, a slight edge of orange just visible. His hands were on the windowsill in front of him and kept moving over each other.

“You saw the pattern too, didn’t you?”

When we got back down, I’d walked home and finished the last of the beer in the fridge to block something out. Now I knew what, as the memory of those swirling teeth returned.

“What about it?”

“The spiral. It just felt so welcoming. Like inside there, somewhere, there was a place to go. A place to be.”

“How much did you have to drink last night?”

He turned and I thought he was going to hit me. I glanced down at his hand. I don’t know where he got the wool from. Some was the same orange as the elephant, dirty and gutter collected. Other strands were bright red and faded orange. I looked around the room, over the piles of clothes on the floor that I hadn’t really paid attention to before. The scissors lay on top of the jumpers, just enough cuts so he could unravel the stitches. Precise and economic. The unravelled wool was lying in a pile on the floor, slowly passing through his fingers as he knotted it to smaller strands. No design or organisation, just activity. The friction had worn through his skin and several strands were coated in blood. He stared at me and all I saw was a dislocation somewhere deep inside.

I reached over and grabbed the wool from his hands.

“What are you doing?” I said, but he ignored me, reached down for another piece as he continued to stare out at the distant camp. I knew there was no way I’d get any sense out of him, so left him to whatever place inside his head he found more comfortable than the real world.

He went missing the next day. No one knew where to look for him. They gave it until nightfall, we often went walking in the fields and woods beyond the village, but he didn’t return. Leaving me behind was a worrying sign. We’d never done anything apart since school. When the sun set his family called the police. When the sun set I went off looking for him.

I didn’t think that my parents would be worrying too. Think we’d both been taken by the predators outside the village that they believed lurked around every urban corner and would drift into our community when they got bored with city streets. I didn’t think that they would get the police to search for me too.

The hillside path was treacherous in the dark, more so when I was sober it seemed. I dare not turn on a light in case someone below saw the glow in the dark and followed me. I had a pretty good idea where Sam had gone, and I had a pretty good idea what the rest of the village would do if they found out. I didn’t want that violence on my conscience. I didn’t want that violence on Sam’s.

Even though only a couple of days had passed since my last visit, the camp had changed beyond all recognition. All the wooden structures had been dismantled, and the air smelled of damp ash instead of campfires. There was no sound. No clicking of needles or looms. No singing or sheep calling out in the darkness. Nothing at all, apart from one single sound, quiet and muffled, coming from inside the giant woollen elephant.

The skin had been repaired with precise stitches, leaving only one entrance edged with torn stuffing. I prised apart the edges and eased myself in. First one foot, then the next, watching them disappear into the clouds of stuffing that pressed against my face as I moved further in. Inside the elephant, air was sparse and fibres coated my mouth, attaching to my tongue as I tried to lick my lips. The muffled breathing was more noticeable now.

Although the stuffing compressed me, it was clear a pathway had been carved through deep into the elephant. There was no light, and I had no torch with me. Instead, I pressed my hands through the most pliant spots, following the barely hollowed out labyrinth. The air around me smelled of copper and I felt the dampness of material brush against my skin. Once I no longer felt the air from the torn entrance, sweat began to drip down my face, stinging my eyes, even in the darkness.

Somewhere deep inside the elephant I heard mewling, and wondered whether they’d slaughtered the sheep, left the lambs to bleed out in this humid compression. To let animals die in agony under the weight of the elephant’s stuffing took cruelty.

I tried to reach my hand to my face and wipe away the perspiration, but the pressure of the fibres against me held my arms in place against my sides. All I could do was walk on the route carved for me.

Had Sam walked the same route, putting foot after foot as he followed in the darkness, others walking behind him in their brightly coloured jumpers and hats? Had he joined them before they left the hillside, following this path as an initiation into some kind of cult? Looking for meaning with strangers that the village never gave him? Looking for meaning that our friendship never gave him?

The mewling was louder now, the slaughtered sheep closer. The pressure around me distorted its cries. I stopped and tried to turn, but there was no way to pivot, no way to retreat. There was only forward. This was not just a passage through some discarded sculpture left to rot on a hillside. This was time and life and regret.

My throat clogged with the fine white fibres, tickling as they stuck in place, and without any choice in the matter, I coughed. There was no relief. I stopped and leaned forward to vomit them out of me, pressing fingers past my tongue. No matter how much I persisted they remained inside.

The weight around and above was a living thing now, shifting and flexing as I pushed through. More than once I wanted to turn. The compression did not give me that choice, just held me in place and forced me onward. Though uncomfortable and reaching for breath, I did not panic. The elephant was only three hundred feet long, and when I reached the end I could tear my way out and breathe fresh air once more.

Sam went of his own choice, and we always said we would leave the village and maybe not together. Since the plague not many visitors came, and not many visitors were welcomed elsewhere. Maybe he saw these strange quiet people as his only way to escape. Pausing, I closed my eyes and tried to remember his face. My mind doesn’t see well and I struggled to hold him in my imagination. I felt fibres stuck to my tear ducts, and when I blinked they slid down my eyelid scratching patterns I did not want across my vision. For a moment I saw something precise and white floating around a black void. They snapped together, biting away the darkness.

I cried then. Not for Sam. Sam was fine. Sam was away. Found his escape with people I did not understand. I cried to clear my sight. I cried to see the way to go. I cried to return what little vision I had, but the elephant was in my mouth and my eyes and under my skin.

The screaming intensified, a rip of agony that did not let up. Closer now. Maybe I could at least put the animal out of its misery. How could people who offered no violence when attacked inflict so much cruelty on an animal? Not release it from its agony?

I felt the path guide me around, leading me deeper and deeper. The pressure from either side lessened, though the air stayed humid and heavy in its own way. I carried on as progress got easier. Somewhere ahead was a light. I had reached a way out. An exit from the embrace of an animal that had never lived, abandoned to rot on a hillside no one cared about. I readied myself to breathe fresh air, clear my mouth, clear my eyes, and followed the path’s last curve.

I was not outside. There was no route out of the elephant apart from one. The mewling leading me through the elephant was no lamb.

The knitters had stitched Sam in place, threads and knots going through his limbs, piercing his muscles and bone. Light filled the carved-out chamber, a glow coming from the wound bisecting Sam’s chest, lengths of crochet holding apart broken ribs. They’d taken his eyes and teeth and tongue, leaving just vacant wounds they’d stuffed with raw fleece. I moved closer, turning my head to vomit into the blood-soaked fabric beneath my feet.

The cavity the knitters had carved into Sam was ragged and ran from pelvis to just below his throat. I edged closer to see if there was anything I could do. Unhook his bones and fuse the wound in some way. That’s when I glanced inside him.

The hollow they had created within him wasn’t empty. Beneath the cut muscle the gap was filled with teeth, around the edge eyes. Not the eyes of predators, but the pleading gaze of the knitters, begging me to join them in safety, to just step past the blood and wounds and lower myself through the gap to a better world. To leave behind this place of plague and misery and starvation, and for a moment, just for a moment, as their songs drifted up to me and I smelled the sweetness of late night woodsmoke, I considered it. I considered stepping into the still-living corpse of my friend to escape a world that no longer had him within it. I caught sight of his expression as he strained to remain in the world, and I knew that if I left that there would be no one left to do what needed doing.

After I broke his neck I sat beside him until the light from within the wound faded. I don’t know what that meant, but my best friend was dead and it was because I thought it was better than leaving him as whatever they had transformed him into. Escape route or trap, he deserved better.

Once the chamber was in darkness, I followed the route back out, not caring if the fibrous stuffing suffocated me. Footstep by footstep I turned each turn and pressed past each blockade, until I reached the entrance once more.

They found me at the bottom of the hill-path with wounds I could not explain. A few days later, I was healed and so was the world.

No one was looking for Sam. No one remembered him as the place had scabbed over his absence. At first I thought the villagers were ignoring his disappearance to avoid conflict. Before that night they would have used any excuse to blame the knitters. To pick another fight. Now it was like none of them had ever existed within the world; Sam or the knitters.

I remember though. I remember the walk inside the elephant. I remember his mouth and sockets stuffed with wool. I remember those eyes staring at me from inside his chest, pleading with me to make my escape.

When the wind blows in the right direction it still smells of rot, but over the reek of decaying wool and old lanolin there is something else; the broken meat stench of my friend turned inside out as an escape for people we never made welcome. When no one else remembers I do, the air itself forcing me to see that escape again and again and again.

NEW FOX SMELL

LIVIA LLEWELLYN

“You’re going to be fine. It’s just a month.”

Laurel’s mother speaks to her from behind the screen door. Laurel turns and gives her a tight-lipped smile. The screen metal is thick and gray, and her mother looks like she’s floating within a rectangular storm.

“All of August,” Laurel says. “I’ll come back and have to start school right away, I won’t have any time to get ready.”

“I don’t understand you, we’ve already been over this. You wanted to be invited, I remember how you begged Patricia.”

“That was years ago, mom. You know we haven’t been friends since seventh grade.”

“All the cool girls get invited to the island, you used to say. I’ll just die if I don’t go, you said. I thought you’d be happy that she invited you, that we agreed to let you go.”

“You mean make me go, and for four whole fucking weeks. And once again, I had to quit my job!”

Laurel waits for her mother to shout language! like she always does, but instead she pushes the wooden front door closer to the screen, her face growing darker as it recedes into the house. “You told us you wanted to go on vacation, so now you’re going. It’s done,” she says, every word dripping with the implication that Laurel is already gone, her absence both welcome and irreversible. She’s already looking away, to the living room, the kitchen. Laurel knows she should be used to this, but the pain and anger always surprise her as they flare up once again, flooding her body with cold prickly blood; and for a brief second, she’s overcome with the thrill and relief of leaving this house, running as far as she can from this sticky, predictable cage of a life.

A car horn blares, the second time since Mrs. Gibson steered her massive Cadillac into their small driveway. A pale hand adorned with diamonds and gold beckons from behind the fogged windshield. Rain falls down all around them, smacking through waxy rhododendron leaves and pattering against the sides of the house.

“We’ll take good care of her, Marcy,” Mrs. Gibson shouts as her makeup-perfect face emerges from the passenger side window. Little gold hoops glint from her ears. “Patty’s going to be so happy to have her there. It’s all she’s talked about this summer—honestly, if I hadn’t agreed to come back to the mainland to fetch you, I don’t know what she’d have done.”

Her mother’s voice, behind her. “Remember to say thank you. And stop worrying, Patricia’s still your best friend. Maybe you’ll have so much fun you won’t ever want to come back home again.” The front door closes quietly, but the bolt locks sound like gun shots.

“Don’t you wish,” Laurel mutters, and picks up the suitcase resting at her feet. It’s her old baby suitcase, covered in bright pop-art daisies and peeling travel stickers from all the interesting places they vacationed at every summer. That was long ago, though, and Mom and Dad didn’t see the need to get new suitcases for something they don’t want to do anymore. Well, do with her. Laurel was more fun when she was five, her father once admitted. She’s seventeen now, and hasn’t been fun for years, apparently.

“Hurry up, honey, it’s a long drive and we want to get there before dark!” Mrs. Gibson, shouting out the window of the car. Laurel grabs the handle and runs to the car. The passenger door swings open and she tips the suitcase into the back seat before sliding in.

“Seatbelt on. Don’t want you flying through the window.” Mrs. Gibson smiles as they back out of the driveway and up the street. Laurel straps herself in, then wipes at her wet face, pinching her nose slightly before wiping her hands on her jeans. The car smells like damp pleather and upholstery and chemical-soaked car fresheners, all the normal car smells. But beneath those scents, her nose picks up a sulfurous layer of rotting vegetables and moldering earth, and the sharp musk of unwashed crotch and wet animal fur.

“Those are a lot of trees.” Laurel flicks at the three fresheners swinging from the front view mirror, then swivels in her seat. She counts at least seven—no, nine—more hanging throughout the car.

“It just gets harder every year to get all the smells out.”

“I’m sure.” Laurel presses her lips together, trying not to breathe too deep. A fire wouldn’t get rid of those horrible scents. “But wait, isn’t this a new car? I mean, this isn’t your other car. I feel like I see Patricia in a different car every time I see her. I can’t keep track.”

“It’s really doing a number out there,” Mrs. Gibson mutters. They turn onto the avenue, heading toward the bridge. “But the weather is always better on the island.”

“I’ve noticed that Patricia always comes back to school with a tan,” Laurel says. Along with a new car, and always new friends. Nothing ever old for her.

“She does indeed.”

They both fall silent. Houses and businesses rush by on both sides of the avenue, neon signs and traffic lights twinkling in the downpour. Laurel rests her elbow against the edge of the car door, her hand a fist against her face as if she’s knocking herself out. She thinks about the small, laidback hippie grocery story she’d been working at since June, the job she had to quit for this. Last year she had to leave a highly coveted job as a barista so her parents could send her to a two-week horse camp somewhere in the lower folds of Mount Rainier; the summer before that it was volunteer work with a group of obscenely cheerful church kids in Eastern Washington, for which she gave up shelving books at the local library. She just wanted one ordinary, stupid summer like all her friends had, like scooping ice cream into papery cones at Farrell’s or hanging limp dresses onto hangers in some gross mall store, hanging out after work in hot parking lots, smoking and bitching about the next school year. But Laurel’s not stupid. Whenever she leaves for one of these arranged adventures, her parents get the house to themselves. They get to pretend she’d never been born. Sometimes she wonders if she should be pretending the same thing.

“Patty will be so happy to see you. She gets a little lonely on the island during the summer. But the house has been in my husband’s family for generations, and it’s expected.”

“What’s expected?” Laurel asks.

“Oh, it’s just tradition, to always spend summer on the island. It’s actually very pleasant, the house is quite nice. You can have your own room, or you can share one of the larger rooms with Patricia, or you can both stay in one of the cottages. There’s a nice little library and a big kitchen, a tennis court and pool near the gardens, and plenty of beaches for walking. They’re gravel beaches, though. Driftwood and stones. The entire island, nothing but a ring of driftwood and stones and evergreens. Long trails and animal runs through the evergreens . . .” Mrs. Gibson’s voice fades, and the squelching of the windshield wipers fills the space. They’re now making their way onto the Narrows Bridge, the thump-thump-thump of each steel-plated section beating like a giant heart under the tires. Every now and then the car gives a sudden small swerve to the left or right as Mrs. Gibson steers it over the metal grates, and all Laurel can think about is the car continuing that swerve, sliding across the lanes and flipping over the railings, sailing through the gray air into the icy churning waters of the Straits below. She grabs the straps of her seat belt, clenching the hard fabric until her fingers hurt.

“I’m surprised Patricia gets lonely, I thought she always invites a bunch of friends over. I’m not the only one in her class who’s going to be there, right?” Laurel doesn’t really care, but anything to get her mind off the fact that they’re speeding on a narrow metal strip suspended in the middle of the air, and that Mrs. Gibson’s pupils are as wide as a cat’s.

“Oh, well, yes, she always invites a few girlfriends over every June, and my sister and two brothers all have teenagers around yours and Patty’s age, so there’s always some of their friends in the house, but most of them are gone before August. To be honest, most of them are gone by the end of June—none of them are ever quite up for surviving island life. Aside from her cousins, Patty’s always the last one in her circle still standing, so to speak. My little baby fox, all by herself, as usual.” Mrs. Gibson chuckles slightly, and pats Laurel’s knee, a friendly “just between us girls” gesture Laurel has experienced from older women more times in her life than she cares to count. She responds with her usual knowing smile.

“What’s to survive, it sounds wonderful. An island all to yourselves, a tennis court, a pool. I’m surprised Patricia would ever want to leave.”

“Well, yes, but there’s no town, of course. So we have to import all our necessities and our pleasures. And you young folks always get bored after a few days and want to go shopping or see movies or whatever it is you do. So I suppose what seems peaceful and cozy to us feels like hell to others, if you’re not used to it.”

“I think I could get used to it. I mean, it doesn’t sound like I’ll get bored. At any rate, I don’t plan on leaving until the end of the summer.”

“I do hope so. You would be the first.”

The fuzzy curve of the bridge flattens out, and the cables dwindle down to nothing on either side: they’re on solid land again, back on the planet, and Laurel’s fingers loosen their grip on the seatbelt. She quietly lets out a long breath which she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in. Once again, she relaxes, watches trees and strip malls whoosh past in a continuous blur. They’re at the outer edges of the Olympic Peninsula, the soft, civilized areas where the wealthy have settled, pouring money into electrical grids and sewer systems and any kind of expensive architecture that makes them forget that they do not really belong in this part of the world. Laurel feels herself slipping into light sleep, the sleep of traveling, where her body floats in and out of some other part of the universe, impervious to movement and the passage of time, while in the present the car and road and world whirl around her paralyzed flesh in a muted roar.

“No real foxes,” Mrs. Gibson murmurs. “Not for years.”

Laurel’s head snaps up. “I’m sorry, what,” she mumbles as she grabs at the seatbelt, which has cinched itself tighter during her short (or was it long?) nap. She stretches her legs out as far as they can go, her sneakers tapping at the curved shell of the interior. Laurel was never a patient traveler—the longer they drive, the more the car seems to cinch itself around them. The rain has slowed to a more typical drizzle, speckling the windows just enough that Mrs. Gibson has to hit the wiper button every couple of minutes to clear the glass. There’s no other cars on the highway, it’s just them, a speck of metal sailing down the empty ribbon of concrete underneath an ocean of clouds. Up ahead, the highway disappears along with the trees into the horizon. It’s like they’re sailing into space.

“I’m so sorry, dear, I thought you were awake. I was saying, there aren’t any actual foxes on the island.”

“Oh?”

“Just so there’s no expectations on your part. Everyone’s always disappointed there’s no foxes. They disappeared a long time ago. Of course, every summer we bring a few new strains over, but they never seem to survive the transplant more than a few days, a week at the most. It’s not an easy place for them to live, I guess, when will this damn rain end?” Mrs. Gibson squints and juts her face at the windshield, coated with a river of droplets despite the squealing efforts of the wipers. Outside, most of the traffic has bled away into the surrounding towns and villages hidden beyond the wide edges of the highway. A strange thought blossoms inside Laurel, her curiosity tinged with a sudden fear.

“Wait, why don’t they survive? What’s on the island that kills the foxes?” Mrs. Gibson cocks her head and smiles, then gives a quick shrug of her shoulders, as if she couldn’t say. “I guess . . . I guess they spend so much time being angry that they were tricked onto a strange island that they don’t teach themselves how to adapt and survive. They just run around, screaming like children until they’re too weak to run or fight.”

“Fight what, bears? Please don’t tell me there are bears.”

“No, dear. Not bears. You’d never guess in a million years.”

“Huh.” A small huff of air shoots through Laurel’s nostrils as it dawns on her. “You hold fox hunts. Your family hunts foxes every summer. Is that it? Is that why all Patricia’s friends leave so soon? Because they won’t kill the foxes?”

“Patty said you’ve always thought of yourself as very clever. Very leader of the pack clever. A good quality to have, although now that I think about it, I’m not sure she meant it as a compliment.”

Laurel swivels her body around as much as she can in the miniscule space. “Wow. You know, Mrs. Gibson, Patricia and I haven’t really been close friends for a couple of years now. I mean, I can’t imagine what she’d have to say about me, she doesn’t really know who I am anymore. I don’t even know why she invited me. But I can tell you right now that I’m not going on any fox hunt. I mean, if she remembers anything about who I am, she’d know that.”

Mrs. Gibson places a ringed hand on Laurel’s sweaty knee and gives it a firm squeeze. “You have my word, Laurel, you won’t have to touch a single gun.”

“Thank you.”

Laurel stares out the window again. They’ve long passed the remnants of human life, and the freeway is an unbroken line, no cut-offs or exits anywhere in sight. The trees rush past in a wall so unbroken, so symmetrical, that for a dizzying second it feels as if they’re driving down the same stretch of road past the same hundred yards of forest over and over again, caught in an endless loop. She remembers when she and Patricia and the other kids used to play in the woods just outside their neighborhoods, the few remaining stretches of undeveloped land in a region where the cities grew faster and further and more destructive than clouds of volcanic ash. They ran through those woods like animals, tearing through massive ferns and soaring over fallen branches, weaving their way toward the rough, rocky beaches of the Straits where they fell about, panting and staring up at the storm grey skies. As much as they’ve grown apart, Laurel still misses those days, filled with the crash of their feet against the forest floor, their hot panting in the cool, clean air, the echoing silence of the wide world pouring over and through and past them, making them small and enormous all at once. Laurel leans her head against the window again, ignoring the cramping in her legs and hips from the uncomfortably small seat. That damp, sour-sharp smell has only grown stronger, even the grove of swinging tree fresheners can’t hold it at bay. She’s drowning in the scents, in the cloying, overheated air.

“I’m just curious. If you aren’t friends any longer, why did you accept the invitation?

“I didn’t want to go,” she finally mumbles. Her head lolls down. “My parents wanted me out of the house, they made me go. I don’t want to go.”

Oh, I don’t believe that. Mrs. Gibson’s voice sounds millions of miles, millions of years away. I don’t believe that at all. You’re just like my Patty. I’ve seen you run.

Her fingers are buzzing. That’s what draws her away from the river of fever-dream half-sleep, where her limp body was floating above a grey, tree-lined road stretching toward a bluish bump hovering far up above the edge of the earth, nestled in a secret layer of space between the stars. Laurel blinks her gummy eyes, drawing her cramped hand out of her pocket. A notification bar on her phone is flashing, but she can’t read the words, they don’t look like any language she’s ever seen before. Outside it’s still late afternoon, time has passed yet still they’re making their way down what feels like that same stretch of six-lane highway that cuts through that same solid wall of evergreens, now crowded against the flat edges of the concrete barriers as if slowly and steadily resisting the intrusion, pressing back until they can once again flow uninterrupted across their own lands.

“No phone service anymore. Not here. Go back to sleep.” Mrs. Gibson’s languid voice cuts through the fuzz: Laurel slides up in her seat, wincing as she lets her right arm, stiff and tingling from being curled up against her head for so long, drop slowly back down to her side.

“I wasn’t really sleeping.” She can barely push the words out of her phlegm-coated mouth. Is she sick? “I thought we’d be there already.”

“Everything is further out, out here. You know how it is.”

Laurel doesn’t respond. She’s struggling to shake off the drugged, cottony feeling in her head, and the smell in the car has grown. It’s angry, powerful and musky, so cloyingly strong it makes her eyes water and her heart flail in her chest. The entire car feels smaller, as if the odors are compressing everything around her. Laurel reaches to her side, fumbling for the window button in the door. It doesn’t yield to her touch.

“I think—I think this is stuck?” she asks, pressing down so hard it feels like she’s going to snap the bone. “It’s so stuffy, I don’t feel good, I need fresh air.”

“All the fresh air is on the island. Stay calm. Be still. Go back to sleep.”

“Please, I feel like I can’t breathe—maybe one of the back windows?” Laurel glances over at Mrs. Gibson. A faint smile is frozen on the woman’s lipstick-pink mouth. Other than the slight movement of her chest rising and falling with each breath, she seems almost motionless, as though a picture of Mrs. Gibson sits beside her. So close to her now, as if they were about to hug. Laurel looks down. Her car seat is so small that her thighs spill over its edges, and her knees are firmly jammed against the underside of the dashboard. She raises her hand, placing a palm flat against the ceiling of the car, now only an inch above her head, if even that.

“Did we switch cars?” The words aren’t even out of her mouth before Laurel realizes how absurd they are.

Mrs. Gibson laughs as she sits back, her face and posture natural again, relaxed. “You didn’t smoke something before I picked you up, did you? It’s fine, I know how girls your age just love to experiment.”

Laurel can’t be bothered to smile anymore. Despite the numbing effects of all the scents, she feels cold panic rising inside her, and resists the urge to buck her legs out, smash her fists against the window, anything to make more room. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s—something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with the car.” She places her hand on the glove compartment, sliding her thumb over the latch that’s almost next to her stomach. “And I thought we’d be there by now.”

“As soon as we get to ferry at the end of the bridge.”

Laurel is silent. Something about that statement is terribly wrong. She shakes her head, but she can’t shake off the fuzzy confusion seeping across her eyes, across her mind. Her mouth opens and closes, then opens again. “A ferry?”

“Of course! It’s an island, how do you think we get to it?”

“Right, yeah. Still sleepy, I guess.” Laurel rubs her eyes, then tugs at a hairband around her wrist. Her fingers can barely work their way under the band, all her energy has bled into the damp, cloying air. She lets her hands drop into her lap and stares at them. They look like two dead spiders. Her phone slides onto the floor with a dull thump. She doesn’t have the strength to bother.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she mutters at her hands.

“What dear?” Mrs. Gibson asks.

“If the island is connected by a bridge, why are we taking a ferry?”

Mrs. Gibson lets out a long yawn. “There’s no bridge to the island, only to the ferry. Only the ferry can get to the island.”

“What? I don’t get it.”

“Up ahead. Look.”

Laurel forces her head up and looks out the windshield. “God.” She meant to say oh my god, but the stench in the car rips all the air out of her lungs. They’re traveling up, the highway rising at a steep slant as if they’re moving up the lengthy curve of a bridge, as if the bridge is moving away from the land and shooting up toward the purpling edges of coming night. The trees are gone, and so is everything else—no familiar mountain range jutting up from the distant peninsula or setting sun, and if there are cables and iron arches holding up the bridge, they are invisible against the cavernous bowl of the sky. Far ahead of them and moving closer, Laurel makes out an oily, shimmering movement, an oval-shaped darkness that seems to be eating away at the end of the bridge. She wants to say what the fuck is that, but all that comes out is a soft, breathy fuuuuu.

Mrs. Gibson is whispering, sleep, sleep, the words hot and wet against Laurel’s neck. Laurel contorts her body as much as she can, recoiling from the woman’s heat and touch. Maybe if there’s still enough room, she can slide over into the back seat, and then out through the side door—as she tries to twist herself around, Laurel freezes. Mrs. Gibson is sitting with her hands in her lap, ankles crossed as if she’s sitting in a church pew, waiting to drop four quarters into the collection plate. But her face is anything but calm and serene. Laurel has never seen such a look of determination, concentration, as if she’s preparing for whatever they’re rapidly approaching. Her hands rest in her lap.

“Oh my god—” Cold fear momentarily breaks through all the languid paralysis, and Laurel lurches into Mrs. Gibson, grabbing at the steering wheel. It’s rigid and unmoving beneath her weak grasp. Underneath the dashboard, her feet thrash around the pedals, trying to find the break. There’s so little room—

“Pull up your legs, if I can’t steer the car, we’re going to crash!”

“The car is being steered.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Keep still. Less painful.”

“No, it is fucking not,” she gasps into Mrs. Gibson’s face. “What are you doing, what is happening?!”

“Rough crossing,” the older woman replies, her lips barely moving. “You’ll survive. You just need to make it through the bridge.”

“What are you talking about!” Laurel shrieks. Overhead, the car roof buckles down in a screech of metal, and spiderweb cracks instantly radiate throughout the windshield. “We’re not anywhere near the fucking water!”

“Look.”

Laurel stares out the remains of the windshield, little slivers of cold wind threading through the cracks and slicing at her face. That musky animal scent, the dank smell of unwashed skin and genitals, thick overripe secretions bursting from swollen scent glands: it’s coming from her. It’s her.

Outside, the highway is flat against the horizon, growing smaller and smaller as it disappears into the pulsing, gobbling black dot. It’s not perspective, Laurel realizes, as her body begins to violently shake. The highway, the car, the skies: they’re all growing smaller, slipping into some hole or mouth or orifice so infinitesimal that it can barely be seen.

The entire front of the car smashes inward, as if a titan’s invisible hands clapped and crushed a bug. A high-pitched scream fills the interior space: she knows it’s coming from her, but it’s not of her, the scream is its own creation, coiling out of her mouth like a frightened snake. The steering wheel has pushed forward into Mrs. Gibson’s chest, she never had a chance to let out more than a wet muffled grunt before her chest crunched inward, and the car is still racing down the highway, no longer being steered but pulled. Laurel feels and hears the roaring engine, the wheels spinning against the pavement, there are no words for this pain, no words only bright images that explode like song from every part of her body that is now a mouth, and there is—

There is the car with all of its hard and sharp metal pieces and the dark engine collapsing into itself like a dying sun and there are human bones and all the beautiful strands of nerves and bones like liquid moving around the hot strips of car and their faces split open like decaying flowers and legs and arms rip away, replaced by strips of tires, pistons, shards of polished steel smashing their way up torsos and through hearts, and everything is growing smaller again. There are strands of blue electricity that crackle and pulse as they slide through and around the grinding mass of metal and flesh—the only sentient remains of two passengers traveling a cosmic route they could never have survived in their original form. There is liquid darkness, the elastic liquidity of pulverized organic matter as it passes through the hole, the liquid of the metals as it mingles with bones pulled into strands as long as epochs, rivers of engine oil and shit and blood and the faint chemical scent of paper trees and now it is a Planck length-wide being stretching across the arc of the universe, an infinitesimal ferry sailing through currents of time and pockets of antediluvian life with its two miniscule passengers, until it slows a billion years into an undiscovered future or past, pools out and down, sloughing off its cargo on a quiet gray island shore as it once again disappears into the unknown.

Little flecks of bone spiraling up from the goo, teeth pulling themselves out of paste and chromium drops, nerves and wires and cables spiraling back into a shape they remember only vaguely as a dream. Ravens shout in alarm from the trees as two shapes emerge and float away from the cauldron of chaos at the end of the bridge, a four-lane bridge that becomes a two-lane road disappearing into the somber stillness of a quiet coastal island, surrounded only by the gentle lapping of—

Waves crash down and in and recede, the sound flowing like broken glass over Laurel’s body. With shaking fingers, she rubs her gummy eyes until they open. She stands on a beach that flows unbroken in both directions until it disappears with the curve of the land. The beach is wide and flat, a shore of smooth black and gray granite pebbles. Behind her, the edges of the beach are lined in long piles of smooth driftwood—entire tree trunks tangled with smaller branches, lengths of splintered timber, and the occasional pale ivory of broken skulls and bones. Beyond the driftwood rises an unbroken wall of evergreens.

She runs her hand over her face, arms, breasts, stomach. Under the reddish-brown layer of viscous gore, her body feels unsplit, unwounded. Laurel grabs at her hair. It hangs in wet chunks from her head, matted and sticky, but it’s all there. She slicks her hand down her arm, trying to wipe off the semi-congealed blood. It sloughs off and plops to the wet rocks at her feet, but even as she raises her hand again, her skin ripples and contracts, sending another fresh layer to the surface. Laurel raises her fingers to her nose and inhales deeply. She knows this smell intimately, recognizes her own scents and the sticky texture of the chunky blood oozing from every pore in her skin. Overhead, a thousand pale moons shine weakly in the gray skies.

The sound of rocks crunch against each other: Laurel drops to a crouch and presses into the driftwood as a shape emerges from around the bend in the beach. Slender and tall, reddish-brown skin glistening under the light of the overcast skies. The shape pauses, looks furtively around, then stumbles forward. Laurel knows that face.

“P—Patricia?”

Two rows of glaringly white teeth emerge from the dry, brown-blooded sea of its face.

“It hurts the worst the first time. No way to avoid that, I’m sorry to say. Because you girls never obey me. You never listen to what I say.”

Laurel whips her head up. Mrs. Gibson stands at the top of a small path winding through a break in the driftwood, her skin stained as dark as crushed blackberries, the pink lipstick obliterated from her mouth.

Laurel rises up from her crouch, fingers curling into fists. “Where are we? What happened to me?”

“We crossed the bridge, then took the ferry to Fox Island.”

“This isn’t—” Laurel turns and looks out across the gently lapping waters. Strange shapes move within the gray fog that coats the coastline, shapes as massive as buildings. Larger. A soft, thunderous rumble emanates from them, or some other unseen colossus, sending little quakes through the beach and up Laurel’s body until she trembles in time with the vibrations. Further to the left, a shaft of dark light slashes through the fog and clouds like a sword, the low bass of a horn accompanying each rotation. There aren’t any lighthouses along the Straits. There never have been.

“This isn’t—where did you take me, where are we?”

Mrs. Gibson smiles. She wipes the blood away from her face: it stays off, the skin underneath remains pale and white. “I’d think the more pressing question would be, what have I become, or maybe, where did I park the car, but you can be forgiven for not quite understanding the situation.”

A calm, cold numbness washes through Laurel, that she gradually realizes is a combination of white-hot rage and uncontrollable fear.

“What have I become?”

“You haven’t become anything. You’re simply in a place where you’re more you than you could ever be. More girl than you were back home.” Mrs. Gibson pulls a blood-soaked pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket and slides one out with her broken nails. “More animal. More alive.”

“Take me back to the car, now.”

“You better worry about your own engine, sweetheart,” she says, turning away as she heads into the woods. “In fact, you and Patty had both better start running—they’re headed right toward you!” she shouts back, coils of acrid smoke following her words. “They can smell you from a million miles away, and you no longer have that new car smell!” Laurel stares at the shadowed space between the trees where Mrs. Gibson used to be, then turns back to the beach.

“What! The Fuck! Is going on!!” Her ragged screams bounce back and forth across the waters. Immediately from within the looming gray bank of clouds, a roar claps back across the water, so unimaginably loud that all the driftwood along the shore clatters from the force of the sound. Wet warmth floods her crotch, trickles down her legs.

Patricia lopes past her in a quick animal gait. She’s wiped her face clean, just like her mother. “You’ll be the one, I know it. I told mom, this time I wanted someone who’d last the whole summer with me. Not a friend. Someone who’d hate me enough to survive.”

“Survive what!?”

“Duh, the fox hunt, you dork!” she says with that familiar bright grin as she breaks into a run. Laurel watches as she grows smaller and smaller, disappearing around the curve of the island. She looks out at—the ocean? the Sound? Columns and mounds of dark flesh are beginning to take shape, slowly emerging from the storm and fog. Her feet are stepping back already, legs stumbling backwards up that little path, even though part of her wants so badly to see, to see. But the thought is fleeting and alien, that part of her brain is shutting down, and now Laurel’s running, legs pumping like pistons through forest choked with green ferns and bramble, running until she’s nothing more than a streak of fresh red on the ancient land, a pine and cunt-scented arrow pointing the way for the hounds and hunters to meet her at the end.

THE HARVESTER OF LADSLOVE

STEVE DUFFY

How lovely,” Mrs. Pomerance sighed as she poured the Earl Grey, “how absolutely lovely to have everyone back at Dun House again. Silly war be bothered!” A murmur of appreciation ran around the small party taking afternoon tea on the lawn.

“You shouldn’t say that, Mummy,” Julia Pomerance admonished her. “We’ve got Captain Rawnsley with us—he’s a hero, and his war isn’t silly.”

“Not at all,” Captain Rawnsley said in a stifled voice, as if trying to efface himself even while speaking. As always when he felt himself under scrutiny, he seemed to shrink inside his uniform.

“Now, Julia, of course I didn’t mean our brave Captain Rawnsley, perish the thought! Here, Captain.” Mrs. Pomerance made a show of passing him an extra-large slice of seed cake, as if to demonstrate her essential goodwill. “So delighted to have you back with us. How long is it now since we last saw you? Before the war, certainly?”

“Four years last July,” Julia said. “At the summer ball. I remember it very well.” Her eyes were on Rawnsley, but her voice was far away in time.

“Imagine!” Her mother finished handing round the cake and sat back with a slice for herself. Mr. Pomerance took advantage of the conversational hiatus to get a word in.

“Are they looking after you at the convalescent place, Rawnsley? Got everything you need, all the creature comforts?”

“I do very well, thanks,” Rawnsley said. “It isn’t Dun House; but then again, it isn’t the front, either.”

“Are you still writing, Captain Rawnsley?” This from Julia’s younger sister Daisy. “You used to write poetry, didn’t you? There was a little book of your verse among Roger’s things, when they sent them back after . . .” She blushed and stopped, conscious of the chill that had fallen around the tea-table, even though the afternoon was warm for late September.

“After Roger bought it.” Perhaps unconsciously, Rawnsley had said out loud what everybody was thinking. The silence dragged out a little longer, and then he said, “No, as a matter of fact I haven’t been writing at all. I mostly read, these days; nothing very elevating, just whatever’s to hand. Novelettes, detective stories, the sort of thing chaps leave on the shelf when they’ve passed through the convalescent home.”

“Oh, I love detective stories!” Mrs. Pomerance was happy to divert the discussion back to happier matters. “So ingenious—the plots, my dear, I simply don’t know how they come up with them!”

“Morbid, if you ask me,” pronounced Mr. Pomerance. “Can’t be doing with them. Give me a good war story, or one of those American wild west adventures. Cracking good stuff.”

“I rather liked Mr. Maugham’s latest book,” Julia began, and her father snorted in disgust.

“That clever Mr. Chesterton, now.” Mrs. Pomerance hastily took up her thread again, to forestall any literary disputes between her daughter and her husband. “Have you read any of his, Captain?”

“I think so, yes.” Rawnsley seemed unsure. “To tell the truth, after a while all my reading seems rather to blur into one.”

“All those bodies,” Daisy snorted happily.

“It’s not all bodies, darling,” Mrs. Pomerance rebuked her youngest. “Though I suppose there are rather a lot of them, now you mention it.”

“I dare say it’s the new thing,” Mr. Pomerance said, in a tone that left his listeners in no doubt as to what he thought of this development.

“It’s the spirit of our age,” Julia said gloomily.

“You may be right, dear,” her mother said. “I’m sure there weren’t nearly so many deaths in Sherlock Holmes, now I come to think of it.”

“Different times,” her husband agreed. “Before the War.”

“Happy days,” Mrs. Pomerance said fondly. “Nobody died, did they, save for the old King and the dear old Queen before him.”

“Happy days,” Mr. Pomerance said, and for a minute the party sat lost in their own recollections. After a while Captain Rawnsley spoke, as if to himself.

“The spirit of our age? Maybe. Those books, I think of them as death packaged up and explained away, submitted to logic and rules and made respectable. Put in a circus for our entertainment. And all the while the real thing is loosed and running wild, just over there.” His eyes shifted across the lawns, to where the Channel lapped at the foot of the cliffs.

“You can hear it, sometimes,” Daisy said, sounding slightly awestruck. “The bombardments. We heard the rumbling all night before the big push on the Somme.”

“Men went insane in the trenches just listening to it,” Captain Rawnsley said. He had not talked about such things before, had in fact made a point of not discussing them, and the elder Pomerances shifted uneasily in their lawn chairs. “Quite insane. It made no difference. They all went over the top when the whistle blew.”

“I’m sure each man did his duty,” Mr. Pomerance said, his voice thick and stifled. “You, Roger . . . all the chaps. Jolly good men. England’s finest.”

Captain Rawnsley seemed to have come to the end of things to say, and the tea-party wore on in uncomfortable silence. After a while Mr. Pomerance got up from his chair, excused himself gruffly and stumped back towards the big house.

“Poor Daddy,” Julia said, watching him pick his way between the flowerbeds. “He takes it to heart so, you see—Roger, I mean. Even now.”

Still Captain Rawnsley did not speak.

It was not until that evening, when Julia went looking for him, that the taciturn Rawnsley would be drawn any further. Dinner had been a stilted, largely silent affair, in which Daisy and her mother did all the talking about nothing in particular, while everybody else pushed the food around their plates and wished themselves elsewhere. Mr. Pomerance had emerged from his study only when the dinner bell was sounded, picked at his meal and retired early. After a desultory game of gin rummy with her youngest daughter, Mrs. Pomerance had joined him. Julia fended off Daisy’s pleas for one last hand and sent her up to bed, then set about searching for Captain Rawnsley. He had passed on port and a cigar to go outside and smoke a cigarette, and had not been seen or heard of since.

She found him on the terraces, sitting on the low wall above the formal gardens. He did not hear her approach, and started slightly when she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry—I’ve brought you this.” She handed him a cocktail glass. “I hope I’ve got that right. Daddy only ever drinks whisky-and-splash, and Mama is very much a sherry person.”

“Thanks.” Rawnsley sipped his drink. “That’s perfection. You learned that from Roger, didn’t you? He was a stickler for the dry martini.”

“I did, “Julia agreed. “I’m sorry the conversation got around to that, this afternoon.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Rawnsley said, with all the stiffness of a judge at a court-martial. “Deuced bad form.”

“I don’t know . . . Arthur, they say sometimes it’s better if you talk about these things.” The words fell in the no-man’s-land between them, as the darkness deepened and the last of the day’s heat bled out into the evening. When Rawnsley did not reply, she said, “You know, Roger would never talk about what had happened, or what he was feeling, not on leave, even in his letters to me. So I don’t really know the worst of it.” She watched him closely as he drank his martini, waiting for him to come out from behind his defences and reveal himself.

And eventually, as the sun went down behind the house, and the stars came out above the Kentish coast, Captain Rawnsley told her the worst of it.

We were in the Ypres sector (he said), not so very far from the Salient. This was the autumn of 1914: we were fresh over from Blighty, waiting to be moved up the line for our first taste of battle. We were encamped just outside a village called Oudebrugge—it changed hands three or four times in the course of the next few years, and it’s smashed all to ruins now. Nothing’s left of it.

I remember the evening in question very well, with absolute heart-breaking clarity. I think of it now as possibly the last time in my life that I was happy. Our camp was in the water-meadows by a clear rippling stream, beneath some lovely old willows. The chaps would go for a swim each evening, and there would be the usual sort of horseplay. That evening I’d taken a stroll along the banks in search of peace and quiet, and I was about ready to turn for home when I came across a group of my lads, stripped off and splashing in the water.

There, at a dog-leg bend, the stream ran shallow as it widened around a little islet, what you’d call an ait on the Thames. On the bend’s inner elbow was the amputated end of a dismantled wooden footbridge, with a matching stub on the other side. The islet was grown over with reeds and willow trees; beneath their drooping branches I could see a stone edifice of some sort.

“Sir!” The lance-corporal alerted the men to my presence, and they straightened to what passed for attention in the slow current of the water. “Carry on, chaps,” I said, and climbed up on a little hillock to watch them at their play.

Oh, they were such good fellows. In any platoon you might find a few louts, or shirkers, or, let’s face it, men who have gravitated to the army because they see it as a chance to indulge their very worst instincts. But these were good chaps: not overburdened with education, certainly, but with a sort of innate sense of decency and propriety. Larking in the shallows, ducking each other, all of them upright and virgin, untouched by the beastliness of combat . . . they were my lads, and I would have done anything to save them from what was to come.

A burst of laughter attracted my attention. I got up and strolled down to the edge of the water to see what was up. The hilarity seemed to be centred on Private Saxby, a great hulking blond boy. In civvy street he’d been an agricultural labourer, a farming family in Essex, and he was a magnificent specimen, all the more so because he was a true innocent, entirely free of guile. A little group had gathered around him, and he seemed to be shying away from something being brandished at him by one of the chaps, a wily little Cockney called Nicholls.

“Now then, you men,” I said, and they all turned to face me, like schoolchildren when the master comes to break up the horseplay. I could just about see now what Nicholls was holding up between finger and thumb.

It was—what’s your name for it, I wonder? As a boy I always called it a harvester, but I’ve heard it called a daddy-long-legs: one of those strange little insects with abnormally long legs. Some people say daddy-long-legs and mean crane flies, but when I picture a harvester it’s nothing but freakish spindly legs with a fat little blob of body at the centre. Opiliones, it says in the books of natural science, an order of the class Arachnidae. I never used to mind them, particularly, but some people have an irrational feeling of repulsion towards them, and I guessed that young Tom Saxby was one of those people.

“What on earth have you got there, Private Nicholls?” I asked him, and a few of the men sniggered.

“Daddy-long-legs, sir,” he said, grinning. “I was just showing it to Saxby here.”

“I never had you down as a naturalist, Nicholls,” I said, and that set the whole group to laughing, even Saxby, who seemed abashed more than anything. “Put it down, there’s a good chap.”

“Right you are, sir.” He flicked the insect away, and it skittered off along the riverbank.

“That’s better,” I said. “You might leave the insects alone and tickle us a trout or two, Nicholls. I’m sure that would go down better than bully beef and biscuits.”

More laughter, and the group broke up into general rough-and-tumble and splashing around. I beckoned to Saxby, and he waded obediently over. “All well, private?” I think I wanted to spare him even the mildest teasing.

“Fine, sir, really.” He was still smiling. “Just a bit of messing round with the lads. It’s daft, isn’t it, but I could never be doing with a daddy-long-legs, I don’t know why. Horrible leggy things. Little monsters. They’d always come in the room at night when I was a kid, in the summer, you know, when the windows were open. My brothers used to tease me something rotten ’cos I couldn’t stand ’em. And of course I happened to mention it to Harry Nicholls, and he thought it was hilarious.”

“Ah well, you won’t make that mistake twice,” I said. “I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you: we all have something that rubs us up the wrong way. I don’t care much for the creepy-crawlies myself, as it happens.”

A shout from some of the other men distracted me. “What’s the matter?” I called, dismissing Saxby with a wink.

“Sir, there’s something a bit unusual on this island.” It was Private Hart who was speaking.

“A bit unusual? Describe it, private. Make your report.” I peered through the branches of the willows at the stone structure on the islet. It looked like nothing so much as an altar-tomb, of the sort you see in graveyards and in the aisles of cathedrals. There didn’t seem to be anything to set it apart from the run of such things; if it had carved panels or adornments in metal, as is often the case, I couldn’t make them out from that distance.

“It looks like a tomb, sir, but who’d put a tomb on an island?” Hart’s head popped back out from between the willows and the reeds. He sounded genuinely confused. “And why would someone pull the bridge down?”

“We’ve seen a few bridges destroyed though, sir, haven’t we?” That was Lance-Corporal Speakman. “For fear the Boche make use of ’em in an offensive.”

“Very true, Lance-Corporal. But observe the remains of the bridge there on the bank. The broken ends of the wood are quite weathered, aren’t they?”

Speakman splashed over to the bank. “Yes sir, yes they are.”

“Which would indicate?”

“That it was pulled down a while ago, sir.”

“Very good, Speakman.” I didn’t particularly know what to make of that myself; it was just something I’d noticed. Private Hart was hailing me again from among the willow branches.

“Sir, can you parleyvoo French?”

“Reasonably well, Private.” I didn’t feel it necessary to mention that I’d translated several volumes of poetry from the French language. “Why do you ask?”

“’Cos there’s something carved on the tomb, sir.”

I smiled at his earnestness. “Really? Is it a clue, do you suppose?”

“Come on now, Harty,” Private Nicholls seemed to be enjoying this as much as I was. “Read it out for the officer, nice and sharp now.”

Hart vanished from view as he knelt beside the tomb. “Can you still hear me, sir?”

“Adequately, thank you, private,” I called back.

“Here goes—blimey, I’d better spell it out, I think. F-A-U-C-H-E-U-R . . .” and he proceeded to spell out the phrase “Faucheur de tout ce que vous chérissez.”

“I see.” I thought for a little while. “Well, that comes out, as near as I can make it, as ‘Reaper’—or perhaps we might say harvester, if only to satisfy our resident entomologist, Private Nicholls—’reaper of all that you cherish’, or ‘all you hold dear’.”

Private Hart reappeared from the reeds, looking confused again. “How’s that, then, sir?”

“Well,” I said, “it used to be the fashion to have inscriptions on tombs of that sort, and naturally enough they would often be about death, in some poetic form or other. Now in this instance—” I felt like a schoolmaster, doing his best with an unpromising class—”in this instance, the ‘reaper’ or the ‘harvester’ might well be Death personified, mightn’t he? Death the reaper and his deadly harvest of souls, Death taking away from us those that we cherish. You’ve all seen the cloaked figure of the skeleton with his scythe, I’m sure. I expect it’s something of that sort.” I looked around the men and felt it best to end my lecture. “Poetic licence, Private Hart. A figure of speech. Now I think we might leave that little island alone, don’t you? Show a bit of respect and all that.”

But here’s the saddest part: within a year of that very evening, more than half the men of that platoon would have seen that cloaked figure close up, and felt the cold edge of his scythe, and poetic licence had nothing whatsoever to do with it. As with the platoon, so with the company; I shall never forget the day I realised that I’d lost count of how many men had died under my command. And after two more years of attrition, there were only a handful of the old lads left.

For all that terrible onslaught of death, nothing had really changed on the Salient until that big push of ’17, around Passchendaele. The second battle had seen the advent of poison gas and the Germans overrunning our forward positions, and after that both armies drew back into a dreadful sort of attritional stalemate along the Bellewaerde Ridge, dug into our trenches as if into our graves.

Slowly, horribly slowly, we’d been gaining ground since July, bogged down in the rain through most of August and on into autumn. The next push, we were told, would be along a sector that had lain inactive for a year or more: a stroll in the park, we were assured. “C” platoon was chosen for a reconnaissance mission into no-man’s-land, which in this particular part of the front extended farther ahead of the line than was usual. There was a good mile of unclaimed territory beyond our forward observation trenches, and our mission was to assess how far into it we might advance before coming into contact with the Boche. We were to leave the trenches under cover of darkness, one section advancing clandestinely on the recce while another watched from the trenches and a third lay in reserve.

The march up to the front is always a fearful thing, and that October evening was no exception. For hours we trudged across the devastated plain towards the sound of distant artillery, like men late for our own funerals. No habitation, only ruins: shell-holes and wasteland and leafless splintered trees, sentries in gas capes pointing us on our way over cart-tracks flanked by filthy ditches. For the last two miles it rained, and the stench of the mud became overwhelming, and by the time I reported to battalion HQ a dirty sulphurous dusk was setting in.

The CO was said to be resting—lucky him—so the 2i/c took the briefing. As he went through our orders I recognised a place-name. “This isn’t Oudebrugge, sir?”

“I can assure you it is, Captain Rawnsley.” The major looked up from the chart. “Does the name ring a bell?”

“We were here in ’14,” I said, and left it at that. Even in the half-light the place had been unrecognisable.

“Well, the front hasn’t moved much since you’ve been away,” said the major. “It was lively enough towards the end of that year, and things were especially hairy throughout ’15, but the lines have been remarkably static since then. Look here—” He indicated our position on the map. “You see there’s a broad strip of territory between us and the Germans. It’s been left to the rats, more or less, for a year or two. From time to time we bombard it, for form’s sake as much as anything, and the Boche do the same from their side. All that terrain is heavily cratered, so you’ll have ground cover right the way up to their lines, pretty much. Ought to be a cakewalk, all in all.” His manner was affectedly light, to the point of being brittle, and I judged he wasn’t far from his breaking point. Then, the same could be said for all of us by that stage.

Later that evening, the lead section of “C” platoon were up in the forward trench, squatting on the firing step and waiting for the off. The duckboards underfoot were buried beneath a layer of mud that had risen up from the sump; I remember very well that there were bones protruding from the walls of the trench, and not the bones of animals. The clouds that had pressed down all day across the front had cleared, curse them, and a three-quarter moon had risen over no-man’s-land. I hoped the major was right about there being plenty of ground cover.

Going over the top is rather like scrambling into hell on earth. You might venture into it blind, the very first time, but you’ll never have that blessed innocence again. You’ll think of the ragged lines of soldiers falling, bodies blown apart into raw chunks of red meat, the terror and the screaming and the grunted obscenities. You’ll feel all the concentrated malevolence of the universe focused on you and you alone, even as men are slaughtered in their hundreds all around you. Flies fat with carrion will crawl across the corpses, and their buzzing will be inside your head, the universal hum of purest evil. You’ll scrabble at the churned earth as you press yourself down into it, just another body impatient for its grave. That’s what’s waiting for you above the parapet.

A surging, sloshing noise along the trench announced the arrival of the runner with our marching orders. “Right, men,” I said, getting wearily to my feet. “Fall in.” As I glanced along the line, I thought how few of us had been spared since that evening in 1914. Hart was still there, a lance-sergeant now, and Nicholls the cheeky cockney, and young Private Saxby. Not even three years of war had spoiled Tom Saxby’s simple earnestness and, as always, I tried not to let the protectiveness I felt towards him show through.

“This is it then, sir,” Hart said. It was as if he was trying to grasp the reality of the situation. His face, and the faces of all the platoon, gleamed palely in the moonlight; we looked like body-snatchers from a Grand Guignol fantasy.

“Now listen, men,” I said. “Keep your heads down, keep your wits about you, and keep as quiet as you possibly can. At the first sign of enemy fire we do not engage, we retreat. Tonight’s exercise is about testing out the German defences, not storming them single-handed, do you understand?” I hardly needed to tell them this. By this point in the war, there were very few quixotic idealists in our ranks.

I allowed the last few seconds before midnight to tick around the dial of my watch. On the last beat I drew breath and steadied my voice. “Stand by, men.” I mounted the firing step and forced myself to put my head over the top.

Before the trench lay an undulating expanse of blasted, shell-torn terrain, rising to a low vantage point a few hundred yards out. “Wire-cutter, forward,” I said, and Nicholls materialised at my shoulder with a pair of heavy-duty snips. “Clear the way, Nicholls,” I told him, and he eased up onto the parapet. After a few minutes’ stealthy work, he slid back down and reported, “Opened up a passage, sir. Wide enough for two skinny bleeders.”

“Deftly done, private,” I said. “Gentlemen; after me. Fan out once you’re through the wire, but don’t get more than a couple of yards apart from the next man. Good luck.” I dug the toes of my boots into the crumbling filth of the trench wall, clambered up on the sandbags, then pushed out into no-man’s-land.

We moved forwards across the wasteland, trudging through the sloppy stinking mud as quietly as possible. Fear twists the body, clenches it like a fist and leaves you cringing; I think we’d have found it physically impossible to raise ourselves up to our full height. It felt as if the mud was sucking us down, clutching us in its slimy grip. Once I trod on what I thought was an old sandbag, and the rotten fabric gave way. Beneath it were the ribs of a skeleton; I remember the rats scattered away from out of the hollow of the ribcage.

Here were the remains of a trench system, bombarded long since and brought level with the general desolation. Splinters of duckboard and planking stuck up from the churned earth, the only markers for the bodies that lay half buried and entirely consumed. As always I tried to ignore them, those dismembered skeletons in their rotted uniforms, still clinging to the wire that wrapped around them, the barbed and rusting tendrils that grew from the rubbish of that nightmare graveyard. Skulking like body-snatchers, we moved through the corpses towards the foot of the incline.

I signalled the men to stop, then beckoned Hart to my side. “Let’s take a look, sergeant,” I whispered, and the two of us clambered gingerly up the slope. Just beneath the lip, I pulled at his sleeve, signalling him to stop. Slowly I raised my head.

Immediately beyond the top of the crest the ground fell away again, into what I now saw was a gigantic crater. It was too big to be a shell-hole; I supposed it was the blow-out of a massive mine dug under the lines by sappers. Nothing else would account for the scale of the devastation. A ghastly putrid pond lay at its bottom, an indescribable mess of ooze and rubbish and what looked in the moonlight like more bodies. The reek of phosgene, a sour rotten stench like mouldy hay, lay like smog upon the hollow.

Away off to one side on a little raised knoll was some sort of a structure, or the remains of a structure. I took it at first to be a pillbox, blown open by the detonation of the mine. Hart had joined me on top of the ridge: he peered into the crater, and something seemed to catch his attention. He whispered in my ear: “Sir, do you see that thing down there?” He was pointing towards the partly wrecked structure.

“Pillbox?” I mouthed. He shook his head.

“Remember when we were billeted around here back in ’14, sir? That stream the lads used to bathe in?”

Of course I remembered it, but how could I have connected that pastoral idyll with this wilderness? I tried to pick out the course of the stream as it had wound through the fields, looked for any trace of the island . . . and then it came to me. Hadn’t earnest, observant Hart been the first to spot it all those years ago—why, he’d brought it to my attention back then, hadn’t he? There’s something a bit unusual, sir. The altar-tomb, the tomb on the island, surrounded by willows.

Well, there were no willows now, only shattered stumps. There wasn’t even a stream anymore: between the shelling and the sappers’ mining, its course must have been diverted, shifted aside. In its place was this marshy depression, with the tomb left high and—relatively—dry, albeit burst open at one corner. Whoever its occupant might have been in life, he was didn’t lack for company now. He was as one with all the corpses of Flanders.

“Well spotted, sergeant,” I whispered. “Let’s bring the rest of the fellows up, shall we? Tell them to advance single file around the edge of the crater and wait for my signal once we’re on the far side.” Hart clambered back down to the rest of the section, and one by one they came crawling up to the ridge.

I led the men around the crater. We had gone a quarter of the way when I heard a smothered cry behind me. I looked back to see Private Saxby slithering down the bank, trying to regain his footing on the slippery slope. There was no purchase in the rain-soaked muck, and he slid with a splash into the pool of rancid water. The moon’s reflection broke into silver ripples on the scummy surface of the water, and one or two belches of gas—some unimaginable filth, I didn’t know what—bubbled up from the depths.

I could hear Saxby’s cry of disgust, and I winced inwardly. The distant artillery was not noisy enough to cover any sound we made, and for all we knew, the German line might be as close as the other side of the crater. Saxby was half submerged, and scrabbling at the muck to haul himself out. In a stage whisper, as loud as he dared but still too loud, he hissed “Wire!”

Of course there was barbed wire in there, and worse than barbed wire, probably. “Give him a hand, Nicholls,” I directed. The private set off down the bank, and I waved at Saxby to indicate that help was coming, and that he should stay silent.

There ensued a tug-of-war that might under different circumstances have been comic. Nicholls, cursing under his breath, was heaving at the flailing Saxby, but was likewise losing his footing and sliding down towards the water. Nicholls held up his cutters, and I signalled a thumbs-up, following it with another appeal for silence.

Nicholls let himself down into the water, and I could see the disgust on his face as he knelt next to Saxby and felt underneath the surface for whatever was snagging him. I shouldn’t have liked to have been in that pool myself. He lowered himself until his face was almost in the water, and I could see his arms moving as he bore down on the submerged wire. Then several things happened on top of one another.

First, Saxby spasmed in pain, and quite involuntarily let out another cry. “Shush, mate, I never touched you,” Nicholls told him, just a little too loudly, perhaps. With a whoosh and a burst there came a flare, rising up into the sky from the direction of the German line.

The flare lit up all that land around the crater in a ghastly grisaille. We stood out like flies on a tablecloth—though the Germans couldn’t see us, the fact they’d sent the flare up meant they could definitely hear us, and felt we were too close for their comfort. I waved the rest of the men back towards our lines and started to scramble down into the crater to help Saxby and Nicholls.

I became aware as I slid down that Hart was following me. “Stay with the men,” I hissed to him, once we’d reached the foot of the crater. “Get back up there and lead them back to the trench. We’ll bring down a pasting on ourselves if we stay here.”

“I reckon it’ll take two of us, sir,” he said, and I didn’t have time to argue the matter with him. Any moment now, I judged, we would come under fire.

“Saxby!” I hissed. “What’s the matter?” He was still moaning in pain.

“Something’s got hold of me, sir,” he said, through clenched teeth. “I don’t think it’s wire.”

“What else could it be?” Nicholls shook him, tried to make him pay attention. “I’ll find the bleedin’ thing, and I’ll cut it off you, just you see. Now hold still and for Christ’s sake try not to make a noise.”

Hart’s hand was on my shoulder. “Captain!” he hissed, and rather angrily I turned to see what the matter was. I didn’t get a chance to reprimand him, or indeed to say anything, because in the act of looking up I saw what he wanted me to see.

On the far side of the pool, across the stinking crater, there was movement by the damaged tomb. Not around it: inside it, something emerging from that hole that had been blasted into the stonework. For a moment I thought it was a German pillbox after all, and I fumbled for my Webley. But before I had the gun free from the holster I realised it was no soldier in there. What was it? I can only tell you what I saw.

At first I could see nothing but limbs; unnaturally thin and elongated, more like sticks, or the long bones of the leg freakishly stretched to twice or three times their normal size, only thin, so dreadfully thin, and black, as if scorched by fire. They were coming out of the hole now, waving around as if trying to get a foothold, only these limbs had no feet, nor hands. They were like the legs of an insect, if that insect was big enough to fill a man’s tomb. And there were more of them than two; more than four.

Out they came, scrabbling around for purchase, the limbs extending further and further till they bent in stiff unnatural articulation and got a footing in the mud. They flexed and heaved, and now I saw something of the body to which they belonged as it pressed itself against the broken edges of the stonework. The hole was too small for it to fit through, I thought: it strained and strained, its legs flailing as it tried to lever itself out. Only its head was clear, and that was what finished me, as near as makes no difference. The light of the flare was beginning to fade, so I only caught a glimpse of it, but that was more than enough.

I saw huge bulging eyes, not in the least bit human, not even animal. There were too many of them, in a horrible cluster like the eyes of an insect when seen through a microscope; only these were the size of bowling balls. I prayed to God that those eyes wouldn’t land on me. Immediately beneath them the head tapered away to almost nothing; just room enough for a hideous sort of pincers where the mouth should be.

I don’t know if I screamed when I saw it: to think of it now makes me want to scream, if I’m honest. I know that I was frozen in the most abject terror; I supposed Hart was as well, though all I could think of in the instant was that creature. Then a screaming came out of the sky, and an explosion tore into the side of the crater. The Germans had set up a trench mortar and were firing blind into no-man’s-land.

The mortar fire shook me out of my prostration. It was something sane, something to focus on in that sudden onrush of madness: a tangible threat, something understandable, something from the world we knew. The tomb and its inhabitant were half-obscured now that the flare had gone out, and I laid hands on Saxby and I heaved for all I was worth. But it was no use; he was caught tight by whatever was beneath the water, and the combined efforts of Hart, Nicholls, and I couldn’t shift him more than a foot or so. He was moaning again—whatever it was he was caught on must have been painful in the extreme—and I prayed he would not raise himself up enough to look in the direction of the tomb.

“Again!” I told the men, and we heaved at Saxby’s outstretched arms, the webbing straps on his kit, anything that we could get our hands on. We shifted him perhaps another foot out of the water, no further. Then another mortar came screaming down from overhead, and this one landed close enough to do damage. Nicholls gave a cry of agony and fell away on his side: I could see the darkness spreading across the breast of his khaki uniform in the moonlight, and I knew that he’d been hit by a shell fragment. Curiously, I didn’t realise that I too had been hit; not until much later.

All I knew was that I was flat on my back and when I tried to move I didn’t seem able to. I was still in possession of my senses, though, and when another flare went up above the crater, everything reappeared, lit as if it was a staged tableau. There was Nicholls, pawing around weakly for the site of his injury and subsiding as if spent into the muck. There was Saxby, slipping back towards the water despite all his efforts to get free. And worst of all, there was the thing inside the tomb; struggling still, flailing all its legs at once, only it was halfway out now, its fat bloated body popping out of the breach in the stonework, and I thought I almost recognised it, recognised the shape if not the scale. The realisation was almost too much to take in and stay sane.

I felt myself being dragged up the side of the crater, and I realised that Hart was behind me, hauling on my straps, doing his best to rescue me from the horrors of that pit. “Help him, Sergeant,” I was saying, and I don’t know if he heard me, but he kept on tugging at me. “Help him,” I said again, but there was another voice now. It wasn’t Hart, or Nicholls, or Tom Saxby. It wasn’t even a German raiding party. It was coming from the direction of the tomb, and I forced myself to look across the crater.

It was all the way out now, unfolding itself to its full monstrous extent. How could it ever have been contained within the cramped space of that tomb? Its body was not much bigger than a man’s, yet the span of its gangly limbs was many times greater than the reach of any human being. Now, as it reared up on its legs, it seemed to be stretching out the cramp of centuries of entombment. And then it bent down, as if sniffing the noxious water of the pool, and I heard a terrible, keening sort of voice, the sound of wind blowing through barbed wire and somehow forming words.

“Oh, Tom,” it seemed to be saying. “Oh, Tom. Old Tom Saxby.” And a hideous sort of moan of satisfaction. “Caught tight. Poor old Tom.”

Saxby screamed, and it pierced my heart to hear him. Involuntarily I had closed my eyes in horror at the sound of the voice, but Saxby’s scream made me open them again. The thing was advancing, eagerly, almost hungrily, towards us. And I realised, or I admitted to myself, what it was—or what form it had taken, as I now believe to be the truer way to describe it.

I could never be doing with a daddy-long-legs—wasn’t that what he’d said to me all those years ago, in this very place? Little monsters. Big monsters now. Monsters out of Breughel or Hieronymus Bosch. And even as I opened my mouth to scream, I remembered the inscription on the tomb, and it came to me in an instant what it had meant. Faucheur de tout ce que vous chérissez; harvester of all you hold dear. Perhaps the harvester takes on a different form for every man; perhaps he is always the thing we most fear. And the thing that was crossing the pond towards Tom Saxby knew what he most feared. For proof, you had only to listen to his screams as the thing advanced upon him.

I’ve heard those screams in railway whistles, in the months since then, and in the shriek of metal on metal on the Underground; and always in my dreams. For me, young Tom’s screams are the ultimate reproach. I wanted so much to save him, and yet I failed. Would I have gone to his aid, if I could, even with that thing advancing? I think so—I hope so, at any rate. But I was half blown up, I couldn’t lift a finger, and neither could he, and only the harvester seemed to be moving in all that dreadful tableau, and then Saxby’s screaming joined with the howl of an incoming mortar round, and with that I was conscious of nothing but merciful oblivion.

I came to as they lifted me down into the trench. There was pain now, a lot of pain: the shell wounds I’d caught back in the crater turned out to be my Blighty ticket. I was stretchered to the field hospital, where I was shot up with morphia, which didn’t work quite fast enough to spare me the sound of the screaming from the operating tables. In every one of them I heard poor Tom.

Hart stayed with me throughout. He helped carry my stretcher, and sat by me until the morphia had fully kicked in. I remember asking him what he’d seen. He was reluctant at first to speak about it. “Lie still now, sir,” he kept saying to me, until I pulled rank on the poor chap and ordered him to tell me.

“Saxby and Nicholls have both had it, I’m afraid, sir,” he said, and there was a quiet sort of wonder in the way he said it, as if all those years of carnage had still left him with the capacity to wonder about the cruelty of senseless death.

“What about the harvester?” I asked him, as the room began to swim a little and the drugs began to work. “Did you see the harvester?”

He didn’t answer at first, and I pressed him. I had to know, before I went under. In the end he simply said: “I thought Nicholls was a goner, but there was still life in him at the end. He was trying to get free, but he was hurt too badly, I suppose. Nothing he could do. And all the time poor Tom Saxby was screaming, screaming for mercy, and there was nothing he could do, the poor bugger, he was trapped . . .”

I was slipping away on the morphia now. My eyes were closing, and Hart’s voice came to me at half-speed and oddly distorted. “I heard something—I thought at first it was Nicholls talking to Tom Saxby. It sounded like talking, anyway; there were words in there, I’m sure, but I couldn’t hardly make it out. It must have been Nicholls, mustn’t it? And Saxby, he was just stuck there, poor blighter, sobbing like a baby.

“I’d got you to the lip of the crater by then, sir, and just as I hauled you over another mortar round came down. I think that did for both of them. I’ve written it up that way in the report.” And then I was all the way under; and the next thing I knew I was in an ambulance heading towards the sea ports, back to dear old England.

After Captain Rawnsley had finished his story, or at any rate had stopped talking, he and Julia were quiet for a few minutes. The smell of the night-scented stock was rising in the stillness of the autumn air: rooks called to each other among the elms, and a fox ran across the lawns and barked softly before disappearing into the shrubbery.

At last Julia spoke. “I won’t ask if it’s true, Arthur,” she said, and Rawnsley nodded without looking at her. “But what you said—the thing in the crater—I can’t . . . what do you think about it now?

He took a while to answer. “The same thing that I thought then,” he said eventually, speaking only to the night, determinedly avoiding her gaze. “I think that just as absolute love is personified for us in the form of the beloved, so absolute fear takes the shape of that which most terrifies us. Does that seem glib, or simplistic? It’s what I believe.”

“Love?” she said uncertainly. Her hand had been resting on his shoulder, and she drew it away suddenly. Rawnsley looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then turned away again.

“Poor Julia. I’m so terribly sorry. Yes: love. You see, love, for me, had come to be embodied in the form of young Tom Saxby. A love unrequited and yet absolute, secret and unbearable. I could never tell anyone, I’d have been cashiered or worse, but it’s true nonetheless.

“It’s not just that—I don’t really give a damn about myself anymore. It was more that . . . I wouldn’t even have sullied him with the burden of my unwanted affection, can you understand that? It would have been obscene, somehow, repulsive. I could only love him chastely, from a distance. Because even in love, you see, there is fear. And as for Tom; in Tom’s case I’m certain that the ultimate horror took on the form of his earliest, deepest dread, the thing he learned to fear before he even knew the true meaning of the word.

“Julia, I believe love is damnably elusive. We may never find it, or we may find it only to lose it and be alone for ever after. But the other thing: I think that’s inescapable. When all’s said and done, I don’t think we can ever avoid the harvester.”

“Oh, Arthur . . .” Julia did not know how to answer him. Her face was twisted with emotion; there was horror mixed with pity, but there was also revulsion, and it would have been impossible to separate these sensations, or to trace their causes. She could only look at him, and when Rawnsley eventually lifted his head and returned her gaze, she found she could not bear it.

She tried to speak, and failed. With a smothered sob she turned and ran back towards the house. Rawnsley got up to follow her, but found no words of comfort in his heart. Wearily he sat down again.

He stayed out smoking cigarettes until the moon had risen high above Dun House. There was autumn in the air: a chill wind had risen up in the east, and he shivered as it bit at him through his dress uniform. Eventually he got to his feet, stiff from sitting on the cold stone parapet. His scars ached, as if they had been ripped open before properly healing.

A silhouette stood waiting at the French windows as he approached the house. “Is that you, Grimes?” he asked. The figure answered “Yes, sir.”

“Good show. Sorry to keep you up, old chap.” he said. As the butler latched the windows and closed the curtains Rawnsley slipped out through the darkened hall and up the stairs.

He did not need a light to find his way. They had put him in Roger’s old room, and he knew Dun House well enough to find his way there in the dark. Along the landing, then left and up a small flight of stairs, along a cramped and doorless corridor and then left again down two more steps into that room beneath the eaves with the sloping ceiling and the creaking boards.

Rawnsley felt for the bedside table. He was taking out his box of matches to light the candle when he heard a noise, on the far side of the room, somewhere in the direction of the wardrobe. He dared not look; he could not light the candle, for his hands were trembling and the matches were spilling at his feet. The moonlight was all on the front of the house, and here on the shadow side there was only the glint of the cold and distant stars. In the utmost depth of those shadows the door to the wardrobe swung open. The thing that was crammed inside stirred itself, shook out its hideous limbs with a sound like rats pattering through dry bones.

He did not look. He closed his eyes, he would not look. But he heard it speak, and its voice was the sound of the wind that sings in the wire across no-man’s-land. “Oh, Arthur,” it crooned, with an awful gloating relish. “Oh, Arthur.”

INCIDENT AT BEAR CREEK LODGE

TANANARIVE DUE

The last time I saw my grandmother was at her lodge in ‘Seventy-three.

It was also nearly the first time I’d seen her, unless you counted when I was a baby and then another time when I was about four, but all I remembered was long, glittery nails. She and my mother weren’t what you’d call tight, meaning they barely talked to each other. So I was shocked when Mom started selling me on staying at Grandmother’s for a few days that fall, saying I could miss a couple days of school and sleep in a cabin and meet Grandmother’s famous friends. Their whole relationship was birthday and Christmas boxes, swathed in bright, pretty wrapping. But that was it. “You can see snow,” Mom said, which was tempting for someone who’d never lived anywhere except Miami. But then she sealed it. “She says Diahann Carroll will be there.”

“You’re lying.” I loved the old TV show Julia. Diahann Carroll was my first crush. I knew I was too young to marry her, but I was jealous of that kid playing Corey because he got to see her every single day. In person.

Mom glanced over a letter she’d kept taking in and out of her pocket. I glimpsed the lined paper, both sides crammed with slanted, jittery handwriting that felt urgent. Desperate.

“Diahann Carroll. Lena Horne. Maybe Joe Louis, if he’s up to it. He was having some health issues. Her lodge used to be like a resort in the ‘40s and ‘50s.”

“You. Are. Lying.”

I didn’t care about the other names, only Diahann Carroll. I was trying to make sense of how someone I watched on TV could be hanging out at my grandmother’s house in Colorado.

“You knew Mother was an actress, Johnny,” Mom said wearily. She said actress like our Cuban neighbor would say shit-eater: comemierda. Mom folded the letter and slid it back into her pocket with more force this time, as if she wanted it to disappear.

“Why don’t you want to come too?”

“I’ve already seen snow,” Mom said, ignoring the obvious question. So I ignored it too. Sometimes I wondered if she hated Grandmother; her voice changed when she talked about her, small and soft. “You just spend a few days there, get to know her for yourself—understand a few things better. You’re old enough now.” Since I’d turned thirteen, Mom acted like I was ready for the draft.

“By myself?”

“Of course not. You and Uncle Ricky will share a cabin. I can arrange it.”

Uncle Ricky lived in Amarillo, Texas and knew how to ride horses, which basically made him a cowboy to me. Seeing him would almost be as great as meeting Diahann Carroll.

Mom fumbled in her pocket for the letter again. “So what should I tell her?”

That’s how I ended up on my first solo airplane ride, which should have been the scariest part of my trip. I was terrified to use the bathroom because the plane was shaking so much. (I tried to focus on my comics, but even Spider-Man can’t fix everything.) When the plane landed, the misty mountain range through my window was so pink and gold and surreal that I wondered if I’d crashed and gone to Heaven.

Uncle Ricky was waiting at the gate in a thrift-store Army jacket that made him look like he’d just come back from the war, but his big, toothy grin assured you that he’d never killed anyone or been shot at. His bad knee from an accident in high school had kept him out of Vietnam, Mom said. Uncle Ricky gave me a soul shake I messed up all the way through, but he only winked and rubbed my head instead of razzing me.

“Ready to hobnob with the bourgeoisie?” he said.

Whatever that meant.

“Is Diahann Carroll here yet?”

Uncle Ricky looked down with sad eyes. “Mother just got her letter, kid. She’s shooting a movie in New York. She thought she was done, but she got called back to the set.”

“What movie?” I said, challenging his story. Praying it wasn’t true. “What’s it called?”

“Claudia. Claudine. Somethin’ with a C.”

The name of the movie, however vague, made it real. I almost cried on the spot, and he could tell. He squeezed my shoulder. “Listen, you’d better learn it now: people in show business ain’t shit. They’ll disappoint you every time. You hear? That goes for your grandmother too. She ain’t the peppermint candy and gimme-some-sugar type. But I’m here to look out after you. Don’t you even worry about it.”

Looking back, I wonder why I didn’t ask why I needed to be looked out after with Grandmother. Maybe I’d stuffed that question away with my questions about why Mom didn’t want to come too. Or why she and her mother spoke so rarely. Maybe I didn’t want to know.

“Where’s the snow?” I said. Denver asphalt looked no different than Miami’s, except for the mountains in the distance.

“Not at this altitude,” he said. “Just wait ‘til we get higher. You’ll see so much snow, you’ll never want to see snow again.”

He was right about that part, at least.

I climbed into the passenger seat of Uncle Ricky’s powder blue Volkswagen Beetle, which he’d driven from Texas and had the Burger King wrappers to prove it. My feet were cushioned by the pile of Black Panther newsletters he’d told me to push from my seat to the floor. I tried to smile at his jokes about Nixon as he toked on a joint and the smoke blew back in my face from his cracked open window.

But as far as I was concerned, snow or no snow, my trip was ruined already.

I’d fallen asleep to the rhythmic coughing of Uncle Ricky’s engine as it climbed the steep road, so by the time I woke up we were in the woods. I jolted awake when his tires skidded, unsteady on the packed gray slush. At first, I thought I was back on the plane.

Snow! I sat up, electrified. Every window in the car was filled with the sight of white clumps of snow: draped across craggy branches of fir trees, piled in what looked like hills on either side. A few flakes were hitting the windshield like pale butterflies before the wipers washed them away. Uncle Ricky was grinning again too, infected by my excitement.

“Pretty when it first falls down, ain’t it?” he said.

“Can I get out and touch it? Please?”

He turned on his blinking yellow hazards and let me jump out of the car to catch snow on my tongue and kick at the snowdrifts to watch them scatter. It was a fairyland. My clothes were soaked by the time I got back in the car, but Uncle Ricky turned up his heater and let me sip warm coffee from a thermos—I didn’t care how bitter it was because at least it was warm—and my heart was full of excitement for the next twenty minutes at least. And I was with family, which was no small thing, since my father lived in Jacksonville and my mom’s family lived in Texas, California and Germany, so I didn’t see any of them often. Mom blamed the distance on “bad memories,” but they weren’t my bad memories.

The drive was the good part. The best part.

“Here it is,” Uncle Ricky said, slowing the car.

I only saw the snow at first, a sheet of white, so I wiped away the condensation on the windshield. We were approaching wooden cattle fencing topped with snow, the sagging gate hanging open. As the car crawled past, I made out a tall, rusted insignia discarded against the side of the fence rails, written in fancy script: The Lazy M. I almost asked Uncle Ricky about it, since Mom always called Grandmother’s place Bear Creek Lodge.

I wish I had. If I had, the whole incident might never have happened.

Twenty yards ahead, as we drove past the low-drooping fir branches, a long wooden porch came into view, light shining from behind the curtains. I felt my second big disappointment: Mom had called Grandmother’s lodge “a resort for Negroes” during segregation, but it looked just like a regular old two-story house, only made of wood. The cedar was an uneven gray from age, not pretty at all. Three or four shiny visitors’ cars parked on the side of the house were the only evidence that anything inside was worth seeing.

Two lights stared down in golden yellow from twin second-story windows. Below, the porch wrapped around the house like a ragged grin, gapped from missing porch rails. I tried to think of a way to convince Uncle Ricky to drive me back to the airport, but no excuse I thought up could change the fact that my ticket wouldn’t be good for another three days. I was stuck. The house looked dangerous for reasons I couldn’t explain even to myself.

“Are there bears here?” I looked for a clue in its name.

Uncle Ricky laughed. “No more’n anywhere else in the woods. We don’t see killer grizzlies this far south, just black bears. Don’t feed ‘em and you’ll be fine. Doubt you’ll see none anyway. Bear Creek doesn’t have bears just like Atlanta doesn’t have peach trees. Every other street is Peachtree down there, ain’t it? I bet every street in Miami named for the ocean.”

I shrugged, annoyed by his small talk about Miami when Mom always complained that he never came to visit. He was a plumber by trade and made good money, she always said, so why didn’t he come see her more? Then he’d know all about Miami’s street names.

“Listen . . .” he went on, voice assuring. “Some years back, Mother got her feelings hurt by Hollywood and holed up here by herself. For five years, she wouldn’t see nobody. And I mean nobody. If she made it alone, you’ll do fine with all of us here.”

“Got her feelings hurt how?”

“Folks decided she was too old-fashioned, that’s all. Times changed. They treat her like a curse, like she sold her soul. Half the folks who’ll talk to her only have their hand out.”

Uncle Ricky parked, careful to keep several feet between him and the mile-long shiny red Caddy closest to his space. Beside that Caddy, Uncle Ricky’s car looked like it belonged in the junkyard on Sanford and Son. Uncle Ricky kept his hands on his steering wheel, staring at a door on the side of the house with frilly white curtains. Like the house had put him in a trance.

I was in my own trance, staring beyond the three steps leading to that back door, trying to understand the snow. A small mound rested there, soft and white, not like the grimy snow ground into the road. A few flakes puffed out as if the mound had sneezed. Was it settling? Mr. Ramos, my science teacher, said we should consider the world with a curious mind, so I tried to figure it out without asking Uncle Ricky. I waited two seconds, and the snow puffed again; this time, a dark hole appeared at the center of the mound. Could a cat or small dog be buried there?

The snow itself seemed to come to life, shivering flakes free, and then the entire mound moved in a shimmy, undulating away from the porch, snakelike. A twig snapped beneath its motion, or I might have thought I was imagining it. Then the mound fell flat. No cat or dog emerged to explain it. The snow just settled to stillness.

I slowed down my heart by telling myself that must be a normal thing, that it was childish to be scared of snow. But I think I knew better even then.

Uncle Ricky slapped his palms against the steering wheel, making me jump. “Well?”

I realized I was holding my breath. My socks were still damp, so my toes felt tingly. I wondered if I’d only dreamed any fun, just as maybe I’d dreamed the dancing, breathing snow.

“Well what?”

“Ready to go in and see Mother?” He could have been talking to me, or to himself.

I nodded, shivering.

It was a lie.

The side door led to the kitchen. A piece of luck. Old-timey band music and loud laughter were floating from another part of the house, but I didn’t hear any children, as I’d been promised when Mom said, “I’m sure somebody else’s grandkids will be there too, baby.” There was a party, but it wasn’t a party for me. You couldn’t call it a party if they were playing some old horn section in an orchestra instead of the Jackson Five.

Although it was empty, the kitchen was a party all its own, the tile counter lined with an array of casserole dishes under loose aluminum foil. Uncle Ricky grabbed a plate from the stack right away, so I did too. Each surprise under the foil was better than the last: roast chicken legs. Macaroni and cheese. Greens with turkey necks. Peach cobbler. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I used one hand to hold the chicken leg I was stripping with my teeth while I spooned cobbler on my plate with the other.

“Slow down, boy. Your mom’ll never forgive me if you choke to death on my watch.”

By silent agreement, we stood hunched over the counter to eat instead of joining the party right away. Mom would have been mortified that I wasn’t sitting at a table with a proper place setting: salad fork, dinner fork, butter knife, the whole nine, like Grandmother had taught her. I couldn’t even eat a bowl of cereal at home without a napkin in my lap. But we just lived in a two-bedroom apartment near her job at Miami Jackson High, not in a big house in Baldwin Hills (“They called it the Black Beverly Hills”) like the one Mom had been raised in. I was glad Uncle Ricky didn’t care about greasy fingers.

Uncle Ricky finally slapped cornbread crumbs from his palms and filled a water glass from the sink to wash down his meal. The pipe under the sink whined like it was in pain.

“I’ll have to take a look at that,” Uncle Ricky said, mostly to himself. “All you gotta do is nod and smile and be impressed with everything they say. And don’t call my mother anything except Grandmother—not Granny, not Grandmama especially. She’d hate that. She needs everything a certain way.”

“Okay.”

He studied me closely, frowning a bit at my faded sweater and jeans. He took off his Army jacket and hung it on the hook. Underneath, he’d dressed in a black sweater and slacks, instant formality. He glanced down at his cowboy boots and meticulously wiped mud from the tips with a napkin. He patted down his ’fro. Then he took a breath, jouncing his shoulders like he was about to run out on a football field.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

Uncle Ricky pushed past the wooden swinging door from the kitchen and we followed the music and laughter down a narrow, wood-paneled hall. For the first time I noticed his limp, how he slightly favored one leg.

The lodge was more impressive inside because of the decorations on the wall: rows of signed old photographs, some of them with Grandmother as a young woman in a ball gown posing with other well-dressed people, some close-ups of almost every famous person I could think of. Duke Ellington. Bob Hope. Lena Horne. I stopped in front of Diahann Carroll’s photo: her head thrown back, smile wide and full of joy. I wanted to cry again.

“Well, there he is!” a woman’s voice said ahead, and I realized that Uncle Ricky had left me alone in the hall.

The laughter stopped. Someone turned the music down.

“Goodness gracious, what have you done with your hair?” the same woman said.

“That’s how they wear it now, ma’am.”

“Well, if everyone jumped off a bridge, would you jump off behind them? Imagine if we’d been running around with these bushes on our heads.”

I was glad that Mom had trimmed my hair short before the trip. I took a few tentative steps and saw Uncle Ricky face to face with Grandmother: she was tall for a woman, reaching his nose, in a sequined dress that could be in one of the photos. Her hair was black and straight, hanging loose in a girlish fashion, but the dark color looked like dye. Grandmother was in her seventies, although you couldn’t tell from her smooth brown skin. I’d never seen anyone so thin, and I wondered if she was sick. Those same long, long fingernails sparkled in the room’s light.

Uncle Ricky looked like he might want to hug her, but Grandmother wouldn’t come close enough. “Sadie’s boy is here,” Uncle Ricky said instead, motioning to me.

The living room was as elegant, with a white baby grand near the double door and a lively fireplace big enough to warm the house. Three other people were there: one man and two women, all of them Grandmother’s age or a bit younger. The man was husky, sitting in a chair as wide as he was. His face was familiar, but I couldn’t place it right off. The women were fashionably dressed, one in a fur wrap, but Grandmother was the queen of the room.

I walked toward the queen, trying to remember to smile. I don’t know why I was so nervous with everyone looking at me, but I could barely keep my head raised. She took a small step back, so I stopped short of her like Uncle Ricky had.

Grandmother did not smile at me. “Spitting image,” she said to the room instead.

“Isn’t it spooky?” one of the women agreed.

“Where’s your mama, boy?” the man called out.

“Had to work,” I mumbled, then I raised my voice to project it like Mom was always telling me. “Grading papers. She teaches English in high school.”

The others seemed impressed, but Grandmother frowned. “She’ll barely make a living on a teacher’s wages. I told her to keep up her voice lessons. I could have given that girl the world.”

Grandmother suddenly glared at me like I was everything that had let her down in life, her eyes so angry that my skin prickled. Then her face softened to a mask: not a smile, but less severe. The transformation was so fast and convincing that I had to remind myself that Grandmother had been a famous actress, after all. Her eyes were as flat as the settled snow.

“How old are you now?” Grandmother said. “Ten? Eleven?”

I winced, insulted. “Thirteen.”

“Thirteen! You’re small for your age. Your mother needs to put some meat on your bones. And I’ll bet she coddles you like mad. We’ll have to get to know each other, Johnny. I need to teach you a few things about the world.”

Uncle Ricky’s hand landed firmly on my shoulder. It felt like a prompt, so I said, “I’d like that, Grandmother.”

“I’ll be getting to know him too,” Uncle Ricky said. “Out in the cabin.”

“No, I don’t want him out with you in that drafty cabin,” Grandmother said, floating away toward her friends gathered on the plush twin sofas near the fireplace. “You stay out there and smoke. He’ll stay in the main house. My old powder room has a bed.”

I glanced up at Uncle Ricky. He looked actually scared. But he didn’t say a word.

“Ain’t you gonna’ come over, or you too grown now?” the man teased Uncle Ricky.

“Nah, Uncle Joe. You’re lookin’ good, man.”

The fear was gone from Uncle Ricky’s face and his voice. But it was too late: I’d seen it.

Someone had one of the new Polaroid cameras that took color photos on the spot, so I posed with everyone in the room like I was long lost family. Uncle Ricky called all of Grandmother’s friends “aunt” this or “uncle” that. I learned later that “Uncle Joe” was the legendary boxer Joe Louis, so that photo would become one of my most prized mementos on the days when I could forget about the rest.

But I didn’t know who he was yet. And in my only photo with him, I wasn’t smiling.

“You need anything, I’m right across the way,” Uncle Ricky said, pointing vaguely as he walked me to my room. “Right outside. Head out the kitchen door and keep walking straight.”

I couldn’t imagine anything that would tempt me to walk past that snow pile beside the steps, especially at night, but I nodded.

Uncle Ricky handed me a heavy flashlight. “For seeing in the dark,” he said. “True dark. Trust me, you don’t know nothin’ about that.”

The closed door at the end of the hall was Grandmother’s room, he told me. The narrow powder room door, also closed, was at a right angle. A small silver star shined from a nail.

“If there ain’t enough room in here, lemme know and I’ll see what I can do.”

The main light switch didn’t work, so he stepped in and flipped on the lights on the mirror and vanity table that took up most of the space. This room was all tile instead of wood, so the bright mirror lights made the room look like noontime. Three or four of the bulbs were missing, leaving a few darkened spots in the reflection. I saw myself standing there puny beside Uncle Ricky, my face lost in a shadow.

“Not much of a bed,” Uncle Ricky said. He quickly began hauling piles of fashion magazines to the vanity table, uncovering folded blankets and a cot underneath. “We used to have to sleep in here if we were on punishment. It’s a little claustrophobic, but it’s all right. Mostly it was the idea of being on punishment that made it bad. Know what I mean?”

The windowless space looked more like a cell than a bedroom: of course it was a punishment room. It was only slightly larger than a walk-in closet in a slight L-shape, leading to a second closed door painted white.

“Where does that go?” I said.

“That’s her bathroom,” he said. “Don’t go in there. You need to pee in the night, run to that other little bathroom at the end of the hall. When you need a bath, use the one upstairs.”

The idea of being that close to where my grandmother would be sitting on a toilet—or taking a bath!—made me want to puke. “Can’t I sleep in the cabin?”

“Lady’s house, lady’s rules. Remember what I said about how to find me. Use your flashlight instead of turning on a bunch of lights. She don’t like you burning up her electricity.”

When he turned to go, he was already patting his pocket for his lighter. If the car ride was any indication, he couldn’t wait to light up another joint. And now he would have the cabin to himself. When he hugged me good night, I could see how relieved he was to go.

As soon as I was alone, I wanted to cry again. The lodge didn’t have a telephone, so I couldn’t even talk to Mom. Uncle Ricky had promised to drive me to town to talk to her sometime, but my real life already seemed far away and long ago. Mom always said action made her feel better, so I dug into my backpack for my stack of comics and my cassette player from Christmas, my survival plan. Six new comic books, most of my best cassettes, and headphones to make my music my own business.

The cot was stiff even with three blankets beneath me, but I managed to get comfortable enough. I turned off the bright lights and read my comics by flashlight with “ABC” playing on my headphones. Soon I forgot where I was, lost in Peter Parker’s adventures.

When the vanity lights flared on, I gasped and nearly fell out of my cot. Craggy tree branches were only Grandmother’s nails before she snatched the headphones from my head.

“Get some sleep, Johnny,” she said in a honeyed voice. “You have these turned up so loud, you didn’t hear me knocking. You’ll hurt your ears. Rest up so you’ll be fresh tomorrow.”

I was stunned, but I thought fast enough to push STOP so the music wouldn’t come blaring into the room when she yanked the headphone cord free, because then she would have taken the cassette player too. And maybe the cassettes. It was clear on sight that no one was supposed to have any fun in this room. I nudged my flashlight under the blanket so she would forget about it now that the too-bright vanity lights were screaming.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, mimicking Uncle Ricky. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you.” The flashlight made a tiny click sound when I turned it off. I hoped she hadn’t heard it.

“Don’t forget your prayers,” Grandmother said.

When she turned off the light and closed the door behind her, I realized my ear lobe was stinging from where her nail had caught my skin.

When I touched it, I felt a spot of damp blood.

I woke in a tomb. My room was cold despite the blankets, and the darkness made it impossible to tell what time it was even though my Glow in the Dark Timex said it was seven-thirty in the morning.

But my watch was wrong, I realized when I crept into the hallway from my room. The sun had barely risen outside, casting gray light. It took a couple of sleepy, confused moments to remember that Colorado was in a different time zone, two hours behind. The quiet house was a mercy, freedom I hadn’t expected. I rushed to dress, ate leftover peach cobbler from the kitchen counter for breakfast, and ran out of the kitchen door. The cold slapped my face and made me miss the down jacket Mom had bought me, but I didn’t dare go back inside.

The snow piled near the steps looked different in new light. Ordinary. Light snowfall had buried any signs of the original mound I’d seen, or evidence of movement. I even poked at the spot with a stick. Nothing. Feeling silly, I tossed the stick away.

I surveyed the property, which was easier to see in rising daylight. The fence ring seemed huge at the time, but her property wasn’t much more than five acres. The main house sat at the end of a snow-covered driveway, and three small cabins lay beyond it, blending in with the stand of fir trees. The two rear cabins looked like shacks, with boarded up windows and part of one roof under a tarp. But the closest cabin looked okay, with a shiny axe standing beside the door and a nearby pile of wood that looked freshly chopped. I admit I tried to peek into that cabin’s window, but the thick curtains were pulled closed except for a tiny slit that only revealed a small wooden table with Uncle Ricky’s thermos.

Still, I knew where he was now. And compared to the powder room, Uncle Ricky’s cabin looked like a palace. I wondered if I could get on Grandmother’s good side so she would let me sleep there, but my sore ear told me she might not be the type to change her mind.

I tried not to let my sneakers sink too deeply into snow as I walked inside the fence, reveling in the sight of small animal tracks and frozen spider webs and knotted tree trunks shaped like open mouths. At the end of the driveway, I came back to that large metal insignia, The Lazy M, nearly as tall as I was, leaning on the fence. It was now obvious that this had once been posted on the driveway gate, but maybe it had fallen. Maybe that was one more thing Uncle Ricky would need to fix.

I didn’t notice the red droplets on the snow just beyond The Lazy M sign until I saw the dead thing. Actually, it was a dead thing’s head.

I was so startled that I fell backwards, landing my butt in the snow. But I jumped right back up again to get a better look at the matted fur, open black eye, and bloody mess where its head had once been attached to its now-severed neck. Maybe it was a raccoon, but hardly enough was left to tell, especially to a boy from Liberty City.

But I knew it was dead. And I noticed from a pinkish trail in the snow that it had been dragged to that spot. Parts of the trail had been covered by snow and sometimes disappeared, but I kept following until it took me back to the kitchen steps, beside the Caddy. A sound like shifting sand behind me spun me around fast, panting like I’d been running. My eyes looked for movement everywhere, and finally I saw something under the snow slither around a tree trunk, out of my sight except for a few loose flakes spraying away. Fast. I ran to where I thought I’d seen it, but all of the snow was flat again. The one mound I kicked was only a buried tree trunk.

I went back to the Caddy. The trail didn’t originate exactly where I thought I’d first seen the snow move, but close enough. I picked up the stick I’d thrown away and scattered the snow beside the steps until I uncovered a blood-soaked center, maybe as big as a car tire. The blood spot was almost purple.

The way I stood there staring, I might have been frozen solid. I wasn’t sure myself.

A thump on the kitchen window made me look up. Grandmother was standing there, her hair covered by a bonnet, which made her seem much older. She cracked open the kitchen door.

“Johnny, come inside!” she said. “Get out of that cold without a coat. What’s wrong with you? You’ll catch your death out there.”

That was something Mom said a lot too, so now I knew where’s she’d gotten the saying: You’ll catch your death. But that was the first time it sounded real. I threw my stick away and hurried to do as I’d been told. But as I walked back to those kitchen steps, I was sure something was slithering under the snow behind me. On my heels.

Tracking me.

“What kind of animals move under the snow?” I asked Uncle Ricky when I cornered him to myself. I’d spent most of the day like a mascot for the ongoing party, answering prying questions about Mom and Dad I was pretty sure Mom would not have wanted me discussing with Joe Louis or his wife or anyone else. (I figured out that part of the rift between Mom and Grandmother had to do with Mom having a baby—me.) The rest of the time I’d sat stiffly trying to pretend I wasn’t bored, since I was afraid Grandmother would confiscate my comic book if she saw me reading one. I was deep in my head, wondering about what I’d seen outside.

Uncle Ricky reeked of grass when he finally emerged from his cabin. He gave me a red-eyed stare. “Oh, like mice?” Uncle Ricky said. “That’s all that was. You’ll see all kinds of mouse tunnels out there. That’s how they hide from foxes and such.”

“Bigger than a mouse.”

“Foxes too,” he said, and my heart sped up. “They’ll sleep in the snow ” sometimes.”

I was both intrigued and relieved. Now it was making sense. But I wanted to be sure.

“Did you,”—I lowered my voice— “. . . chop off a racoon’s head with your axe?”

I was sorry as soon as I asked, since he looked at me like I was smoking grass too. I went on: “So . . . that was probably a fox, then. Right? Hunting under the snow? Moving like a snake?”

Uncle Ricky shook his head. “That’s not how foxes hunt. They leap up and dive—”

Laughter swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. The group was moving toward the card table in the corner. “Come on over here, Ricky,” called a woman whose name I still don’t remember, but she was an opera singer. “You be on my team so Joe and Martha don’t clean our asses out.” She winked at me. “’Scuse my French, Johnny.”

“Two people you never wanted to play cards with . . .” Grandmother began, and everyone fell silent, eager for one of Grandmother’s stories. “Billie Holiday, rest her troubled soul. And Clark Gable, that cheap SOB. I had to tell him, ‘You know you’re getting paid more for this picture than I am, don’t you?’” Everyone laughed, so I did too.

“Were y’all just playing cards?” the opera singer teased, and Grandmother swatted her.

“You should write a book, M,” Joe Louis’s wife said. “We keep telling you. You should have your own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It’s long overdue.”

Grandmother made a motion to dismiss the thought, but her eyes twinkled with pleasure.

“Spades or Bid whist?” Uncle Ricky said.

An argument ensued over which game to play while Grandmother fussed with her stereo console, fanning through a pile of records. Seeing her with her music reminded me that she’d taken my headphones. I sidled behind Uncle Ricky and whispered in his ear, “Can you ask her to give me my headphones back?”

“She’ll give ‘em back when she’s ready.” He sounded sorry, but not enough to help.

I glanced up at Grandmother to see if she’d heard us, and she was staring right at me. Smiling, for a change. Her smile was cruelty, not comfort. Oh yes, she had heard.

“How about Sam Cooke?” she called out. “I can’t stand this new music today. Just sounds like plain old noise.”

Her friends agreed that Sam Cooke would be a wonderful choice. While Cooke sang “A Change is Gonna’ Come” and the card game was in full swing, I escaped to my room.

The powder room wasn’t big enough to pace in, so I explored. Uncle Ricky had warned me not to open Grandmother’s bathroom door, but he hadn’t told me not to open the cabinet built into the wall under the vanity table. The tiny door was paint stuck, so I had to tug on it for a couple of minutes before it gave way and opened with a belch of musty air. Even the vanity lights couldn’t brighten it, so I grabbed my flashlight, crawling halfway in, which was as far as I could get. Three large filing crates were piled on each other, filled with yellowing pages. I skated my flashlight beam past those, looking for something more promising.

I found it staring right back at me: a framed movie poster against the far wall. My grandmother’s name was in large red type: Mazelle Washington. From the size of the type, bigger than anyone else’s, she could have been as big as Barbra Streisand. A true movie star!

I shifted the light to see the faces: not photos like the modern movie posters I saw at the theater, but realistic drawings. The only Black face on the poster was a young woman encircled by a white man and two white women who were laughing against the backdrop of the Empire State Building. But the Black woman wasn’t laughing—her mouth was in a wide-open O, her hands clapped to her ears in exaggerated shock.

It took me a long while to realize that the woman in the sketch was Grandmother. She was Mama’s age, and she wasn’t in a ball gown like I’d seen her in every other photo, she was wearing a frumpy black dress and white apron, a maid’s uniform. Her hair was in short, thick braids in bows flying out in every direction, a crown of spikes on her head. If it weren’t for the way the artist had captured her eyes and sharp chin, I’d never have recognized her.

The movie title was just above her hair: Lazy Mazy Goes to New York.

My surge of pride upon seeing her name wilted when I saw the whole poster, sinking to a dull throb in my stomach. I didn’t understand everything then, but I knew that Grandmother wouldn’t have hidden the poster in the darkest cubby in her darkest room if she ever wanted to see it again. She would have hung it on her wall.

I’d found a true secret. And it felt like power.

I scooted out of the crawl space as fast as I could and jammed the door closed again, hoping she would never notice that I had opened it. Between the mysteries in the snow and the treasure in my own room—which I planned to dig into more late at night, when everyone in the house was sleeping—I was starting to think the visit to Grandmother’s house wasn’t so bad.

Then I turned back my blankets.

My cassette player was gone.

“Excuse me,” I said, and the card game came to a halt. Uncle Ricky looked at me with one eyebrow raised, on alert.

“We’ve got a game goin’, Johnny,” Uncle Ricky said with a note of caution.

“Can I please talk to you alone, Grandmother?”

She took her time turning her head to acknowledge me, and this time she didn’t disguise her simmering eyes. I’d embarrassed her, and she was enraged. I might have been more afraid of her if I hadn’t found her secret.

“Have you ever heard the saying that children should be seen and not heard?” Her voice was still sweet, a show for her friends. “You can see the adults here are busy.”

“It’s all right, M . . .” the opera singer said, but it didn’t soften Grandmother’s eyes.

Uncle Ricky tapped on my foot so hard with his boot that it hurt.

“Some stuff is missing from my room,” I told Grandmother, accusation in my voice. “My tape player my mom gave me for Christmas. And most of my tapes. Can you give them back, please?” After frantic searching, I had learned that my Sly & the Family Stone and Ohio Players were gone too, along with the Jackson Five tape still in my player.

“Did your mother buy you those?” Grandmother said. “Has she listened to those lyrics? Those lyrics aren’t for children. Half those band members are out of their minds on drugs. Did she tell you that? None of that so-called music you like is worth a damn. I’ll teach you better. You need to learn about Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday. Louis Armstrong. That’s music.”

I don’t know what Uncle Ricky saw in my face to make him jump up from the table to grab me by the arm, but I couldn’t remember ever being so mad. A stranger had stolen from me, was lecturing me. Was saying I had a bad mother.

“I’ll talk to ’im,” Uncle Ricky said, and he pulled me toward the kitchen.

“You’d better,” Grandmother said with bland menace. “Marching in here like . . .”

“Just hush,” Uncle Ricky said when I complained about his tight grip. He steered me past the kitchen and out of the door, to the steps. He closed the door carefully behind us, his breath hanging in clouds. “What are you doing? You don’t talk to my mother like that. Ever. No one does.”

“Somebody should,” I said, defiant. “She doesn’t have any right to—”

“She has the right to make up whatever rules she wants in her house, and never forget that. When you go back in, you apologize.”

“Why are y’all so scared of her?”

Uncle Rick looked away from me, out toward the gate. He and Mom had that in common, at least. Neither of them wanted to talk about Grandmother.

“Look . . .” he said, sighing a fog of breath. “We’ll stop at a record store on the way to the airport. I’ll grab you a new player, whatever you want. Cool? Just . . . smile. Get along.”

“You mean pretend.”

“What the hell you think?” he said. “You’re gonna’ spend every goddamn day of your life pretending. Get good at it. She’s doing you a favor. Shit. What do you think this world is?”

He went back toward the kitchen door. I thought he might slam it, but he didn’t. He slipped back inside, leaving me to my anger.

I glanced back down toward the bloody spot I’d uncovered, or where I thought it had been. My own circling footprints were there, and my stick, but the purplish blood ring was gone.

Buried again.

That night, Grandmother brought out her film projector to show off for her friends. I thought we might see one of her movies, but instead she showed interviews of famous people talking about her. Someone must have collected every nice thing anyone had said about her, as if we were at her funeral. A tall white actor in a tuxedo who was in that movie about a flying car I’d seen with Mom said, “I’ll tell ya . . . if you want to learn about comedic timing, find the work of the greats like Mazy Washington.” A white woman with short orange hair was on The Tonight Show and said to Johnny Carson, “I grew up loving Mazy and those terrific pratfalls, so it never occurred to me that a woman couldn’t be funny.” I noticed that everyone praising her was white, until at the end Muhammad Ali was ringside in boxing trunks saying to Howard Cosell, “Get in the ring with me, you must be crazy. I’ll dance and I’ll jab and I’ll dodge you like Mazy.”

Everyone laughed and applauded, Joe Louis loudest of all. “That boy still talks smack.”

“He can back it up,” Uncle Ricky said. Everyone laughed again. Uncle Ricky looked back at me: “Uncle Joe helps train Ali, you know.” He winked at the way my mouth fell open.

“But we’re not here to talk about me,” the retired boxer said. He raised his glass in a toast. “To Mazelle Washington—one of the greats.”

“And fuck anyone, Negro or white, who doesn’t think so,” the opera singer muttered, but I don’t think anyone else heard her except me.

Everyone toasted Grandmother with champagne flutes while I drank apple juice. When Grandmother put on her old-timey Duke Ellington, I let the opera singer lead me in a dance. I was smiling so much that I fooled myself into thinking I was having a good time. I was blood kin to one of the greats, after all. Grandmother’s seizure of my music didn’t seem as upsetting as it had been at first. Maybe any grandmother would have done it.

Besides, I wouldn’t need my music that night. I had the cubbyhole to explore.

Once again, I excused myself early to be alone. Grandmother stepped in front of me just when I was almost clear of the room. Her approach felt like a performance.

“We need to know each other better,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll walk in the yard.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She patted my arm, the most affection she had shown me. I missed the way Mom hugged me like she didn’t want to let go. Maybe that was another way Mom made sure she wasn’t anything like her mother.

“Sadie says he does well in school . . .” Grandmother bragged to her friends, which sounded like another performance. I thought about asking if I could sleep in the cabin with Uncle Ricky while she had an audience. But I wanted to see what was in her files.

I read my comics until all of the noises in the house were gone: the footsteps from guests trudging upstairs, the shower running in Grandmother’s bathroom, her toilet flushing for the last time. When the house was still, I climbed back into the cubbyhole and pulled out the first case of files to scour with my flashlight. Most of them were notices about Lazy Mazy, and photos of her with that same hairdo and oh-shit expression, or some with a grin so wide that it seemed too big for her face. One headline from 1935 said: What has Lazy Mazy Gone and Done Now? Beneath the stack of articles, I found reels of film. The true treasure. Since she’d already set up her projector in the living room, it felt like fate instead of prying.

I had to see for myself.

I moved quietly and made sure the projector volume was turned all the way down before I flicked it on. At first, I threaded the film wrong and it spun with a flapping racket. I was sure would wake the whole house, but nobody came out while I fixed it.

Lazy Mazy Goes to New York began to play.

The film opened with Lazy Mazy dead asleep at a kitchen table, slowly stirring a mixing bowl while she dozed. A white man in too much makeup walked in wearing his work clothes, and I didn’t need the sound on to know he was mad to find her sleeping. Lazy Mazy fell back in her chair and rolled to her feet like a gymnast. The bowl she’d been stirring had ended up on her head somehow, dripping batter on her face. That only made the white man madder, and he spanked her butt while she ran away.

I tried to be quiet, but I laughed. Her eyes were so big, nothing like Grandmother’s. The expressions on her face! The way she could contort her body in unexpected ways. Every moment on the big living room screen was a revelation. This was Mom’s mother? My grandmother?

I’d been watching the film for maybe ten minutes, laughing louder than I should have, when I realized someone was standing behind me. I felt a presence before I turned around, the same way I had in the snow. I hoped it was the opera singer, or Uncle Ricky.

But it was Grandmother, framed in the living room entryway’s blue light from the projector in a fancy robe with her straight hair loose, fanned across her shoulders. She’d been pressing her hair; she was holding a hot comb. Instead of looking at me, she was staring at herself on the screen.

“Grandma!” I blurted. “You’re Lazy Mazy! Is that what The Lazy M means—”

That was all I had time to say before her robe’s sleeves fanned out like a night creature’s wings as she swooped toward me.

“How dare you,” she hissed in my ear before she grabbed my arm with shocking strength.

And then I was in the worst pain of my life. I had to look down to realize she’d pressed the hot comb into my upper arm hard, applying more pressure the more I tried to pull away. It wasn’t orange-hot, but it was hot enough to stick to my skin and make me yowl. Hot enough to leave a scar I would carry into adulthood.

“Stop! It hurts!” I yelled and wrenched my arm away.

She was standing in front of the screen now, the film playing across her face, the ghost of her forty-year-old grin mocking from her forehead while she stared at me with tearful loathing.

“I’m sorry,” I said. To this day, I don’t know what I was apologizing for. She was the one who’d hurt me, yes, but I’d hurt her too. Scarred her too. It was as if I’d dug up a dead body and dragged it in her living room the way our cat brought us dead mice. I saw it in her eyes.

I ran as fast as I could to the kitchen door and outside, to the snow.

“It’ll be fine,” Uncle Ricky said after he’d dressed my burn with a cold, damp cloth from his cabin’s tiny sink. “Stay out here tonight.”

The burn had turned an ugly red, with a rising bubble on my skin I’d never had before.

“I wanna go home.” I’d stopped crying, but the tears were still in my voice.

Uncle Ricky sighed, but then he nodded. “Okay. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. But I don’t drive out on these roads in the dark.”

“Did she ever do that to you?”

“Not that, exactly.” I thought he would leave the story unspoken, but after a moment he went on. “One time I was about fourteen and I gave her some lip at the store. When we got home, she pulled a tire iron out of the trunk and whacked my leg good a couple times. I had to stop playing football after that . . . but it kept Uncle Sam off me.”

His story was so much worse that I almost felt better. Almost.

“What about Mom?”

“I tried to protect her. But when you get home . . . ask.”

“How can you not hate your mom?” I asked. “She’s the worst person I’d ever met.”

Uncle Ricky sucked in a long breath. “I used to,” he said. “I guess your mom still does. But nobody’s born like that, Johnny. One day I realized . . . everything has a price. A burden. So I just started feeling sorry instead. There but for the grace of God. You know?”

I didn’t know. And I hoped I never would. As I nursed my arm, I was mad at all of them.

Uncle Ricky went right to sleep on the bottom bunk of the cabin’s bunk bed, but I stared through the curtains toward the house, the kitchen door. I expected her to come after me.

About an hour after Uncle Ricky went to sleep, as I’d feared, the kitchen light went on and the door opened with a shaft of light. Instinct made me crouch low in the cabin window.

Grandmother was still in her robe, carrying an aluminum tray of food. She looked like she was taking out the trash. But instead, she sat on the frigid steps with the tray on her lap. She looked so sad and alone that I almost felt sorry for her too. Her sob was a barely muffled wail. She could catch her death out there.

Grandmother opened the tray and tossed a chicken leg on to the snow. And another.

The snow near the meat moved . . . and something popped out, showing itself as it shook off a layer of frost.

It wasn’t a fox. It wasn’t a dog or a cat. It was white but didn’t seem to have fur, just pale skin cleaved to a frame that looked more like an insect’s than a mammal’s despite a bony tail lashing from side to side. Long, too-sharp teeth chomped at the offered meal, grinding meat and bone alike. I gasped with each snatch of its powerful jaws.

The terrible, nameless thing slid closer to Grandmother, ready to keep feeding. But she didn’t run. She didn’t even flinch. As the hideous creature burrowed its snout in the tray in her lap, she let out childish laughter, her cheeks puffed wide with Lazy Mazy’s mindless grin.

THE MYTH OF PASIPHAË

ANDY DAVIDSON

Our last night together, I dream of a rodeo in which steers rope cowboys and horses race cowgirls around barrels, and pigs run down greased children to rip at their ears with tiny, crooked teeth. In this dream, I am in a metal chute on all fours, naked. Arms and legs trembling, coarse rope cast around my belly and cutting into my balls, as two thousand pounds of Charbray bull settles onto my back. My spine snaps like a pine branch under ice, and mud and shit and piss fill my throat in a wet squelch as I open my mouth to scream, but then the buzzer sounds, the shoot opens, and I wake up.

Next to you.

In a tangle of quilts on a hardwood floor, by the light of dying embers, you and me, sheened with sweat. Outside, the snow is covering the pump house, the pool furniture, the barbwire fence, and pastures beyond. The long, humped shapes of Big Frank’s chicken houses shine like twin alien spacecraft out there in the dark. The pens and arena glaze over white, a blank and formless void mounting, as in the barn, that mad, nameless bull paws at cold dirt beneath the straw. This familiar world, made foreign to us as we suss out the end of it. Outside, there is only the lonesome clank of pipe chimes, and you, suddenly, are behind me at the window. Pressing warm, skin to skin. A bitten fingernail tracing the blade of my shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

Snow-thunder, out of clouds black and heavy.

“She’s coming down.”

You shift your hips, snake your arms around my belly. “Is she?” Hands roaming over pale skin, a long-busted hip, old pain that remembers youth, and on down to softer parts. I shut my eyes against the weight of it, this monstrous thing we will do. You and me and the bull in the barn, and the cold, blessed snow to bury us all.

A month back.

On the phone, Big Frank said he’d bought a monster no man could ride, needed me to talk to it, tell him its name. “Bastard thing won’t say peep to me,” he laughed. “But these bulls, they talk to you, don’t they, Pete? That’s what old Jasper says.” A pause, and then, in a kind of mocking, breathy voice: “Oh, Bull Whisperer, come and whisper to me.” He laughed again, then hung up.

My pickup rattled over the cattle guard at the turnout to Big Frank’s property. I followed the long gravel road up to the house. It was a beautiful place, the sort of thirty-acre spread a man who lives in a trailer in the woods might covet. But every place—even the prettiest—has its own history of secrets and sorrows, is steeped in the unseen. You taught me that. How a spread of land can be a map of the human heart, byways and gates and rolling hills and, at the center of it all, a beating, throbbing pain you long to cease.

Others had driven out. A handful of cowboys come to cuss and drink and throw money down on who had the sack to go eight seconds on Frank’s new bull. I parked away from them, in the shade of an oak, and got out and limped up to the fence to look at the cow, the goats, a donkey or two. Cloud shadows drifted across the pastures, leviathan-like, into the yard. Sunlight broke over the in-ground pool, blinding bright, and that was when I saw you, there among the potted palms, lying on your belly on a flattened lounger. You wore a black single piece, the straps off your shoulders, soles of your feet turned out like the petals of a new flower.

The cowboys gathered in the turnaround on the far side of the house. I joined them, but had to walk past you first, past the rock steps that rose up to where you lay, oblivious to the young bucks preening in shined boots, grins wide as hat brims, faded rings on their asses where Skoal cans bulged. Every so often, they took a can out and thumped it, pinched a bit, snapped it shut. The only man among them was Jasper Koontz, a sunken-cheeked drunk with a tremble in his hands. Also, on the regional circuit, a damn fine rodeo clown, daring and fearless.

Jasper said, “Reckon the bull ain’t the only thing Big Frank wants to show off,” and when he laughed, I saw what few teeth he had, yellowed and crooked and long in their sockets.

“Who is she?”

“Sue Wise’s daughter.”

I said, “Sue Wise.” The name was a memory, fleeting, of an auburn-haired girl in a cheerleader’s skirt. Smiling down at me. Blue sky behind her. I carried her books once. In the ninth grade.

The great wide door of the nearest chicken house swung open, and out of the heat and stink strode Big Frank Dudley. In truth, Big Frank was short, not much to look at. Coke-bottle glasses and a buzzed head, he wore the same tight white T-shirts he’d worn twenty years back in high school, only he’d swapped his motorcycle boots for shit-caked ropers. His sleeves were pushed up to his shoulders, a rolled pack of Red Man jammed beneath one like an epaulet. With that belly, it was hard to tell what was muscle, what was fat. Rumor back in school was he liked to fuck his daddy’s cows. We used to take after him in the hallways, between bells. Mooing at him.

Big Frank led us into the barn, musty and gloomy, six stalls empty save the last, where the bull stood half in shadow. The cowboys all fell silent when it turned its head and shifted its massive bulk to face us. Nothing but boards and a peg latch between us. The air went still and charged. Coat the color of straw, it was a Brahman-Charolais, neck and shoulders passed down from Plummer stock.

Easily the size of Big Frank’s Ford tractor.

“God damn a’mighty,” Jasper Koontz said.

Big Frank tucked a handful of chew in his bottom lip. “Bought him at auction, East Texas, last month,” he said. “Five years old. Man selling him said he done broke two legs, three hips, and a Mexican’s neck.” He grinned around at the lot of us. “How about that, Mr. Whisperer?” he said to me.

All eyes shifted my way.

I took a step toward the bull. Then another. Marveled at its wide, yellow anvil of a head. How it blew hot air like an ironworker’s forge. A laundry stone of a nose, dripping wet. I put my hands on the uppermost stall board, a boot on the bottom. Peered over and saw legs thick as fresh-hewn fence posts, hooves like plow blades. Horns that curved inward above ears big as sycamore leaves. Its eyes were small and black and shining with years of pent-up hate. Hate for bootheels and flank straps and hot branding irons. For the breath of men who had cursed it into being. The bull’s heart thrummed inside my head, and its spirit opened up like a hole in the deepest, darkest space, all gravity and light at its mercy.

It wanted no name.

I dropped down from the fence.

“Any man rides this bull is a man with a death wish,” I said. “You should destroy this animal.”

Big Frank’s grin slipped. His bottom lip hung down like a drawer yanked out.

I walked away, looked back only once.

The bull had turned its face to the sunlight, was licking the air.

I shut myself up in the cab of my pickup, hands trembling, head buzzing with the hurt of it, phantom smells of earth and manure. I looked out my cracked windshield and saw you. In the window of an upstairs bedroom facing west, through the branches of the oak. Afternoon sun on its way out. You’d shed the one-piece like an old skin and stepped out of it new and raw, long black hair, narrow hips. Body warmed by the late-day light. You looked down and saw me too, and it was like a ring of steel struck by a hammer, the clarity of that moment: my shaking hands grew still, and the pain in my head steamed off, and we looked at each other, and neither one of us looked away.

Weeks later, after it turned cold.

Big Frank and his trailer trucked off to Oklahoma, ten hours away.

I knocked on your front door, Jasper shivering beside me. He was off the wagon, had made it six days this time. What we were about to see, he would not make seven. Clutched to his chest was his little black bag, the one he lost his license to carry a decade back for expired antibiotics on the practice shelves. His first offense, punishable by fines. Next came the discovery he was selling ketamine out the back door. He went to prison a doctor of veterinary medicine, came out a man willing to paint on a smile and throw himself between a pair of horns. You’d hesitated when I said his name over the phone, but the nearest true vet was forty miles, and the forecast said freezing rain. So, you answered the door in a heavy parka, jeans tucked into rubber boots, and led us out to the barn, skies the color of ash. The ground was frozen, the whole property wind-scoured.

“I think it’s infected,” you said, once the barn door was shut.

The bull lay with legs tucked under, its flank a ruin of charred flesh.

“What the blue fuck?” Jasper said.

“A branding iron. He was drunk when he did it.”

If the tool was lousy, or the fire not hot enough, it could happen. But this was no mistake. It was meanness. Torture. I saw that right away. Big Frank raging at a stubborn beast for which he had paid good cash money.

“Wound like that, we won’t get him into a chute,” Jasper said.

Those black eyes watched us.

“Prep the needle,” I said.

I slipped into the stall quietly, syringe of antibiotics in hand. I moved like a man feeling his way over a frozen lake. Heart walloping my breastbone. The bull struggled on its side. “Easy now,” I said, but the eyes rolled white. So, I leapt at the flank. The needle went in. The bull cranked up. I slid the plunger home and danced back, but my old, busted hip gave way and I fell, and now it was coming at me, this living locomotive, and suddenly Jasper, the rodeo clown, hurled himself between us, arms splayed, jigging sideways. Seconds were bought, enough for me to clamber up and over the rail, even as the bull horned Jasper, who lit over into the next stall like Jack-be-Nimble, and the beast struck the wall and the whole barn shook.

“It won’t be happy ’til it kills a man,” Jasper spat, then went into a coughing fit.

Your hand gripping my arm as the bull shambled in a circle and kicked the air, and the needle flew out. Was crushed beneath those hooves.

Your hand tightening around my arm, your body pressed close.

The bull and you, breathing heavy.

In synch.

Saturday. Still no Frank. Not due back until Sunday, and even then, the weather could stall him. “Just checking in,” I said, embarrassed to have braved icy county roads to stand on your porch, an old man with a limp. Hat in hand, like some beggar.

You stood in the crack of the door in a red sweater, jeans tucked into black wool socks. “The wound looks better.”

I didn’t move.

You said, “Come inside, Mr. Crane?”

“Pete,” I said.

You brewed coffee and I watched you from the kitchen table, the way you moved from sink to stove, slump-shouldered and cold, craving warmth. Too young to seem so old. We sat and drank. The silence heavy between us. Until I said, “I used to ride, back in high school. Made it to the national semi-finals in Shawnee, Oklahoma, year I turned sixteen. 1986. It was a bull named Tourniquet. Threw me into a wall, broke my pelvis into seventeen pieces. Bone soup, the doctors called it.”

It was more than I had said to a person in a long time.

“Frank said you talk to bulls.”

“A bull is a lonely creature,” I said. “They are captives of their own genes. You listen, more than talk. That’s all.”

You didn’t say anything.

I listened.

Later, the coffee was dregs, the dark come on. You needed a fire lit so I went at it, pretending it was my fire and this was my house, and it was our warmth, and afterward, I said I had to be getting on and you took my hand to shake it but held it, and your skin was cold, so I closed both my hands over yours, and suddenly you pulled me, a rough jerk. Toward the stairs, up into a guest bedroom where Big Frank had never slept, and what happened that night was like a spark of fire in the darkest wood.

The days that followed numbered among the coldest of winter days. I huddled up over an electric heater in my trailer, which was parked on a ledge by the river. Once, on this spot, there was a cinderblock church, erected by fishermen. But it all washed away in an April flood, years past. I’d bought the lot cheap. I ate beans on toast and sat wrapped in a blanket of my own farts, trying to read paperback westerns. But I thought of you between the paragraphs and forgot the words I’d read. Once, perhaps, it had been enough, to live out my days in this tin coffin, to know I would die here and be found too late. A comfort to be had, in such anonymity. A kind of lantern, lighting a clear path. But you, you blew that lantern dark, and now I’d built a fire in another man’s hearth.

One day, weeks later, as my thoughts turned to desperate, darker things—a shotgun in the corner, taste of metal to plug the loneliness, the emptiness, the utter heartsickness of a lack of you—my phone rang. Your voice was choked with anger, pain. You parsed your words, said Frank was gone. Said you’d be outside, on the porch swing.

But when I got there, I found you in the pasture. Barefoot. Half naked. Your footprints in the new fallen snow like a tether to the farmhouse porch. You were shivering, blue. Bent over the frozen grass and scooping up handfuls of snow and hardpacked cow chips. When I spoke your name, you turned to me, madness in your eyes, and I saw it: a ragged f scorched deep into your thigh—the softer, inner part. Days old, the flesh still blistered red. You were pressing the snow, the cow shit, bits of brittle grass into it. Like some arcane poultice. Your eyes were wild, and you said through chattering teeth, “I’m going to kill Big Frank. Will you help me?”

I thought on it. I said, “Sure.”

Deep night. After the rodeo dream, the snow.

It is now, and Big Frank is in Texarkana. You told him the truth: you’ d screwed another man. Just lied about who. Said it was some cowboy in Texarkana, an old flame come back into your life. After the branding, you named an ex who had not been kind. Which was enough for Frank. If he and the patsy don’t kill each other, he’ll likely be back tomorrow. Tonight, we’re at peace in each other’s arms. The fire roars up in the living room. I’ve cleaned your wound in a warm bath, and the only scrap of cloth between us now is your dressing, and suddenly, you say, “It ain’t knowing someone. Fucking them, I mean.” You say it like a warning to me.

In the hallway, behind the stairs, an old grandfather clock chimes the hour. Ticks on toward the next.

“When did it start?” you ask. “This thing with you and bulls?”

A pine knot bursts in the fire.

It began a lifetime ago, the last time I rode, a few years after Shawnee. I was twenty, easing down onto a Brahman’s back in a chute out at old John Wall’s place, and suddenly, I felt it: this racing heart that was not mine, but the bull’s, beating in my own breast, huge and warlike. No breath of peace between the notes, only terror and rage. And in my own heart, when I picked myself up from the dirt and the bull had gone trotting off to some far corner of the ring, I felt no thrill, just an emptiness. It’s been with me ever since. “Whatever broke that day, it went to the heart of me,” I tell you. “All feeling inside. Until now.”

I wait, in the hopes that you, in turn, will confess the same, how you are mended by me, and in this our hearts will fuse and be drawn out of a forge and doused in the cold, clear water. Each the sharper, the deadlier for it. But you only touch my face, yawn, and roll over to sleep. I lie awake, listening to your pulse race the clock.

Big Frank’s house creaks every now and then, the way old houses do.

Early next morning, Jasper brings the needles full of tranquilizer. He stands on the porch smelling of dark rum and hands everything over in a Ziploc bag, out of a fleece-lined coat pocket. He doesn’t ask why. Just takes the hundred bucks I give him. I, shirtless, shoeless on Big Frank’s porch, breath coming in clouds of cold. “Guess you know what you’re doing,” he says. I don’t answer him. In the driveway, a pickup idles, whoever drove him here. A woman behind the wheel. Older. Hair done up. No one I know, but I hope she’s good to him.

Big Frank comes through the door mid-afternoon, reeking of aftershave and that deep, un-scrubbable smell of chicken shit. Blood under his nails where he gave some scrawny-assed boy what for, back in Texarkana. He shuts the door, turns to the living room proper. Calls your name. I step out from behind the drapery and put the needle into his neck. Press the plunger as he jerks. His eyes go glassy, and he drops like a sack of bricks on the pine board floor.

The sky hangs heavy with more snow, but isn’t ready to let go. The steel fence is cold beneath me, and I have to make sure my gloves are on before I touch it, lest my fingers freeze right to it. The pen’s in back of Big Frank’s barn, the arena itself an oval of white. I perch above the chute, wearing a flannel shirt and my crumpled high school Stetson, no coat. Lamb’s wool chaps I wore back in Shawnee. My hip throbs with pain and pleasure, a stirring in my breast I have not felt for twenty years. I settle onto the bull, and it jolts beneath me. Clangs the metal and sends my nuts into my navel, and the fear is good. There are glories yet to reap, blood yet to spend.

Easy now, I think, and the bull seems to hear me, to sigh and shudder, as if it accepts this gift we’ve given it, upon its waking from a deep, drug-induced slumber. Here in this strange metal chute, held up by a harness, the securing of which dried up all saliva in our throats. How we suspended him here, a hammock beneath him so his belly could not touch the ground, then dragged Big Frank from the house, drugged likewise, and set to work beneath the bull, with ropes and straps. Afterward, we had coffee, watched the clock. Stood in the barn and spoke not a word to this or any mystery, there in the sweet-smelling hay, and upon the first, faint stirrings of the man, mutterings of “What the hell, the fuggiz this,” we loosed the harness, and you stood your post at the gate.

And now: I ease down, off the rail. Nod. I’m ready.

The latch clicks and the gate swings open over snow-shoveled dirt, and the bull is loosed upon the arena.

I cling to the flank strap and feel it move beneath me and imagine this must be the thrill of men who swim with man-eating sharks, who climb high cliffs and cling by fingers to outcroppings over miles of air. This wild, exuberant stupidity, this proof of something we cannot name. All the while beneath us, we hear the screams of Big Frank Dudley, lashed naked to a bucking monster’s belly, facedown and rear facing, the bull’s hairy member walloping him, every third, fourth buck, as a plow-blade hoof cleaves some portion of Big Frank’s skull, his body, and the bright, crystalline snow is spattered red.

I do not know how long we ride, how long we buck our fury.

Once, from the fence, you cry out in horror, in triumph.

Some eternity later, all sounds having ceased, I shut my eyes and thank the bull for this final grace, and the world heaves beneath me and I am flying—until my skull hits a sheet of galvanized metal along the fence, and I hear the crack of my neck, and I drop down into the cold, drifted snow.

And you, across that vast, white gulf.

And the bull, stock still and snorting cold.

Big Frank limp and undone. A smear.

You reach out, slowly. Not for me.

The bull steps free of its ropes, one last indignity visited upon Big Frank as it crunches his head into the snow. It comes to you. Lays its head between your hands, nose to your bosom, as you gaze into its eyes and know things I will never know. Hear things I will never hear.

“It’s a good name,” you say.

The bull follows you to the far gate, where you open the pen, and the two of you walk through and away, across the white pasture and into a curtain of falling snow that sweeps back from the tall dark pines like a wedding veil.

I see all of this crookedly.

Until it’s cold and dark, and after that, it’s not.

THE LONELINESS OF THE LONG-DISTANCE REPORTER

DANIELA TOMOVA

Noel—fiftyish, lanky, with fawn eyes and skin windburned to a sunset glow—is my translator. He meets me on the iced tarmac, shakes my hand, and hands me a rifle before opening his mouth.

“For the polar bears,” he yells over the Arctic winds, and leans in to yell a tad more conspiratorially, “and I’ll only say this once—I won’t repeat it and you don’t repeat it around town either. But also in case one of the racers—you know—comes for you.” He straightens his back again. “It’s for self-protection.”

“Motherfucker,” I say. “I thought you were supposed to be my protection.”

I did get my own damn self into this.

The scene: It’s a late, 105-degree July afternoon. El Paso, Texas, which to my father seemed like a good place to settle after a harrowing, bullets-whizzing-by-your-ear, losing-toes-to-frostbite escape from totalitarian Bulgaria. That’s the kind of experience that will put someone off winter permanently. But it’s also the kind of story that will make their daughter choose a gig in extreme-weather sports.

So: El Paso, Texas. The sun has come down to bang on my door and peek through the thick wooden slabs of the blinds like a red-eyed debt collector. A couple of flies hover, uninspired, in the lung-blistering air over my desk. Power is out, therefore AC’s out. Laptop, long drained of charge, is off and not coming back until I hear the blessed sound of the AC click and chirp and—ah, the whoosh of a tepid breeze.

I am on my phone, researching winter vacations I’ll never be able to afford and watching its battery, which is bullshit even on a good day, visibly inch down toward eight percent.

Underboob sweat be damned, I tuck the T-shirt under the girls for the sake of self-respect before I call Lorena, editor-in-chief of Adrenaline Review Quarterly. She’s the type one puts on pants and a bra even for a phone call. Our dealings always start with me pitching what become the most popular articles her magazine ever publishes and end with her lawyer saying not to talk to the police until she’s arrived. Mutually beneficial, I call it. Lorena calls it “The minute cost outweighs clicks, I’m dropping your ass.”

“Hey, duckie, I was just about to get in touch with you. You hear about Artie? No? He fell out. No, literally.” She giggles maliciously, yet disarmingly for a woman approaching deep adulthood. “He slipped out of his harness trying to zip-line his way to Kathmandu. He’s all right. Just out of commission for a full year, at the very least, and I have pages to fill. You better have a killer pitch.”

If you count being able to pay my heating and health insurance this winter as better, then yes, I’d very much better.

“This extreme race in the Arctic.”

“Oh? The Arctic? Power’s out in Texas again?”

“Norway. It’s called the Icebound,” I plow on. “It’s on the cusp of becoming a thing, not much coverage yet. A very Nordic affair, but it’s mad trending. There are only amateur photos online—all dark and blurry—but it’s starting to draw fans and tourists, some midrange Instagrammers too. Two kinds of racers. Word is, it’s getting some big-name sponsors this year. It’s just the time to get in on the action.”

I hold my breath; let her dangle for a few beats. A lesser freelancer would have overplayed, but I just lean back in my sweat-slicked office chair and purr, “Pays-per-click, Lorena.”

What would you do in her place?

“All right,” she says.

I push my luck. “All expenses paid.”

“Flights and food at least; I’ll loan you a tent. You said big sponsors? How big?” Her own keyboard is chattering, no doubt she’s doing due-dil. “And behave. No one’s coming all the way to Norway to bail you out—”

Then, “Hmm,” she says, like someone just surprised her with an enemy’s head on a silver tray.

“What hmm?”

“Just—these two kinds of racers . . . It’ll sell like gangbusters. Sure, all expenses paid. Have fun, duckie, and get me an interview.”

We hang up and I settle deeper into the perspiration forming a puddle on the seat, to research what exactly I’ve just sold her.

Two minutes later, my phone battery dies.

It is a universal truth—and folks, you’ll want to note this down—that the usefulness of an article on the internet is directly related to its author’s journey along the Dunning-Kruger curve. And in this case, most of the material I found came from the kind of people who would pay crazy money—hell, travel crazy distances—to take poorly lit photos of themselves doing headstands on prehistoric blocks of ice, with small, indistinguishable shadows—presumably the racers on their sleds—dotting the snow in the far background.

Those posts ended in a violent storm of hashtags: #aurora #datsunsettho #northernmostmichelinstar #glacieryoga #revenantrace #glacieryogawi-threvenants. Yet nothing about #michelinrestaurantownerfuckedoffsouth or #icehurtsyall or #waitwhatwasthat or even #basicrevenantfactstho.

And so, Longyearbyen, largest settlement on Svalbard.

The Icebound Race is in the pure literal frozen ice-hell of the Norwegian Arctic. You know, the kind of Norway which is all the way out to Europe and then all the way up to a town where the ratio of polar bears to people decidedly favors the bears. It’s also much colder than you’d imagine when you’re baking like an insect in the hot Texan sun.

The cozy northernmost-Michelin-starred restaurant I had planned to spend all of Lorena’s hard-hustled money in? Closed for . . . until the owner feels like it. Noel tells me the unpredictability is supposed to add charm to the place, but I remain stubbornly uncharmed.

The all-paid expenses thus turn out to be ten days’ worth of all the meat and raw fish I can eat until I get to sink my teeth into the mouth-watering contents of my plastic box of airplane food on the flight home.

A cell phone is quickly useless in this weather, so when we get to my wee, lovingly wood-paneled hotel room, Noel hooks me up with a satellite phone for emergencies and a bottle of spirits for general use. I take the duty-free bourbon out of my backpack and we sit on the bed to toast and soak in the sweet smell of the cedarwood burning in the fireplace downstairs.

Noel has been coming to Longyearbyen regularly since moving to Svalbard from the UK in the ’90s. Back then, he says, it was a very different thing—just a bunch of locals, turned strange by the long night, taking their kick-sleds out for a lap around the town once a year—harmless enough. Except each year, the laps got longer. And each year, the race started later.

“I stopped soon after we began racing during revenant season,” Noel says. “Aged out of it too quickly.”

“Revenant season being when they’re out? The zombies?”

“The revenants.” Noel punctuates with his glass. “Yeah, it’s when they come out. Never at the same exact time, but reliably—I’d say about late October, early November. It starts when the land winds pick up—the ones that erode the dry topsoil and uncover the bodies. That’s why they outlawed all burials on the island few decades ago. Still, the ground being frozen hard here, we have hundreds of years of shallow graves all around us. And now, with the climate—you know, erosion is speeding up.

“We’re also noticing revenants in more modern clothing too. Somehow they are getting here from the mainland. No idea how.

“These days the government gets GPS trackers on them as soon as they’re detected—the ones who start circling human settlements are taken to ‘The Hotel,’” he laughs. “Remind me to show you tomorrow. So we have the tagging and online maps and forecasts. And, I suppose, the race to help with transportation. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, now we have a small industry around them, but back then you just had to watch out for yourself.

“Those early races, though. It’s the kind of thing to do when you’re young,” he says, and sniffs the bourbon in his glass before taking a long sip. “You’re out in the tundra—endless fields of snow and wind—racing with your mates. It’s cold—this Arctic chill, and it soaks through to your bones. Your fingers tingle. Your pits itch uncomfortably and smell of adrenaline. And there’s this coppery taste in your mouth like you licked a battery.”

His face opens as he speaks and his breath tightens.

“And—just there! A tall figure walks out into the middle of the track and waits for you in the blue air. Someone fallen from his sled. Or—doesn’t it look a bit too much like your neighbor, the one with the heavy cough who they took to the mainland last spring? Stands a bit like him too—he always leaned a little crooked to the left. You can’t really see faces so well in the dark, just a tall shape in your path, but there’s also this hum in your lungs—you know? Same feeling when you’re hunting, say, a wild boar, and this two-hundred-kilo storm of muscle and tusks turns abruptly and charges at you.” He inhales deeply. “That feeling.”

“I’m not really a hunter,” I say.

“You’ll see when you do the race. It’s still proper exciting even though we’ll be far behind the revenants.”

I empty my glass.

“But how did it become the Icebound? How did people go from ‘Yeah, let’s all get on sleds and chase each other around some hungry undead corpses’ to—uh—‘Let’s get the hungry undead corpses on sleds and send them off at high speeds’?”

“Reason other than poke-the-bear, bread-and-circuses kind of thing?” he asks, reaching over me to get the bottle.

He refills for both of us and we sit for a while nodding and sipping our drinks. His eyes are glassy.

“If I had to guess,” he ventures, “once the government started tracking the revenants and we figured out that they will instinctively head in one direction—always up toward the North Pole—it was inevitable for some bored, rat-arsed bugger in some pub here to one day yell at his mates, ‘Hei, folkens, hey, listen. What if we put one on a sled? Taking bets here. How fast do you think . . .”

I dream some sultry, cedar-smoked dreams all through the next day, or whatever period of twilight passes for a day here, and wake up just as the disembodied giggles and renditions of ’80s pop hits blasting out of the nearby pub announce that night had fallen long ago. I put on my parka and heavy boots, pick up the rifle, and go downstairs where the hotel owner hands me a thermos of hot coffee and sends me off into town to look for Noel and food. Preferably both at the same time.

I find Noel at the pub. A glowing topaz shot of cognac greets me as soon as I sit down. It’s like he knows me better than I know myself. We follow up with an Italian-style pizza and a few Guinesses each. “Creamiest heads this side of the North Sea,” he states with an air of authority and a smile crowned with a thin foam mustache. He paws at his upper lip and leans over, his eyes wet, unfocused, and a bit bloodshot. “Ever seen a revenant before?”

“No. Online there’s only a bunch of super blurry pictures.” “Wanna meet ’em?”

“The racers? Now?”

“Sure. I can arrange for an interview. The handlers are there, getting them ready for tomorrow.”

Now, in my many years of making questionable choices, I have learned to spot your classic Bad Idea, especially when it comes grinning at you from behind a cloud of sour beer breath.

Still—we all have that one friend who always says, “I know, but . . .” And the “but” is always more compelling than any reason you can throw at them? Tonight I’m that friend. The gal who got an interview with a revenant! That gal gets two cents more per word. That gal’s heating is on all winter. That gal buys quality tampons—the silk-lined ones!

And this is how you get to watch me, a tasty morsel, going all, “Why Noel, I thought you’d never ask.”

While Noel is finishing his beer, he assures me the race stops are perfectly safe—the racers are fed very well there.

“They’re fully taken care of. They’re kind of celebrities, even. If you want to interview them, the safest time is right now. Today. Tomorrow is going to be madness,” he says, sliding the check over to my side of the table, “Don’t forget to keep the receipt so you can expense it. Thanks for the drinks.”

I’m somewhat morbidly disappointed to find out that there’s no zombie hotel. The racers are housed outside of town.

And me—one minute I’m in the shuttle driving us to the glacier—snuggled, sluggish and Guinness-warm in my parka—and the next Noel is outside, standing on a moonlit, iced path in the snow, waving at me to join him. I jump out and the cold punches me in the nose so hard my eyes water. Snow flurries batter my face. Noel waits for me in front of something which, on a night like this, is not so much a cave entrance but darkness carved into the giant icy bones of a mountain. I wrestle the parka hood down over my eyes and follow him inside.

Powerful LED lights activate the second we walk through the mouth of the cave. The walls are smooth and fluid. Our steps echo back at us from random directions.

My blood pulses like fingers drumming over my temples and I take a deep breath to calm myself, but my lungs catch in the cold. I burp a muted, sour little memento of the pub and behind it suddenly arrives a smell like that of a broken refrigerator left in the summer heat.

No heads turn when we walk out into the ancient air of the ice chamber.

Why would they? Caught in a column of light from one of the massive projectors mounted high up in the ceiling, we are flies. Mites. Two little motes floating down the metal stairs bolted onto the walls of the chamber with all the bravado they fail to feel despite the Guinness. On the ground below us, giant wasps roil and chase each other and, as we descend, resolve into the shadows of the handlers.

The crews are packing food, shuttling gear and supplies, tightening straps, polishing and waxing sled runners, testing equipment, and running checklists. Voices are light but from watching their almost myopic focus, I can tell each one is keenly aware of what is happening in their peripheral vision at any given time.

“Walk normally,” Noel instructs me.

“What?

“Just keep a casual gait so you don’t alarm the crews. They have enough to think about.”

And having said exactly the thing to say when you want someone to forget how walking is done, Noel takes off a bit stiffly—my very own Scouse Virgil. I soften my limbs, brighten my expression into the one I use when I am trying to convince a bouncer that I am not here to be trouble, and follow.

I look for the revenants through the blur of moving bodies but don’t see anything unusual—until Noel points out the large, upright boxes. Most are pine—traditional, he explains as we make our way through the crowd—but the more prominent teams have theirs custom-made out of composite materials and plastered with a galaxy of big-name logos: Adidas, Salomon, Nike, SAS, Lufthansa.

Each box is well lit and large enough for a human body. Each box does, in fact, contain a body.

The revenants.

Each stands alone—a grim, life-sized action figure—under a dour fluorescent fixture mounted on the inside of the box. The lighting isn’t helping. It only deepens the shadows falling in angles that should be impossible on a human face, so the first thing you see are the eyes—pale, opaque, and unblinking. Stone.

I’ve seen eyes of the dead before—occupational hazard—but these give me a physical distress, like I’m witnessing the desecration of something meaningful. Behind these I sense some terrible inorganic intent, an unavoidable trajectory—like a meteor headed for you.

“Where are the restraints?” I whisper sideways to Noel.

“The teams find restraints undignified. But see there?” He signals with his eyes up at a constellation of industrial-looking blocks embedded in the ceiling. “Magnets. The whole cave’s rigged with motion sensors. If anything moves faster than usual—the way an attacking revenant does—the magnets turn on. Confuses them long enough to be handled safely. That’s another reason to walk deliberately around here. Sensors get tripped by accident at least once or twice a season, and it’s a pain in the arse to account for all personnel and racers afterwards.”

He navigates me through the shifting labyrinth of bodies, living and returned, to a resin box big enough to accommodate a heavy old wooden chair. In it, a revenant is seated, long arms propped on the armrests. He is flanked by three handlers. Noel asks something in a language that is not Norwegian (I find out later it’s Icelandic), and the lead handler nods and looks to the revenant.

We move in closer but not too close. Noel looks at me. I flip through the questions prepared in my notepad, but they are all suddenly too theatrical. So for some reason I hope will make sense to me at a later time, I ask, “Where do you come from?” Noel translates.

The revenant’s head is leaning sharply over and almost behind his left shoulder. The meat of his mouth has retreated long ago, and his teeth are exposed. His jaw is tight. He looks exactly like a frozen body someone dug up and dressed in a leftover canary-yellow karting suit with carmine chevron stripes on the chest. This moment—this whole thing—feels like someone is playing a very sick, very expensive joke on me, and I’m scrolling through my mental book of clever privileged assholes, when from behind the teeth, a hollow, distant voice reaches out to stroke the hairs on the back of my exposed neck.

“I am here now.”

“Why do you race?”

“It is inevitable.”

The lead handler, watching from the other side of the box with a bright, apple-cheeked face, adds in softly accented English, “All the revenants instinctively head north, to the pole. The race just helps with the safety.”

“Their safety or human safety?” I ask.

“Both,” the handler answers, still brightly. “What we feed them doesn’t have neighbors with firearms.”

Noel had warned me about the humor. You work with the undead long enough, your jokes turn a bit—off, he’d said.

“And how do you prepare for the race?” I ask the revenant.

“I come here.” The voice startles me again. It sounds so impossibly far away. From beyond the chamber, beyond the glacier. Maybe all the way from the snowy grave he climbed out of.

“In the meantime, he receives regular massages with tea tree oil and embalming fluid to discourage deterioration of his general physical state,” the handler pipes in again from the side, like a blond imp in a fever dream, which all this is overwhelmingly starting to feel like. He points at a range of lotion bottles with some strange sparkly logo.

I turn back to the revenant, “Does winning mean anything to you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“What draws you to the North Pole?”

“It is inevitable.”

“Why are you back from the dead?”

He doesn’t answer. I try another angle.

“Why are you here?”

For a minute, he doesn’t answer, and when he does, I don’t need Noel’s translation.

“It is inevitable.”

While Noel interprets, I look at the revenant. His head is cocked to the side, mouth stretched wide in something I would never mistake for a smile. His opaque, milky eyes don’t reflect any light or movement.

I close my own puffy eyelids tight and open them again. Everyone’s still around, though it feels like they shouldn’t be. Behind our immediate mise-en-scène, people still dart around as if on invisible, taut strings. I recognize what I’m feeling: depersonalization. Standing in the shadow of the revenant’s faraway voice, I feel as if the other sounds around us are straining through into a dream, where it’s just me and him. Behind him—a giant white field with an open grave; behind me—the weeping icy walls. My chest tightens. My breath bucks against it, trying to get out. I want to bail too.

Instead I step back and turn to Noel, summoning his human voice to ground me.

“What happens to them after the race?”

“We’re still trying to find out. The tracker signals all drop out after a while—just long enough for us to be sure they’re past the human settlements on their way north. The pings sometimes converge, at different spots every year, and the army sends specialist teams—I joined on couple of those missions. No revenants, no trackers, just ghost signals on the receiver. Pretty much—”

Suddenly I know what it looks like when one of them focuses on you. Like a metal bolt to a magnet, the dead eyes lock onto Noel’s arm, which has jutted out too close to the chair. The head pivots in our direction and its teeth open.

I grab Noel in a bear hug—teeth snap above my hand, so close I feel a sting where they tear out the small hairs on my skin—and pull him away. Still looking us, the revenant stands up and takes two steps forward and the smell hits me, but it’s not the one I expect—the smell of decay. This one is a gust of cold light inside my rib cage, the first smell of frost on a cold autumn afternoon, of a fresh kill in the snow. I blink and there’s a woman—a woman with dark hair and a sweater—a dress?—made of woolen knots with threads sticking out of them, standing in the middle of the parka-clad mess of handlers. And in the seconds before Noel and I are surrounded by the living and expelled from the cave, I see the way she steps sharply behind the revenant, and the way he falls back in his armchair. And I’m pretty sure she is what I am smelling: first frost, fresh kill.

“It might’ve been the beers,” Noel—shaken, radiating brick-red embarrassment—tells me on the ride to the hotel. “Could be something about the smell of yeast or hops that throws their senses into feeding mode.” I ask him who the woman in the knotted dress is. “I didn’t see anything but the revenant,” he says, trying to laugh. “That was . . . Oh, man, that was close.”

We don’t say anything more on the way back. Later at night, when I dream, I dream of sables hunting in the snow, of blood, of a panicked animal dying alone.

Don’t get me wrong, I do have a survival instinct. I got it from my father, who managed to escape the old country by snaking under a kilometer of razor wire and throwing himself over concrete walls twice his height as he was shot at by fellow officers armed with Kalashnikovs. He made it, though his twin brother didn’t.

“I had been right there,” he’d repeat with the same disbelief every time he told the story, “where he was hit. That same spot, a second earlier.” And he’d instruct me, cryptically, “Learn from me.”

I was never sure what I was supposed to learn but I grew up obsessed with what it was that made the difference—one zag instead of a zig and I wouldn’t exist. Snap. Just like that.

One zig instead of a zag and the bullet that felled my uncle would have chipped a concrete wall instead. And I’d be working in a tech startup or in marketing, because I wouldn’t have had to grow up with the horrible sentence: “I had been right there, a second earlier.”

But zigs were zigged and zags were zagged and here I am, seeking out experiences on the edge of survival that I can package into marketable epiphanies for eight cents a word.

So yes, I could have just run away. I watched myself doing it, exactly like I watch every decision I make a moment before I make it—with my meta self-awareness, that internal self-narration those of us who belong to more than one world have. I saw myself jump out of the way and saw the revenant’s teeth sink into Noel’s arm. And I saw myself living the rest of my life with that horrible sentence.

I had been right there a second ago.

I decided I didn’t want to live like that.

It’s a different form of survival.

DAY ONE OF THE RACE

By the time Noel drops off the signed liability waivers and comes back with the drinks, the first sleds have already lined up at the start. He hands me a paper cup filled with warm, rich mulled wine with a shipwreck’s worth of sliced almonds and raisins floating inside.

“Big crowd,” I say.

“It’s never been like this.” He shakes his head. “Last year it was more crew than spectators.”

We are in a large open area right outside the city. Newly built—early this year, says Noel—and bright as day thanks to a ring of giant stadium lights. Two rows of glowing plexiglass columns with sponsor logos line the sides of the track and coil over the hills in the waiting night.

This is the main event. The revenants are being lined up. The crews run checks on the sleds. The lead handlers give their final instructions and step back to take in the scene. Dozens of racers stand behind the start line, each on a fierce steel-and-titanium sled, staring at the bright stadium lights that mask the darkness beyond the town. The crowd at the sidelines, a few thousand strong, waves flags and aims phones.

Behind the line, revenants grip the sled handlebars.

The breath of the living fogs the air.

Sideline cheers! Thumbs-up from the handlers. A man in a black parka raises his hand and fires a green flare into a dizzying snowy sky. Standing on the runners, each revenant kicks against the packed snow and the sleds shoot off into the white lights.

Like that: One shot from a gun, one kick—and the bullets are on their way to a target somewhere in time. Somewhere inevitable.

Their shadows stretch behind, lagging for a few seconds, then thin out and disappear.

The crowd cheers a while before it regroups around the human racers who will start in two groups, a few hours after the revenants. This is always the messier start, Noel tells me. People hesitate to go first, in case some revenants are delayed or blown off course. Still, everyone wants the endorphin rush, that feeling of running with the bulls—the possibility that the bull will turn around and charge at you.

“Does anyone try to catch up or overtake the revenants?” I ask.

“Humans sometimes disappear during the race. It’s an open secret. It’s not unlikely that some of them could have been . . . unwise enough to try to actually win. Organizers won’t let you start if you’re open about it, but you can see it in some people’s faces. I can, at least.”

“No one this year, though?”

“I can’t think about it this year. Right now I need to focus on helping you make it past the finish line.”

The human sleds are a motley bunch. Some of them are all sponsored-up and professional and leave together two hours after the revenants, on the dot. The leftovers look less . . . sponsored, unless there are corporations out there called “Gentlemen Prefer Blonde Ales” or “I Can’t Drive Now—I’m Piste” or even “Girl Powder.” And of course, there is a #hannasyoga and a #runswithrevenants because no place is safe from hashtags.

We start with them.

Six p.m. I should be exhausted, battling a monster jet lag, but no—I’m completely wired. I have seriously underestimated the excitement that swells when you step up on the sled.

The crowd yells encouragements in more languages than there are racers. One of my fellow sledders nips back, clearly in response to some joke from his supporters. I grin at Noel, who is sitting behind me in the sled, wrapped up in dog-hair-covered woolen blankets; grab on tightly to the handlebars; and my head sways.

I’m standing on the crest of a wave. Like foam in front of me, huskies, hitched two-by-two, bear up with their haunches taut, their tails wagging in anticipation, their eyes bright and human.

I’m on a chariot on the stage of a theater, lit by the beam of a projector.

I am standing in a dark office, alone, under a struggling fluorescent light.

I’m the smallest, snuggest, parka-clad Matryoshka doll in a series of dolls nested in a time collapsed—daylight inside a vast night inside the day that should have been.

All of these are true for a single moment.

I shake unreality off when the black-parka man raises the gun to the sky— slower than it appeared from the sidelines, slow enough for me to see a dark-haired woman behind him looking directly at me, and to see how everyone around her is pointedly not noticing her—and fires. The green flare hisses and cracks above our heads. The sleds creak as the snow releases its hold on the waxed runners. The front teams take off fast and disappear beyond the lights. Several minutes later, the rest of us manage to get a hundred feet past the starting line, wait out the traffic jam, and gather speed sluggishly and with surprising difficulty.

The line of sleds before us is quickly swallowed by the dark and the snow. Just like that, we are alone.

We mush the rest of the night and through the next day, which amounts to no more than an hour of incandescent blue light flooding the snowy fields and drowning quietly in the inky horizon, before it is night again.

The only excitement comes, cold-eyed and frozen-faced, on board a kicksled that zips past us. It doesn’t stop, thankfully, but Noel grips his rifle and it’s a long while before he lets go.

“They were supposed to be way ahead of us,” I say.

“Supposed to be. Sometimes magnetic storms disrupt their senses. Just prepare yourself mentally, because you’ll need to shoot them if they come for you.”

Over and over, I force myself to imagine a face resolving in the darkness in front of me and falling, pinned back by a bullet. Once or twice, lulled by the whooshing heartbeat of our sled, I slip into a lucid dream, and the face is both strange and strangely familiar.

We stop to eat and feed the huskies and sleep, then take off into the night again.

DAY TWO OF THE RACE

I wake up and leave the tent just in time to see the last few minutes of brightness on the horizon. We hitch the huskies again and take off into the blue air.

I’ve seen countless documentaries about traveling in the Arctic, but no one talks about the strange thoughts that flow when all you can see is an immense white field unfolding, unfolding, unfolding—

First, without any external stimulation, the brain begins to vomit random thoughts.

I wonder how this race would work out in Texas.

Note: Research if there have been possible revenant sightings in Texas. Or anywhere in the South.

I could kill for some Blue Nile takeaway right now. Oh, or dim sum.

Wonder what my dad was thinking during his escape. Definitely not about food—he couldn’t eat until three days after crossing the border. Nerves and the fear of those fake borders set up to fool people into surrendering to an execution squad.

I am too spoiled.

How would it feel to be on the run from your own state?

The white field swallows all and opens wider . . .

The wind howls and my ears begin to scream, but I have no more random thoughts to silence the screaming with, so I begin to peel off and portion out thoughts that are true pieces of me.

Would I have zigged or zagged?

What if the wind had slammed me into the big rock at Fox Glacier instead of sucking me upward? Could I have cushioned myself without losing consciousness?

And what if I had jumped back to the pavement when I heard the horn in Hungary? I’d have been the first one in the path of the blue BMW.

Turkey during the earthquake, Nepal, the Dominican Republic, the unlicensed local helicopter rescue from an oil rig in the Caspian Sea.

How am I still around?

How did all those decisions get me here in one piece?

The field swallows all, indifferent.

I see the dogs running in front of me, but the sled is not moving and the field is still unfolding, unfolding, unfolding until it covers the entire world in a blanket of snow and swallows all of us.

When we stop to eat and feed the huskies, Noel tells me a story about a hero of his, an explorer who built a special ship that could be frozen into the ice sheet and drift with the ice until it reached the North Pole.

“What do you think the revenants do when they get there?” I ask him.

“The North Pole? I don’t know. Look for the thing that’s inevitable to them, whatever it is. We do get reports from oil rigs and research stations, more and more sightings every year—single revenants floating on blocks of ice, wandering by the polar stations, walking through the glaciers. But by summer, when the exploration ships get close, the revenants are gone. Probably somewhere at the bottom of the ocean.”

He shrugs and opens a bag.

“How about you? What is inevitable to you?” I ask as he throws pieces of frozen meat to the huskies.

“You mean outside the obvious—taxes, death, a bit of après-résurrection sled racing?” He stops to think for a minute. “What else can be inevitable to humans? It must be something we chase, mustn’t it?”

“Like a thing that will eventually turn around to gore you?”

Noel doesn’t answer. He is staring at the dogs, whose snouts are sniffing something under the snow’s surface.

We haven’t seen a single sled in more than a day.

We are seemingly following the trails and markers left by the other mushers, but we must have zagged when the others zigged and missed the first rest stop. Both experienced hikers, we accept we’re lost. We unhitch the huskies and Noel calls the emergency service.

I watch him as he says something in Norwegian and waits for an answer. He repeats, slower. Again. His face folds. He looks at me, confused, and shrugs. Shaking his head, he hands me the satellite phone. His eyes are glazed over as if he is doing calculus in his head.

“I must be more tired than I realized. Her answers are making no sense to me.”

“Hello?” I say into the phone.

“Hello, we’re lost,” the voice from the phone says urgently.

“We are lost. Who is this?” I ask.

“—Hello, who is this? We’re lost. Come meet us.”

I hang up and call the emergency service number stickered on the back of the phone.

“Hei,” the voice answers.

“Hi,” I say.

“Are you coming?”

I hang up.

In the dark, in the distance, something zips past us, but it’s so far that we can’t see if it’s pulled by dogs—or even if it’s a sled—so we don’t call out for help.

Absinthe light ignites over the sky like brushfire and the world takes on a green tinge.

We stop so the dogs can rest and Noel and I can get some sleep. The weather is mild and the tent is sturdy, so we light up some coal in the portable stove and stare at the embers.

Noel sleeps the deep sleep of the grave while I, tired and tense, fall in and out of strange dreams of a submarine frozen in the ice, of strange military friends play-aiming Kalashnikovs at me, of footsteps outside the tent and huskies whining.

Noel sits up, folds his sleeping bag, puts on his boots and parka, and unzips the tent door decisively, either ready to brave the cold or very much needing to relieve his bladder. I close my eyes in the warmth of my bag for just one minute. And just one more—Noel howls. I crawl over to the entrance, still in my sleeping bag, and poke my head out. “The dogs!” Noel screeches. “The dogs have gotten loose and run away.”

I try the emergency number again.

“Hei.”

“Hello, is this the Norwegian Rescue Service?”

“Yes, it is. Do you need assistance?”

“Oh, thank God. Yes, we got lost and we just lost our dogs too.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I have your dogs. Are you coming yet?”

A kick-sled shushes right past us and we stop.

“I thought they were all supposed to be way ahead of us by now?”

There is a whine in my voice I’m too tired to fight.

Noel ignores me. The eye of his rifle is scanning the night behind me.

The snow is so soft. Easier to sleep in than wade though. My knees buckle under me. Noel lifts me by my upper arm, roughly, and screams, “We’regoingnow,” in my face from a thousand miles away. We grab the handlebars of the sled again, one each, and push. My feet slip and I fall, face-first, but get up again and lean my whole body against the creaking frame. And push.

We are walking but the field in front of us unfolds, flat and white and infinite.

A sled lies on its side, half-buried in the snow. Alone. No trace of life or violence around it.

We push on.

Clouds cover the moon and we make our fire at the foot of a mountain crowned by a huge glacier. Noel recognizes the area—we are just a day’s walk away from the coastal village, which is the second stop on the race path, with more than enough food and fuel for the fire. We’ll sleep here. Noel perks up and tells me he has family in the area—his sister married a local and so he moved here to be close to his only family. I want to ask him about his inevitable thing but now is not the time—maybe I’ll call him sometime in summer to ask.

DAY THREE OF THE RACE

We are still talking and tossing coals in the stove when I hear soft crunching in the snow behind me.

I turn around and—that smell again, of the first snow in autumn, of pale lilacs and cooling blood—I can just make out a shape approaching. She steps in, still covered in her ugly dress. The uneven threads sticking out of the knots tremble like whiskers. Under the dress, her feet are bare. Something is so strange about them that my brain trips—it can’t understand what’s off. Like it knows there should be feet there, it sees there are feet there, but at the same time, there is something else. A potential of something almost concrete, almost recognizable.

Her hair is glittery with snow and her face, now that I can see it for longer than a breath, is astonishing in a way that makes me yearn for something.

Not in the warm way that hisses in my chest when I am attracted to a person.

More in the way a base jumper yearns for the jump. In the way that tells me that if she touches me I will die but I still want her to touch me. I ache for something irrevocably beyond my reach. Beyond fatality. Something inevitable on the other side of death.

Her eyes are dark and full. Her lips are blue and the space where they meet is the black of old blood.

She waves me closer and leans as if to whisper, and I notice Noel. He is looking at me, wide-eyed and shaking his head silently—no, no. He turns to the fire, and stares at it with such intensity that I do the same. For a few minutes, the silence runs its cold fingers along my back, but we don’t move until we hear the crunching of someone retreating.

After long time has passed, Noel turns to me.

“Did you see her hands and feet?” he asks.

“Her feet,” I say.

“Did you notice how one minute they pointed forward and next time you looked, they were pointing backwards?”

This time I fall asleep so quickly and deeply that when I hear Noel move about the tent, I assume it’s time to get up. I look at my watch, uncomprehending.

“One more minute,” I slur, and sink into the grace of my dreamless sleep again.

I wake up alone. I rub my eyes and look at my watch—can’t be time to get up. I strain to hear what’s happening outside but there’s no sound. Even the wind has died. I put on my boots and parka and crawl out of the tent. Noel’s footsteps have already been half-erased.

“Noel,” I shout, “if you’re taking a leak, yell. Otherwise I’m coming after you.” Noel’s tracks lead away from our little camp, toward the mountain.

I follow the footsteps to the base of a small ridge. A glass-smooth wall of ice juts straight out above it and I don’t see Noel until I climb all the way up and we are face-to-face.

The ice surface is gently dusted with frost. He is on the other side of it—right in front of me. He’s looking out, at something that is not me, with eyes so full of animal fear that cold, oily sweat runs down my armpits. His mouth is half open and I watch it stretch grotesquely into a scream that fogs my vision even if I don’t hear it. His body jerks violently, as if pulled back by something invisible, and he turns and starts to walk away into the waiting depths of the glacier.

I turn too.

A woman in a shapeless woolen dress is standing on the edge behind me. Her lips open over a tongue the violent color of a fresh bruise, and I stumble backward. Disoriented, I slip through the surface of the ice. For one terrible moment, I see two worlds, one of the Arctic night and another—sudden and bright as a nuclear explosion.

Whatever it is I’m breathing, it smells of a thunderstorm—of electricity and ozone and, for the first time in days, raw earth. It is saturated with light and the faint whale song of ice advancing against ice. When I move my head, the light refracts off invisible cracks in the air and fiery jewel worms etch themselves on the inside of my eyelids.

I turn around to see where I entered. Something absurdly commonplace lies on the ground: my satellite phone. Behind it is a fluid, dark shape—the Arctic night waiting for me outside.

So close.

But I choose to follow Noel instead.

Like a parent’s hand at my back, a strong current pushes me forward.

The smooth, hard surface under my feet drinks in all light and shows nothing, no markers of how far I’ve walked in the past hours.

I turn around—the air in my peripheral vision expanding so violently that my eyes feel like they are going to pop—searching for the place where I entered. It’s as if I haven’t moved a step. I see the phone—still ten steps or so away. I can still see its matte plastic and the bright numbers on its rubber buttons. The current is pushing at my chest now, so brutally I have to fight it to stay in place, but the phone is there, as real and clear as the lines on my palm, or the acid sloshing in my stomach.

My head sways. I hesitate and take a step back toward the phone and the comforting night behind it—but again I turn and follow Noel.

It’s so bright here, Noel.

Right now I’d rather talk to you instead of my imaginary readership. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just a bit of running commentary—my meta-awareness. It keeps me outside of my head, monitoring myself so I can stay in control.

My shadow keeps disappearing. For a minute it walks—a fluttering charcoal flame by my side—and the next minute it’s advancing on the horizon. Sometimes I’ll see it almost catch up with you, but it’ll walk up into the great icy sky instead, growing immense as it climbs until its feet reach above me and I lose track of which one of us is the object and which the shadow.

I see you walking in the distance, but I can’t get any closer, even if I run. The ice in front of me unfolds and the distance between us grows: flat, pale, and infinite.

The revenants are here. Whenever I turn around to look at that fucking phone, I see them enter; some in clothes stained with grave dirt, some in their Kevlar suits. They move on, fixated on something far ahead—bullets on their way to the target.

Someone’s shadow flees past me. I turn around just in time to dive left— jump right—out of the way of a revenant with long stringy hair. Undead Rapunzel is focused on something other than me, but my stomach still drops. My vision blurs and splits. My eyes pop, finally, and the world slides off like a loose lens from them. The revenant passes by my left and my right side at the same time. Between me—I swear she does. I turn to look to the side, half expecting to see myself standing there, but there is nothing.

I am lost, Noel. I can’t see you in the distance anymore. Only the revenant walking away.

I follow her.

Her shape remains clear and detailed but my peripheral vision balloons again and more pressure builds over my eyes. Warm bile sears my stomach and chunks of the beef stew you rehydrated for our last meal tickle the back of my throat.

I turn around to stare at the phone and breathe through my mouth until the nausea passes—

And somehow, at the same time, I’m still walking. I stumble and throw up, contaminating the smooth, pale, infinite surface of the ice—The blood in the footsteps in front of me is very old. It’s how I know it’s not yours.

The sound of blood will always be my grandmother’s voice and her knitting needles ticking like rosary beads.

“They brought him to me all muddy and bloody; already stiff. Made me wash him before they took his body. The officer said if he saw me cry they’d execute the rest of us, and so he stood and watched me the whole time, without lifting one greasy finger, just eating what was left over from the banitza I had packed for you only few hours before. I washed the dirt from his body and the blood off his face; I combed his hair gently over his forehead. He was born with a full head of hair, you know? You both were. Dressed him in his best clothes. And his best underwear and socks too, like I used to tell you two when you were kids, because you never know when—”

You never know when what, I wanted to ask, but didn’t get the chance because my father suddenly noticed me even though I had been in the room the whole time, and yelled that this wasn’t something a five-year-old should be listening to—

The footsteps aren’t yours either, Noel. No human foot can leave an erosion like this in the hard ice—a hole deep and ancient and barefoot-shaped, sweating beads of black blood. Hers are the only footprints here, as if she is the only one who truly exists in this place. Neither I nor the revenants seem to leave so much as a scratch on the surface of the ice.

The air darkens as if a giant storm cloud has swept over the land and the smell of ghostly lilacs soaks the air. Beyond the horizon, a pod of giant whales swims up into the sky. Under them, something large and oval floats in the ice currents.

More and more revenants stream past in the distance. I stop to reassess my path and a revenant bumps into me. I turn aside—
aside—
to let him through and the bodies surround me.

I duck left—
right—
and my vision splits again. Again. Again. The world slides off from my eyes—my now hundred eyes—again. Arms reach for me—for one of me—from under a gray stone face. I zig and somehow, at the same time—

I zag—

I duck—

I run—

I thrash and choke on my own blood—

I walk—

I scream—

I fall under the weight of a body—

I run—

I run—

I run—

I run back to the entrance.

I pick up the ringing phone and answer it—

How do I understand what’s happening? Have you had one of those moments when you realize someone has a completely different recollection of a moment from you, Noel?

Easiest explanation is—one of the people is lying. Another—the theory of narrative identity, which proposes that we piece together stories in our lives to form a consistent idea of who we are. If some moment, another person’s statement or our own behavior, threatens the coherence of that identity, the moment is “reconciled away”—ignored or twisted to fit our internal propaganda.

Before I went to university, we went to visit my grandmother every summer.

One day, my father and I went to the little kvartalen magazin, which had sprouted in the cracks of the dictatorship and was, despite all economic odds, still in business. It was noon, when the Thracian sun was at its most violent. The store had a single customer—a pensioner in an old-fashioned suit and hat. When he saw us, his face opened in a grimace which wasn’t really a smile but a well-practiced pretense at one. He greeted my father, who recoiled but returned the hello.

“How’s it going?” the old man asked. “I hear you’re living in the States now. Lucky!”

“Lucky,” my father said.

“See how it is here now? Lots of things to buy but little, little money. How much better things were in the old days, eh?”

He continued chattering with a glib tone and cold eyes while we got and paid for our groceries and waited for them to be bagged. When we tried to leave, he stepped in front of the faded plastic strip curtain of the entrance, barring our way out.

“You know this thing with your brother—don’t worry, I got there before he died. I sat with him. I can tell you what he said. His very last words.”

“Excuse me,” my father said, and shoved aggressively past, but the old man grabbed at me and leaned over so close I could smell his musty breath.

“Girl,” the man said. “Do you wanna know a secret? Your uncle’s very last words? I haven’t told anyone.”

Tears—from embarrassment or confusion, I still don’t know—burst out of my eyes and father pulled my arm free from the old man.

“Don’t touch my daughter,” he hissed, and pushed me out ahead of him.

On our way back to the house, I asked him.

“Was that the guy who shot—”

“It’s him. And he’s lying.”

“But don’t you wanna hear—”

“You have to learn that sometimes people make stuff up,” my father said. “I was right there. I saw my brother die. I didn’t abandon him to die alone. It’s the worst fate for anyone—abandoned to die. I wouldn’t have left if he’d still been alive.”

I believed him then. He really believed what he was saying.

Like I said—there are different ways of surviving.

But what if you yourself have two different recollections of the same moment?

When I told her about the man from the store, my grandmother’s entire body shook.

“No,” she spat with violence in her voice I’d never heard before. “Stay away from him. He keeps trying me too. Every time I go out—‘Let me tell you,’ or ‘Why don’t you want to know?’ Whatever your uncle said, it is haunting him and he needs to unload it. No. May he choke on those words and die with them on his lips. I may never know what my son said—this is my own curse but it’s his too—may he choke on those words. May they burrow in his lungs and drown him. It’s what I tell him. Lately, I go out every day to wait for him and when I see him I say, ‘You will choke on my son’s dying words.’”

Then she cried and her tears were an odd kind—with traces of blood in them. But I also remember she didn’t cry because she had run out of tears years ago. That’s the weird thing—I clearly remember both outcomes.

I saw the man once more, a few years later. He was shockingly emaciated but his face was somehow lucent with bloat, as if something was rotting inside him. His eyes were glossed over, almost glowing in the purple dusk. He walked past me, not recognizing me without my context—my father. I turned around. He moved slowly, awkwardly, twisting his body like a monitor lizard, calling for someone. His dog, I assumed. I opened my mouth to call after him, but remembered I didn’t know his name. So, instead, I turned away.

Later, when I told her, my grandmother—who has always believed in vampiri and karakondjuli—crossed herself, and said not knowing his name had saved me. She was right. As soon as I had turned away from the man, I had seen his face again, this time on a fresh, not-yet-bleached necrologue—an obituary—glued to the iron lamppost.

And I know she was right because in another memory, I didn’t turn away but followed him instead, over the cobbled streets under the yellow lights, until night fell and he disappeared into the old cemetery and I ran home.

“You will die here,” the woman says on the phone, and she’s telling the truth.

I’m already dying. A few of me—the one who zigged instead of zagging, the one who turned around instead of running, the one who walked past the ringing phone and into the dirt-stained chest of a revenant emerging from the entrance—I watch them fall down as the waiting darkness steps in and closes around them.

I will die here. It’s inevitable.

But before I do, I can still do something.

I’ll be there for you, Noel.

By the time I reach you in the shadow of the floating structure, you can’t see me. You don’t seem to see anything.

The structure, a wide-bottomed ship, hangs over you like a giant Google Maps pin. Here it is, the inevitable, it screams.

Noel. Noel—I call for you. For a moment I deceive myself you can be saved.

But you stand, hunched over and silent, swaying awkwardly in the ice currents which meet here, under the giant ship, singing in their high-voltage cable voices. Spittle is foaming in the corners of your mouth. Your eyes are unblinking and raw.

It doesn’t look like it’ll be long for you now. But I’m here, with you—until— More of me reach the shadow, revenants at our heels. We surround you.

—and the world folds. The edges of the ice tilt over and snap into each other, revealing a sudden reality. A vast darkness hiding behind the singing air. The ship above us—which to my thousand pairs of eyes was a grid of thousand ships—collapses into a single structure that looks like a potential of something. Almost concrete, almost recognizable.

I still see you and the revenants—a reedy four-dimensional tableau of imminent doom. I see the beeline of your path here and the revenants’ straight trajectories.

And, finally, her too. Fully.

Her form snaps into view out of light shards and deep shadows, out of the revenants’ frozen disembodied grins and the grave dirt on their clothes, out of your blood and mine. Her dress is the beeline of your path here and the revenants’ straight trajectories and countless more knotted strings.

“It’s inevitable,” she says, still through the phone. I drop it because I don’t need it to hear her.

She is all around us. She is everything here, literally, and her voice is the whale song of ice advancing against ice but to my thousand pairs of ears the patterns form words. Every one of me is looking at her; a thousand pairs of eyes seeing her for what she is. You can’t see her the way I do, Noel, but imagine the way a zoetrope works: a flat disk, covered in a progression of moments—let’s say the movements of a horse—begins to spin. The shapes fly faster, get blurrier, until the momentum tips and suddenly a horse is galloping in front of your eyes. Now imagine if instead of a thousand moments there were a thousand viewpoints snapping into one.

She is a glacier that’s not a glacier. A world that walks among humans.

Not a world, the currents sing—a universe.

Old—

Older than your own—

I stand still, inside one of those moments in which you have no idea—no precedent—of how to feel but simply know your life has irreparably changed. Regrettably—regrettably?—I’m lucid. No friendly feeling of disassociation to soften the shock. My teeth crunch with something gritty and acidic. My extremities tingle. Sweat trickles down my armpits and the insides of my thighs. I smell blood, lilacs, and bone. It entices and mildly repulses me at the same time. I feel myself swaying lightly in the currents, but otherwise I’m fully present. I’m here. This is happening to me. I don’t know what to—

“Why are you here?” I ask.

Searing pain stabs my shoulder. I spin around—all thousand of me spin around, seeing nothing but her, even as we feel the revenant’s teeth tear through the muscle and tendons of one of us. I’m not sure if this is meant to be her answer. If so, fair enough. It was a lazy question.

Another stab—an abdomen is torn apart and a flash of blinding pain in the kidneys makes me fold over. I don’t have much time.

“What do you want?” I ask her. I don’t expect an answer.

I get one anyway.

You’re here, she says. Stay.

The word is not really an order or a plea. It’s—an end state.

I look around for her face. I can’t find it. I try to recall why I found it so astonishing or even a single detail of what it looked like. A revenant in a gray suit painted in bright, fresh blood walks by and disappears into something—some blind spot—right in front of me.

“Why should I stay?” I ask, watching a second and a third revenant, both in racing suits, disappear into the exact same spot. All of me turn to look at the spot from a thousand viewpoints, and the world clicks out and into view again. The perspective has shifted. Without even switching direction, a handful of revenants disappear into the spot, which now appears to be in a completely different location. We all turn to focus directly on it, and the world clicks again. A pain stabs at me again. The screams go on—that me still had enough energy to fight for a very long time.

That’s not how you find the entrance, she says. Take a step. Make a choice.

“What choices are the revenants making?”

The only part remaining in them is drawn to the inevitable. For you living people, it’s the choices you make that bring you closer. Some of you make it.

“Some versions of us?”

Some combinations of choices. The rest are loose threads.

“What’s at the entrance?” I ask over the rising cries and blinding pain as more and more revenants tear into the fraying threads of me on their way to her.

Certainty, she says. Finally, a certainty about which choices were right. A certainty about who you are supposed to be. And after the point of certainty, it’s your choice.

Reality skips around me. There are too few of us to see her clearly. It’s almost impossible to focus on the right spot.

“What about the revenants?”

The revenants are just fuel. You’ll be a spark.

I can stay here, Noel. Full and plump with life and meaning. Beyond inevitability—

Pain stings me and blind spots corrode my peripheral vision. The revenants are tearing into us on their way to you, Noel.

All you have to do is run, she says. In any direction. Make a choice. The last bullet is coming and you are in the way. Make a choice, run. Find—

I look at you, Noel. You are getting transparent, rice paper–like.

The revenants are quickly overpowering the last of us. Her world unfolds like a puzzle box and her form settles into the electricity-scented landscape.

The currents sing urgently, and I don’t need a translator to understand what they are saying.

Run!

Only one of me is left alive. If I just run, left, right—I can start again. I can get to the entrance.

What do you think, Noel? You can’t even see me right now. You don’t even know I’m here. You won’t know I’m gone.

Left or right. Who is the inevitable one?

The last revenant shambles toward us—me and you right behind me.

If I’d expected him to be my old canary-yellow-clad friend from the cave—the good ol’ Chekhov’s revenant—in some grace of poetic symmetry, I would have been disappointed. But I am not. In real life you have to make your own poetic symmetry.

So I turn to you, Noel.

“Motherfucker,” I say, “you were supposed to be my protection.”

I fight. Really hard. So the pain explodes into my body long before the night arrives.

A woman in a shapeless woolen dress is standing on the edge behind me. Her lips open over a tongue the violent color of a fresh bruise and I stumble backward and turn and lose my footing and crash downhill. I break into a desperate run back to the tent, where I zip myself up inside and into my sleeping bag.

I push the sled east. Behind me, a snowstorm in pursuit thrashes against the two lines the sled leaves. In front of me, as impossible as it seems to the rational part of my brain, are fresh sled tracks. I’ve somehow turned around and need to head into the storm or wait it out.

Inside the night, inside the tent, inside the storm, I dream. I dream as soon as I sit down, maybe even before, that’s how empty I am.

In my dream, Noel and I are pushing the sled through a freshly plowed field. Waves of rusted barbed wire and surgically sharp razor wire surge at us. We kick up and the sled takes off. I lean, gripping the handlebars, to take a turn and look at Noel, but he shakes his head—no—and falls off the side onto the field. I can’t see anyone behind us but I know he will be shot.

Another field—the sled rocks and zigs and zags out of my control and I turn to Noel and he is my uncle who tells me he is getting off here.

At the edge of the field stands a woman in a matted mink coat. I turn back to my uncle who is also Noel but he is halfway to her. I scream after him until I lose my voice. And then I am in the sled, alone, picking at the leg of a perfectly roasted chicken resting on the handlebars. I tear the flesh from the bone with my bare hands and feed it to the huskies, who whine and dance and eat and shit as they gallop ahead, but the field retains nothing and the sled does not budge.

Riding beside me, the woman in the matted coat leans over—in my sleep I smell the old blood and cold stars on her breath—and tells me the how to extrapolate the formula of survival from chaos variables of the universe, but I forget it when I wake up.

The storm passes. I call for help. The rescue center tells me they’ve dispatched teams to look for me.

I crouch by the sled and sink into the white field. Somehow, the storm hasn’t erased my tracks—I see two parallel lines at the edge of the field and for a second, I imagine I am the one riding on the sled coming toward me. My brain knows it needs to be alert before I understand why.

It’s a kick-sled.

Ears ringing, I take out my rifle, aim, shoot, and miss the revenant’s head. My hands are shaking. My eyes are blurry. I blink and take three deep breaths. I aim again. With my second shot he falls back. He gets up and heads for me.

Three.

Four.

He falls and gets up.

Five.

I’m out of bullets.

I take off running, heading east toward the coast where the rescue teams will be coming from. A small hill covered in snow lies in my way.

I zig.

IN THE WABE

ALISON LITTLEWOOD

My daughter vanished three years ago. I’m no closer to finding her. Every time I think I’ve found a new clue, it only puts me further away. The more knowledge I gain, the less I can believe in any of it.

She disappeared on May thirteenth from Central Park, a little to the north of the East 72nd Street and Fifth Avenue entrance. Anyone familiar with the Park will tell you that’s close to Conservatory Water, where you can rent remote-controlled sailboats any day as long as it’s not raining. My daughter wasn’t interested in sailboats. She preferred to sit at the north end of the lake, on a giant bronze mushroom: Alice at her back, the white rabbit on one side, the Mad Hatter on the other, patches of their heads and arms and shoulders rubbed shiny by generations of New York children. I always thought that was fitting somehow, since Alice too had left her home in England and eventually found herself here.

One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter. I think it was the Caterpillar in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland who said that. I picture my little girl, Vivian, reaching around and breaking off a piece of mushroom, nibbling it with her front teeth, just like the time I got her to try broccoli. And I picture her shrinking, shrinking, shrinking, until she’s as small as Alice in the story, smaller even, just the right size to captain a remote-controlled sailboat and sail away, then smaller, smaller still, until no one can even see her any longer.

That day, I turned around and she’d gone. Every mother’s nightmare. There’s a rabbit hole that opens inside you, one that never seems to end, blacker and blacker, deeper and deeper. Falling, falling. There was no answer when I shouted her name. No one had seen her. There was no sign my daughter had ever even existed; she’d gone, and I hadn’t a clue where to find her.

It was a cop who spotted the bag lady a couple of streets away from the park, wearing—or trying to wear—my five-year-old daughter’s clothes. A tiny pink t-shirt with glittery stars, ripped from under the sleeve to the hem, was pulled across her shoulders, a gauzy purple skirt twisted around her leg. The clothes were dirty, half hidden by a ratty old blanket. The woman claimed she’d found the blanket by a dumpster and I always thought that was odd. She could have said she’d found my daughter’s clothes, not the blanket that no one cared about, but she didn’t.

No: those shiny pink and purple things, she said they were hers.

My husband was a cop, too. I met him when he took an extended vacation in England and I moved out here for him, thrilled by the sudden new potential in my life. We separated a few years after Vivian was born; he was killed on duty not long afterwards. And I’d begun to dream of home again, little green lanes, quiet roads, all so familiar, safe; then my girl disappeared and I was forced to stay.

It’s someone from my husband’s old precinct who shares the audio with me. “Picture it,” he says. “A grown woman, sitting right there on the Alice statue.”

I don’t comment, since I’ve done that same thing plenty of times myself. It’s not illegal. Children—and kids at heart—are welcome to climb, crawl, sit on, touch the statue. It belongs to them, after all. It’s their story.

Each time I go there, I’m surprised by the size of the thing. It looks friendly, moulded to a human scale, but that sculpture is eleven feet tall. When you get up close, the mushroom is above your waist. You have to use the smaller mushrooms as steps to get up there, the bronze dormouse on one of them always getting in your way. When you reach her, you realise that Alice is not life-sized. Even adults are like children when they’re next to her: that huge face, big eyes, wrong somehow. Central Park’s Alice is a giant. She must have been nibbling at the wrong side of the mushroom.

Picture it.

A mom—she says her name is Sandie Gordon—sits down next to Alice. She’s watching her daughter play. Her daughter is called Bree-Anne, a stupid name I always thought, but don’t say. It wouldn’t be right, under the circumstances.

Now imagine Sandie with the squeaky, whiny voice of a little kid.

Listen.

I WAS WATCHING HER. SHE’S MY GIRL, OF COURSE I WAS WATCHING HER. I DIDN’T EVEN NOTICE THE KID SITTING NEXT TO ME. I TURN AROUND, DON’T KNOW WHY, AND THERE SHE IS. SURE I WAS SURPRISED. SHE’S RIGHT THERE, A LITTLE GIRL ABOUT THE SAME AGE AS MY BREE-ANNE, SO I SAYS, ‘HEY! WHERE’D YOU COME FROM?’

SHE SAYS, ‘HERE, SILLY.’ AND SHE GIVES THIS LITTLE SMILE, LIKE SHE’S GOT A SECRET, YOU KNOW THE ONE? SO I ASK HER WHERE SHE LIVES AND SHE GIVES ANOTHER SMILE, A WEIRD SMILE, AND SAYS, ‘UNDER THE MUSHROOM.’

I WOULDA LAUGHED, BUT RIGHT THEN, BREE—SHE’S RUNNING WITH SOME OTHER KIDS AT THE EDGE OF THE LAKE, AND SHE TRIPS. SO I’M LOOKING AT BREE-ANNE AND THIS KID NEXT TO ME, SHE SAYS, ‘SHE WON’T FALL.’ I JUST MENTION IT BECAUSE BREE-ANNE DIDN’T, EVEN THOUGH I WAS SURE WE’D HAVE SCABBED KNEES AND TEARS AND WAILING FOR EXTRA ICE-CREAM, BUT THE KID WAS RIGHT, BREE JUST CAUGHT HER BALANCE AND KEPT ON RUNNING.

On the tape, there’s a sniff. It kind of sounds like she’s being snotty about this kid, knowing better than she did about the girl not falling. But I wonder if she’s trying not to cry. I wonder if it’s really because she’s talking about Bree-Anne and wanting her and missing her and needing her, and she can’t have her.

SO I SAYS TO THE KID, ‘THAT’S A FUNNY PLACE TO LIVE, IN A MUSHROOM. WHADDYA EAT UNDER THERE?’ A DUMB QUESTION, I MEAN SHE COULD EAT MUSHROOM, BUT ANYWAYS. AND SHE SAYS, ‘YEARS.’ JUST LIKE THAT. YEARS. LIKE SHE SITS DOWN WITH A KNIFE AND FORK AND DIGS RIGHT IN.

SO I ASKS HER HOW THEY TASTE.

SHE SAYS, ‘THEY TASTE JUST LIKE MILK. CAN I KISS YOU?’ JUST LIKE THAT, JUMPING FROM ONE THING TO THE NEXT, LIKE KIDS DO. BREE-ANNE DOES THAT ALL THE TIME.

She sighs. I hear that quite plainly, and I don’t think anyone needs to try and explain what it means.

SO I SAYS, ‘I GUESS SO,’ AND I PAT MY CHEEK TO SHOW HER WHERE, JUST LIKE MY GRAMMA USED TO DO. AND THE KID—

A pause. When she speaks again, her voice falters.

–I GUESS SHE DID KISS MY CHEEK. I THINK SO. ONLY, THERE’S A WORD I CAN’T GET RID OF, THAT GOES ROUND AND ROUND IN MY MIND. LATCHED. THAT’S WHAT IT MADE ME THINK OF—SHE LATCHED ON. LIKE BREE-ANNE USED TO DO WHEN SHE WAS BREAST FEEDING, SOMETHING LIKE THAT, AND THEN I SORT OF WOKE UP.

Another pause, a longer one.

NOW, I WANT TO SEE MY DAUGHTER. I HAVE TO SEE BREE-ANNE. YOU PROMISED ME.

A cop’s voice responds. He says she can’t, not just now. What he means is, not ever. What he’s not saying is, she’ll never see Bree-Anne again. She won’t even get near her, because she isn’t Sandie Gordon; she’s not Bree-Anne’s mother. That’s who she claims she is, who she seems to think she is, even who she believes she is, but it’s not her. It can’t be.

On the tape, there’s shrieking. Screaming. It all gets a bit incoherent, but it’s plain enough when she starts yelling at the cops to let her the fuck out of there, she wants her daughter, she has rights, and why don’t they just open the fucking door?

They still don’t know her real name. But I’ve seen the photographs, and it’s clear that the person claiming to be Sandie Gordon, mom to Bree-Anne, is about six years old.

It’s incongruous, even grotesque, hearing her speak, knowing what she looks like. Talking about breast feeding her daughter in that squeaky little-girl voice. Shouting. Swearing. OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR.

I picture this little girl in the park, sitting on the mushroom, watching the other kids play. Witnesses said she grabbed Bree-Anne and tried to drag her off, but Bree-Anne wouldn’t go. A passing tourist intervened. The unidentified child told him where and how to fuck himself. She said she was Bree-Anne’s mommy, and everyone could get out of her damn way. Bree-Anne was crying. It didn’t help the situation when no one could find her real mom, nor that this kid—this strange kid—appeared to be wearing her mommy’s clothes.

The cops were called, but Sandie Gordon has never been found. Bree-Anne has been sent to live with her father, who was divorced from Sandie last year. The little kid who tried to grab her is with Social Services. They’ve confirmed she was wearing clothes way too big for her—a T-shirt more like a dress, an adult’s miniskirt down past her knees. I wonder where they are now, those clothes. It hasn’t been proved that they were Sandie’s. Bree-Anne wasn’t considered a reliable witness.

I don’t know if they ran DNA tests, on the clothes or the kid, but I think I can guess what the tests would say. I just don’t know how, or how to begin to explain. I don’t suppose anyone could.

I’ve seen some freaky stuff in New York. I know about the weirdos of this city. People who follow you, put their faces up close to yours. Kids with too much in their eyes. Adults with too little. A vagrant clutching a toy car like it might save him, or maybe a doll. Someone showing a photograph. Have you seen her? A bag lady in a gauzy princess skirt, way too small. Little boys with shaved heads, smoking, drinking, shooting up. Teenagers kicking a tramp to steal a paper cup full of change. Maybe they want to buy drugs. Maybe they’re dealing drugs. Thirteen-year-olds living alone, forging parents’ signatures, making rent. A geriatric woman in makeup that could have been applied by an infant. A pretty woman who, close up, has skin stretched taut and unnatural over her bones. Who’s to say how old anyone is anymore? You can’t judge any longer. You can’t even guess.

The bag lady wearing my daughter’s clothes had grey hair and ugly creases running down her face, her jowls sagging.

Like the kid in the audio, I screamed and swore.

“How did you get Vivian’s clothes? How the fuck did you–”

Fear froze her. Her eyes were blank with shock, her mouth hanging open. She seemed unused to being screamed at, but how could she not be, living on the streets? There was something missing in her, I could see that. It wasn’t just her expression; it was in the way she kept saying, I am Vivian, I am, I am. It was in the way she called me Mommy, Mommy, and all the time staring at me, not laughing, not smirking, not even blinking. Not looking away from me for a second.

I told her, “I’ll kill you. You say that again, I fucking will.”

That time they did run DNA tests, but they figured they must have mixed up the results somehow. They took samples from the clothes and from the old woman—under her nails, in her hair, a cheek swab. Every single one of them was an exact match for my daughter.

They admitted they must have contaminated the samples. It was all messed up anyhow, and they had to let her go. Apart from the clothes—which she could have found, same as the blanket—they didn’t have much to go on. If she’d snatched Vivian, what had she done with her? There was nowhere she could have kept her or hidden her. And after all, the woman was mad. Mad as a hatter, but harmless as a little child.

These days, I often go to the sculpture. I climb up onto the mushroom—past that damned dormouse—and sit and wonder where my daughter went. Is she lost in the rabbit hole? Sitting by the side of the Red Queen? Playing croquet with flamingos on a smooth lawn under a strange sun? Deep down, I know there are worse things, real things, but I try not to think about those.

Sometimes, when the sculpture is busy with kids crawling over it, mommies and daddies taking their pictures, I sit at the edge of Conservatory Water and simply stare at the bronze figures.

There is Alice, frozen forever in the act of reaching for the white rabbit’s pocket watch, the Mad Hatter standing by. The design is based on Tenniel’s original illustrations for Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but it never seemed quite right to me, and now I know why. I looked it up. The Mad Hatter is a caricature of George Delacorte, the man who commissioned the sculpture. Alice is actually the image of a girl named Donna, the daughter of José de Creeft, the sculptor.

That seems strange to me, almost sad. What must it have been like for Creeft, knowing that his daughter was always here, yet unreachable? He created this thing in 1959. No matter how she changed or grew, where she went or what she did, even after she died, she would always be here, always caught in the act of reaching for that pocket watch. Always the same, but no matter how many people look at her, they’ll see someone else; never who she truly is. Not Donna, but Alice.

But kids—maybe they do see something else.

One day, there’s a little boy. He’s pulling on his mom’s arm, pointing towards the base of the sculpture, showing her something.

“That’s funny,” I hear her say. “I didn’t notice her till you said she was there.” She shrugs before pulling her child away, suddenly keen to be gone.

I look at where he pointed. My first thought is of a missing child, but then, I’m always thinking of missing children. And I can’t see anything, only the granite base of the sculpture with the words inscribed there: T’was brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. Lines from “The Jabberwocky,” Lewis Carroll’s poem, but in that second they almost seem to mean something different. Is that where Vivian has gone—into the wabe? It makes as much sense as anything else.

The next time I’m there, a dad is holding up his phone, telling his son, who’s sitting almost in Alice’s lap, to smile. When the boy clambers down, Dad shows him the screen. His son frowns.

“Where’s the girl gone?” he asks. “Where’s the girl who was sitting next to me”?”

They walk off, both as confused as each other, perhaps to find the statue of Hans Christian Andersen instead: besuited, benign, civilised. Sane. Or so they probably imagine.

That boy really looked like he was chatting to someone when he was sitting on the mushroom, though. I’d told myself it was the Cheshire cat, peeking over Alice’s shoulder—but was it?

I begin to look at photographs online. Pictures of other people’s holidays, their kids sitting in Alice’s shadow, posing, grinning. After a while, I begin to notice.

Sometimes there’s a little girl lying full stretch under the Alice statue. Sometimes it’s a woman. I stare at her face, always obscured by shadow, and feel the intensity of her gaze as she watches the world. She rarely seems to bother anyone else. Their smiles are all the same.

I picture a hazy form materialising at Alice’s side, not the Cheshire cat, but someone. First her grin: there’s always a grin. White teeth, sharp. Can I kiss you?

What do you eat under there?

Years. They taste just like milk.

There are billboards on the streets. The latest moisturiser. A miracle diet. Cosmetics. Surgeons. Everyone wants to look younger. Even the oldest of stories knew all about that. The youngest princess, the littlest mermaid. No one cares what happens to the others. Why should they?

Women’s voices on the subway.

“Youth: it’s wasted on the young.”

“If I could be that age again, knowing what I know now . . .”

The women never see the little girl who steps off behind them, her hair in ribbons, and skips off towards the park entrance. A little girl who’s the exact same age she wishes to be.

But perhaps she isn’t a little girl, the youngest, a princess. Perhaps she’s really a crone, a hag, a wicked witch: a witch who drinks years.

Maybe, for some, that’s a good thing. She gives them another go-round at their lives, knowing what they know now, and still remembering their names, even if no one else can recognise them any longer. She puts things right. She puts things wrong too, but shit happens, and anyway, who can say she doesn’t enjoy that just as much, or more?

But sometimes, she might meet with a little child. She can’t drink their years. They don’t have enough to satisfy her. Instead, she feeds them: she gives them everything all in one go, year after year after year, until they shrivel and the skin droops from their bones.

I wonder how she chooses. Is she punishing the kids who notice her, who see her for what she truly is? Or does she actually think she’s making their wishes come true? Kids are different, after all. They always dream of being older. Vivian was always three and a bit, four and a half, five and three quarters, always looking ahead to the next birthday, always longing to grow up.

No one is ever happy with the age they are.

I can see why she chose the statue for her home. She’s as nonsensical as the story, as capricious as a child. Or perhaps it’s that the Alice sculpture makes people show the age they are, inside. It makes them show her their hearts.

One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.

At last, I find her. It’s easy, in the end: impossible and easy. I always knew where she lived, after all. I’d searched for her there before, many times. Watched for her. I just hadn’t looked for her the right way.

One side to make you taller, the other to make you shorter. I had begun to wonder if, in some way, that applied to her too. I’d often circled the statue, running my hand along the brim of the Mad Hatter’s hat, glancing down to read the words in the wabe, edging around the back of the mushroom and past the white rabbit’s shoulder to the beginning again, and never arriving anywhere.

This time it’s different. I look for her in one direction and she isn’t there. Then I turn and move gyre-wards, gimble-wards, this time reading the words as they were meant to be read. I look the other way—contrariwise—and there she is.

Or perhaps the witch wanted to be found. Maybe she wanted to find me. She’s been here a long time, after all; I can see that in her face. I wonder if she was always here, even though her eyes are shiny and round and blue as a child’s. They are also as endless and deep as the rabbit hole. She might be older than the city. Maybe she came on the Mayflower, or maybe she was here before that, just a little girl in a Wonderland, waiting for someone to play with.

After all those years, maybe she needed to talk. Wouldn’t you?

She peeks up at me and slowly she grins. Her teeth are white and very sharp. She pulls herself from under the sculpture and gets to her feet, then walks past me, no taller than my waist. She steps up onto the smallest mushroom, then the next, wrinkling her nose at that inconvenient dormouse, and sits down next to Alice. She smiles at me and indicates the place next to her. After a moment, I haul myself up and sit beside her. Together we look out over Conservatory Water, where miniature sailboats leave long white triangles reflected in the lake.

The witch lets out a long sigh. She’s wearing a blue pinafore dress, matching ribbons in her yellow hair, shiny black Mary Jane shoes. She looks about six years old.

“I get tired,” she says. “Some days, my back hurts. Some days it’s my hip. My eyesight comes and it goes. I think I might have cataracts.” She sighs again. “I really need a fucking drink.”

I feel, rather than see, her glance. She says, “That’s not why you’re here.”

I shake my head. “You know why.”

“You want her back. You want it all to be the same, but it won’t be. There’s a price.”

I nod. I already know what I might have to do. I picture the cops coming for me, but not my friends, not any longer. I won’t even recognise them. I’ll be on the ground, looking at concrete, my hands spread wide while they point their guns at my back.

“I’ll kill you anyway,” I hear myself say. “If you don’t give her back to me, I’ll kill you right here.”

I wonder if I’ve gone as mad as the Hatter to be sitting here, in the Park, saying these words. The day is cloudy but warm. Families wander the paths around me, eating ice cream, exploring little bridges and tunnels, peering at the skyscrapers reflected like ghosts in the pools. I swallow. She’s still a child. She’s always a child and here I am considering bashing out her brains on a bronze mushroom, a sculpture that belongs to children, to stories, to fairy tales.

My hands twitch. It’s obscene, but I’ll do it anyway. I will. I have to.

Then she says, brightly, “Okay.”

She flashes me a smile so white it seems to hang in the air as she shuffles to her knees and turns to stare up into Alice’s giant face. She twists to sight along Alice’s right arm, the one reaching for the white rabbit’s pocket watch, then turns her head to look at the other.

I’d never thought much about the other, but I do now. What was it that Alice is reaching for with her left hand? Nothing but air? Is she trying to take the hand of a child, to lead them—where?

The witch reaches out as if she’ll be the one to take that huge bronze hand. But when she turns back to me, she’s holding another pocket watch. This isn’t like the other. It’s smaller. This one is life-sized, on a human scale. When I glance away it turns insubstantial, nothing but a haze, but when I look at it directly it has a sharp, bright clarity; it’s almost too bright. It glows.

She holds it out to me and I take it. The watch is as cold as ice and impossibly heavy.

Then the witch leans back, crosses her arms over her chest and slides off the mushroom. Her Mary Janes grit on the floor as she ducks under its gills and I know I won’t find her again, no matter how I search. She’s gone, nothing left of her but the memory of her grin.

But I don’t search for her. I do jump down after her, though. I’m still holding the pocket watch and I can sense all the years it holds, the hours, the minutes, captured within its smooth, cold, curved weight. I heft it higher into the air, then I flip it over and bring it down on the bronze dormouse’s ears.

I feel more than hear it shatter, although I hear it too: a bass clang that starts low then begins to grow, louder, until it resounds in my bones, until the whole bronze sculpture chimes in sympathetic resonance. There comes a higher sound, like sproinging springs, like cogs de-cogging, and then there is silence.

I open my fingers, half expecting to see delicate golden watch parts falling to the floor, but it’s gone. My hand is empty.

For days, I wander the streets. My clothes and skin and hair become soiled with dust and disapproval and hostile glances. My skin grows dry, the lines digging in deeper around my eyes and lips. I don’t care. I don’t want to be younger. I want to be just the age I am, for how else will my daughter recognise me when she sees me again?

Then one day I’m walking along yet another city block, staring at the concrete, and an alleyway opens at my side, and I turn and see her.

A little girl about eight years old, just the age she would have been if she’d never gone into the wabe, never passed beyond my reach. Vivian’s hair is the same dark brown it always was, although it’s ragged and tangled now. Her cheeks still possess the smooth curve of a child’s, but her eyes are different. There are things in them and I wonder what my child has seen in the time she’s lived alone, out here, fending for herself.

I wonder what words rung in her ears as she scavenged for food, hungry and cold and afraid.

Mommy, mommy, she had said. It’s me, I’m Vivian.

She’d sounded so scared. And I had only been repulsed by that child’s cry emerging from such a worn throat; the pink sparkles wrapped around that ageing body; the little girl’s tears springing from her wrinkled eyes.

And I hear again the words I said to her in return, my daughter, my baby.

I’ll kill you. You say that again, I fucking will.

I walk towards her. She doesn’t run away from me. I don’t suppose she has anywhere to run to. Her expression doesn’t change as I put my arms around her. She doesn’t even move, not to hug me back or hold me or push me away. I rest my chin on her shoulder, ignoring the smell of her, taking in the familiar-strange feel of her. And I tell my daughter I’m sorry. I have nothing else, there isn’t anything else, so I keep on saying it, like a spell or an incantation: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I say it over and over and I don’t stop, because how could it ever be enough?

You want it all to be the same, but it won’t be, the witch had said. And she hadn’t lied to me. I’m not certain she knew how.

There’s a price.

And I know that there always will be.

NEW MEAT[™]

JORDAN SHIVELEY

You dream of it at night. When you wake, a film of fat still sheens your lips. Sometimes something is stuck between your teeth. Your jaws ache for hours afterward. During the day while you drown in the droning haze of business reports and pointless presentations you catch whiffs of the smell from your dream. Your mouth waters.

Sometimes on the street, you can smell the dream on a passerby. They can smell it on you as well. You both smile, your lips spreading back from your teeth. You see that theirs are becoming as beautiful as yours.

On a day when the dream has been particularly strong and the taste of what you chewed still lingers on your tongue, you will follow one of these strangers. You don’t speak but you both know where you are headed.

The wan yellow lights of the car park spill like a spreading bruise across stained concrete. Others who also smell of the dream are standing amongst the empty cars like silent stones in a cemetery . . . pulsing teeth in a concrete jaw.

Together you wait. Soon there will be chewing enough for all.

EYES LIKE SMALL BLACK STONES

DAVID SURFACE

There used to be swans at Castle Hill. In summer, they flocked from the south and turned the whole surface of the lake white. Wide, shifting fields of snow-white feathers, breaking apart and swirling together again. Cassie would watch the birds on their way to the water, black shapes crossing a red ragged sky. Father taught her to identify the various birds as they passed overhead. Mallards flying in loose groups. Smaller bunches of teals flashing by. Canvasbacks in wavering lines that would form a temporary V-shape and then break apart and reform again. When Father recognized the outline of a swan, his face would turn dark and his voice angry.

To Father, the swans were a pestilence, a plague upon the land. Cassie would listen silently as he enumerated their many evils—the valuable plants they devoured, the other birds they attacked and drove away. The swans were also a threat to humans. Males could weigh forty pounds and reach five feet from wingtip to wingtip. Father told tales of boaters being attacked, of children’s arms and legs being broken, and forbade Cassie from going down to the lake by herself. So she would sit and count the dark shapes passing overhead, imagining the lake full of them, a shifting, surging field of white, tinted red by the evening sun. She wondered how something so beautiful could be so dangerous. Invasive species. That’s what Father called them. She asked what that meant. It means, he said, they don’t belong here.

Castle Hill had been Cassie’s home until she was eighteen, when she’d met and married Brad and, over Father’s objections, had moved back to the city where she was born. It seemed so different from the one she remembered. There was no place to hide from the blistering Southern sun, or from the mobs of tourists who crowded the streets and parks, gaping up at the marble monuments and statues of great men. Where are the statues of great women, she’d asked, and Brad had laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

On the night they were married, Brad, a little drunk, had stood underneath the statue of Thomas Jefferson and struck the same proud, erect pose. She’d laughed, but suspected that he was also trying to make a point, or at least plant the suggestion in her mind, that he too could be a great man one day.

Father, who’d fought and been a hero in the Great War, had certain ideas about what a great man should be. You need a strong man to take care of you, he’d said. His meaning was clear—she needed a strong man, and Brad was not one. She’d tried to tell Father that his ideas were old fashioned, that they were a modern couple and would take care of each other. That was before Brad’s drinking became worse. Before the long silences and terrible arguments. Before their son Jack was born.

Cassie’s world was not the only one that was changing. She could feel it in the city streets, in the crowds of people who seemed to move a little faster as if trying to make it home before a storm. Something was coming, something that could not be stopped. In the evening, she would find Brad sitting close to the big wooden radio with its glowing dial, leaning close to catch the urgent voice stabbing the air in harsh static bursts.

It was springtime when the letter came, a bright yellow envelope with official-looking writing. She’d found Brad staring at it, his face a blank white mask. At first she was sure that someone had died. A month later, Brad was gone to some place called Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri. After that, to Germany where the war was.

Come home now.

The first two words of Father’s telegram were an invitation; the third, Cassie knew, was an order. At first she’d tried to resist. She could make it on her own, she’d told Father—she and Jack, with the money Brad had left. That was before she found out that there was no money, that Brad had drunk and gambled it away.

Other women she knew, wives whose husbands were gone, had turned back the clock to survive and gone home to their families. But the thought of running home to Father, of proving him right, made something inside her rebel. She tried secretarial work, but when the piles of paper in front of her grew higher and higher until she couldn’t breathe, she left early for lunch one day and never came back. In a factory at the shipyard, where the noise was one endless train wreck that tore at her nerves, she’d lasted only one day.

Come home now.

Father’s words that had sounded like an invasion now began to feel like an opportunity. A summer at Castle Hill. A chance to rest and recover. Maybe that was what she needed.

Jack watched his mother struggle with their heavy suitcases as they made their way through the crowds at Union Station. The great white granite hall was full of soldiers. Jack had never seen so many in one place before. They moved in large groups, shouting in loud rough voices, others silent and grim, their stiff green uniforms a little too big for their youthful bodies. The air was heavy with the smell of cologne, sweat, and cigarettes.

Jack saw his mother holding her chin up high, a trickle of sweat running down her forehead. She paused to set the suitcases down, wiped her eye, causing a flood of other people to swarm around them.

“Mommy, can I help?”

“No, thank you, darling. It’s alright. We’re almost there.” She picked up the bags, her lips set firm, and started walking again. Jack didn’t offer to help this time, but stayed close to his mother’s side. He looked up in wonder at the giant beams of sunlight that shot down from the big high windows, cutting through the gloom.

One sign on the wall caught his eye. It was a picture of a giant spider with the head of a man. The man’s face had a nose like a vulture’s beak and dead white eyes. Jack read the words on the sign.

DON’T TALK.

Jack pulled on his mother’s sleeve. She turned and looked down at him, her face flushed and distracted. “What is it, Jackie?”

Jack pointed at the sign. “Mommy. Who is that?” He could see her eyes darting about, straining to find what he was pointing at. “The spider,” he said. “The spider with the man’s face.” He saw her eyes find what he was talking about. A strange look passed across her face.

“Nobody.”

Jack knew his mother was lying. He could always tell when there was something she didn’t want him to know. There were more words on the sign. He looked closer, trying to read them.

THE WEB IS SPUN FOR YOU WITH INVISIBLE THREADS. STAY OUT OF IT. HELP TO DESTROY IT.

Jack felt a vibration deep inside. HELP TO DESTROY IT. The sign was talking to him. It was asking for his help. There is a monster out there, the sign was saying. Help us. Destroy it.

Jack was about to tell his mother about what the sign said—then he read the rest . . .

STOP. THINK. ASK YOURSELF IF WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO SAY MIGHT HELP THE ENEMY. SPIES ARE LISTENING.

Jack looked at the people around them. The tall man with a thin mustache and wide-brimmed hat reading a newspaper. The old woman with angry eyes, clutching a large package. An older child standing in line with his father just a few feet ahead of them. As Jack watched, the boy turned and looked right into his face, his eyes narrowing distrustfully. Jack felt the words he was about to say freeze and die in his throat.

I will not talk, Jack thought. I will not help the enemy. Spies are listening. I will destroy them.

The train lurched and clacked. Cassie glanced out the window at the last traces of the white marble city falling away. She glanced down at Jack sleeping next to her, lulled by the rocking motion of the train. He’d been so young the last time he was at Castle Hill. She wondered how much he remembered.

When Jack stirred in his sleep, Cassie wrapped one arm around his small shoulders and drew him close. This trip would do him good. God knows she hadn’t been much of a mother to him for these past few weeks since Brad had been gone. Or for all the ugly months before that. She wished she could protect Jack from all the ugliness. The way that Father had protected her. The last time she was at Castle Hill, Father had seen the bruises Cassie tried to hide. The next day, Father took his shotgun down from the wall and told her that he and Brad were going hunting. They were gone all day. Brad never told her what happened, but he never laid a hand on Cassie again.

Protection. Protection and a man’s influence. That’s what Jack needed now. She owed him that much.

As the taxi climbed the steep, familiar hill, Cassie saw the house emerge from the leaves, the dark, rocky bulk of it rising against the sky, like pictures she’d seen of medieval castles perched above tiny villages. The house had been built with stones carried in horse-drawn carts from the moraine to the top of the hill. Every stone was a different size, a different shape, even a different color, so the house had a rough-hewn, primitive look like something built a thousand years ago.

Father had bought the house in 1924 and had moved the family there when the city had become “too dangerous”. Mother, who’d come unwillingly, filled the dark and stony rooms with her expensive, delicate furniture shipped from the city, so the house looked—as Brad once described it—like a dollhouse inside a dungeon. Brad hated Castle Hill. He hated its thick stone walls, tiny windows and airless rooms. It’s like a prison, he’d complained. Why do we have to go there every summer?

“Look, Jack,” Cassie said, pointing toward the great house. Jack peered through the car window and squinted suspiciously.

Before she’d even had a chance to knock, the thick wooden door swung open and there was Father, standing tall above her in his grey wool suit and bright wide grin. He gathered her into his arms and rocked her back and forth like a child, whispering, “Welcome home. Welcome home.” Cassie closed her eyes and breathed in his familiar scent of old wool and crisp linen, witch hazel and the faint trace of tobacco smoke.

Father finally loosened his grip on her and grinned down at Jack. “Well, well, hello there, Jackie boy!” Jack stared up at Father, not smiling.

“Jack,” Cassie said, “Say hello to your grandfather.” Jack kept staring and said nothing.

“That’s okay,” Father said, “He’s just feeling a little shy. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later, won’t we, Jackie?”

Father ushered them inside, and there was Delia standing at a distance in her crisp white uniform, waiting to be noticed. Cassie nearly ran to her and Delia opened her arms, taking Cassie in. “Delia . . .” Cassie said, then could speak no more. Delia held onto her, patting her back gently, saying, “Miss Cassie . . . Miss Cassie,” again and again.

“Supper’s at seven,” Father announced in a firm voice. Cassie felt Delia’s arms loosen around her and slip away.

“It sure is good to see you, Miss Cassie,” Delia smiled. Cassie noticed the gray that had crept into Delia’s hair since the last time, and it made her sad. “And there’s Mister Jack,” Delia said, smiling down at him. Jack took one step behind his mother, holding onto her leg, and glared up at Delia suspiciously.

“Jack!” Cassie said, “It’s Delia. You remember her.”

Jack kept glaring and said nothing. Father made an impatient sound and Delia turned and went quickly back toward the kitchen.

“It’s really good to see Delia again,” Cassie said to Father. “It feels . . . it feels like everything’s the same.”

Father, who’d been watching Delia go with a stern expression, turned back to Cassie and broke into his broad grin again.

“Oh, you know. Nothing ever changes here.”

Cassie was amazed at how easily everything fell back into place. In the evenings, Delia would prepare dinner for them. After dinner, they would all go out and sit on the hillside to watch the sunset like they used to when she was younger. Father sat on the ground in the same freshly pressed gray wool suit and tie he wore to dinner every night. Cassie sat by his side on the tablecloth spread on the grass, her bare legs stretched out immodestly in front of her like a little girl’s. She sipped the sweet bourbon highball her father had poured for her, feeling the warmth hit her chest and spread outward, melting the years away while Jack ran and tumbled on the hill below them like she’d once done. It was good to see him start to come out of his shell.

“Jack loves it here,” she said.

“Of course he does,” Father said. “Children are like horses. They need to be run.”

“I know,” she sighed. “He’ll probably never want to leave.”

“The city’s no place to raise a child.”

“You raised me there.”

“I got you out. Soon as I could.”

“We’ll do alright,” she said, hearing the lack of conviction in her own voice.

“Cassie . . . A woman alone? In that awful place? Besides. What about Jack? You have to think about him.” When he spoke again, his voice was still quiet and firm. “You’re not going back there.”

And there it was. She’ d known this was coming. Before they’ d even arrived, when they’d boarded the train and watched the city flash past and fall away behind them.

“Our things . . .” she began.

“I’ll send for them.”

Cassie felt the urge to object rise up briefly inside her and then fade away like a trace of cloud evaporating in the sky. She’d known this was going to happen. And somewhere inside of her, she’d wanted it. Why would she have come here, knowing this would happen, if she didn’t want it?

A breeze moved up the hill and a kind of calm settled over her. It was strange how easy it felt. She’d thought that returning here would feel like a defeat, but it didn’t. The familiar trees overhead, the ground beneath her; it all felt comforting and natural. It was her life with Brad that had been unnatural. Their apartment on Connecticut Avenue and everything in it, the clothes she’d worn, even the way she wore her hair, had all been an act. This was not an act. This was who she was.

On the steep green hill, Jack ran and fell, ran and fell again, charging the invisible enemy on the hill. Bang. Fall. Get up. Run again. The glare of the late afternoon sun blinding his eyes. This was war. Fight and die. Get up. Fight again. This was what men did. What he had to learn how to do.

Someone was calling him. Jack squinted into the sun and saw a lone figure standing against the sky at the top of the hill above him. It was Mother, calling him in for dinner. She’d been calling him for a long time—he could tell by the annoyance in her voice. Jack brushed the grass and dirt from his knees and started climbing the hill, his heart still hammering in his chest.

Inside, the house was full of the smell of cooking, and that strange old musty odor the place always had. Mother had gone into the kitchen with Delia. Granddad stood looking down at him from high above. “Follow me, Jackie,” Granddad smiled and winked. “We don’t want them listening, do we?”

Jack stared up in surprise. Granddad knew. Spies are listening.

Jack followed Granddad out onto the porch that looked over the wooded hills below. He felt Granddad’s large warm hand rest itself on his right shoulder, while the other hand pointed out over the miles of green trees turning blue in the dusk.

“Look out there, Jack,” Granddad said. “See that?” Jack nodded. “Other people look out there and think it’s beautiful. Know what I see? I see cover. Under every one of those trees, an enemy soldier could be hiding.”

Jack looked out across the wooded hills below, imagining an enemy hiding behind every tree. He pictured the trees crawling toward them through the dimming light, slowly, silently.

“That’s why it’s important to hold the high ground,” Granddad said. “The point where the defender has the greatest arc of observation and an unobstructed line of fire.”

Jack tried to understand the words that Granddad was saying to him. Other grown ups leaned down and cooed in his face, talking in ridiculous high voices. Even Mother did that. But Granddad wasn’t talking to him like a child. He wasn’t taking about childish things. He was telling him important things. Things that mattered.

“I need your help, Jack. I need you to help keep watch. Cover the terrain. It’s a big job. I can’t do it alone. Can you do that for me?”

Jack nodded. He felt Granddad’s large, warm hand tighten its grip on his shoulder. “Good boy. I knew I could count on you.” Cassie’s head hurt from the bourbon she drank the night before. Rising slowly, she moved to the window and looked out across the green trees that sloped down to where the lake was hidden.

Don’t go down to the lake. Father’s words came back to her every time she looked in the direction of the lake, or even thought about it.

When Cassie was four years old, she’d been attacked by a swan. The memory was both vivid and vague, a few sharp fragments surrounded by a haze of forgetting. She could remember the strange sight of the creature on land, haltingly lumbering toward her, its eyes like small black stones fixed on her, the great wings lifting higher and higher, feathers spreading apart like the fingers of a hand, making her think of pictures of angels. For a moment, it was almost beautiful—then the long neck stabbing at her, the sound of hissing and the muffled thunder of wings beating the air all around her in a terrible flurry of white.

She could never remember how long the attack had lasted, or how it ended. Here at Castle Hill, those thoughts came to her when she slept, and in the moments between sleeping and waking. Quick flashes of white and red. Red and white.

Father was already in his seat at the head of the table, reading the newspaper from New York, a scowl of disapproval on his face. Cassie settled into her chair and breathed in the good smell of hot coffee, feeling it open the tight spaces behind her eyes. All the while, she could feel Delia moving around them, the familiar warmth of her body leaning close from behind to place a platter of warm biscuits on the table.

“Thank you, Delia,” Cassie said, turning to smile up at her. Delia’s smile flickered like a lightbulb, then went out. She said nothing, finished setting the table and disappeared into the kitchen.

Cassie watched Delia go and felt uneasy. Throughout her life, Delia had been a constant presence, providing a kind of balance against her mother’s fragility and otherworldliness. Questions that had been too delicate for Mother, Cassie knew she could ask Delia. It was Delia who’d first told her about sex, saying the kind of words Cassie could not imagine coming from her mother’s mouth.

Lately, though, Delia had begun to keep her distance, to establish a degree of formality like the one she displayed toward Father. Cassie preferred the old Delia, the one who baked cinnamon bread for her in the kitchen when she was young, told her stories and made her laugh. Not this distant, silent presence who rarely met her eyes and slipped in and out of rooms like a shadow.

When Delia came to clear away the dishes from breakfast, Cassie rose and started to take her plate to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Father asked. She saw him watching her with a stern look on his face.

“I’m just . . .”

“Leave it.”

Cassie stood uncertainly for a moment, the plate still in her hand. Her old resistance at being told what to do rose up inside of her. “Excuse me,” she said, then turned and walked back into the kitchen.

She found Delia at the sink, scraping leftovers into the slop pail. “Here,” Cassie said, holding out the plate to her. Delia glanced at the plate quickly as if she didn’t know what to do. Then she reached out and took it.

“Thank you,” Delia said under her breath.

Cassie picked up a plate and began to dry it with a dishtowel, watching Delia bending over the sink, busily scrubbing a dirty pan.

“Delia . . .” Cassie said. “Is everything . . . okay?”

Delia replied without looking up from her work. “Not sure what you mean, Miss Cassie.”

“I don’t know. You seem . . . you seemed happy to see me. Jack and me. But . . .” But now you don’t.

“You’re a grown woman, Miss Cassie. You can do whatever you want to do. It’s none of my business.”

Delia had rolled up her sleeves to wash the dishes; Cassie looked down and saw four blue-black marks on Delia’s forearm, each one roughly the size of a finger. She felt a cold shock wash through her, followed by the first stirring of rage. She wanted to say something, but the words caught in her throat, so she turned and walked back out to the dining room where Father was still sitting, still staring at her disapprovingly.

“Cassie,” he said, “You are not to clear the dishes from the table again. It’s what I pay that woman for. If you do her work for her, it’s exactly like stealing from me.”

Cassie stood trying to absorb this, then remembered what she’d come back to ask.

“Have you seen the bruises on Delia’s arm?

Father’s scowl relaxed, and he shook his head gently as he spoke. “Cassie, I’m afraid that’s just part of the world she comes from. It’s sad, but it’s true. It’s none of our business.”

“But . . . I’m worried about her,” Cassie said. “Shouldn’t we . . . say something?”

“Cassie, I told you,” Father said, a cold and steely edge in his voice. “It’s not our business.” He must have seen the look of alarm on her face, because he flashed a quick and patient smile. “Don’t worry about Delia. She’ll be fine.”

Cassie reprimanded herself. Of course Father cared about Delia. How could he not? After all these years together, she was like part of the family. The gruffness he displayed, calling Delia “that woman”, was just an act, like so much of what he said and did. Father loved her. Father loved Jack. Father loved Delia, too. She’d forgotten that for a moment. She promised herself to never forget it again.

After breakfast, while Jack was playing in the garden, Cassie went out for a walk. She needed some fresh air and sunshine to clear her head. The large meadow behind the house that sloped down toward the trees moved and whispered invitingly, and Cassie plunged right in. The tall grasses with their milky tops rose all around her, waving and speaking in their hushed voices. For a brief moment, she couldn’t tell where she was, which direction the house was in or how to get back.

That was when she remembered the babies. The swan babies. What were they called? Chicks? Goslings? It was a moment before the right word came. Cygnets. She had stumbled upon the cygnets in the high reeds by the shore. Little white balls of fluff with open mouths. She could hold one in her hands if she wanted to. She’d held out her hands as if one of the cygnets might leap into her open palms, but they scattered away from her. That was when she turned and saw the mother swan charging, wings spread wide enough to blot out the sun, open black mouth wide enough to swallow the world.

Later, the sound of a gunshot echoing off the lake and entering her own chest. Father returning with the shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm, the charred smell of gunpowder clinging to his clothes. It was just protecting its babies, she’d cried. Father told her it didn’t matter, that just because swans have babies, eat, drink, and breathe air, that didn’t mean they were the same. They’re just animals, he’d told her. You are not. Remember that.

Jack opened his eyes and saw a bar of sunlight stabbing through the darkness of the bedroom like something solid. He turned and saw his mother curled on her side next to him. Her hair wild in sleep, her mouth open, a spot on the pillow under her face dark with spit.

Jack slipped through the bedroom door, down the hallway to the kitchen where the single pane of glass in the kitchen door glowed in the dark like a beacon. Before he pushed the door open, he felt in the dark for the nail in the wall where his weapon hung waiting for him, patient, faithful. He lifted the flyswatter down from the nail, feeling the power in his hand, pushed the door open and stepped over the stone threshold into the garden.

The morning air slipped around his skin, cool and fragrant with the breath of a hundred plants and flowers. He stopped for a moment to peel his shirt off over his head so he could feel the cool air on his naked belly and chest. Like a pirate, he thought. He’d seen pictures of pirates with their shirts wide open or missing entirely. Bare skin against bullets and swords. Braver than knights with their armor and shields. Braver even than soldiers with their iron helmets, hiding behind sandbags.

Not like Granddad. Granddad never hid from anything. On that hill in France, he’d stood up to face the enemy while bullets flew right past him, taller than the other soldiers, taller than anything, daring them to take aim and kill him. Tall and indestructible like a statue. Like a giant.

Jack walked further down the path to the garden wall, to the shed and the bags of soil and mulch where he knew the enemy was waiting. There they were, smaller than the bees, black and ugly, making their angry little circles in the air. There were a lot of them. They carried diseases that could make you sick, Mother said. They eat shit and then land on your food, on your arm or your face. They were disgusting, and needed killing. Who else would do it? Who else if not him?

He would kill them, he decided. It might take a long time, but he would do it. He would kill them all.

He slashed the air with his weapon, testing it, hearing the satisfying whoosh, feeling the power rise up his arm and into the rest of his body. Then he stepped in and started killing.

Whoosh. Crack. Tiny black bodies crushed and sticking to red plastic, a few tiny legs still struggling.

Crack. No more struggling. That was death. He made it happen. Again and again, Crack, crack, crack, until the bodies were piled around him at his feet.

Cassie was coming up the stairs when she heard a sound she recognized, one she remembered from childhood, a loud whomp, like a sail cracking in the wind—Delia shaking out the bedsheets. She followed that sound down the hall to her bedroom. When she entered the room, Delia glanced up at her, then quickly looked away. “’Scuse me, Miss Cassie . . .” Delia muttered and started to leave.

“No,” Cassie said, “Don’t stop. It’s okay.”

Delia paused for a moment as if she was still unsure whether to leave or stay. Then she turned back to the bed and started smoothing and tucking the sheet. Cassie moved around to the far corner of the bed to help.

“You don’t need to do that, Miss Cassie,” Delia said.

“No, it’s okay,” Cassie said, trying to smile. “I feel like I haven’t done any work all day.” Cassie busied herself, working next to Delia in silence, trying to think of what to say next. “How are your boys?” Cassie didn’t say their names. She’d forgotten them. Jackson? She thought that might be one, but she didn’t want to risk it.

She thought she saw Delia sigh. “Rodney’s in Germany.”

“Does he . . . do you hear from him often?”

Delia shook another pillow down into its pillow case and shrugged. “He writes. Sometimes . . .”

“How . . .” Cassie started, not knowing what to say. “Does he tell you . . . what it’s like?”

“A little. They don’t let them do that, mostly. Some of his letters, almost half of them are blacked out. You know how they do.”

Cassie looked away. She did not know. Six months, and Brad had sent only one postcard from Fort Dix, nothing since he’d left for Germany. For a moment, she’d felt that she and Delia were the same, two women joined by a common bond. But they were not the same. Suddenly, Delia turned to face her.

“Why did you come back here?”

Cassie felt the breath pulled right out of her lungs. “You . . . you know why.” “Because your husband’s gone? Lots of women whose husbands are gone.” “Delia . . . this is my home.”

“You had a home. You had your own home.” Delia looked away and went back to work, pulling at the sheets a little harder. “Why did you bring that little boy back here?”

“He loves his Granddad.”

“‘Course he loves his Granddad. He’s a child.” Cassie saw Delia start to say more, then close her eyes and shake her head. “I’m sorry. I said too much. I got no right to talk to you like that.”

“No, it’s alright . . .” Cassie said, but she felt resentment rising inside her. Who was Delia to tell her she shouldn’t be in her own home? After all that she and Father had done for her, giving her a good job and a beautiful place to live. And that terrible summer when the sounds of shouting, police sirens and gunshots rang out for five days and nights, when tanks had rolled through the streets of Washington, Father had kept Delia safe inside their house in Chevy Chase. A black face on Connecticut Avenue? Father had said. She wouldn’t last five minutes out there.

Father had kept her safe. He’d kept them all safe. Delia had a lot to be grateful for.

They were closer now. Jack could feel it in the dark shapes that passed overhead at sunset. He could feel it in the looks that passed between Mother and Delia, between Mother and Granddad. He could feel it in the spaces between the words they said to each other, and in the way that the trees thrashed and nodded outside his window while the wind was moaning a word it kept trying to say.

In the morning while Mother was still asleep, Jack patrolled the house to see if anyone or anything had gotten in during the night. He’d brought the flyswatter for protection, clutching it tightly in his fist. He had killed with it, had made death happen, and that gave him a power he hoped would protect him.

At the end of the hallway, the front door stood open. Clutching his weapon, he stepped through the half-open door out into the morning light. A movement caught his eye. Jack turned and had only a second to see the man standing with both arms raised, a gun in his hands. Before Jack could cry out, there was a loud crack, then the smell of gunpowder. The man lowered the gun and Jack saw his Granddad’s face, a wide grin spreading across it.

“Gotcha!” Granddad’s voice was booming with laughter. Then he was walking toward Jack, holding the gun out to him in one hand, the handle pointed toward him now.

“Wanna try it?”

Up close, Jack could see it was a toy, but more real-looking than any toy gun he’d seen before. Shiny silver metal, heavy in his hand, like he believed a real gun would be. The gunpowder smell rose from it and entered Jack’s nose.

“Go on,” Granddad said. “Try it.”

Jack looked around for something to shoot at. A movement above caught his eye. Geese crossing the sky on their way to the lake below. Jack raised the pistol in both hands, the way he’d seen Granddad do, pointed the pistol at the birds and squeezed the trigger. It was harder to do than he’d thought, and for a moment nothing happened. Then he felt the click under his straining finger and at the same time a loud crack. Jack saw a trace of smoke come from the pistol before the wind carried it away.

“Good shot,” Granddad said. Jack frowned. Granddad was lying. The bird he’d aimed at was still flying.

“I missed,” Jack said.

“Try again.”

Jack searched the sky for another target, but birds were hard; they were far away and moved too fast. High above, he heard them calling in their awkward, mocking voices. Mocking him.

Jack turned and pointed the gun at Granddad, still holding it in both hands. He was about to say Freeze or Hold it right there, things he’d heard the cowboys say on the radio. The next thing Jack knew, the pistol was clattering across the pavement and his hands were empty, his wrist throbbing. He looked up in shock at a twisted, blood-red face he didn’t recognize.

“Don’t ever do that!” the thing roared at him. “Don’t you ever point a gun at someone like that!”

Jack couldn’t move or speak. Everything inside him, including the urge to cry, had been blown out of him and lay scattered on the ground.

Jack saw the thing raise one hand and pass it over his face like he was trying to rub something away. Then it was Granddad’s face again. He nodded toward the toy gun that lay on the pavement where it had landed.

“Pick that up.” It was Granddad’s voice, weak and hoarse. “It’s yours.”

Jack saw Delia enter Grandma’s room. The room was always locked, and Delia had the only key. He waited for a moment, then followed her inside. The gun that Granddad had given him felt heavy and hard in his pocket.

Delia was dusting a small table with a white cloth. She looked up at him for a moment and then went right back to work. Jack had never been in this room before, and he looked around, trying to take it all in.

He could not remember Grandma’s face. The one that Mother had showed him in photographs, the pale-looking woman with heavy dark eyebrows and the serious expression, was a stranger to him. But inside this room, the scent of mothballs, lavender, and something else he couldn’t name opened a door somewhere in his mind, and for a moment he was in the presence of something warm and living.

“Why does Granddad keep Grandma’s room locked?” Jack asked.

“That’s his business,” Delia said. Jack immediately felt small and foolish again, shut out. Then, as if Delia sensed that, she added in a softer voice, “I guess he doesn’t want anyone messing with your Grandma’s things.”

“But you’re in here messing with them.” Jack knew there must be something wrong with what he’d said, because he could see Delia stiffen and pause for a moment before she continued with her work. When she spoke again, her voice was not as soft.

“I do what your Granddad pays me to do. That’s all.”

Jack felt a door shut in his face. And it made him angry. The soft, fragrant, invisible presence he felt in this room belonged to him. Not to her. This was his place, not hers. Everything here belonged to him.

“Why don’t you go play outside?” Delia said. Jack didn’t want to play outside. He was tired of killing flies. Tired of being told what to do.

When Delia left the room for a moment, Jack looked around, not knowing what he was looking for. His eye fell on a small box on the dresser table. It was made of black, shiny wood and the lid was painted with what looked like Japanese women in long flowing robes dancing under spidery-looking trees full of white flowers.

He tried to open the box but couldn’t. Then he found the small golden clasp, undid it and lifted the painted lid. Inside was a necklace made of what looked to him like pearls, and a gold ring that held what he knew must be a diamond. The soft, fragrant presence that he’d always felt in this room—this was where it was coming from. This was its beating heart.

Jack scooped the necklace and the ring up into his hand and shoved them deep into his pocket. He snapped the lid shut, then turned and walked out the door, passing Delia in the hallway.

“Don’t you be late to supper this time,” he heard her say behind him, but he was busy thinking about what he’d just done, and the new soft weight in his pocket. Treasure. He had treasure. It was his now. No one else’s.

Walking down the stairs, Jack suddenly knew what to do next.

Everybody knows what you do with treasure, he thought.

You bury it.

Father was sitting alone at the table when Cassie came in for lunch. It wasn’t unusual to find him here alone reading the newspaper or going through his mail. Today he was sitting with nothing in front of him, his hands out of sight beneath the table, his face set in a stony expression that made something in her gut feel tight.

“Cassie. Tell Delia to come in here.”

Why? That was the question she wanted to ask, but something in Father’s voice and expression told her not to.

Cassie found Delia at the kitchen counter preparing lunch for the family. “Delia, Father wants to see you.” Cassie saw an expression she couldn’t read flicker across Delia’s face, a kind of tenseness that she immediately smoothed over. Delia set the plate she was filling down on the countertop, wiped her hands with a dishtowel, then followed Cassie out into the dining room.

“Sit down,” Father said. Cassie saw Delia hesitate, her eyes moving around as if she was trying to decide on the proper place. She finally chose a chair across from Father, pulled it out carefully as if she was afraid of hurting it, then sat down, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes focused on the bare table in front of her.

For a while, Father did not speak. When he finally did, it was in a voice that was so low and measured that Cassie recognized he was exerting a great deal of effort to control himself.

“You remember Jeb.” It was not a question, but Delia answered anyway.

“Yes sir.”

“You were here when we bought him. How many years did we have him?” Delia didn’t answer for a moment. Cassie tried to imagine why Father was asking about a dog who’d been dead for fifteen years.

“How many years did we have him?” Father asked again.

“Ten,” Cassie answered.

“Ten,” Father nodded. “Ten years. During all those years, you think I treated that dog well?”

“Yes sir.”

“When he got sick, I took care of him. Sat up with him all night. You remember?”

“Yes sir.”

“And that time he ran off and I went looking for him. Found him stuck in a briar patch, all cut up. I carried him all the way back home myself. You remember that?”

Delia nodded.

“And that day he turned on me. Bit my hand clean down to the bone, and I shot him. Do you know why? I shot him because I couldn’t trust him anymore. I never imagined he would do something like that to me. Never even thought of it. And then he did. Because something changed. There was something inside of him all those years that stopped him from doing something like that to me. Then it was gone.”

Cassie saw Father bring his hands up from his lap and set something down on the table. It took her a moment to recognize what she was looking at. A small, shiny black lacquer box with a painted lid. Delia was now holding herself so still, Cassie was no longer sure if she was even breathing.

Father pushed the box across the table toward Delia. It made a harsh sliding sound that seemed louder than it should have been.

“Open it.”

Cassie saw Delia’s eyes dart back and forth and come to rest on Cassie’s face, only for a second, a look of pure fear and pleading. Then Delia looked away again, back down at the small black box on the table in front of her.

“Open it.” Father’s voice was louder now, with a harsher edge to it. Delia took a deep, shuddering sigh, then moved her hand closer to the box.

Don’t, Cassie thought. Don’t do it, she wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat. Delia opened the metal clasp and lifted the lid that came open with a soft sucking sound.

“What’s inside?” Father asked. Delia held herself very still. Cassie thought she could see the light dimming in her eyes. Father asked again, “What’s inside?”

“Nothing.” Delia’s voice sounded both very clear and very far away.

“Nothing,” Father repeated. “Put your fingers in the box.”

Cassie saw a flash of fear in Delia’s eyes. “Father . . .” she started to say.

“Shut your mouth!” Father roared. It was the first sign of anger he’d showed so far, and it stabbed her through the heart like a sword, pinning her to the wall. Father turned back to Delia and repeated in the same quiet, steely voice, “Put your fingers in the box.”

Cassie could see Delia trembling now. She wanted to run over and gather Delia up in her arms, take her away from here, but the sword Father had put through her heart still held her. Frozen, like in a nightmare, she watched Delia close her eyes, reach over slowly, and put her fingers inside the black lacquer box.

In an instant, Father was on his feet, snapping the lid shut on Delia’s fingers and smashing down hard with both hands while Delia screamed and struggled. Cassie saw her slide from the chair and onto her knees, shrieking and begging, her hands still held fast by the box while Father stood over her, pressing down on the lid with his full weight, the muscles and veins in his neck bulging with effort.

Then he was pulling Delia up from the floor by one arm and dragging her toward the door. Opening it with one hand, he flung Delia outside, roaring, “Never come back here, do you hear me? Never!” Cassie caught one final glimpse of Delia sobbing and rocking on her knees, clutching her hands to her chest, before Father slammed the door shut.

Cassie felt as though the trembling she’d seen in Delia’s body had somehow passed into hers. She couldn’t trust herself to move or speak. She could hear Father breathing heavily, and saw him reach up and undo the top button on his starched white shirt. “Take that thing away,” he said, glancing irritably at the box on the table. Then he was gone.

Cassie waited until she trusted her legs to support her. Then she walked slowly over to the dining room table where the lacquer box had fallen over onto its side. Hands trembling, she reached over and turned it right side up. Inside, the faded velvet lining was wet with blood.

A few minutes later, she heard Jack laughing outside. He and Father were in the garden, playing. She could see them through the window, Father holding a red rubber ball high above his head, teasing Jack like he was a dog, then tossing the ball into the high grass at the edge of the lawn. Jack eagerly ran after it, plunging into the tall reeds; she could see them moving even after Jack had disappeared, the tops of the reeds lashing back and forth.

Cassie was in her bedroom packing clothes into her suitcase when Father found her.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Cassie froze for a moment, feeling she’d been caught doing something wrong. But she wasn’t. She was doing what she had to do. She kept packing, not looking at Father.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Father said, his voice low, almost gentle. “Things like that . . . I’ve always tried to keep you away from them.”

“Things like that? Things like that? Jesus Christ, Father . . . Thirty years. She’s been with our family for thirty years.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so terrible.”

Cassie stared at Father standing in the doorway of her room and saw that he didn’t quite fill the doorframe the way she remembered. He was growing smaller. When had he started growing smaller?

“You feel sorry for her,” he said. “You think she’s been hurt.”

“Jesus, Father, her hands . . .”

“The woman lives under my roof for thirty years. Takes the money I pay her. Eats the food I provide. And she steals. From your mother. From a dead woman. And you think she’s the one who’s been hurt.”

“I can’t . . . I just can’t believe . . .”

“What? You can’t believe she’d do it? Why? Because you grew up with her? Because she helped raise you? She was paid to do that. You think she loves you? For God’s sake, Cassie, grow up. She’s not your family. She’s a thief and an opportunist. You think this is the first time she’s done something like this? It’s just the first time she’s been caught, that’s all.”

The more Father talked, the weaker Cassie felt. All she wanted was to sink down into the darkness somewhere and sleep. Then the sound of Delia’s screams came back to her and she shook off the dullness fogging her brain and kept packing, shoving things into her suitcase without even looking at them. She had to get out. She had to take whatever was hers and get out of here now.

“Where do you think you’re going to go?” Father’s voice pursued her. “You have no money. No home. What do you think is going to happen to you out there? And what about Jack? You’re going to take a child out into the world with nothing? You don’t know anything about life. About how people live. About how they really are.”

As Cassie watched, the scowl on Father’s face faded and transformed into a friendly-looking smile that was even more horrible to look at. Cassie knew without turning around that he was no longer looking at her. “Hey there, Jackie boy . . .”

Cassie turned and saw Jack standing in the hallway outside, looking in through the open door. The expression on his face was unreadable, but Cassie could see a glint of fear in his eyes, although whether it was fear of her or of Father, she couldn’t tell.

“Jack, come here,” she said. She could hear how ragged and strange her voice sounded, and knew how strange she must have sounded to Jack too, because he stayed where he was in the hallway, not moving. She held out her right hand toward him, grateful to see that it wasn’t trembling. “Jack . . . please . . .”

Before she could finish, Jack ran past her and buried himself in his Grandfather’s arms. Father beamed and reached down to run his big hand through Jack’s hair. “That’s right, Jackie, that’s right,” he said. “Your mother isn’t feeling very well right now. Let’s you and me go outside and give her a little time to rest. Okay?”

Cassie stood by the bed and the pile of unfolded clothes, watching the two of them go through the door and down the hallway. She could almost swear that she saw their solid bodies dissolving in the afternoon light, their backs turned to her, holding hands.

The feel of dried breadcrumbs in her pockets, rough against her fingers. She could still feel them. Why were her pockets filled with breadcrumbs? For the cygnets. She had filled her pockets with breadcrumbs for the cygnets. She had to find them. She had to find them and feed them the breadcrumbs so they wouldn’t starve. They were starving now because of her. Their mother was dead. Because of her. It was all because of her, and now she had to find them. Into the high reeds she went, nearer and nearer to the water, the ground turning soft and wet under her shoes that came loose with a soft sucking sound. Then she felt something else beneath her feet and looked down.

Red and white. Downy white feathers trembling in the wind, rising out of deep smears of red, something like crushed eggshells and the huge footprint that had smashed and ground them all into the mud. All of them. All of them.

There was vomit down the front of her dress when she got back to the house. Delia had brought her inside and helped clean her off.

The phone rang and cut through the fog of Cassie’s dream like a knife. Delia had always taken Father’s messages; now, every time the phone rang, it was a reminder of her absence and of what had happened. The guilty ache that Cassie had managed to dull with bourbon pierced her chest again and again with every ring, and she snatched the receiver off the cradle to stop it.

“Hello . . .” Cassie slurred, alarmed by the drunken sound of her own voice. There was silence on the other end of the line, then a slow and tense-sounding intake of breath. The voice on the other end of the line was familiar but grim.

“Miss Cassie . . .”

At the sound of her name, Cassie began sobbing. “Oh God, Delia, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .”

Silence on the other end again, longer this time. Cassie was sure that Delia had hung up. Then she heard that same weary drawing in of breath. When the voice began to speak again, it was even slower and more deliberate. Deliberate and cold, cutting into Cassie’s flesh.

“There’s some clothes and pictures in my room there. I want them. I’ll come for them tonight.”

Terror pushed its way up into Cassie’s throat so fast, she almost couldn’t speak. “No! No, don’t! It’s not safe . . .”

Another pause. “Come to the back door at eleven. Bring my things down. I won’t come inside. I’ll just take my things and go.”

“No, Delia, please. I just . . . I just don’t want anything bad to happen . . .”

“Something bad already happened. You ought to know—you were there.”

“I know. God, Delia, I’m so sorry. It just happened so fast . . .”

“I don’t mean that,” Delia spit out the word. “Thirty years. Thirty years, you were there watching. You didn’t say anything. And now you’re worried about it.”

The silence now was vibrant with rage and pain—better, much better, Cassie thought, than the coldness from before. Better to be attacked than shut out.

“Eleven o’clock,” the voice on the other end finally said. “I’ll be at the back door for my things. You can do that?”

“Yes,” Cassie said. At that moment, she felt sure that she would do anything for her.

Cassie heard the line go dead in her hand, and that was when she remembered what she’d been dreaming. She saw the cygnets huddled together in the tall reeds by the shore, crying for food, crying for their mother. She was one of them, the reeds tall as trees around her, bending back and forth in the cold wind. She could hear the sound of something coming closer, something large and powerful moving through the reeds. She tried to call out for help, but her voice was nothing more than a strange mewling cry in her throat.

Red and white. When Cassie closed her eyes, that’s what she saw. Red and white and a feeling like wanting to vomit and scream rising in her throat.

They’re animals. You are not. Remember that.

When Jack woke up in the dark, he knew instantly that he was alone in the big bed. Mother was gone. He sat up in bed and listened. No sounds in the dark room. No sounds in the hallway outside.

Moonlight poured in through a window ahead of him like a spotlight on the cold stone floor. Jack stepped into it and looked through the glass at the dark shapes of trees gathered on the other side. The trees were thrashing back and forth like something enormous and invisible was moving through them.

They were coming now. He’d felt it for a long time, ever since he and Mommy had come to this place. Now it was real. Now it was all about to happen. He had to stop them. It was his duty. It was what he had come here for.

Jack reached up and dragged the heavy iron bolt back, then pulled the big front door open. Wind and the smell of pine trees rushed in over him. He stood there for a moment, safe on the inside. Then he stepped over the threshold onto the front porch where the wind was louder. Below him was the lake, hidden in the trees. Words Granddad had used, high ground, line of fire, arc of observation, came and went through his head like the leaves scattering in the wind across the lawn. Then he stepped off the porch and started making his way around the big house, holding his toy gun out in front of him.

Voices came toward him around the corner. Loud, angry voices, but the wind tore the words into pieces and scattered them. His arm started to tremble, but he kept holding it straight out in front of him as he stepped around the corner.

Granddad was standing in the backyard, pointing his shotgun down at someone who lay huddled on the ground. It was Granddad’s voice he’d heard, raised in anger, but the wind was mixing his words up and Jack could only hear a few of them that blew in his direction. They were ugly words, words he knew no one should ever say.

At first he thought the body on the ground was dead, but then it moved, a face lifted up, broken and twisted. He knew that face. A few shreds of wailing blew past him, lost in the wind. He saw Granddad lift the shotgun higher, taking aim.

Jack raised his toy gun toward Granddad. He tried to shout No but what came out was a wordless noise that the wind carried away. Jack aimed, closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

There was a loud noise, a sharp crack. Jack opened his eyes and saw Granddad drop the shotgun and stumble backward until his back hit the trunk of a tree. Mouthing more words that Jack couldn’t hear, Granddad clawed angrily at the front of his shirt where a dark stain was growing. He sat down on the ground, slowly, awkwardly. Something black came out of his mouth, and he stopped moving.

Jack saw Mother standing inside the back door, holding one of Granddad’s pistols in front of her with both hands. The person on the ground got up and ran, but Mother stayed in the doorway, not moving. It was Mother’s face, but it was not her face. There was something gone from it now.

Jack turned and ran away from the house and down the hill in the dark, down the long sloping road through the trees toward the lake. Flashes of bright white light came to him in the spaces between the trees.

When Jack reached the shore, the lake was on fire, its whole surface a sea of blinding, surging white. Hundreds of strong wings and long graceful necks stretching and uncurling themselves like sleepers waking. The sound was deafening and terrible; Jack covered his ears to keep it out, but it would not be kept out. He shut his eyes against it, and when he opened them, the white had turned to red and white.

As he watched, both colors rose into the air and broke apart, a whole sky of strong wings and beaks and black eyes that saw him and were coming for him now. Jack raised his toy gun again and held it straight out in front of him. But in the moment before they reached him, he knew he could not stop them. He knew that whatever power he had or thought he had was not enough, and could never be enough to stop what was coming now.

Bb MINOR, OR THE SUICIDE CHOIR: AN ORAL HISTORY

GEMMA FILES

B major: harsh and plaintive

B minor: solitary and melancholic

Bb major: magnificent and joyful

Bb minor: obscure and terrible

—Key and mode descriptions from Marc-Antoine Charpentier’s
Règles des Composition, ca. 1682

KAYLA PRATT, HELP-LINE VOLUNTEER

Tell me about the call.

How it happened was, I was volunteering on the Keep It Street-Safe vandalism tip-line, the one they set up to find out who’s been knocking out all the RESCU cameras in the area around where King Street East turns into Cherry Street, past Front Street down to Lakeshore—you know, that
big development where they’re building what’s gonna be called the Canary District. Red light cameras mainly, but they’ve also knocked down a couple of traffic monitoring cameras, some ATM cameras . . . it’s like they’re trying to turn the whole area into one big dead spot. It’s hard enough to get an idea of what’s happening down there anyhow, because it’s pretty much either construction sites or a whole lot of old, semi-industrial spaces like the areas under the Gardiner Expressway, buildings no one’s bothered to demolish yet.

I didn’t get the call myself, because I was monitoring for control that night, but I saw out of the corner of my eye that Sam seemed to be having trouble, so I cut in, took it over. It took a minute to figure out what was going on, because it was two people and they were talking really quietly, whispering right up close to the phone, like they were afraid somebody was going to hear them. There was a lot of echo, a lot of noise; they told me they were in a bathroom, but I could hear stuff coming in through the walls too, like people singing, or—you know that thing really hardcore Baptists do, like at that church up near Pearson International Airport? Speaking in tongues—glossolalia, they call it. It was like that, but singing. Singing in tongues.

These people, these girls, they sounded really young, like kids. One of them had a bad cough, really wet, rattling in her chest. The other one sounded stronger, but her voice was still so hoarse I could barely make out what she was saying.

What was she saying?

Uh, like . . . “Help us, please send help, we need somebody. Our Moms are going to die, the Mouth says they have to do it to themselves. She says everybody has to.” Just like that, over and over again. She never stopped. Not even when the phone cut out.

Didn’t you think maybe it was a prank? I mean—

—if it was real, why didn’t they call 911? Yeah, that’s what my boss wanted to know, too. “Why would they call us, Kayla?” Like I could give a fuck about that question, right then . . . not that I said it out loud, obviously. Not like that, anyway.

Because you believed the call—the callers.

You’d’ve believed it too, if you’d heard it.

I have, actually. The recording.

Oh yeah, okay. Well—she sounded pretty fucking convincing, right? Like they were both scared out of their minds, like they were gonna start crying any minute: A hostage situation, somebody being held against their will, maybe a bunch of people being coerced into . . . murder, suicide? Mass suicide? (PAUSE)

Minute I heard the one with the cough talking like that, I knew we needed to kick this up to somebody who was a lot better equipped to deal with it than us.

The Emergency Task Force.

That’s what they’re there for.

ETF STAFF SERGEANT ARSHAN NAJI, SPECIAL WEAPONS TEAM SUPERVISOR AND NEGOTIATOR, TORONTO POLICE SERVICES

Tell me about what happened next.

Well, we couldn’t get a hold of the landlord immediately, because it was a weekend, but the building manager said they’d been there since before she applied for the job; it was a condo, fully paid off, and the owner lived there, along with a bunch of her friends. Zusann Groff, that was the owner’s name—and she was a lawyer, too, so there was nothing they could do to force them out, not even with the occasional complaint about noise or overcrowding . . . well, suspected overcrowding. Nobody really knew how many friends Groff was cohabiting with, exactly, ‘til we got inside.

Why not?

Because pandemic, that’s why not. Remember how fast people started inviting other people over, basically the minute they could prove they got vaccinated? No big parties, just keep it to one or two at a time? Well, it took a pretty long time for Groff’s neighbours to figure out none of the people coming to “visit” ever actually left, especially when we went into that second lockdown, the Rho variant scare one. She was the only person who ever came and went, the only one anybody actually saw—when you knocked on the door, she was the only one who ever answered. But when you live close by you can tell when there’s people next door, even when they’re hardly talking to each other, at least not very loud; lots of moving around, lots of flushing the toilet. An incredible amount of food deliveries. And that was a long time before choir practice started up.

Choir practice?

That’s what Groff’s nearest neighbour called it, uh . . . Ada Sagao. Groff was the last unit on that floor, down a little hallway, just past the stairs; Sagao was right around the corner, but she could hear it through her bedroom wall. She was working out of her home, like everybody else—said she asked Groff and her guests not to do whatever they were doing in the evenings, so she could sleep, but then they started doing it in the mornings instead, which woke her up way too early and gave her panic attacks. Then she asked Groff if she could maybe not do it every day, and Groff said they had to, because they had something coming up—Sagao thought it was a performance of some kind, but when we interviewed her later on, she couldn’t say for sure Groff ever really called it that. So Sagao complained to the manager, and Groff told the manager she’d do something about it, make alterations that’d help them keep it down.

Did she?

Brought a bunch of guys in, almost immediately. They worked quick. Things did get quieter after that.

(PAUSE)

Until we showed up, I guess.

ADA SAGAO, COMPUTER TECHNICIAN

Tell me what Zusann Groff’s choir sounded like.

I don’t know if it was a choir, as such. Not officially.

It’s . . . hard to describe. Singing, I guess. If you could call it that.

What else would you call it?

I’m not a music expert. All I know is, it was disturbing. It disturbed me. And—no, forget it.

What were you going to say?

Well . . . afterwards, when I read about it in the papers, they said there were thirteen people living next door to me; the woman who owned the place—Zusann—plus twelve others. Which is crazy in and of itself, really, considering how small these units are, but . . . whenever they started singing, it always sounded like more. Like, a lot more.

Was it always the same song?

“Song . . .” (LAUGHS) Yeah, I guess it was, eventually. I mean . . . yeah, after a while they’d hit something that sounded . . . familiar. It always felt the same, somehow. Like—

Like what?

Like—cold, and high, and lonely. Awful. Like everybody was singing in two different keys, two different voices. And one went so low it droned, and the other went so far up it—yelped, shrieked? But it was still music, somehow. And sometimes, when they hit that pitch . . . sometimes . . . it was like they weren’t even human, anymore.

(PAUSE)

You ever hear of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan? Sufi devotional singer, did some stuff with Peter Gabriel, back in the nineties? He sang qawwali, this incredible stuff full of yearning and heartbreak, pure vocal pyrotechnics. I think it’s supposed to sound like you’re in love with God.

Okay.

Seriously, Google him, it’s worth it. Well . . . this was like the opposite of that.

Could you make out any words?

Most times I don’t think it even had words. Not by the end.

I heard you recorded some of it.

Not me, no. My friend, Kika—she’s a musicologist. You’d have to ask her.

Can I have her contact information?

Uh . . . sure.

ETF STAFF SERGEANT ARSHAN NAJI

Initially there was some back and forth over right to enter, but we were finally able to push through on the idea of child welfare endangerment. I mean, “push through” sounds like we were doing something shady, but it was a legitimate concern—the threat sounded imminent, plus we didn’t have any sort of idea how long we had before things were likely to kick off, just the phone call itself and a whole lot of weird noise from inside the unit.

The choir.

The singing, yes. That was already going when we got there. It never stopped. (PAUSE) So we knocked, asked for Ms. Groff, called through the door that we were there to run a welfare; no response. Repeated it three times, asked for permission to enter: still no response. Eventually, the Crown got a warrant to us, and we were able to move forward.

How so?

We tried negotiation first, obviously—opening channels, etcetera—but . . . basically, they just ignored us. Kept on singing, louder and louder, to the point where we thought we heard screaming. That’s when I gave the order to breach.

Was there any resistance?

No. It was a clean entry, minimal damage. Nobody anywhere near the door. We cleared the place room by room, without incident: Kitchen, living space, one bathroom, two bedrooms. The place was spare, totally stripped down, barely any furniture left. Both bedrooms were nothing but Ikea bunk-beds—that’s where we expected to find the kids, hopefully alive.

And did you?

No. There weren’t any kids, turned out. There never had been. It was just . . . somebody, a couple of somebodies, pretending, I guess. I hear some of Groff’s friends used to be actors.

Why would they have done that?

Basically? I think to get us to come over and break in on them, in the first place.

(PAUSE)

Anyhow, we were stumped there for a few minutes, still couldn’t figure out where the singing was coming from—not until we checked the floor-plan, saw the unit used to have two bathrooms.

The alterations.

That’s right. They’d knocked everything out, made a whole new room, hid it behind a fake wall at the back of bedroom number two. It probably used to be an en suite.

So that’s where they all were? Thirteen people?

Yes, it was pretty tight, especially with the soundproofing. And it must’ve been just loud as hell for them in there, too, considering . . . I mean, we could hear it all the way outside, like I said, right through the front door. Once we got in, it was just—at what seemed like assaultive levels of volume, even with all our gear, the noise we were making ourselves: Flash-bangs on entry, yelling, what have you. Made you want to . . .

Staff Sergeant?

Excuse me.

(PAUSE)

It was my second-in-command who spotted the hinges, so we could open it up that way; if there was a lock on the outside, we never found it. We went in with Halligan bars, tore up the plaster, knocked out the pins. It sprang open pretty quick, right at the same time the singing stopped . . . I think that’s when it was. It was definitely over when we saw—what was in there.

Who. Was in there.

Ms. Groff?

Her, sure. Along with everybody else.

(PAUSE)

When we opened the door at last, pried it open, there was this . . . you know that kind of noise when you open a can of coffee? Vacuum sealed? It was like that. And then this rush of cold coming out, intense, like the dead of winter. Cold enough to crisp your ass-hairs. Plus this rush of . . .

Well, I know it sounds insane, but . . . air. Coming in past us. Almost strong enough to knock me off balance.

(PAUSE)

I don’t think I ever told anybody that before.

Casualties?

Not by our hands, ma’am.

WINSTON JONAS, PARAMEDIC

Oh my God, man, you don’t even know. I never saw anything like that, and I’ve seen a lot, like, a lot. Enough so’s I can’t sleep without medication, you get me? Yeah, it was bad.

Can you give me details?

I’d rather not. But that’s what you came to me for, right? Yeah, you and everybody else.

(PAUSE)

So there was this secret room at the back, flush to the wall, no windows. They’d built it themselves. Had no lighting inside it. Just a triangular, black space—totally black, I mean like they’d painted it black themselves: The walls, the floor, the ceiling, all covered in this foam stuff with a layer of black paint slopped over it, for soundproofing. Thirteen adult human beings crammed in there, all standing with barely enough room to breathe, all staring upwards and singing, apparently, real loud. I don’t know how they could bear it.

Why do you think they—?

Not my business. Not my job. I leave that to the experts.

Which ones?

Ones that specialize in crazy, lady. You feel me?

I do.

Uh huh. So—they were all dead when we got there, probably since ETF popped the door. I mean, they must’ve been, right? Because of the singing. Glad I didn’t have to hear any of that shit, I can tell you.

They were so close-packed, we had to take them out one by one, lay them down on the body-bags and zip them up for transport. FIS Scenes of Crime needed to get in, take their samples. But we pretty much knew how they’d gone out, after the first few. Cyanosed lips, petechial haemorrhaging, orbital distension, second-degree burns over all the exposed skin—but not heat burns. Cold burns. Only thing came to mind at the time was, maybe if you drowned them all in liquid nitrogen, all at once, like they do to flash-freeze fancy snacks....

But that obviously couldn’t have been feasible.

Yeah, no shit. I mean, later I did think of something else, but—

But?

. . . Hard vacuum. Decompression. Except even straight vacuum doesn’t freeze you right away, you know? No air in space, so no, what’s it called, convection. Whatever took the air out of that room took all the heat out of it as well, and out of everyone in it.

Still no fucking idea how.

MUSICOLOGIST KIKA RIOS

Tell me how you got involved.

I was brought in to analyze the Choir’s . . . work, I guess. Their style.

By whom?

By Ada—Ms. Sagao, their neighbour. We’ve been friends for a couple of years; we met in a community choir ourselves, ironically, a downtown women’s group. Stayed in touch over Zoom after rehearsals shut down. So one night I actually heard them over Ada’s speakers, and I said, “What the hell is that?” and Ada told me the story. Well, I was fascinated, on a professional level.

“You tell me,” Ada said. “Is that even music?”

“Oh, I think so,” I told her.

I asked if I could hear more. “Come over,” she said, “pretty much anytime, and just wait. You can’t miss it.”

So as soon as I’d got my latest booster and was clear to go into other homes again, I went over to Ada’s place, ran some recordings, then took them home and tried to figure it out.

How would you summarize your findings?

Well, I—oh, can I ask? Am I going to get in trouble, for the recordings? Privileged communications, or something?

At this point, that seems . . . unlikely.

Okay. Good. Well, I recorded like three hours’ worth over a couple of nights, then processed it through my editing suite. Have you listened to it yet?

No. I was hoping to.

I’ll send you some files. It’s . . . just insanely complicated. The base is done in the same atonal style you get in throat-singing, or death metal, where it’s all about speed and force and the harmonics are accidental at best, all percussion and dissonance. Syncopation, speed riffs, ululation like you get in tribal music. But then they’d layer in some operatic tremolo, real Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria stuff, combined with sounds like gongs and flutes and kanglings, and they’d punctuate it with roars and shrieks. Very . . . animalistic.

Were there lyrics?

Uh, yeah. In the beginning, most of what you heard were actually vocables, stuff that just sounds like language: you know, like “doo wah diddy, diddy dum, diddy doo.” But other stuff turned out to be real phrases in weird, archaic languages—I had to get a university colleague to identify some of it. He said he recognized Sanskrit, Aramaic, plus some other thing he thought might be actual Proto-Indo-European. And some he didn’t recognize at all.

Could he translate any of it?

It wasn’t clear enough, no matter how I cleaned it up. Or—that’s what he said. Thinking about it now, maybe . . . I mean, it was just this look I caught on his face, but I wonder if, maybe—he understood more than he said. Just enough to, uh . . . know he didn’t want to understand the rest?

I don’t know. That could just be me.

One thing you have to understand, though, is . . . I’m making the Choir’s work sound like just random chaotic noise? But it wasn’t. It was very carefully structured. Like, Bach-level complexity. Deeper, even. At full volume in that tiny space, it must have sounded like a cross between a battlefield and a voodoo ritual. Those decibel levels, that close-quarters vibration, it’s almost . . . well, it’s the kind of thing they’re trying to make directed-energy weapons out of. The kind of thing that induces religious ecstasies. Altered states. Hysteria.

If that woman, Zusann Groff, if she wrote and arranged that herself, then she was either the biggest musical genius I’ve ever run across, or she was completely psychotic. Or both.

“Both” sounds about right.

Yeah. I mean, given.

HAL KASHIGIAN, FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGIST

Tell me how you got involved.

I was contacted by Zusann Groff’s mother, Akela Halloway. She wanted . . . to understand, I suppose. How this could have happened.

“This.”

The Suicide Choir.

Hm. And how did it?

You want my report, basically? Well, it’s true that privilege doesn’t apply, not with Ms Halloway or Ms Groff—they were never my patients, nor did I ever sign any non-disclosure agreement. I always make it very clear to clients that in order to make an assessment after the fact, I have to be free to use whatever evidence I gather or conclusions I reach in my own work later on, and Ms Halloway had no problems with that. So . . .

(PAUSE)

. . . all right, then.

The Choir didn’t leave any sort of testament, no bible, no diaries. Zusann Groff was their host, which probably made her their leader, but that “Mouth” epithet, in the initial hot-line call? Much like the implication there were children in danger inside the unit, this appears to have been fiction. Groff didn’t re-name herself, or give herself a title; she was no Shoko Asahara waiting to happen, any more than the Choir was Aum Shinrikyo. The only people they ever seem to have threatened were themselves.

Though she trained as a lawyer, Groff had always been interested in music. She was what you’d call an auto-didact on the subject. In particular, she was fascinated by the idea that some vocal musical performers could produce not only emotional effects on their listeners but also physical effects on the world around them: opera singers hitting notes so high they shatter glass, for example, or the theory that certain vibrational frequencies can cause hallucinations—the “fear frequency,” they call it. How a standing wave of 19 hertz in the infrasound decibel range, right below the bottom end of human hearing, can make people feel like they’re either seeing ghosts, or about to see a ghost.

What do you mean?

Don’t worry, we’ll get there.

In or around November 2019, Zusann Groff first began advertising for participants in a “musical experiment.” She auditioned over a hundred people, picking twelve: Lila Dabney, William Rhoads, Jenny Birthwell, Myung-Jin Heo, Holt Werkheim, Sarai Goshen, Morgan Morrison, Alena Rostova, Tegan List, Geza Heliot, Michael Young, and Victoria Spurling.

Why those people? What did they have in common?

They could all sing? And they took Groff seriously, too, I can only assume— that would have been the real deal-sealer. They believed in what she was trying to do.

They wanted to see ghosts.

In the beginning, maybe. But later on . . .

Anyhow: the Choir members all met in a common space at Birthwell’s condo, up until Toronto citizens were asked to socially distance themselves as of March 2020, and meeting publicly became impossible. As the government’s plans to deal with the global COVID-19 pandemic became more and more restrictive, they were physically separated, yet drew emotionally closer. They rehearsed by Zoom, continuing to work on the music they’d been developing. Each became the subject of noise complaints from within their various buildings.

At some point, however, something happened. What, exactly? Again, hard to tell. We only know the results.

They started moving in with Groff.

Yes. They moved in, one by one; they committed to the next phase. And so, by degrees, they changed from a choir—a community—into a cult.

Is that what they were?

What else? A cult doesn’t start out like a massive pyramid scheme, you know, or a super-church—a cult can be a family, an office . . . thirteen friends in a condo who build themselves a windowless room, pack themselves in like sardines, sing until they pass out. All that’s required is that they believe something for which they have no immediate proof.

They didn’t leave anything behind, though, like you said. So—how can we know what they believed?

We can’t, not thinking normally. So the only way we can try and reproduce their train of thought is by thinking, um . . . abnormally, metaphorically, poetically. Magically.

Magical thinking?

Of course. Like any other religion. Doing the same thing over and over, absolutely believing you’ll get a different result from the one that logic, science, the basic rules of physics say you will—I mean, that’s faith, isn’t it? That’s the very definition.

Most religious conversions still need some kind of catalyzing experience, though.

Sure, absolutely. These were people whose image of the world had already been undermined by Groff, her ideas, the possibilities of impossibility. And then things start to change all around them, without warning—a pandemic, a plague, “alternative facts,” Fake News. Panic, depression, zealotry on all sides, and they realize they have no power to affect any of it, no power over anything but themselves. So they did what they thought they had to, and believed whatever made those choices sound . . . well, not logical, exactly, at least to anybody outside the magic circle. But inside . . .

(PAUSE)

Tell me that doesn’t sound at least a little familiar.

But it’s . . . ridiculous, isn’t it? To think that—

Think what? That horse de-wormer cures COVID? That pedophile Jewish vampires who secretly run the world keep stables full of kids they torture for their adrenochrome? That if you only stand in a closet and sing long enough, hard enough, a door will open in the ceiling—a door to somewhere else, anywhere else? Because given the current situation, “anywhere else” . . . no matter how unspecific . . . starts to look pretty fucking good.

All of that, yes.

Hey, don’t tell my uncle. Without QAnon to fall back on, he’d probably drink himself to death inside of a week.

How does . . . something like this start, though?

How does anything? Someone got an idea—Groff, probably; she heard a voice, or she had a dream, or whatever. And she told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on . . . it spread like a meme, because everyone she told was equally afraid of the same things she was afraid of. Fear makes for fertile soil.

Look, these were lonely people, just like the rest of us. They wanted to get together and do something special—like church, like bowling, like a mosh pit. Remember going to clubs, how stacked it used to get? Swaying on the dance floor, like a single huge, giant hug? Breathing in each other’s breath as you sang along to whatever was playing?

Yeah, I’m old, I get it; I lived through AIDS, kid. When everything— everyone—you love is suddenly infectious, you have to choose your options, take your chances.

Not every kind of worship is summed up by a monk praying in a cell; not every kind can be. People need to touch, to share, even if all they share is the same delusion, even if it’s something that could kill them. If staying alive means letting go of human contact entirely, then what’s the fucking point?

They’re dead now, though. That’s the point.

Is it? Maybe. Maybe.

(PAUSE)

Do you know there was a deadman’s catch on the inside of the hidden room’s door, rigged to open if whoever was closest to it went slack? Heo was a contractor; she probably designed it. So I don’t think they were looking to die, necessarily. Just . . .

Why didn’t the door come open when what happened—happened, then?

Maybe it would have, if Naji’s team hadn’t broken in.

Oh, and one more thing. Did you know the Choir all had retinal damage that pre-dated their death injuries? The same kind of damage they all showed afterwards, but less of it—little dots just over the pupil, tiny sections of intense degradation, seared there by extreme cold. If you look at them close up, very close up indeed, they look like little galaxies.

Which means . . . ?

No idea.

Listen, you’re an adult—I’m sure you’ve already noticed none of this “means” much at all, in context. A lot of times, life . . . and death . . . seems utterly inexplicable, to the point of cruelty. Like: “This was just a thing that happened, make of it what you will.” Whatever the Choir ended up with, is it any better than what we’re left with, or worse? A dying earth and a plague in progress, melting ice-sheets, rising water-levels? Dead fish, bleached-out coral, garbage islands?

So I’ll tell you what I told Ms Halloway, if a little more bluntly: I can tell what I think happened, but not why . . . never why. Because if any of us are looking for answers, one way or the other, I think we’re going to end up disappointed.

So you don’t know why they contacted the hot-line, then. Why NFT was brought in.

. . . My best guess? Witnesses.

Witnesses?

Even bible-less cults want to proselytize.

LIFELIKE

GARY MCMAHON

I’m pretty sure I didn’t object when my mother put herself in that place. Not strongly, anyway. It seemed nice and had a good reputation. There were, after all, worse places she could have chosen to spend her golden years.

I remember when she first told me about the vacant apartment in the sheltered housing block. She informed me via text message—which had, over the previous few years, become our prime mode of communication. I was always too busy to call her, and I think that made her reticent about speaking to me over the phone.

I hadn’t even realised she wanted to move out of the small council house at the end of the tidy little street where she’d lived for the past forty years, ten of them since my father had died of a sudden coronary.

She organised the move herself, calling in favours, relying on family who lived closer to her than I did. I sent her money to help pay for things, but she accepted it only reluctantly, and told me to stop worrying whenever I expressed any guilt at not being able to be there in person to lend a hand.

“Oh, shut up,” she’d say. “I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

And she was. Despite the bad hip, the arthritic hands, and the constant pain in her feet, she handled it all beautifully.

She’d been living there for two months before she heard about the birthday party. I’d visited her three or four times—driving three hours each way to spend a little time in her small, one-bedroom apartment while she fussed around, feeding me, making me endless cups of coffee, and bemoaning the fact that neither of my grown-up children had been to see her.

I remember her telling me about the plans for the party during my visit a couple of weeks before it was scheduled to happen. She seemed in good spirits; her conversation was light, and not as overbearing as usual.

“It’s Betty’s eighty-seventh. You know her—she’s the one who runs the bingo.”

I had a vague recollection of a tall, heavy-set woman who spent a lot of time holding court in the large, airy communal room along the hall.

“Nothing gets past her. She rules the roost. You know I only do the bingo because it’s a social outlet—everything that happens here goes through Bingo Betty. I wouldn’t get invited on the trips if I didn’t kow-tow to her and her cronies.”

I sipped my tepid coffee. “Well, it gives you something to do, another way of passing the time.”

She smiled. “Yes, I don’t mind it really. Bingo isn’t my thing exactly, but the conversation is nice.”

I glanced out of the window, at the grounds. They were beautiful in summer. Her ground-floor apartment had patio doors that led out into a huge communal garden at the rear of the building, with her little area marked off by a gravel strip. Tall trees hid the security fence; a big metal gate was situated a hundred metres in, but it remained permanently locked. It was private and peaceful; a haven, I guess. In that moment, I thought my mother had made a good choice coming here.

“So you’re going then? To Bingo Betty’s party?”

She nodded. “We’re all supposed to bring a little something to make a buffet. I’ll get some sausage rolls from that little bakers around the corner. They’re not getting anything else out of me. Maybe a birthday card, but that’s all.

I grinned. She was bloody-minded, my mother. She never let anyone take her for a fool. My grandmother had been like that too—in all honesty, she’d been a harridan. My mother was milder, mellower, but still had that inner steel.

“Do you need anything? Money, or anything?”

Leaning back in her armchair, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she looked tense and irritable. “No. I keep telling you, if I need anything I’ll ask. I’m not helpless, you know.”

“I know you’re not, Mother, but I know what you’re like. You won’t ask. You never do. I’m just checking that you’re okay and you don’t need any cash.”

She folded her arms and sucked in her cheeks, then looked deliberately away from me towards the silent television. There was a tennis match on; she hated tennis but right then she made a big show of watching it.

When I left her that day, pissed off because of the long drive ahead, I gave it no further thought. Later, stuck in traffic on the A1, I recalled how tense she had been during my entire visit. She wasn’t usually like that; I was used to her fussing and feeding me. But this time had been different. I couldn’t quite pinpoint what was making me uneasy, but I was worried about her in an abstract way.

I used the dashboard touchscreen to drop her a quick text, to check that she was okay.

The reply came almost immediately. She said she’d enjoyed my visit and did one of her little guilt-trip numbers by telling me we should “do it more often”. I stared at the stationary traffic through the windscreen. Even this late in the day, the sky was clear; the sun was still hot. I wished it would rain, to clear the air. It hadn’t rained in weeks.

The next time I saw my mother, she told me about the party.

Things got off to a bad start when Bingo Betty refused to leave the communal room, which meant the others couldn’t set up the surprise buffet without her catching on. My mother said she thought Betty knew they were planning something, and she was hanging around simply to cause a fuss.

Eventually, Betty went back to her room to get ready—she thought they were having a special bingo game in her honour and wanted to look her best. She was a large woman who always wore garish clothing. I wondered what kind of hideous smock or muumuu she had stuffed in her wardrobe for special occasions.

While she was gone, the other women prepared the big table with the buffet. Along with my mother’s sausage rolls, they’d provided sandwiches, crisps, and so much cake that at first, I thought my mother was using creative storytelling to add colour to her tale.

Then I remembered those women and their all-consuming love of cakes. They’d use any excuse to have cake: a birth, a death, a wedding; even watching a favourite show on TV was occasion enough. They were cake fiends.

“By the time we were done,” my mother said, “you couldn’t see an inch of table for all the food, and most of it was sodding cake!”

I’m sure Betty knew what was going on. From what little I knew of her, she seemed like that kind of person: the type who would string people along for her own amusement, or because she was on some personal power trip.

She took her time, did Betty. Preening and pampering and probably enjoying that she was keeping her friends on tenterhooks. When she finally walked back through into the communal room, she did a good job of faking surprise. The other women were all over her, grabbing her arm, stroking her back, and filling the air with kind words and birthday greetings.

The evening went well. Betty was nicer than she had ever been, showing gratitude and genuine delight when she read her cards out loud and opened her small presents. My mother had never seen the woman react in such a genuine manner; it was so different from her usual demeanour.

When the entertainment arrived, everyone was in high spirits.

“Good evening, ladies,” said the short, slim man in the dinner suit, placing his suitcase on the floor at his feet. “I hope you don’t mind, but I let myself in. Let me introduce myself: I am Samuel King, the puppeteer.”

There was more fussing from the women. They ushered Betty to her favourite sofa and someone showed Samuel King where he could get ready for his act. Nobody asked any questions. Each of them assumed someone else had booked the puppeteer. None of them thought to check that he was legitimate.

After twenty minutes or so, with the women all settled in their chairs, Samuel King re-entered the room. He was still wearing his dinner suit, but his dark hair was slicked back. Before him, he pushed a small platform on wheels, draped with a black cloth.

He positioned the prop in front of the huge windows that looked out onto the main gardens. Somebody had drawn the curtains to create a dark backdrop. The lights were lowered.

“Good evening. I am Samuel King, renowned puppeteer, and I am here with my little friends to perform for you.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, encompassing the apparatus, and deftly drew back the sheet. Beneath the sheet was a replica of a theatre stage, complete with curtains. King moved behind it, his hands vanishing behind the curtains. He ducked down low and covered himself with the black sheet.

The curtains opened.

On the stage was a puppet that looked very much like Bingo Betty. It even wore the same clothes as her.

The women gave a collective gasp.

“I’m the birthday girl,” said a high-pitched voice. The puppet jerked to life and cavorted across the stage, dancing. It wasn’t a pretty movement. My mother said it reminded her of some atrocity footage she’d once seen on a documentary about the Vietnam war. A soldier caught in machine-gun fire; his body jittering in an agitated death-dance before it fell.

Jittering. That was the word she used. She said the puppet jittered across the stage.

The puppet was disturbing. It had an oversized head and tiny hands and feet. Its hair was straggly, resembling a clump of cobwebs glued to the skull. The clothes were a little bit ragged and stained, as if they hadn’t been washed for a long time.

As it danced, the puppeteer used that horrible high, whiny voice to recite a song:

“I’m the birthday girl

Watch me dance

My head is in a whirl

You don’t stand a chance.”

He repeated the same verse, over and over, until, my mother said, it began to sound psychotic. Nobody was smiling now; the women were silent, but they couldn’t avert their eyes from the stage.

“It was like watching something you know is horrible, but you can’t stop yourself,” my mother said. “Like those people who slow down at car crashes, hoping to see a dead body.”

The song—and the awful jittery dance—went on for what felt like far too long. Eventually the puppet stopped moving. After another verse of the song, the voice stopped too. The puppet stood facing them, its painted eyes watching from its battered wooden head.

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

Samuel King came out from under the black sheet, stepping to the side, folding his hands in front of him, and taking a bow.

On the stage, the puppet was still standing, despite the absence of the puppeteer. Then, my mother said, it took five or six side-steps across the stage, moving of its own volition. It curtseyed, lifting the hem of its oversized dress, and then it slumped to the floor with a sound like scattered sticks.

Samuel King didn’t wait for applause. He pushed his portable stage out of the room and shut the door.

“What the hell was that?” Bingo Betty got to her feet and stormed to the windows, turning to face the other women. “Who brought him in here? I’ve never been so insulted.” Her voice was calm, but her face was a picture of rage. My mother was terrified. She’d never seen such anger contained beneath the surface.

The women looked at each other, their faces blank.

“Who?” Betty’s voice was louder this time; the rage was breaking out.

My mother stood and looked at the women. “Come on girls, who hired the . . . the entertainment?”

Heads shook; hands were raised, palms up; shoulders slumped.

Betty opened her mouth as if to say something else, then, deciding against it, she stormed out of the room. Moments later, a door slammed.

“Mr. King . . .” My mother rushed over to the door through which the puppeteer had gone. When she opened it, there was no sign of him or his equipment in the small room beyond.

“He’s gone.”

The other women started to talk, all at once. Nobody, it seemed, had organised the entertainment. Samuel King had simply turned up unannounced.

“I think,” said my mother, “that we should call the police.”

One of the women started to cry.

My mother left the room and went to the administrator’s office. The office was empty because the administrator only worked day shifts. My mother went inside, lifted the phone, and called the authorities.

After the police had left, the women returned to their apartments. Bingo Betty had not come out of her room during the police visit. She’d let the officers inside to ask her some questions about the uninvited visitor but had not shown her face in any communal area since the unpleasant incident with the mysterious puppeteer.

My mother found it difficult to sleep that night. She kept thinking there was someone standing outside her apartment door. She’d get out of bed and look through the small security peep-hole in the door, but the hallway outside was always empty. She told me she must have done the same thing four or five times that night, but the anxiety never left her. When, finally, she did sleep, it was fitful, and something woke her in the early hours.

Lying there in her bed, watching the bedroom window and trying not to be afraid of the way the trees outside cast weird shadows against the glass, she thought that she could hear the puppet’s song, but distantly, as if someone far away were singing.

“I’m the birthday girl

Watch me dance

My head is in a whirl

You don’t stand a chance.”

She wondered about that final line and what it might mean. Who didn’t stand a chance, and against what? Or whom? It was vaguely threatening. There was no explicit threat, but it was implied.

You don’t stand a chance.

She got up and looked again through the peep-hole. The hallway was dark and empty, although some ambient light came through the glass of the fire escape door to the right of her apartment. Shadows skittered across the walls and floor. A movement caught her eye: something small and stiff moving awkwardly across the hall. Something jittery.

Whatever it was, she didn’t see it again, even though she stood there, watching for what felt like an hour. Eventually she gave up because her hip was hurting. She shuffled through into her tiny living room and switched on the television, surfing the channels for something bland and reassuring to watch.

The next day was Saturday, so my mother had the whole place pretty much to herself. Most of the other residents—those who weren’t confined to their apartments because of injury or infirmity—were out with relatives, visiting their kids and their grandchildren. This was another reason for me to feel guilty about living so far away: it just wasn’t possible for me to see her every weekend.

The administrator’s office was locked up. There was no one in the communal living room. My mother spent the day watching television and reading a book. The weather was once again nice enough for her to open the patio doors and sit outside, enjoying the fresh air.

She didn’t see any of the bingo crowd, not even later in the day. That evening she felt tired, so she went to bed early, listening to a drama on the radio. Outside her apartment, footsteps walked, doors opened and closed, voices conversed. There was nothing unusual about any of this, but for some reason my mother felt ill at ease. She couldn’t shake the image of that small jittering shadow the night before, or the memory of Samuel King and his obscene puppet show.

It wasn’t late when she heard the knock on her door. Slowly, she got up, put on her dressing gown, and made her way through the apartment to the door. When she looked through the peephole, there was nobody there.

She didn’t want to open the door but neither did she want to stay there, afraid. Summoning all her courage, she opened the door. The hallway was empty. She looked right, at the fire escape. The trees outside moved languidly in a gentle breeze; shadows played across the ground.

She stepped out into the hallway and walked the other way, towards the communal living room. The evening lights were on; low, like night lights. Her slippers whispered on the carpet. The doors to the other apartments along the way were all shut tight.

My mother refused to turn back. Even though she was afraid, she didn’t want that fear to dictate her actions. Her natural stubbornness kept her moving.

The doors to the communal room were open. She stepped inside. There was someone sitting in Bingo Betty’s favourite seat; a bulky figure reclined against the back of the sofa, looking out at the garden through the exposed windows.

“Betty . . . are you okay?”

The figure didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

My mother walked slowly towards the sofa, expecting at any moment that Bingo Betty would jolt awake, perhaps from a dream. As she came abreast of the sofa, she realised that the figure was covered in a black sheet. Just like the one Samuel King had used to hide himself from his audience during his show.

“Betty . . .”

It wasn’t Betty. She knew this—the grim certainly gripped her like a fist, but still she continued walking towards the figure.

When she was level with the sofa, she paused for a moment, and then went around it, so that she was standing in front of the figure. With the windows at her back, she felt as if she was being watched. No matter how much she wanted to turn around, she didn’t. The last thing she wanted was to know if there was someone standing outside, dressed in a dinner suit with a black case resting on the ground at his feet.

Slowly, she reached out and tugged at the edge of the sheet.

The figure did not move.

“Betty . . .”

She tugged the sheet, but it got stuck, so she tugged it again, dislodging it. The sheet slipped from the figure.

The first thing my mother noticed was a hand resting in the figure’s lap. The hand wasn’t human. It was not made of flesh. It was wooden.

The sheet slipped to the floor; my mother still held the edge of it between her fingers.

Sitting on the sofa, with its stiff arms resting across the front of the torso, hands on knees, was a life-sized replica of Bingo Betty. It was wearing the same oversized dress she’d had on during the party. Its head lay cocked at an angle, like an inquisitive dog, and the mouth gaped open, toothless and as black as tar.

It was the eyes that finally caused her to drop the sheet, back slowly away, and start to scream.

She tried to look away, but she couldn’t. They held her, those eyes; they held her just as firmly as a pair of hands wrapped around her throat.

The eyes were not made of coloured glass or plastic. They were real.

As I sit here in her small apartment, having cleared away her meagre belongings, I feel guilt weighing down so heavily upon me that it’s difficult to breathe. I watch the sunlight move across the carpet, as if attempting a slow escape. The pipes in the walls grumble softly. There are no sounds on the other side of the door. I should have visited her more often; I should have called her every day. I should have loved her more.

In the weeks after she found that hideous facsimile of Bingo Betty on the sofa, her health went into a rapid decline. She became obsessed with what might have happened to the real Betty—she wasn’t in her room when they looked, and to this day, she has never been found.

In the lonely nights leading up to her death, my mother claimed to hear tiny footsteps running up and down the hallway outside her apartment. The faint echo of that song from the party, sung in a childlike voice. She said that whatever was visiting became louder—bolder—each night.

“I’m the birthday girl

Watch me dance

My head is in a whirl

You don’t stand a chance.”

I’m not sure if that’s what caused the stroke, or if the aural hallucinations were merely a symptom of it.

Later this week, we will cremate her body and honour her memory with a small church service. She was never a particularly religious woman, but she did enjoy the sense of community local churches provide, and she’d left written instructions that we should organise something to bring her friends together.

It’s the least we can do for her, my beloved mother.

Her body is lying in state in the chapel of rest. I cannot bring myself to go and look at her. And I can’t help imagining what might be lying in her coffin, its thin wooden face turned upwards, with my mother’s eyes resting, unblinking, inside carved sockets.

THE ZOO

GEMMA AMOR

Iknew I was in for a rough ride long before I saw how many people were camped outside the London City Zoo’s main gates, which were cordoned off by the time I pulled up in my brand new Mercedes-AMG GT. I knew it because I felt a sense of dread building in my bones. Hard to describe, but that’s the best I can do. My bones, on fire. Not in the same way that old women say their bones ache before it rains. More like my bones don’t feel pain, but they are pain. I am made of it, the closer to the echo of a bad thing I get. Like my skin is stretched across a scaffold of suffering.

I felt it from several miles away, this particular bone-bad, so I knew I was letting myself in for something truly terrible this time. I knew, and I went anyway. I chase the money, see. What else is there worth chasing? Only charlatans claiming to be Psychic chase glory. The best thing we can hope for is that someone takes us seriously, that those we choose to open up to can discern between the genuine ones, like me, and the crackpot scumbags who only pretend to have powers so they can soak up adulation and profit from the pain and suffering of others. The false ones are those who lap up the limelight, beg for attention however they can. Insert themselves into missing person’s cases and the like, uninvited.

I don’t operate like that. I’m a consultant. Legitimate. Payrolled. I stay away until I’m invited. Bit like a vampire, I guess. I can’t come into your house of pain until you specifically ask me to. Until you invite me across the threshold. Even then, it’s up to me as to whether or not I accept. A man at this stage in his career can, and should, pick and choose his clients carefully.

That being said, I never turned down the Metropolitan Police when they came calling. Money, see. They had it, despite what they told the world at large. Not many could afford my rates, which were calculated to accommodate not only my unique skillset, but my discretion and silence, which was more valuable than my abilities to some.

In the belly of my car, a handcrafted 4.0 litre V8 biturbo engine strained at the leash, making a noisy entrance, which was exactly the point: I’d paid for the noise. I paid for all the extras, too. Customised interior painted and stitched in red and black, the most aggressive colours I could think of, LED lighting, accessories coming out of every goddamn orifice. Look at me, this car said. I’ve fucking made it. I fucked a lot of women in that car, they seemed to like the leather interiors, the noise of the engine. Those seats had been deep-cleaned more times than I cared to admit, even though I’d only had the car a few weeks.

I parked a good distance away from the furore, choosing a quiet spot on the street with no passing traffic. All those people milling about meant scratches on my paintwork, and I couldn’t be having that. I’d worked hard for this sexy sleek polished beast, a vehicle that finally fit the sort of person I was trying to be, outwardly at any rate. None of those idiots craning their necks trying to see into the crime scene would have any understanding of how hard, exactly, I worked for it. How much I suffered. They didn’t need to know, either. I didn’t need anyone’s approval. I just needed my fat paycheck after the job was done. That was approval enough.

I buffed a smudge off the bonnet of the Merc as I passed, feeling genuine pride. People who grow up with money don’t understand this sort of pride, the sort that comes with finally being able to afford something you’ve always been told was out of reach. Not for people like you, wealth is a privilege, they teach you, from the youngest of ages. Well, fuck that. Wealth is a man’s right. He just has to reach for it, is all.

There must have been a hundred onlookers crowding around the taped off area in front of the Zoo as I approached. I almost turned around, then. People made me itchy in large numbers, but that wasn’t the reason. The undercurrent of something foul and foetid was the reason. It was overwhelming. My teeth vibrated. My bones sang furiously the closer I got.

I pushed on through anyway, throwing dirty looks around like confetti. Go home, you fucking losers, my face said, but I kept my mouth shut. I never understood rubbernecking. When something bad happens, my instinct is to run the other way, avoid seeing what I don’t have to. The bone-bad means I can sense chaos before I see it, and so I choose not to. See it. I can’t fathom why people do seek out violence deliberately, why onlookers slow down when they pass a car accident. Why would you want to see that? Wreckage, pain, blood? I suppose it’s the same ancient gene that drew our ancestors to public executions or the Roman Colosseum. The whole world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players, even in death. I hate that.

I used my elbows to get to the front of the crush, drew some sharp breaths which quickly died when the recipients saw the badge I brandished like a priest wielding a crucifix at an exorcism. It didn’t match my suit, but I could live with that. For now. Maybe at some point I’d get a customised leather wallet. Embossed with my initials, perhaps. Chrome trim. Small compensation for having to put up with the shit I do.

This close, the Zoo gave off what I liked to think of as a “funky brain smell,” which made no sense to anyone but me, but that was okay. I was used to nobody ever understanding what went on in my head. It was lonely, but simpler than trying to explain what being a Psychic actually meant.

I stepped over a fresh puddle of vomit near the ticket office, squeezed through the turnstile, and ducked beneath another line of fluttering tape as the reporters and bystanders behind me jostled each other for a better view. How did they always know? I wondered. It was eight-thirty in the morning. I never ceased to be surprised at how fast the British press got hold of things. At how quickly they could mobilise in the hope of nabbing a scoop.

Well, there wouldn’t be one: this was an old-fashioned inner city zoo, built by the Victorians, with high surrounding grey stone walls and a chunky wrought-iron entrance gate that, once closed, completely sealed the compound off from the outside world.

I was thankful for this, later.

Fleur Orwell met me inside. Usually a nice normal colour, she was white as a sheet. My heart sank further when I saw this, which was saying something, because it was already down by my screaming knees.

“Alistair,” she said, in a hoarse voice.

“Fleur. What . . .” I trailed off. Partly because of the pain, partly because I realised I couldn’t hear, or sense, any animals. Not a single one.

But wasn’t this a Zoo?

I swallowed, my throat dry.

“What have we got?” My voice sounded a good deal less competent than I would have liked. “Your call was pretty cryptic . . .”

God, my bones. My poor, poor bones. The pain got worse by the second. It was like a crushing fist. I steadied myself against a wall.

Fleur looked at me with pity in her eyes. It wasn’t the usual pity she held for the freak who saw things with his mind that no normal person should be able to see. Rather, it was a type of pity reserved for someone who had not yet seen what she was desperate to unsee.

Fuck, I thought. It had to happen sooner or later. The few homicides I’d been brought onto had been clean and easy, as far as murder went. One strangulation, one poisoning, one smothering with a pillow. Nothing too . . . messy, not yet. Painful to be around, but not a bit like this.

Fleur echoed my thoughts.

“I’ve . . . I’ve never seen anything like this in my life before,” she admitted, throat working strenuously. I wondered if hers had been the vomit outside. Orwell was of strong stomach usually, a cool, collected detective who liked to take her time with things. It took a lot to ruffle her feathers.

I fervently wished that I hadn’t eaten such a large breakfast.

“Are you wearing Armani again?” Fleur blinked at me. “At a time like this?”

I refused to feel sheepish.

She shook her head. “You’re going to regret it,” she said, mournfully.

“Show me.”

“We’ll start with the bird enclosure.”

“Alright,” I said, but it wasn’t.

Fleur shivered as she led me away from the main gates, around the ticket office and towards a large, netted and fenced-off compound that traditionally housed flamingos. Access to it was via a system of metal and wire swing-gates. The inner gate wouldn’t release and open until the magnetised latch of the outer one was closed, to prevent the birds from escaping, I assumed.

Only once I was through the gates, there were no birds anyway.

Not of the avian type, I mean.

Instead, I found a half-dried up concrete-bottomed lake coated with a brownish meniscus of algae. Around it, some tired landscaping: boulders that didn’t come from anywhere geographically nearby, scrubby grasses, bulrushes in the scummy water. Pink feathers scattered everywhere like raggedy little blossoms. Some natural, some not. No flamingos though, not in the lake.

Just two human bodies, dead in the centre. Positioned like a fucking water feature at a sculpture park.

Their blood still dripped into the nasty water below.

“Jesus,” I said, covering my mouth with my hand. A sheet of white hot panic slid over me. My bones were melting, so badly I could barely walk straight. My knees semi-buckled. Fleur grabbed me just in time to stop my legs folding completely.

“What?” she said, beyond the obvious. “What do you see?”

I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t speak.

I just looked with wide, unbelieving eyes.

The bodies were hoisted up about four feet into the air upon tall, crudely sharpened stakes inserted via the rectum, exiting through the victim’s backs, just between the shoulder blades. Like meat roughly thrust upon kebab sticks. The stakes were painted dark pink, mimicking the pink of a flamingo’s leg, and bent backwards awkwardly in the middle at a realistically depicted raised ankle joint. To reinforce the illusion, one of each of the victim’s legs was folded sharply and taped, ankle to buttock, to imitate the stance of a flamingo standing on one leg, the other tucked safely beneath. Broad membranous appendages had been attached to the victim’s feet, flappy webbed abominations fashioned from what later turned out to be surplus human skin (from where, we never found out) and sticks. Painted pink, of course.

Both corpses—a man and woman in their twenties, perhaps, hard to tell, all things considered—were smothered in a thick, pasty glue that had dried hard and was decorated with thousands of carefully placed synthetic neon pink feathers. Decorative, frivolous. They riffled as a light breeze swirled around the enclosure, disturbing the long, curved beaks with bulbous tips that were bolted to the victim’s heads. Fashioned from wood, meticulously painted and fully articulated, they flapped open, revealing two traumatised, slack-jawed faces beneath.

I wobbled again, but kept my balance. The longer I looked, the more I wished I didn’t see, both inside and outside of my mind.

How long had this taken? I thought, blurrily. I felt a seeping sense of ritual and craftsmanship, the same feeling I associated with someone doing a jigsaw puzzle with laborious dedication, or embroidering cross-stitch or painting a very detailed picture. Tongue poked out slightly in concentration. I sensed intense focus and pride. Not the pride I felt when I looked at my new car. Instead, a warped pride for a thing well-made, for a thing created to exacting standards, not for something earned, but for something the creator hoped other people would appreciate.

An image swam to me: a childish, wounded shadow, seeking approval.

Look at the Flamingo People, Mummy, a voice said, but I knew there was no Mummy. Not for the abomination behind this scene. That was part of the root of it. Whoever we were looking for, had been . . .

Had been . . .

Abandoned?

I couldn’t focus. A barrage of other people’s thoughts and experiences and memories assaulted me.

“They were alive when she did it,” I gasped, unable to help myself any longer. Tears ran down my face. I was awash with torment. My bones told me a story of splintering vertebrae, of ruptured skin, of inhuman strength, of immense, intense suffering and fear and trauma and . . .

I couldn’t help myself. I threw up.

They had been alive when she’d speared them right through the middle.

One had watched the other die, in brutal, indescribable agony.

Fleur neatly sidestepped the steaming puddle I made near her feet (poached eggs on toast with avocado and toasted pumpkin seeds) and retched again herself as she caught a whiff. She’d already emptied herself earlier, so she managed to get control more quickly than I did.

“Alive?” she said, breathing heavily.

I saw flamingoes flying free across the rooftops of a nearby housing estate. The perpetrator had set them free, presumably. Along with all the other creatures.

How?

How?

“We need a profile,” Fleur said then, as I knew she would.

I shook my head.

“Not yet,” I mumbled. “I can’t.”

The gate behind me swung open. A team of white-suited forensics filed past, carefully manoeuvring themselves around the lake. They had been waiting for me, I realised. They knew I liked to be one of the first on the scene. It reduced the risk of mental contamination. Too many chefs spoil the broth, and all that. Too many threads of disgust and shock and revulsion to untangle make things messy. Put me on the scene before all of that, like a dog getting a scent when it’s fresh.

Although the all-pervading stink of the Zoo would take years for me to shake off, I suspected. It wouldn’t have mattered had I been first on the scene or last, not this time. The memories of what happened here were tattooed into my soul from the second I set foot in the place.

Fleur gently steered me out of the enclosure. I appreciated her patience. She needed what she needed from me, but I could only give her that once I touched one of the bodies, which I couldn’t bring myself to do. Not yet. I couldn’t physically withstand the pain of contact. I was on the verge of fainting as it was.

I felt a moment’s relief as I left the Flamingo People behind, until I realised the detective was ushering me towards another destination.

“There’s more?” I whispered, knowing the answer already.

“Oh, so much more,” she said, sadly.

It all blurred, after a while. A nightmare there was no escape from. Even when I left, I knew I’d have to see the Zoo People every time I closed my eyes.

Like the poor small boy in the monkey enclosure. After that, I never ate a banana or even looked at one again, which was a shame, because I’d always loved bananas. Great energy foods, especially for someone like me, who burns calories three times as fast as a normal person.

Or the skinny lad in the giant tortoise pen, who lay completely crushed beneath the weight of a large boulder crudely painted like a shell and dropped from what looked like a huge height square onto his back. His arms and legs and face stuck out around the edges, smeared with thick mud, now dried and caked to look like the old, wrinkled skin of the reptile he was meant to represent. Blood and entrails seeped into the soil around his splayed form. I could only assume that beneath the boulder, he was pancaked, split wide open like a stepped-on gooseberry. The overall effect was convincing. He looked like a tortoise, nobody could argue otherwise.

In the butterfly pen, expertly flayed skin caught the light of an increasingly warm day in place of gossamer wings.

And over in the sloth enclosure, an elderly gentleman’s arms and legs had been dislocated at every possible joint so they hung long and loose, and then bound at the ankles and wrists around the branch of a tree, where he hung upside down like a pig carcass. Two long, curved and sharpened bones that looked like knives had been jammed into the backs of the man’s hands to mimic sloth claws, three in each foot. He was zipped into a furry one-piece with a hood drawn tight around his face to complete the absurd aesthetic.

In the deer park, a whole family had been arranged in various cervoid poses, held in place with wooden frames and synthetic fur and metal staples liberally applied. All of them were crowned with bloody antlers, daggered into their skulls with a force that was staggeringly brutal.

There was more, but I stopped seeing it after a while. The brain can only deal with so much. The last thing to break through the milky opaqueness of my gathering pain-fog was the snake pit. God, the snake pit. A middle-aged woman, rolled out like a soft clay log and stuffed into a thin membrane, sausage meat in sausage skin. Her mouth stretched wide, and her eyes bulged above the matted fur of a dead rat jammed halfway down her throat. Only the rodent’s tail dangled out over the top of her swollen, blue tongue. That tongue had been snipped in the middle, with shears or scissors, to make a fork, just like a snake tongue. Something about this last detail got to me so deeply I forgot my name for a little while.

Thankfully, I had Fleur to remind me.

“Alistair,” she said, not unkindly. “I know this is a lot. I can’t imagine what kind of pain you’re in right now. But . . . we need a profile. Profiles? We need . . .” She scrubbed her hands through her hair. “We fucking need something.”

“I can’t,” I said, feeling woozy. “I just . . .”

I staggered out of the snake pit, which was heated to tropical temperatures, and sat down abruptly on the floor outside as the cooler air hit me. I put my head between my knees. I felt like a snake myself. My bones had disintegrated. I was putty, I was molten. I would never know comfort ever again.

“Who are all these people?” I asked.

“We don’t know. We can’t even begin to ID until we have them . . . back in a normal state,” Fleur replied. De-costumed, she meant.

“How is this even possible?” Sounds and smells and other sensations came at me from all directions, a charging herd of sensory bison.

Fleur handed me a bottle of water.

“It shouldn’t be possible,” she replied, in a flat, dull voice. “But then, neither should the things you’re able to do be possible. I guess our definition of possibility needs a rethink.”

I raised my head a little but continued to stare at my shoes. Flecks of drying vomit marred the burnished leather. I itched to rub them away but lacked the energy to do so. Sick had also splattered onto the neat creases of my Armani pants, just like Orwell had known it would. I distantly thought about adding the dry cleaning bill to my final invoice.

“It would take a small army of people to do this many awful things to this many victims,” Fleur continued, softly. Her priorities were in the right place, but then, she didn’t have to deal with the reverb of the dead and dying in her mind, did she?

“But we’ve checked the security footage from all the cameras. There are a lot. Of cameras, I mean. State of the art system, installed last year. No dead zones in the Zoo. Every inch covered. In high definition. I guess they take animal security seriously.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Not a thing out of place. No activity beyond the animals, who were simply there one minute, and then . . .”

“Not,” I finished, wearily.

My nose started to bleed. I didn’t even try to stem the flow. I let it drain down me, a hot, vile trickle. I knew what it meant. It meant I was reaching tolerance.

There was only so much longer I’d be able to stay before suffering a brain haemorrhage.

“Nobody came or went that we could see during the night,” Fleur continued, handing me a fresh, folded napkin. It was like she’d come prepared with an Alistair Repair Kit. “Nobody climbed over a wall or broke in through the front gates or dropped in from the fucking sky like a parachuter. Nobody. It’s . . .”

“Impossible,” I said, knowing that nothing was impossible, not really.

“The logistics of getting into the zoo aside . . . All of this . . . it had to have been done off site,” Fleur continued, thinking aloud. “And the bodies transported here. The . . . costumes . . .” She struggled for the correct word. “The stuff used to turn the victims into animals . . . the fake feathers, for example. The glue. It had to have been done elsewhere.”

“Forensics?” I was trying to find any excuse I could to avoid touching the bodies, but was running out of time and reasons.

“Forensics will comb every single inch of this place, but what are they going to find? Dozens of sets of fingerprints, hundreds of footprints, countless discarded hairs and fingernails and tissues and blobs of chewing gum and scraps of litter and . . . it’s a Zoo, for fuck’s sake. People in and out by the hundreds. Post mortems on the bodies will give us more, but that takes time and . . . the scale of this, Alistair. The scale. It’s deranged. It could happen again.”

The implication: whether or not it happened again was now my responsibility.

“The strength it must have taken . . . the sheer force applied, the scope of violence . . . I am completely fucked. Completely. I may as well resign right now, this morning. We’ll never solve this without you. There is nothing to solve. Nobody came, nobody went. It’s like someone . . . clicked their fingers and manifested a . . . a . . .”

“A human zoo,” I replied, and threw up again.

I felt better after the second time. Like vomiting relieved a little pressure, somehow. Or maybe the physical sensation blotted out the pain of my bones momentarily. Either way, it gave me ten minutes of breathing space. I stuffed the napkin into both nostrils and hoped it would be sufficient.

“What do you need from me?” I said, knowing full well.

“A profile. There must be at least two, if not more people involved.

Terrorism? Animal rights?”

I gave the detective a look over the blood-soaked material. “I think animal rights activists have limits, Fleur. Besides, that doesn’t feel right. The sense I get is not of anger. No rage. No . . . lessons to teach. No organised sense of justice.”

“What does feel right?”

I put my head back, opened my mouth, put my tongue out to taste the air. “Child’s play,” I murmured.

“What?”

“It feels like a kid, playing. You know little kids? How rough they can be? It . . . it feels like that. There’s a lack of awareness of any wrongdoing. Enthusiasm. Like . . . it’s a game.”

“A game?” Two indignant spots of colour bloomed on Orwell’s cheeks.

“A game of dolls or dress up, you know? ‘Let’s play Zoo.’”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. How could a kid be responsible for this?”

I shrugged. “You asked. I’m just telling you what I feel. And the animals . . . the real ones. All missing, right?”

“So far. Which is also impossible, in and of itself. You’d think we’d be overrun with reports of lions stalking the aisles of the supermarket, lemurs hanging off of lampposts. But there’s been nothing, so far.”

“The point is, why. Not where they are now. Why they are missing? Set free, presumably.”

“Why should that matter?”

“Because it does. It fits. An impression of impulsiveness. But also a backwards sort of . . . compassion.”

Fleur was silent for a long time, trying and failing to make sense of this. Then she placed her hands on her hips.

“Well,” she said, firmly. “Can’t put it off anymore. Which one are you going to touch?”

I thought about it. I knew I couldn’t go back in the snake pit, not ever again.

I opted for the deer family, for the father of the group, arranged like a stag rampant, thinking only of the physical injuries, which, by comparison to the other Zoo People, were not as heinous. I felt it would be the easiest to bear because of this.

I realised too late that only thinking about the physical pain, and not the mental, was idiotic.

For he had not died alone, had he? He had died with his children in front of him, his wife next to him. I hadn’t considered that until it was far, far too late.

I touched him, and the world ceased to exist.

All that remained were things I lacked the capability and language to fully articulate.

I told Orwell, after I woke up in the hospital, that the sensations had been so strong I’d not been able to work up a profile. This was a lie, but I was an exceptional liar, and she bought it. Dejected, she stayed with me until I checked out anyway. The doctors, mystified, told me my symptoms resembled those of a man who had suffered a massive stroke. By the time they fed me this information, my vitals were back to normal and there was nothing demonstrably wrong. Rather than stick around and suffer scrutiny, I discharged myself between check-up rounds.

Fleur drove me home, told me not to fret about my new car, she’d had another officer take it back already. That was the thing about Orwell: she cared. Colleagues, victims. It made her a good detective, because it made her tenacious.

I felt bad about lying to her, because I knew what it would do to her career. But some things, even for me, are bigger than prospects.

Once the door to my penthouse was firmly closed on Detective Orwell, I scrambled to get down on paper what I’d seen in the few incandescent moments before I’d fainted in the deer enclosure. It was tough, because I’d blacked out almost immediately after touching the Stag Man, but I gave it my best. I drew on a large sheet of baking paper. That was all I could find in a hurry. What I’d seen had not been easy to visualise, but I did my best. I drew a small child, curled up in the corner of a dark, cluttered room. I drew an old house, with a lamp post outside. I drew things I didn’t fully understand: shapes and lines and patterns. I drew sticks and stones and bones. I drew dolls and blood and entrails like sausage links. I drew until my fingers were numb, then I stopped.

I took a shower, binned my blood and vomit-stained suit and shoes. Put on something softer, less formal, something that wouldn’t intimidate a small kid.

I ran the sketches I’d made through a reverse image search engine. I had to keep adding details and re-scanning, dredging up more features from my recollections slowly, like cognitive fishing. Bricks, a deep red in colour, except around the window casements, which were a light cream. Trees lining the street: mottled bark, distinctive leaves. A wrought iron fence surrounding the property, with unusual detailing welded at intervals. A porchlight with a fleur-de-lis depicted in cracked stained glass. Terracotta mouldings on the columns holding up the porch. An old tarnished brass letter box, shaped like a gaping lion’s mouth. A faded set of painted daises on a peeling wooden door. I used the image engine, street view and a variety of other online searches until eventually I got a hit. A red-brick Edwardian mansion block near Marylebone.

I took the car. Finally, its horsepower had some function.

I had to get to the Kid before she did it again.

The Daisy Chain Children’s Care Home was housed in a decaying mansion, the outlier in an otherwise affluent district I knew well. An eyesore to many, but for the kids inside, a home, of sorts.

I flashed my police badge, fabricating a complaint phoned in by a concerned member of the public. Scared of repercussions—scared just in general—the manager of the home ushered me upstairs to the top level, the level just before the attic. It was stuffy and quiet, and smelled damp.

“She’s up here alone?” I asked, knowing the answer.

The Care Home manager looked at me with haunted eyes. I could see shadows beneath them. She was terrified of the Kid, I realised. With reason.

“She isn’t like other children,” the woman whispered.

“She was abandoned?”

“Left at the Zoo by her mother when she was two years old. She was too young to have any memory of it . . . but . . .”

“These things last,” I said, knowing exactly how it felt. Years of rejection because of what I could do. Because I’d been different. Backs, turned. Conversations, cut short. Relationships severed. It was why I liked money as much as I did. Money never let me down. Money never rejected me.

“She’s in there.” We’d reached a small, dingy door at the end of a hot, narrow corridor. It was locked. She gave me a key. Our hands touched, and a bolt of fear transferred: cold, greasy. The woman was a coward.

“You can stay out here,” I replied, knowing what needed to be done, not wanting any interference. Not that I thought she’d stop me.

And I fully intended to go through with it, before I saw the child.

I fully intended to kill her. Especially when I saw the things she’d made, in that dark, cluttered room she had all to herself. I saw dolls, fashioned from sticks and clay and fabric and skin and fur. I saw bones, I saw Zoo People in miniature. I saw scissors and glue and feathers, stones, scraps of material and plastic and leather, I saw the City Zoo’s gates, made from wire and plasticine, I saw the wall, a ring of pebbles held in place with superglue.

I had every intention.

She was a monster.

Someone who could make things in the musty recesses of a rotting house in the suburbs and somehow manifest those things onto or into real people, real locations. Like puppetry, only worse. Much, much worse. Because I don’t think she knew that what she crafted here in the shadows was somehow enacted outside in true, grisly proportions. How could she have known? She never left the care home, the room. She was locked in here because nobody knew what else to do with her. She was lonely and dangerous, powerful yet unfettered by the constraints of adult regulation.

She was a nightmare waiting to be unleashed upon the world at large, and for that reason, she had to be killed.

Except when I saw her, my heart did something strange. It beat faster and deeper than it had for many years.

She was scrawny and small, like I’d been. Seated cross-legged on the floor, she was making another Zoo Person. A kangaroo lady. There was a pouch, with a tiny baby stuffed inside. She’d stitched a long, fat tail to the model, who looked a lot like the Care Home Manager. Probably why the woman had been so frightened: subconsciously, she sensed it was her turn soon. That meant the victims in the Zoo must be people the Kid knew, somehow. Perhaps an adoptive family that had sent her back. Relatives, teachers, other people in the system who had let her down. I didn’t know, I didn’t care.

She looked up from her work slowly. She’d been fully absorbed. I saw the pink tip of her tongue, poked out between her lips. Focus. She found peace and solace and pride in what she was making.

Our eyes met. A wall of latent grief and longing hit me like a bat to the head. Hope flared in her eyes. It was unbearable. It was enough to stop me doing what I’d meant to.

“Are you my new Dad?” she asked, in a soft, young voice.

I stood there, stripped down to a bare, piteous nub of a man. My bones were singing a symphony of a life about to change beyond all recall. But this time it was not bone-bad, despite the circumstances. It was bone-good, although nobody but the two of us would ever understand that.

I was unable to answer right away.

DINNER PLANS WITH BABA YAGA

STEPHANIE M. WYTOVICH

I tattoo a chicken’s foot onto my thigh, your eye a looking glass resting atop my bones. I walk on broken acorns, braid my hair with the thread from a lost boy’s jacket. You scream from the pepper plant growing on my porch, and I nod and nod, agree with the spells pouring out of the earth.

I’ll be sure to mind the roots, collect the honey from the hives

You tell me to make a stew, to chop up the onions, pull the radishes from the ground. I bite my tongue, let my tears fall into the bowl, the salt a sealant, a locked door boiling beneath the peas.

I stir clockwise to summon you, imagine the rancid perfume of your ghost.

Yes, I have spiced the two-lips, marinated the girl meat overnight

There’s a routine to this, a ritual, the way the kettle is forever on, screaming like a dying red fox. I drink a broth made from feathers stewed with baby teeth and sage, chop up potatoes still covered in dirt, half-eaten by wireworms, the taste of flea beetles still strong on my tongue.

I put the rhubarb on the table, milk the snake over the sink

At nightfall, the scent of jasmine mixes with the pine needles on the porch, cuts through the musk of leftover promises still lingering in the woods. If you listen closely, there’s a song in your soup, an alphabet in your blood, each mouthful a child lost, a child consumed.

I throw their clothes in the fire, Eat their names under the light of the moon.

THE COLLECTION

CHARLIE HUGHES

[He reaches across the table and presses “Play.”]

1.

At first, Layla was set against the idea, but her husband Geoff chipped away for months, explaining the designs, showing her how it could be completely self-contained.

“All we’ll have to do,” he said, “is take the bookings and watch the money roll in.”

When she finally relented, the guesthouse renovations went smoothly, leaving plenty of room in the rest of the farmhouse, just as he’d promised. Airbnb automated the admin, and they had bookings all the way up to Christmas.

Waiting for their first guests to arrive, they sat together on the sofa, Geoff with a paperback, Layla with her embroidery, her eyes wandering to the front window, anticipating the car.

At twenty past the hour, she asked Geoff if they should call the Sheldons’ mobile and check everything was okay.

He nodded solemnly. “Or maybe you should try the police? Put out a missing persons report?

For a second, she was thrown, then saw his smile. She punched him playfully on the shoulder.

“You’re all wound up, Layls,” he said.

The words were barely out of his mouth when the sound of crunching gravel turned them toward the window. Jean and Lawrence Sheldon were climbing out of the Land Rover as Layla opened the front door.

In their high-end casualwear they looked every bit the successful, moderately wealthy couple who could afford to throw away money on a cramped guesthouse in the Cotswolds. Layla told herself to admire them for it.

Geoff sidled past and shook their hands. Layla followed.

“The house looks amazing.” Jean Sheldon addressed this to Layla, her smile wide and bright.

“Thank you,” she replied. “You’ll be staying on this side.” Layla winced, knowing how proprietorial she sounded.

Jean Sheldon kept grinning and said, “Fabulous,” retreating to the back passenger-side door and opening it for the figure inside. He got out.

Layla gave Geoff a look. She had expected a boy, but this was a man. Young, perhaps early twenties. He was tall like his parents but too thin for his height. His black hoodie and tracksuit bottoms flapped around him, like a scarecrow caught in the wind. The son had his father’s angular features, but beneath the flop of greasy black hair, it lent him a counterfeit look, like a doll.

He began dragging his case toward the house. Jean Sheldon whispered to Layla, “Joshua has been having a tough time at university. We thought he’d benefit from some country air. Might even come walking with me and his dad.”

“That’s nice,” Layla said and led Mrs. Sheldon into the guesthouse, whilst father and son carried in the luggage. She explained the Wi-Fi and the hot water and the TV and was about hand over the key when an open box on the floor caught her eye.

“Is everything okay?” Jean Sheldon asked.

Layla’s brain took a few seconds to categorise the twist of metal and wires poking from the top of the plastic container.

“What’s that?” The question was, undoubtedly, intrusive.

Jean Sheldon did not seem to mind. “Sound equipment. Joshua likes to play with sound. It’s a hobby. Microphones, that kind of thing.”

Layla’s pulse thumped around her ears.

“Microphones?”

2.

As a quiet, reclusive child, Layla had hated nothing more than her mother’s microphones.

Corona, carbon, ribbon, or moving coil, the type did not matter, she’d have destroyed them all given half a chance. They grew like weeds in every corner of their home and absorbed her mother’s attention.

Their house was large and difficult to maintain. There was family money coming from somewhere, but never enough to cover daily costs and her mother’s peccadillos. Layla remembered leaks and damp and carpets worn down to patches of naked floorboard.

In one room, her mother collected and experimented with her recordings.

They called it “the studio,” but it more closely resembled a junk shop dumped inside a Victorian drawing room. Every surface was covered with the detritus of capturing and replaying sound: record players, headphones, tape decks, adjusters, and unused microphones. Shelves covering the walls were packed with reels of tape and vinyl, some of them labeled, some of them not. Around the rest of the house, mics were placed in every crevice and corner, all connected by a spider’s web of wires.

Once, she summoned the courage to ask about the microphones and the endless hours her mother spent in the studio.

“What are you listening for, Mummy?”

“For the truth,” she replied. “For the Word.”

Layla knew there was more to ask, more for her mother to tell, but instinct told her to stop.

This was her life until the age of ten: difficult, even traumatic at times, but Layla knew no other way.

Perhaps her mother would have explained her behaviour eventually, given Layla the answers she needed, but that moment never arrived.

Instead, the day came when they walked over the fields on the edge of town, and Layla’s mother sent her into the brambles on an errand. When Layla returned, her mother was gone, disappeared into thin air.

3.

The next morning, Layla watched the elder Sheldons exiting the front gate, complete with backpacks, hiking boots, and walking poles. She smiled and shook her head, feeling silly for fretting the night before.

She called her daughter, Lizzie, and arranged to visit her at the flat the following day. She considered asking Geoff to come along, then thought better of it. Geoff and Lizzie barely spoke these days, not since Lizzie had moved out a year ago. Greetings were muted and good-byes hardly observed. Layla had tried to get to the bottom of it, but they both clammed up whenever she pushed the subject.

After lunch, Layla and Geoff went out onto the back-garden patio, drank tea, and watched the sparrows flit around the bird feeder. Geoff used his binoculars to spot kingfishers in the distance.

“Plans today?” Geoff asked.

“I’ll sort the flowers at church later. Then I need to pick up—”Layla stopped mid-sentence.

Over Geoff’s shoulder she’d spotted a figure moving in the distance, following the tree line that separated the grazing field from the woods. The Sheldon boy was walking along the path in a hunched, shuffling manner, hands in his hoodie pockets.

Geoff said, “Funny one, that lad.”

But it wasn’t just the boy who’d caught Layla’s attention. “Do you see? Do you see—around his ankles?”

“My eyes aren’t what they once were.”

“By his feet,” she said. She took the binoculars from Geoff. Layla scanned for the teenager, adjusting the focus until she had a clearer view. Joshua’s lank black hair bobbed up and down as he walked. She wondered when he’d last bathed and why his parents allowed him to dress so shabbily.

He’d picked up his pace, making it tricky to keep him in her sights. The long grass obscured the lower part of his body, but there was something there, something small bounding alongside him. It would flash above the grass line for an instant, then drop away. Sheldon was looking down, as if speaking to it.

“Layla, please.” Geoff’s voice was gruff and insistent.

A break in the grass allowed her to see it for a half-second. It could have been a squirrel or a weasel or even a large rat. It hopped along in time with the Sheldon boy’s step, as if they were two friends chattering on a country walk.

“Layla, put those down! He’ll see you spying on him.”

She lowered the glasses and turned to Geoff, checking how serious he was. The colour rising in his neck and cheeks told her. Before she placed the binoculars down, she sneaked one more look, but could no longer see anything alongside the boy.

“Layla,” Geoff scolded.

She put the binoculars in her lap and peered at the boy again with the naked eye. He was no longer looking down. The flitting figure beside him seemed to have disappeared.

“What was it, anyway?” Geoff said.

“An animal . . .” But even as she started to say it, she knew how ridiculous it would sound. “Nothing. Maybe a trick of the light.”

4.

The church air was crisp and cool, a relief from the oppressive heat. Layla stooped before the image of Christ, crossed herself, then proceeded to the cupboard behind the vestry to retrieve a watering can and clippers.

She’d tended the church flowers since her mother’s disappearance. Layla sometimes puzzled over her own unstinting service. She did not particularly enjoy arranging flowers, her attendance at services these days was patchy, and she despised the committee meetings that came with the job. Yet, she’d helped her mother with the flowers since she was five years old, fetching and carrying the same watering can, learning to arrange and tidy and prune. To continue felt right, and the calm that came over her now, alone with the floral scents in this huge, empty space, pleased her.

The main entrance door rattled, then swung open. Layla looked up. After a pause, a dark, featureless figure entered, backlit by sunbeams. The figure shambled up the central aisle toward her and the door closed behind, eclipsing the sunlight, uncloaking the silhouette.

He wore drainpipe jeans, bulky white trainers, and a glazed puffer jacket that must have left him sweltering. His hood was pulled up over his head.

“Hello,” she said. “Joshua, isn’t it?”

He appeared not to hear, looking up and around, taking in the stained-glass and stonework.

She was about to speak again when he removed the hood to reveal bud earphones, same as the ones Lizzie had, the type that didn’t need wires. Whatever he was listening to, the young man seemed to be whispering along to it, eyes closed, mouthing inaudibly under his breath.

Layla stood waiting, hand on hip. After some thirty seconds, he opened his eyes, smiled, and took out the earphones. “Thank you,” he said. “I wanted to finish.”

“No problem. Joshua? Right?”

“Yes, and you’re Layla.” His voice had the clipped, confident tone she associated with children who attended expensive private schools.

“Is there something at the house that needs seeing to?”

He frowned, apparently confused by the question.

She went on, “The guesthouse. Is the Wi-Fi broken? It can drop out sometimes. You needn’t have come all the way out here. My husband is home.”

“No,” he said. “I heard about this church. I wanted to come and see it for myself.”

“Oh.” Layla scrambled to change the subject. “How did you hear about our church?”

He tilted his head. “Stories. A recording of a story.”

“Audiobooks?”

“One audiobook.”

“What kind?”

“A collection of stories. One of them is about this church.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. This is a special place. It has history.”

“Saint Dunstan’s is in a story? I didn’t know.”

“You won’t have heard this story before.”

“I see,” she said, irritated by his tone. “What’s it about, this story? What happens?”

The boy drummed his fingers on the wooden bench beside him. The thrum echoed around the church. “A priest they had here once. Way back, in the 1630s, just before the Civil War. An old priest who upset his flock, upset them in all sorts of ways.”

“An historical story?”

He shook his head. “Horror.”

The word made Layla think of cheap 1980s movies and fake blood. She suddenly wished the boy would go away, leave her alone.

As if sensing her discomfort, he went on, “They killed him, the priest. Accused him of witchcraft and hanged him from a tree outside his own church. The children of the village swung from his ankles to make sure his neck was broken.”

She turned away and began watering the flowers again. “Well, I’ve lived in Shipston all my life,” she said, “and I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “Give it time.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that here,” she said, gesturing toward the clay statue of Christ that loomed at the back of the church.

“Maybe this is the best place to talk about it.”

She’d finally had enough. “You’re a very confident boy, aren’t you, Joshua?” “Am I?”

“We hardly know each other. Yet you’ve come into my church as if you own the place, and now you’re teasing me with fairy tales about priests and hangings.”

“If you didn’t want to know the answer, why did you ask?”

She put down the watering can and turned toward him. He’d intended to get under her skin and succeeded. Layla was torn between avoiding a scene and giving him a piece of her mind. But before she could say another word, the boy placed the earphones back in and began to stroll around the perimeter of the church.

At times, he would place his hand on the wall and stroke his fingers along the brickwork. She came very close to going after him, grabbing the earbuds, and tearing them away. But Layla took in a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She looked up again at the rendering of Christ. The impulse faded.

“Are you okay, Layla?”

The voice made her jump. She turned and saw Reverend Wilkes approaching. “I’m fine, Reverend.”

“We have a visitor?” He gestured in Joshua Sheldon’s direction.

“Yes, one of our new guests at the farmhouse.” She regretted telling him as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Wilkes had advised Layla and Geoff against the project from the outset.

“I see. Nice boy?”

They stood shoulder to shoulder watching Joshua Sheldon continue his lap of the church, lips once again trembling with half-formed words, whispering into the air.

“Oh yes. Very nice.”

[He presses “Stop.”

Layla says, “I told you not to listen, didn’t I?”

“We already listened.” The male officer is rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Layla, we want to check some things with you.”

“You should stop now.”

“Did this happen? What he’s saying on the tape. Is that what happened?”

“It gets complicated, later. You’re better off not listening, both of you.”

The female officer, silent until now, speaks for the first time. “Is that what happened, Layla, the story he’s telling? Did you talk with Joshua at the church that day?”

Layla looks again at her inquisitor, reappraising her. She seems more composed than her colleague. After a pause, Layla says, “Yes. It happened just that way.”

The male officer is wringing his hands together, clasping and unclasping them. “We’ll keep listening,” he says.

“Don’t.”

He presses “Play.”]

5.

She first noticed the sound as a vibration in the window frame, a low humming, rattling.

Layla sat eating toast and honey at the kitchen table. Geoff continued to work on his garden plans. They looked at each other and frowned. The same rattling occurred if a lorry idled on the lane outside. But this grew, the glass reverberating to a deep bass thrum coming from the guesthouse.

It wasn’t music, and at first Layla thought it could be a problem with the new boiler, straining to provide hot water. But it kept on, rising and falling, heavy and monotonous.

Finally, she understood what she was hearing. A voice. A recording amplified to an absurdly high volume. She put down her toast and looked at Geoff. He’d stopped his sketching and was staring at the blank wall as if consternation alone would make it stop.

“What on Earth is he doing?” Layla said.

“I’ll give it a couple of minutes and then pop round,” Geoff said.

Layla folded her arms. “Don’t ‘give it a couple of minutes.’ Go now!”

He put up his hands. “Okay, okay.” And off he went, out of the front door and around the side path.

She expected the sound to cease as soon as Geoff knocked, but it kept on for a while longer, continuing to shake the walls and the window. She tried to isolate the sound from the disturbance, but the vibration and volume crushed the words together, deforming them into a clumsy sonorous jumble. Layla pressed her fingers to her temples.

After another minute or two, it ended, abruptly. Outside the window, starlings twittered around the bird feeder. Layla waited for Geoff to return through the kitchen door. After a few more minutes, he appeared, a tense smile on his lips.

“All done.” Without meeting her eye, he sat back down at the kitchen table and returned to his garden design.

“Well?” she said. “What did you say? What did he say?”

Geoff looked up. “Oh. A book. He was listening to a book. You know—” “Why was it so loud? Did he apologise?”

“No. He went away and turned it off.”

Layla tilted her head to one side.

Her husband’s eyes flickered from left to right. He looked distracted, as if the conversation did not include him.

“You okay, Geoff? You seem funny.”

He paused before answering, lost in thought. “The thing he was listening to . . .”

“Yes?”

“It was . . . strange. A story.”

“You said that.”

“I don’t think it’s something he’s supposed to listen to.”

For a fleeting moment, Layla thought of her own mother and her obsession with recording and listening to ambient sound. She shook her head as if to physically expel the idea. “Let’s hope we don’t get a repeat,” she said.

6.

The only people who ever visited her childhood home were Auntie Alice and the Door.

The Door wasn’t his real name. That was just the word Layla thought of when she saw him, and it stuck in her mind. He was tall and broad-shouldered, bowing his head to pass under the beams of the old house. The Door wore a long black coat which he never took off, even when drinking tea with Mother and Auntie Alice.

They came to the house as a twosome, even though they could not possibly have been a couple. Auntie Alice was old and used up, her face resembling untreated leather and the corners of her mouth unfailingly laden with a thick white spittle, as if she’d been drinking bad milk.

Her mother did eventually confirm that Auntie Alice was not related to either herself or Layla, by marriage or otherwise. She would not explain how or why the old woman came to be known as “auntie,” nor anything else about her.

When they arrived, Layla would be told to fetch the tea and then make herself scarce. The threesome would retire to the studio with their mismatched cups and saucers and not emerge until some late hour, the visitors always leaving the house in reverential silence.

7.

As was her Friday ritual, Layla went to the supermarket before visiting Lizzie.

After most of the shopping bags were stowed in her car, Layla took the short walk across the town square and climbed the steps to the flats above a row of shops.

Her daughter’s decision the previous year, aged nineteen, to move out of the farmhouse into the cramped one-bedroom flat had been sudden, but Layla understood her need for privacy. What troubled her was how badly Geoff had taken it, and the way he and Lizzie had drifted apart ever since.

She pressed the doorbell and Springsteen’s “Born to Run” played inside the flat. Layla laughed and shook her head. The door opened and before Layla could say a word, Lizzie wrapped her in a tight embrace.

“Hey hey! What have I done to deserve that?”

“Just giving my mum a hug,” Lizzie said.

Instantly, Layla felt lighter, more carefree. They went inside together, arm in arm.

“I’ve brought things.” Layla nodded to the bag of shopping she was holding.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I worry you’re not eating well.”

They entered the kitchen and Layla unpacked the bag while Lizzie made tea.

“First visitors arrived, then?” Lizzie asked.

“Yes.” Layla placed tins and packets in the cupboard.

“And . . . ?”

“Oh, they’re fine. Nice couple. And they have a teenager.”

She could feel Lizzie inspecting her. Her daughter knew her too well.

“You’re getting along, no problems?”

Layla changed the subject. “Now, the Reverend was asking when you’ll next be joining us at church.”

Lizzie turned toward her again, lips pursed. “If the Reverend never wants to see me again, he’s going the right way about it. I will not be harassed.”

The way she drew herself up as she said this, the steeliness in her eyes, made Lizzie look older than her years. To Layla, it was no time at all since she’d been walking her to school or baking cupcakes in the farmhouse kitchen, Lizzie standing on a chair, helping to mix the ingredients. Seeing her defiant like this made Layla both sad and happy. Her child was gone.

Layla held out her hands in supplication. “Okay, I don’t want to argue, I just thought I’d mention it.”

They took their tea into the front room and talked about Lizzie’s work as a dental assistant and the fortunes of some of her friends who’d gone to live in London and Birmingham and Manchester.

The TV was on quietly in the background, the voice of the newsreader strangely resonant of the vibrations she’d heard from the guesthouse that morning. Layla resisted the urge to turn it off, out of deference to her daughter. Just as she was about to invite Lizzie round for lunch the following weekend, they were interrupted by the buzzing smartphone on the coffee table.

The caller ID said “Dad.”

“Oh,” Layla said, surprised.

Lizzie didn’t move to answer it.

“Your dad’s calling you. Aren’t you going to answer?”

Lizzie sat, rigid, looking down at the phone, not reacting. Eventually, Layla reached out and picked it up. Lizzie made no attempt to stop her.

Layla accepted the call and pressed the phone to her ear. “Geoff?”

Silent confusion, then he answered, “Layla?”

“That’s right. I’m here with Lizzie. What do you want?”

“Just to talk with Lizzie. It can wait for another time.”

She proffered the phone, but Lizzie shook her head and looked away.

“She can’t speak right now,” Layla told Geoff and hung up. “What is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Why won’t you speak to your father?”

“Mum, I don’t want to do this now. Please.”

Layla felt a lump rise in her throat. This realization of just how bad things had become between Lizzie and her father had nothing to do with houseguests or their bizarre behaviour. Yet she could not help but link the two. The wrongness of that voice and the look in Lizzie’s eye when the call came through struck the same jarring note.

“This isn’t how I want things to be,” Layla said, hating the rising pitch of her voice.

“It’s okay, Mum. We can work things out. Just leave it to me and Dad.”

8.

Reverend Wilkes spoke from the pulpit, emphasising his words with sharp, tremulous gestures. His voice, rising to a crescendo, invoked “Christian togetherness,” “the embrace of Christ’s love,” and “the Loving Father.”

Only a short while ago, his sermon might have raised a lump in Layla’s throat, got her thinking about her mother and Lizzie and Geoff. But these past few days had left her labouring under a curious anomie. She felt disgruntled, disconnected. Much of the sermon passed over her, like background Muzak.

Layla had left Geoff asleep in bed and Lizzie had failed to show at church, yet again. So, Layla was alone, sat next to an elderly widower whose name she’d forgotten, and who smelled of steamed cabbage and tobacco.

Wilkes finished his oration and proceeded to the Liturgy. Layla went through the motions of taking the sacrament, feeling a fraud the whole while. As the congregation rose to leave, she wondered if this might be the last time. Whatever “lapsed” was, she could feel its unwelcome tendrils creeping up on her.

She started to walk down the central aisle, weaving in and out of the slow-movers, but before she could make even a few yards, Wilkes called to her through the throng. “Layla, Layla. A word, please.”

She stopped and turned, intending to make her excuses, but then saw his expression. Wilkes had lost the rosy-cheeked fervour of his sermon. The colour had drained from his face and his eyes looked heavy now.

He approached Layla and whispered, “Sorry to keep you, I need a word about something.”

“About what, Reverend?”

He looked around at his passing flock, eyeing them. “Not here. Could you . . . ?”

He rested one hand on her shoulder and gestured toward the back of the church. After a moment, she moved with him, past the questioning eyes of acquaintances. They walked through to the vestry and into the small office, off the corridor.

He slumped into his chair behind the desk and gestured for her to sit opposite. She did so, pressing her skirt down around her knees and crossing her legs.

Wilkes’s skin was ashen. He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands clasped in front.

“What’s wrong, Reverend?”

He let out a long, deep breath. “Layla, I need to ask you....There’s been an incident.”

“You look shaken. What on Earth has happened?”

“This morning, I came into church, early. I’ve been having some problems sleeping recently, so I thought it best to just head into the office and clear up a few jobs.”

She nodded.

“When I entered, there was somebody here, in the corridor outside. I don’t know how he got in because the door had been locked. He might have been in here when I left last night, I suppose. He might’ve been here all night.”

“Who was here?” But Layla knew the answer before she’d finished asking the question.

“That boy. The one staying at your place.”

She held her hands to her forehead. “I’m so sorry, Reverend. Although I shouldn’t apologise, it’s his parents who should be taking responsibility, or the boy himself, but he—”

“That’s not it, though, not really. There’s more.”

She looked up, frowning. “Yes?”

“It’s . . . it’s what he showed me. He was in the corridor, over there.” Wilkes pointed to the open door of his office. “He was out there, leaning against the wall. After the shock of finding him, I asked him to leave, but he refused. He said he wanted to be in the church. I should have insisted. Called the police. But he sounded so desperate. Desperate to be here and to show me why. So, I let him.”

Layla could hear the distress in his voice and suddenly found herself wanting to calm Wilkes. “He’s a strange boy, Reverend. He talks nonsense and walks about listening to stories the whole time.”

“Strange, yes. He’s certainly that.” Wilkes held his head between his hands. He rocked gently back and forth, then the movements became quicker, more uneven. He whimpered, first gently, then louder. Reverend Wilkes, the steady parish priest who liked to gossip with his flock, and pestered them when they missed church, was weeping, losing control. Layla didn’t know whether to hug him or chastise him.

“Hey now. Hey.” She said this loudly, making him look up. “What’s the matter?”

“He told me to place my hand on the wall, over there, in the corridor.”

Layla thought about the last time she’d seen the boy in the church, running his fingers over the brickwork.

Wilkes continued, “I put my hand there, just to humour him, and at first I couldn’t feel a thing, thought it was all in his head. But then I did feel it. Like beats and then smaller ripples of beats, coming through the wall.”

“Where?”

“Over there, in the corridor, is where it’s strongest. He put his hand on top of mine and wouldn’t let me go.” Wilkes exhaled a long, desperate sigh. “I wanted to get away, but he told me to listen. I could feel the vibrations and it almost sounded like words.”

“Are you sure you’re not imagining it? The boy has a certain charisma, Reverend. Maybe he was just planting the thought in your head.”

“It was real,” he said, animated now, raising his voice and shifting in his chair. “There’s something behind that wall.”

She held up a hand. “Okay.”

“Would you like to feel it for yourself?”

She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was something wild about him now. “Not really.”

“You should.”

“I’m okay, Reverend.” He stood then, and Layla did, too, thinking it was her cue to leave, finally ending this embarrassing encounter.

But she misjudged his determination. Before she could move away, Wilkes was around the desk and grabbing her by the arm. His grip was vice-like, his fingers digging into her skin.

She screamed, “Reverend!” He dragged her by the arm out of the room, pulling her into the corridor. She tried to get away, but he was too strong. Wilkes slammed her hand against the wall, pressing both of his on top of hers. “Do you feel it?”

“Please stop.”

He was shouting now. “Do you feel it?”

“You’re hurting me!”

A small voice came from behind them. “Reverend Wilkes?”

Layla turned to see a young lad, one of the choirboys, looking at them, aghast. As if he’d seen the devil himself.

“Leave us be, boy.”

“Please help me, he’s hurting me,” Layla said.

The boy stood there, stunned. Wilkes finally released her. He put his own hands against the wall, first in the same place, then around the same area. “It’s gone.”

Layla sprinted away into the main body of the church, pushing past the child. All she could hear as she went was Wilkes shouting at the top of his voice. “It’s gone. It’s gone.”

[He presses “Stop.”

When the male officer speaks, he makes no attempt to hide his irritation. “This is just smoke and mirrors, isn’t it? To justify what you did?”

“No.”

“A big production. A game.”

Layla shakes her head.

“What’s the choirboy’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lies.”

Layla rubs her eyes and speaks at the same time. “You shouldn’t be listening to it. It won’t end well. Look at yourself.” She gestures up and down at the male officer. “It happens this way, to those who can’t take it.”

“Don’t tell me—”

“Easy, Tom.” The female officer is wide-eyed. She looks to the door, as if someone is going to come in and save her, then she regains some poise. “Let me.”

He slumps back in his chair.

She asks, “He’s describing the chamber, where we found the bodies, Layla?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re saying that Wilkes knew the room was there, and that’s what sent him into a spiral?”

“I’m telling you, it was prophesied. We don’t have to hear any more.”

Before the female officer can ask another question, her colleague interrupts. “We do.” His knuckles crack as he pushes his thumbs together. “Yes, we do.”

The two women look at each other. The female officer is the first to break eye contact.

He presses “Play.”]

9.

Shaken by the encounter with Wilkes, Layla stayed away from home for much of the day, going walking along the Stour all the way to a neighbouring village. By the time she returned, she had more perspective on the encounter. The Reverend was clearly not a well man. For some reason, he was projecting his anxieties onto Layla and her family. The matter would need to be raised with the Diocese.

When she arrived home, Geoff was not in his usual spot at the kitchen table.

Layla paced through the house, into the utility room and out the back door.

A restless summer dusk had drifted across the landscape. She could see the outline of trees and hedges, the fence and gate into the grazing field. With slow, deliberate steps, she moved over the patio and into the wilder, more rugged part of the garden.

“Geoff, love?”

Annoyed now, she assumed he was either oblivious to her or deliberately refusing to show himself.

Frustration gave her voice an edge. “Geoff, this isn’t funny.”

The sound that followed hardly broke the silence, but it was enough to turn her toward the orchard. It came again, still faint, soon lost in the expanse of trees and hills. Layla replayed it in her mind. A wet, guttural sound, like a boot escaping sodden mud.

She followed it into the apple trees. “Geoff? Where are you?”

The sound repeated to a rhythm, giving her direction. It came from the western flank of the orchard, where the old plough was dumped beneath the trees. The huge, rusting contraption had been there since the day they moved in, lurking in the grass, too ugly to enjoy, too big to shift. She passed through the trees at a run now, her bare ankles cold against the grass. A stray branch grazed across her cheek.

Layla slipped, steadied herself, then heard the sound again. Compressed, like a malfunctioning valve. It formed and reformed, eventually taking the shape of a word. Her name. “Lllllu. Lllllu. Luuuuuuayles.” She gasped. “Llllluayales.”

The image of Geoff’s body, suspended in mid-air, emerged against the darkened navy sky, wriggling, grabbing at the rope which she now saw around his neck. His feet flailed for the plough beneath him.

Layla broke into full sprint, but the distance narrowed in nightmarish slow motion. The horror of his twitching, swinging silhouette swallowed time and thought. Her knee clanged painfully into the plough.

She hitched herself up onto the metal frame, taking his weight, desperately trying to lift him up toward the branch, to loosen the unforgiving rope. In her haste, she overbalanced, falling forwards, her arms still grasped around his waist. Instead of pushing him up, she was suddenly pulling him down, tightening the noose.

For one sickening moment, Layla thought the crack and snap from above was her husband’s neck breaking under their weight. But the fall continued and they tumbled into a heap on the grass, broken branch and rope following, striking Layla on the back.

She pulled herself up, sitting astride him, forcing her fingers between the rope and his neck. The cord loosened and Geoff heaved in gulps of air. Layla’s hands were slick with blood from where the rope had gouged his skin.

She rolled off Geoff’s chest, lifted her head to the night sky, and screamed.

10.

“You can come through now, Mrs. Chadwick.”

The nurse’s face was slack with sympathy, her eyes filled with suspicion. Layla knew what she was really thinking: “Come and see your husband who tried to kill himself. Please try to be calm. Don’t make him do it again.”

She stood and went with the nurse, who took her arm as they walked. Layla stiffened, then submitted.

“We can only give you ten minutes. He’s on a drip and some very strong painkillers. He may not follow conversation particularly well.”

They entered the ward and approached a curtained-off area. The nurse pulled back the drapes revealing Geoff sat up in the high-backed bed, eyes peculiarly wide—golf balls of intensity. His neck was wrapped in a bandage, an IV drip trailing from his wrist.

“Love?” Layla said.

“Ugh,” was all he managed, his voice croaky, weak.

“I’ll leave you be,” said the nurse, closing the curtain around them.

Alone now, the weight of events settled across Layla’s shoulders. She sat down heavily in the chair beside him. Geoff followed her with his eyes, shifting his weight to one side, keeping her locked in his gaze. Layla caught herself wishing he would look away or whimper or bury his head in the pillow. She wanted shame, but Geoff was not playing that game.

She looked around, lost in the lines of the blue plastic curtain. She asked, “What happened?”

Silence.

She turned to him. “Geoff?”

He smiled. “What happened when?”

“Last night. You tried to hang yourself.”

He nodded, grinning now, as if recalling an amusing joke told down the pub. “Yes, yes. I did, didn’t I.”

Layla stroked her temple with her index finger. He had broken himself, broken their life together, and here he was, smiling, joking. If she hadn’t suspected the nurse of loitering outside the curtain, Layla might have slapped him across the face.

“Geoff, it makes no sense. One minute you’re chuntering to yourself about the garden designs, about what you want for dinner. Next thing I know, you’re trying to kill yourself. Tell me.” She moved closer, their foreheads almost touching. “Why?”

He nodded, as if finally hearing her question. “It makes you see the world in a whole new way.” This time, the smile spilled over into a chuckle. He put his hand to his lips, like a guilty child.

Layla moved back into the chair. “What does?”

“The stories.”

She heard it then, the faint warble on the edge of his words, a wavering in tone that told her his sanity was a delicate thing, no longer to be taken for granted.

“What do you mean, the stories?” She said nothing more, hoping Geoff would pivot to some other subject.

“The stories that Joshua plays. There’s something wrong with those stories, or something right, depending on your point of view.”

“Stories don’t make people try to kill themselves.”

“Well, that,” he held his finger in the air and raised an eyebrow, “depends on the story, doesn’t it?”

“You’re not making any sense.”

He seemed to consider this, then said, “And let’s not forget that you made me go round there. I wouldn’t have heard anything if it weren’t for Layla needing her peace and quiet.”

Layla had been married to Geoff for thirty-seven years. He was a mumbler, a man of few words and opinions. She loved him because he did not overcomplicate life. He gave love and he received love and demanded little else. He did not cast aspersions or blame his misfortunes on others. He had never spoken to her in this way before.

Geoff went on, “I heard enough to whet my appetite. After that first visit, Joshua was very accommodating. He sat me down on the sofa and let me listen to the whole thing. Lost in the stories, I was, lost in his voice.”

She leaned forward again and touched Geoff’s arm. “Joshua’s voice?”

“The narrator, Layls. The voice and the story, they pull on you, like quicksand.”

Behind the trauma, the bizarre twitching expression on his face, her husband was trying to tell her what he thought had really happened. She touched his arm. “You listened to it, and it made you feel . . .”

“Wonderful. Really quite wonderful.” He tilted his head to one side. “Joshua explained. The stories are a gift, a message. They let you see things.”

11.

She’d listened with an ear to the bare floorboards, above the studio.

They were arguing, voices raised beyond the usual murmur, so she could make out certain words and sentences. Layla had to kneel, stock still, careful not to creak the boards and alert them to her presence.

“How dare you?” When she was angry, Auntie Alice sounded like fireworks and boiling water.

Her mother: “. . . my decision.”

The Door said something low and inaudible, but the sound alone held menace.

“But why? After all this....” Auntie Alice trailed off.

“My decision . . . enough.”

There was a loud bang as something metal and heavy hit the floor below. Layla jerked her head back and looked down at the black gap between the boards, as if to see through, then placed her ear against the cold wood once more.

“Control yourself.” Her mother again.

Auntie Alice: “You cannot stop now. Not until He is with us.”

The Door spoke, this time loud enough for the words to come through clearly: “Give us what you have. We can finish without you.”

“Shut up!” Auntie Alice was even more enraged by her companion’s intervention. “You know we can’t.”

“Leave now. Leave or I will never—”

The commotion that followed surpassed all that had gone before, an explosion of fury and chaos. China smashed, her mother screamed, the Door gave a tired, heavy groan. Layla raised herself and ran from the room, down the stairs, two steps at a time.

She banged on the door. “Leave her alone!” The noise inside suddenly stopped.

After a pause, the lock was turned and Auntie Alice appeared at the threshold. Behind her, the Door had hold of Layla’s mother, pinning her wrists against the wall above her head. The expression of panic and distress on her face was unmistakable.

“Let her go, or I will call the police,” Layla said. Her voice was soft and calm, a veil draped across a little girl’s terror.

The old woman stretched out a leathery hand toward her. “Let Auntie Alice look after you. Everything will be fine.”

Her mother spoke from inside the room. “Leave her. I’ll do it. Just leave her alone.”

“How do we know we can trust you?” the Door asked.

“I’ll do what is necessary. Just leave Layla alone.”

The Door released her mother’s wrists. Auntie Alice gestured to him and they stormed out, pushing Layla aside as they went.

12.

After the hospital, Layla arrived back at the house. The Sheldons’ Land Rover was still parked out front, but sloppily, the SUV’s back end cutting across the pathway to the front door. The gravel on the driveway was bare in patches, as if the car had skidded to a halt.

They had to go. Whatever the route to rebuilding her life, the first step was to expel these people and rip out the modifications for the guesthouse. She would knock later and tell them they had to leave in the morning. At the very least, it would remove Joshua Sheldon from her vicinity and allow space and time to think.

In the kitchen, she made a cup of tea, but left it untouched on the table, then paced the kitchen, going over and over events in her mind, trying to untangle the threads that had led to Geoff’s disintegration. Events of recent days loomed over her like a black hole, unfathomable, ready to swallow her up. First Wilkes, then Geoff. And always this talk of stories, like when she was a kid, like Mother and her visitors. Layla couldn’t dismiss the echoes of the past, but neither did she wish to give them credence. Finally, she slumped at the table and sipped cold tea.

After a few minutes, she spotted something on the doormat—a scrap of paper folded in two. Layla went over and picked it up.

The handwriting was shaky but instantly recognisable. “Mum—come next door. Don’t do anything silly. Don’t call the police. If you do, he’ll hurt me.”

As if Joshua were waiting for this precise moment, sound arose from the guesthouse—reverb of a deep, male voice amplified through speakers at excessive volume. It was both mesmerizing and repulsive, a knowing, campfire tone.

She threw down the note and ran outside. Pinpricks of stray gravel stung her bare feet. Layla rounded the house at a sprint and battered on the door with her fists. The voice went on, mangled, reverberating through wood and glass and brick. Then it stopped, suddenly, underscored by silence.

There was a click. Slowly, as if pushed by the gentle summer breeze, the door opened inwards. Inside, something small moved in the darkness, then flitted off along the cramped hallway.

Layla stepped forwards. When she spoke, her daughter’s name came out as a sob. “Lizzie, are you okay? Lizzie?”

No answer. Layla knew what was happening. She was being baited, tempted inside the guesthouse, but she had to go on.

As she entered the hallway, an off-colour scent danced in the air, nothing strong, just a sourness in the atmosphere that made her think of the place where the sewers ran into the river Stour.

She kept on, getting closer to the light from the living-room doorway.

“Do come along, Layla,” Joshua said. “We’re waiting for you.”

The sound of his voice brought a great fury tumbling from her. Layla quickened her pace and turned into the living room, ready to scream at him, to claw, to tear her daughter away. But the scene struck her still and silent.

“Ah, welcome, Layla,” Joshua said. He was sitting on the large sofa at the focal point of the room, like a king surveying his court.

Lizzie was tied to a chair, her arms bound behind her, her mouth gagged with a rag. She wriggled from side to side, her eyes wide with fear and desperation. The legs of the chair made a chalky shuffling sound on the carpet.

In the far corner of the room, Joshua’s parents stood shoulder to shoulder in matching repose, facing the wall, their heads bowed, their hands clasped in front of them.

“Jean! Lawrence!” They remained silent, as if they couldn’t hear. Both swayed slightly from side to side, their heads resting against the wall. Layla’s face twisted with incomprehension.

“What are you doing?”

Joshua smiled, raised his hand to reveal a small black device held between his thumb and forefinger. He pressed it, and the voice started up again. This time, there was no wall or door to shield her from the impact. It hit her with the force of a punch to the stomach.

Strange words without precis or warning.

“Gatlin laughed, opening his mouth to reveal white mucus, hanging like little tightropes in the gaps between his teeth and tongue. ‘I did not choose the Cleansing,’ he said. ‘It chose me.’”

Layla raised her hands to her ears, but it was no good, the voice, violating in its wrongness, went on.

It kept on, sometimes purring, sometimes rasping, sometimes lending an individual phrase such menace and malevolence it broke her endurance.

Layla fell to her knees and retched. Tea and bile puddled on the carpet beneath her.

Joshua spoke over the voice, shouting to be heard. “You’re going to love these stories, Layla.” An unhinged smile spread across his face.

As if his mania were catching, she could feel her mind turning against her, eating up the words blasting from the speakers. She collapsed to the floor, slumping into her own mess. The last defences of sanity crumbling, her mind fled for the sanctuary of oblivion. In the final moments before she blacked out, Layla looked up to see Joshua tapping on the remote control again.

Impossibly, the storyteller’s voice became louder.

13.

The room was silent, but inside her head Layla felt the thud, thud, thud, an insistent pounding in her temples. She opened her eyes. The stench of dry vomit filled her nostrils.

Her wrists were tied to the arms of a wooden chair, tightly but loose enough for circulation. The white polyester cord was the same type as she had removed from Geoff’s neck the night before. Layla tried to move her legs and found her ankles also bound to the chair.

“Lizzie?”

She scanned the room for her daughter and found her seated to her left, still bound, unconscious, her head slumped to one side. After a moment of panic that she wasn’t breathing, Layla spied the steady rise and fall of her chest.

“Here she is!” Joshua’s tone was jocular, mocking.

He sat on the sofa across the room, facing her, legs crossed, arms splayed on the new floral cushions. Beside him, an animal perched, raised up on its hind legs. At first, she thought it was taxidermy or a toy, a joke for his amusement, but then it twitched and moved.

A weasel.

“It’s good to have you back,” Joshua said.

But Layla was no longer looking at her captor. She only had eyes for the animal. It turned toward Joshua, seeming for all the world to be responding, understanding. The weasel’s red fur, tiny black eyes, and quivering nose were all present and correct, but the tilt of its head and ever so slightly open mouth spoke of grotesque and unnatural intelligence.

There was a movement at the periphery of her vision and she turned. Joshua’s parents remained in place, facing the wall. Layla thought about calling to them again but noticed the gentle rocking of their heads.

She closed her eyes, then opened them again, setting her gaze on Joshua.

“Let us go, please.”

Sheldon turned to the weasel. “Shall we begin, Vinegar?”

The animal dipped its tiny copper-speckled head in affirmation. It was dead-eyed with dirt spattered around its face and mouth.

Joshua continued, “Layla, you are a very special person. I don’t think you know how special. You are wondrous in His eyes. He wants you to succeed.”

“Joshua, you can let me and Lizzie go. You can just leave and we won’t say a thing, only—”

He held up his hand. “Our Master. Our sometime narrator. The one who will be conjured. He knows you have a special place in His story, Layla. You follow your mother. She contributed, of course she did. But she betrayed Him in the end. So many have. It is you He needs now. You and me and Lizzie together.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

He laughed. “Not God’s name. His name. The one who will be conjured. Remember? You deserve to know more. You will be more useful if you’re informed. Isn’t that right, Vinegar?”

The weasel made a noise, except it was unlike any noise she’d heard come from an animal. There was shape to the sound, nasty and sharp, but shape, nonetheless. She shivered at the idea: that the thing had said a word. Something like, “Right.”

“My grandmother lived here, you see, in this town. My parents liked to deposit me with her during holidays. They didn’t tell you that when they booked, did they? I told them not to. You know the house. The last one in town, on the way to Stratford.”

Mention of the house was like a jolt of electricity. Layla did remember—a large property on the outskirts of Shipston with a huge overgrown back garden. It had been a long time since she’d thought of it. The last place she’d seen her mother.

“That’s where I found the tape, or should I say, where it was revealed to me.” He turned to the weasel and smiled. The animal returned the grin, baring its beady teeth.

“Nice for you,” came the voice, pinched and raspy.

Layla rocked back in her chair, wanting only to be away from it.

The weasel was still speaking. “Very nice for you,” it said again, then turned its empty bestial eyes to her. “Stories change you.” The weasel’s voice made her think of the story Joshua had referred to, the priest swinging from a tree, children pulling down on his ankles. An abomination.

“Rude of me not to introduce you before,” Joshua said. “This is Vinegar Wycke— we first met in Grandmother’s bramble garden all those years ago. He showed me where to find the box, didn’t you, Vinegar? He couldn’t speak to me at first, that came later, but he managed to lead the way.”

“Yes, yes. For the stories, for His Collection,” it said.

Every time it spoke, Layla wanted to sob.

Joshua continued, “Vinegar showed me by scratching at the earth. It took me a while but eventually I got it out. A small metal box, nothing special, just a tin containing a sealed plastic bag, and inside that, a case. A cassette tape case.”

“Tape,” the weasel said, bouncing excitedly now. “Tape.”

“You remember them, don’t you, Layla? This box and this tape.” He held them up.

“The Collection,” she said.

Joshua picked up the remote. Layla inhaled sharply and held her breath, her chest burning.

Joshua smiled. The weasel raised its head and cawed to the ceiling. The voice came from deep down within the beast, guttural and wet. “Play His stories. Play His voice!”

Layla said, “Please, I can’t—”

“The Collection,” Joshua said, and pressed the remote.

The voice rose up and surrounded her.

14.

“Did you ever wonder why you felt so lost? So dissatisfied?”

“Yes,” Layla said. She was delirious now, not knowing if it was day or night. Her lips felt paper dry, the skin hard and crisp.

“You were acting against nature. Making a home, loving a husband, spawning new blood. These things were never meant for you, Layla.”

“I know that now.”

“You are part of Him, just like your mother. You will play your role, with us, your Brethren, and bring Him to this world.”

“I will.” She struggled against her bindings, turning toward her daughter. For a moment, she couldn’t recall her name, then it surfaced. Lizzie. Her Lizzie. She looked back to Joshua and the animal. “It can’t be that way, though. Not the way He said.”

Joshua made a tight “O” with his lips, then nodded to the weasel. The rodent hopped from the sofa and bounced across the room, then into Layla’s lap. It clambered up her torso, claws pinpricking her chest. Layla squirmed frantically, but the animal would not be deterred. It pushed up close to her face, its snuffling nose almost touching hers. It stank of animal scat, piss, and the river.

The weasel’s voice was mean, petty. “You will do His will.”

Layla writhed again, twisting to get away, almost toppling the chair backwards.

“You will do His will,” it said again, droplets of rancid spittle flecking her face.

Layla closed her eyes to expel its presence from her mind, but the weasel’s face was replaced by the images of the ritual described in the story. “I will not,” she said.

Joshua rose from the sofa and knelt beside her, bringing his head close to Layla’s and the weasel’s. The three together struck an absurd parody of a sporting huddle. He whispered, “We must follow His word, mustn’t we?”

She let out a cry. “Not that.”

“It is prophesied. It is the only way.”

“There must be another way.”

“There is only the prophecy, its enactment, and then His conjuring into the world. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

The weasel cut her off. “Bad lady.”

“I had hoped you were ready,” Joshua said, “but you need more, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do. We will start again, we will listen again.”

Joshua held the remote up and pressed play. He and the weasel remained in place, their faces pressing into hers, their eyes wild with fervour.

The voice filled the room and surrounded them once more.

15.

The next morning, having returned to the main house, Layla went out onto the back patio and sat next to Geoff’s empty chair.

“Good Layla. Nice Layla.”

The voice did not surprise or frighten her. She had known the creature was there, hiding next to the rosebush, waiting for her to be ready.

It went on, “Joshua said check. Check Layla.”

“I’m fine,” she said.

The weasel came out from behind the thorny stems and waited at the edge of the patio. Its voice was high-pitched, almost whistling at the end of each word. “You like stories?”

“I like stories,” she said, and she beckoned with her fingers. It scurried across the paving and ran up her leg, then settled on her lap. She stroked its filthy brown fur with her fingers.

[Get]

Layla thought back to the previous night, sitting in the chair in the guesthouse, listening to His voice tell the stories. She thought of the final story, the one that tied it all together. She spoke a line to the weasel, wanting it to know she understood: “Stories are a gift, a message. They let you see.”

“From story,” it said. “The best one.”

“Yes.”

The animal shifted up onto two legs. “Do you see Geoff now?”

“Yes, I see.”

Her husband was not a good man. There had been other women. From church. Women he knew from before they were married. And then one moment, a year ago. She saw him reaching out toward her daughter.

The weasel squealed, a vile sound of pleasure and pain. “You see him for real now.”

“I know why Lizzie left. I don’t want to know, but I do.”

“True, Layla. All of it.”

[Away]

[The female officer presses “Stop.”

“What is that?”

“What is what?”

“That voice, that other voice?”

“What other voice?”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you, Layla. The one at the end there. It says ‘Get’ and then ‘Away.’ It’s speaking between the narrator’s pauses. A woman’s voice.”

The male officer is slumped on his chair now. He looks like a balloon with the air released. His eyes flicker in different directions as if he’s following a fly around the room. His colleague is ignoring him, pretending he isn’t there.

“I don’t know who it is,” Layla says, “but it is a good voice, isn’t it?”

The female officer narrows her eyes, opens her mouth to ask another question, then appears to think better of it.

Layla continues, “I like to think of it as an angel.”

“An angel?”

Suddenly, the male officer stands and walks out of the interview room, slamming the door behind him.

The crash of the slamming door rings in the air. The two women stare at each other again, both knowing the look is a judgment on the male officer. There is something broken in him. Something bad.

The female officer breaks the moment by shaking her head.

“Why is the angel there, Layla?”

Layla says nothing.

“What did your husband do to Lizzie? What is . . . it referring to there?”

“No comment.”

“Did he hurt her? Abuse her?”

“No comment.”

The female officer lets out a long, theatrical sigh, then reaches across the table and presses “Play.”]

16.

Her mother did not hold her hand as they walked. She never did. It was cold and wet. Layla, head down, wore her cheap parka jacket with the hood pulled up and the zip drawn. Through a mouth of polyester and fake fur, she watched the puddles and broken tarmac pass under her feet.

“I have a job for you,” her mother said. “Something important.”

Layla said nothing, planting a foot in a pool of muddy water, splashing her jeans and her mother’s leg. In recent months, a more resentful, combative child had emerged.

“An important job....” Her mother trailed off, as if no longer convincing herself.

They hiked up the hill, out of town on the Stratford Road, then turned into the fields that led to Fell Mill and the brown, meandering River Stour. A short distance into the field they turned again, leaving the right-of-way and moving down the hill now, turning back on themselves toward the brambles that separated the farmer’s land from the “Witch House.”

Layla wasn’t sure why the property or the old lady who lived there had been labelled so, except for the spectacularly overgrown garden. There were several acres of brambles and shrubbery forming the border between the house and the area around the river. They reached the periphery and stopped. Her mother hunched down, facing Layla, unzipped her coat, and pushed the hood back.

“I want to go home,” Layla said.

“One job.” Her mother placed a small metal box onto the wet grass, then took a cassette case from her pocket and placed it inside.

From her other pocket, she pulled a garden trowel.

“I want you to go in there and bury it.” She pointed toward the overgrown garden of the house.

“What is it? Why does it need to be buried?”

“Don’t pry. Go and put it in the ground, deep.”

There was a vulnerability to her mother that she’d not witnessed before. She seemed older, frailer. The cassette case in the box rattled in her shaking hands.

Layla drew herself up. “Tell me, or I won’t do it.”

“Don’t try me, girl.” The tone lacked its usual menace. She looked to the sky for a moment, then back at Layla. “I’ll leave you at home while I go to church for the next month.”

Layla crossed her arms.

Her mother’s shoulders slumped. “It’s important. Please.”

The novelty of her austere, neglectful mother pleading with her was tempered by the strangeness of it all. Layla wanted this moment to mark progress, a shift in power, but she also loved her mother, and with love came obedience.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“Because if I do, I’ll know where it is. They might find me, they might make me tell them.”

“Who . . . ?” But she stopped herself. She knew. The Door and Auntie Alice. They had a hold over her mother.

“I won’t go in there unless you explain.”

Their stillness made the cold worse. A chill wind whipped Layla’s cheek. Over her mother’s shoulder, a pair of deer stalked on the other side of the river, peering at them. Next to the brambles, a smaller animal poked its head from the chaos. A squirrel? Perhaps too big. A red-furred weasel, maybe.

Her mother looked around her, too, as if sensing this newfound company.

Layla said, “I listened, above the studio, in Father’s old room. I heard you talking to them about a voice. You said you had the voice. Whose voice?”

What colour there still was in her mother’s face melted away. Her jaw slackened momentarily, then went rigid. She whispered, “Don’t ask me that.”

Layla pulled away and began to hurry back up the hill.

Her mother called after her, her voice cracking with emotion, “Okay. Okay.”

Layla stopped and turned. Her mother was on her knees. “I’ve been listening, listening for so long. Trying to hear His voice, trying to make Him heard. It’s all around us, we just have to listen.”

Slowly, Layla descended the hill, returning to her prostrate mother.

“The final story is . . .” She seemed to grope for the right word. “Dangerous. It must be buried.”

“Dangerous? How?”

“I wouldn’t listen anymore. Not to the final story. I can’t.”

Layla stood in front of her once-domineering mother, in the unfamiliar and unexplained role of saviour. She still didn’t understand or even believe all that her mother said, but perhaps burying the box would bring a change. Perhaps the Door and Auntie Alice would stop visiting now and the microphones could be put away in a cupboard.

She took the box and the trowel from her mother and went into the brambles. She did not hold her mother, nor touch her hand, nor tell her that, despite everything, she loved her with a fury that made her heart ache.

When Layla returned from the brambles, no more than half an hour later, her mother was gone.

17.

In the church, in the corridor next to Wilkes’s office, Joshua took her hand and pressed it to the cold stone. “Can you feel it?”

Layla nodded, smiling.

Vinegar Wycke circled Joshua’s ankles, like a cat pestering for food. “Inside. Let’s be inside,” it said.

Joshua held a large hammer and an iron chisel. “Stand back.” He placed the chisel in the gap between two stones and struck it with a force belying his slender frame. Chips flew and the stones loosened. He struck again and this time one came free. He pulled the stone away, letting it fall to the floor with a crash.

In the gap, Layla could see dusty red. She placed her hand inside and stroked the new surface. Wood. A door. The vibrations from the other side grew in clarity. She knew its rhythms now. The storyteller’s voice had penetrated the deepest, most inaccessible parts of her. This pulsing hint of His voice was a comfort, a homecoming.

There was a sniffling sound next to her ankles. She looked down to see Lizzie rocking back and forth, seemingly activated by the noises coming from the other side of the wall. She looked up at Layla, but her glazed eyes communicated nothing. Lizzie was a shell now, an emptied vessel. Exposure to The Collection had left her insensible although still able to move, but only when coaxed by her mother.

Layla felt both shame and pride. The former because her daughter had become a gibbering wreck, the latter because Lizzie’s life had not been in vain, her existence would prove useful to Him. He would be grateful.

Joshua smashed the chisel again and this time two bulky stones fell away. More of the door was revealed, and the narration became clearer still. Layla already knew what was inside, who was inside, but still found it difficult to believe.

“Where is Wilkes?” she asked, as if the thought had only just occurred to her.

“Office,” the weasel rasped, still pushing against its master’s legs. Nobody turned toward the office door, not even Layla.

An image came to her. The Reverend sitting at his desk, caressing his wrists, the knife resting on the desk before him.

Joshua continued smashing away at the stones and, after a while, a handle appeared. The voice became louder still. Layla could pick out words and phrases. This was the third story in The Collection, the one about a strange boy who wanted friends but did not know how to keep them. The ending was terrible and beautiful. She’d heard it five times already and still it made her want to cry.

After a few more minutes, all the stones were removed and the red door to the room stood proud in a haze of dust.

“You will enter first, Layla.” Joshua gestured to the door.

She nodded. There were no choices anymore. Everything had been prophesied. Everything was leading to a single point. She reached out and turned the handle. At first, it resisted, then gave with a heavy clanking sound. She pushed the door open. It scraped on the stone floor, but she shoved harder and it finally swung open.

The voice expanded and embraced them.

Three figures sat on chairs. Two with hands resting on their laps, one of them bound.

The story continued. Layla looked down and saw where the sound came from. A small cassette player, old 1980s style, placed in the middle of the room. It couldn’t possibly have produced the volume that came from it. Joshua pushed past her, knelt next to the player, and turned it off. Layla went back out into the corridor, hoisted Lizzie up, and brought her into the chamber.

The three figures waited in their seats. A large man, as big as a door. A woman with leathery skin and a strange, contorted face. And between them, tied to her chair, shrunken, wizened, a moving skeleton, pale as a ghost, was another woman.

Layla tilted her head and smiled.

“Hello, Mother,” she said.

18.

In the candlelight, their faces flickered in and out of the illumination, as if dallying on the boundary between this world and the next.

After closing the door, locking them all inside, Joshua had produced candles and a large, thick piece of chalk. He lit the candles and redrew over faded lines on the stone floor.

The Door, Auntie Alice, and Layla’s mother remained seated on their chairs, facing inward from three corners of the pentacle, shifting, grunting, saying nothing intelligible. Layla stared at her mother.

She felt no confusion or regret at finding her here, imprisoned, half-dead. Instead, she considered her presence a blessing, a deliverance.

[wrong wrong. move away]

All three were alive, in the sense that they were conscious and breathing, but their faculties appeared limited. They’d been locked inside this place for four decades, without food or water, listening to an incomplete version of The Collection over and over. They were deflated husks, zombified but not expired. The Brethren, it seemed, would not perish so long as they had His voice for company.

Layla sat on the floor, legs crossed, carefully situated on her own pentacle corner. A place on the chalk lines was also reserved for the weasel. It rested on its haunches, sniffing upward at the stale air inside the chamber.

Joshua stood at the centre, Lizzie slumped at his ankles. Her head lolled from side to side, eyes vacant.

Poor Lizzie, Layla thought. She will see her purpose soon.

[daughter daughter daughter]

“For the ritual to be successful,” Joshua said softly, hardly raising his voice above a whisper, “for us to conjure Him to this world, the prophecy must come to pass.”

Layla felt a comradeship with the boy now. Had he dreamed of this moment for a long while, ever since he found the tape in his grandmother’s garden? She could not imagine how he had held himself together for so long.

Joshua went on, “You are the chosen few. Those resilient enough to listen. Brethren worthy of His voice.”

They chanted in unison, “We are the Brethren. We are worthy of His voice.”

Layla looked at her mother out of the corner of her eye. Dead, but not. The old woman chanted along with the rest, her coarse voice noticeably similar to the weasel’s. Only the rope binding her to the chair prevented her from toppling to the floor in a jumble of bones and skin and dust.

[mother mother mother]

“We are the Brethren. We are worthy of His voice,” they repeated together.

The old woman looked up and smiled at Layla, and she smiled back. It occurred to her for the first time: Had her mother been trying to protect her all those years ago?

[love]

The Door and Auntie Alice sat next to her, also chanting, but their voices were stronger, more purposeful. A thick strand of spittle dangled from the corner of Alice’s mouth. The Door had one eye closed, making him look like a man trying to figure out a difficult maths problem.

Layla laughed at the thought and the others turned to her, troubled by the interruption.

Joshua spoke again. “The beauty of what we do today is that we allow Him, the Great One, to conjure Himself. It is His voice, His will expressed through the stories. You can feel His power already. This will bring Him to us. We listen in this sacred place; we give praise and we make our offering. We will speak the word of the offering and Layla will give.”

When Joshua said Layla’s name, he gestured, not to her, but to Lizzie, still slouched at his feet.

Joshua slipped a hand into his coat pocket and drew out a large knife. Layla recognised it as the one purchased only a few weeks before, for the guesthouse kitchen. He offered it to her and she took it. She touched her finger to the blade and a tiny droplet of red bloomed.

She looked at the knife. She looked at Lizzie.

“We hear His voice,” Joshua said. “We give praise and we make our offering.”

The Brethren chanted in response: “We hear His voice; we give praise and we make our offering.”

Joshua set down his iPhone in front of him and pressed the screen. The stories began. There were eight in total. The first was the one about the hanging priest, followed by The Cleansing, then another about a child and a sweet shop. They sat, and they listened, the weasel twitching with excitement, Joshua’s eyes wide, enraptured.

The Door and Auntie Alice stilled with wonder and expectation.

[Don’t]

Night had fallen by the time it came to the final story, the one that Layla’s mother had tried to hide.

As the story began, the pungent aroma of hot ammonia filled the chamber. A growing patch of black wetness spread beneath Vinegar Wycke. “Best story,” the beast said. “Best story. Listen well. Listen.”

The voice curled around the words at the beginning of the recording, as if seducing His listeners.

“At first, Layla was set against Geoff’s idea to annex the east wing, converting it into a holiday let. Why turn . . .”

Layla liked this story because she was at the centre of everything. The Great One’s voice licked and slurped around descriptions of the things she had done over the past few days. It made her want to thank Him, to do his bidding.

[away stop]

The narrative meandered, following Layla from one place to the next, occasionally jumping back to her childhood, describing how they’d plucked the stories from the air in the first place.

As it got closer to the climax, to the church and the chamber, Layla felt the eyes of the others falling onto her. She twisted the handle of the knife around and around in her hand. His voice painted a picture of them in the present, in the chamber, encircling the pentacle, Joshua and Lizzie in the middle.

As if on cue, he reached down and picked up Lizzie from the floor.

They moved in time with the story now. The Brethren and His voice were as one.

[stop daughter]

Joshua held Lizzie out toward Layla, his hands clasped beneath the girl so that her head hung backwards, exposing her throat to her mother. Layla drew herself up to her child and caressed her hair with her free hand. With the other, she rested the blade just above Lizzie’s neckline.

“Do it. Do it in His name,” Joshua said. “His name.”

The weasel echoed. The Door and Auntie Alice joined in. “Do it in His name,” they hissed.

Layla raised the knife.

[stop now. daughter]

and Layla [stop]

and Layla [stop]

and Layla [stop]

[The female officer presses “Stop.”

“There’s no more,” she says.

“I know.”

“That other voice, it gets louder, doesn’t it?”

“Stronger, yes.”

“Someone telling you to stop, to change course.”

“Perhaps.”

“Where does it come from?”

Layla moves her hand around, pointing to imagined places in the air. “Where did any of it come from? My mother, the rest of them, they found His stories because they were looking for them. Who’s to say there aren’t others out there?”

The female officer frowns. “It’s strange, I’ll grant you.” She leans forwards, elbows on the table. “What happened in the chamber, Layla?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Where is Lizzie?”

“Safe. I need to go to her. I need to look after her. Will you let me do that?”

“You know that can’t happen until you tell us everything.”

Layla straightens herself in the chair. “I’ll need to be going soon, to look after my girl.”

The officer shakes her head. “Tell us. You killed the others, didn’t you?”

Layla smiles.

“I saw them. I saw what you did to them.” The officer bares her teeth behind a tiny gap between her lips. “But not the old one. The one you say is your mother. She was untouched. Dead, but untouched.”

“Do you feel okay?” Layla asks. “You seem more resilient than most. Not like your friend. But it’s still hard on you. Nobody knows that better than I do.”

“We’re not here to answer your questions, you’re—”

They both jolt upright at a screeching, screaming noise from outside.

The sound is raw, primeval, like a wild animal in great pain.

“Jesus. What was that?” the officer says.

“I think you know,” Layla replies.

The sound is followed by a chaotic crash and then a heavy thud. There is another scream of pain, a woman’s voice this time. The sound ends after a few seconds with brutal suddenness, like someone switching off a radio.

The female officer has placed both palms on the table. Her eyes are wide, her breathing deep and slow.

Layla says, “You’ll need to go out there, see what’s happening.”

There is another loud bang, followed by a man’s voice. It sounds like he is trying to form a word, but he, too, is interrupted, turned off.

“It’s your job,” Layla says. “You can’t sit here with me, pretending to care about the dead people in the church, when there are living people out there who need your help, can you?”

The female officer nods and is out of her seat and through the door of the interview room without another word.

Layla hears her inquisitor shouting, “Stop!”

Layla remains motionless in her seat for several minutes. The sounds she hears from outside are terrible, traumatising noises, but she sits and listens as if they are nothing more than the pattering of rain on the window. Beneath her left eye, a nerve twitches under the skin. It dies down, then flickers to life again. Over and over.

When the noise outside finally subsides, she waits awhile longer.

The female officer does not come back in.

Layla reaches toward the iPhone on the table. Joshua’s phone, the device he used to play The Collection. She tosses it on the floor and then stands above it, resting her heel on the screen.

Before Layla can press down, the first story begins to fill the room again, the voice not as strong and true as before, but still weirdly attractive to her ear.

She lifts her foot and stamps down, hard.

The voice becomes uneven, the words mangled.

She stamps again, almost breaking the phone in two.

“and and and” the voice repeats, over and over, desperately trying to reach the next word.

Layla stamps one more time. The voice falls silent.

She bends down and picks up a memory card from the mess of glass and metal, snaps it, then places the remains in her pocket.

Layla walks out of the interview room into a narrow corridor with dirty cream walls. She reaches an open door and pauses to look inside. A camera and lighting equipment are strewn around, two chairs lie toppled over. Between them, a grey-haired figure in a white shirt is silent and prone on the floor. Blood pools on the linoleum around his head.

Layla moves on, following exit signs until she turns the corner and faces the office behind the reception desk.

A tableau of insanity opens before her.

Somehow, Layla manages to continue looking. Even in her current state, in which a strange fugue has placed her at one remove from the world, the mangle of blood and limbs and violence is sickening. The female officer has been most harshly dealt with.

The male officer’s body is the only one not to have been mutilated. He sits on the floor, still upright, a large hunting-style knife in his hand, both his wrists slashed.

Layla picks up a heavy coat hanging on a peg next to her and exits the police station.

She does not rush, does not run. Layla stands on the steps of the station, puts on the coat, pulls up the hood, and walks out onto the street.

She takes the same path, along the same route, on her way to the same place. Hood pulled up, Layla even watches her feet pacing along the asphalt, just as she did all those years ago.

On the Stratford Road, police cars blaze past her, heading back toward the town.

She climbs the hill and turns into the fields by the river, doubles back, and enters the overgrown grounds of the old “Witch House.”

It is late evening now, getting darker. As she pushes her way through the thorns, wildlife skitters, birds fly from the trees, and small mammals scurry away from her path. The branches and the fading light are no obstacle; she has found this place countless times in her dreams.

After the chamber, after wielding the blade on her “Brethren and destroying the cassette tape,” Layla took Lizzie back to the farmhouse, grabbed blankets and clothes, then walked her across the back fields to this place.

Now, she finds her as she left her, in the clearing amid the brambles. Lizzie shivers against the cold, but there is something in her look, something more than the deadened glaze of before.

Layla sits down and places an arm around her shoulders.

It was more than just reflex. Layla knew it would be safe. The police could listen to the tape, they could even hear the words from the Other, the one that broke the spell of the prophecy, but they could not see what Layla saw, the images placed in her mind’s eye by the Other.

“There, I told you I’d come back.”

Lizzie holds her head in her hands and whimpers.

The veil is thin here, just as in the church, a place where thoughts and ideas can pass between this world and the next. In the clearing, they do not wish to be conjured to the world, like Him. They watch and protect.

In the distance, more police sirens blare their clarion call.

“Help me. I can’t stop hearing His voice,” Lizzie says. She clasps her hands to her ears. “Please, Mum, make it stop.”

“It’s okay. Come.”

She lays Lizzie down, moves so her daughter’s head rests in her lap. She strokes her hair. “Little Lizzie, my lovely little Lizzie.” The same words she used when Lizzie was a child, awake after a nightmare.

“His voice—”

“It will go, it will be pushed aside.” She continues to stroke her hair. “Little Lizzie, my lovely little Lizzie.”

She feels her daughter relax, a softening of her muscles, tension leaking from her.

“This is a good place, Lizzie. My mother knew it, too.”

“But He—”

“He is gone now. He cannot be in this place.”

They wait in silence. Minutes pass.

Layla whispers, “Can you hear her, Lizzie? Can you hear?”

TELL-TALE TIT

MARGO LANAGAN

Well, first all the dogs must be gathered, you see—and it’s no small task to go criss-crossing England from top to bottom for that. And keeping them from each others’ throats is another consideration, for the number is everything in this matter, you understand, the finicking divisions, the morsels.

All my brothers do that work, that rounding up. And they’re fierce about it—for you can imagine, can’t you, the dogs’ masters and mistresses, the shepherds and cowherds and the old ones by the firesides with an animal their last companion? They don’t want to give them up, even for a bit—they out-and-out refuse sometimes. The worst of them my brothers must subdue by force and have imprisoned—such nonsense! Would they rather never see their dog again?

The tongues, too, must be brought to the one place. We bring them inside their people—their women, mostly, because telling tales has always been a woman’s offence, woman or girl. Some men do speak out of turn. A particular sort of man does it, of a particular weakling build. Boys, of course, make mischief that way sometimes.

We collect them from prison and sometimes direct from courthouse, still smarting from their conviction. Some are struck dumb by it, as if to show how silent they can be; others are all gab and protestation, fitting their life’s remainder of talk into this last month or week or several days that remain to them.

If they are in a van, the guard informs them when they’re crossing the bridge. Listen, there, she’ll say, and the chatterers will hush, and the mad noise of the penned dogs will build towards them and envelop them. The animals set each other off on rounds of howling and barking, wilder and rougher than any hound at hunt. At that, the prisoners will curl up and weep, some of them. Those of a pale complexion will pale further, and eyes will widen and stare, seeing what that noise must mean. And now don’t they wish they had never spoken that story? Now don’t they feel sorry, pointlessly so, that for a moment’s amusement they betrayed their father or master, their brother or priest? Those in an open cart or tumbril will watch fixedly as the kennel rooves pass by, like a crop in rows, field after field. They might catch sight of my brothers off in the distance, pouring a parti-coloured crowd of tails and ears and wriggling backs from their box carts into the receiving yard. Ah, such music! might say the carter above the belling and howling. Isn’t it grand to know exactly where your little bit will go?

The penitentiary awaits them next, and they see the size of it, a great warehouse full of raw lies, from which we will soon spin silence. The windows are tiny and barred, the bare mud all around scored with cart and van tracks. Oh woe!, the tongues are crying now, those that are not frozen in fear; I swear half the mud in the streets of Dog Island is mixed of tattle-tales’ tears.

There in the gaol the tattles are kept, some only overnight if they are the last brought in—from York, say, or Northumberland. Others, Londoners, may have languished there awaiting their fate for up to three months.

(There is always some gentleman complaining in the parliament of the cost of this waiting, this gathering, this holding. Would it not be more efficient, he wonders, to take in smaller batches of tattles and of dogs, closer to the conviction dates, hard upon the assizes, and closer also to the district where the judgements are passed? Whereupon other good sirs leap up to correct him: It is a national scourge, this betrayal, this calumny, and should be dealt with in a nationalised manner. The horror is not for the fact that a dog, any local dog, should have a taste of you, but that every dog in England shall have his little bit. A convicted tattle should never know whether any dog she meets thereafter contains a particle of herself. She has become dog, and that knowledge is brought home to her, not only by her silence but by the sight of any representative of the creatures from wolfhound to lady’s lap-dog, forever after.)

At last the day comes. The surgeons assemble themselves—they are of gentler stock, of course, than are the tongues. They need not be forced; they will come at the summons of a mere piece of paper with the right crest upon it. It is not some of them’s favourite occupation, as you can imagine. There is mess and the distress, and sometimes challenges to their physical dexterity and strength, and sometimes to their medical knowhow—for some tattles bleed in such quantities that their lives are endangered, and indeed now and then given up. A death, need I say, is a mark against the surgeon, for the loss of the tongue is not only a punishment in the pain of its being cut away. The aftermath of seeing it eaten, of healing and yet never healing, of never speaking and never being more than a pitiable near-animal again, is equally vital, if not more so, to the mortification of the guilty. And to the education of the public; specifically, terror and repugnance should be aroused in any womenfolk (or womanish menfolk) who might be tempted to tattle.

Yes, so. The Cutting Hall is along the street from the gaol, and from early in the morning the public lines that street. Within the Hall we can hear them chanting their verses, cheering, roaring. The throwing of dung and rotten vegetables is not encouraged as it once was, although sometimes the appearance of an offender who has chosen a well-loved parson or personage as her target can so rouse the temper of the populace that the escort will let her be pelted without anyone fearing arrest. So was Sally Silcot dealt with, who turned her tongue against the Bishop of Manchester—I remember well the state in which she was thrust into the Hall by her men, staggering and be-slimed and already bleeding. Sometimes justice bursts out of the bounds of the written law, doesn’t it, and must be let to happen.

The cutting itself is probably much as you imagine, as horrid as that. The worst is not the blood, for beyond a certain quantity your eyes and your mind become very accustomed to seeing that stuff, and all you notice is whether the surgeon’s knife-handle, or the flag floor where he stands, is getting slippery with it to the point of impeding the work. All is kept as neat as possible, although naturally the flags, and the walls, and all the surgeons’ and the assistants’ aprons darken at first with sprays and splashes. Then, when thoroughly soaked, they gleam again, as if they were polished leather instead of cloth.

The worst is that the women themselves are not orderly, or the girls—some of them quite pretty and promising, you would think, in any other place and circumstance—or the occasional man—always whatever his age and health treated more roughly than are the women. None of them submit willingly. I swear there’s witchery in them, that they can render themselves so suddenly weighty, when they are brought in and see the man there, standing exhausted with his curved knife in his hand, crimsoned from chest to toe and spattered the rest of him. Two burly men at a minimum it takes, to bring the prisoner forward and clamp her into the bolted-down chair. And those men must use all their strength to move that rigid body. Unless—and this is worse—she breaks from her rigidity, and plunges about like a panicking cow in a bail, and again the vigour with which she leaps and struggles is uncanny for a woman. Some are very slight of frame and poorly fed, yet even these will show some fight. Though they might never have resisted any man before, of a sudden they grow a sense of how to surprise their captors, and of the weak points of the grasp upon them—it is a chilling thing to see a body’s violent intelligence, while the face stays animal, the eyes glazed with terror, the lips sometimes bitten so tightly closed that they bleed, sometimes open and panting. They seem part dog already. Indeed, one can see how cannily our courts of law have fitted the penalty to the crime.

So by contrast with what went before it is restful, almost, when the tattle is fastened in the chair, with her head and legs clamped and her arms pinned behind her by the warders. A good surgeon then works very speedily, through her noise, through her gargling. If she chokes and coughs he stands back while her windpipe clears, then starts in again.

All up and down the line of anchored chairs the struggle and the cutting are going on at different stages. I have visited one of the new steam cotton mills, and the impression is very much the same, of a single machine the length of the hall, with loom-servants darting in and out. Except that the servants here lumber and drag, rather than dart, and then the surgeon, as chief operative, steps forward and intervenes in the workings, steps out and casts the cut piece into the basket beside him. And the warders clear the woman, bloodied and fainting and entirely submissive now, clear her away to make room for the next one.

I have done my time in the hall—I am telling you this part from memory, although nothing has changed since my years there. The basket girls stand by, and only lightly are they sprayed, with what we call Dog Island freckles, from the surgeon’s work two yards away. They watch the tongues fall, and when the basket reaches a certain weight they choose their moment and exchange the full basket for an empty one—as the day goes on these fresh baskets are not so fresh, of course. They hurry with the full one along behind the surgeons’ toiling backs. At the end of the hall, a hatch opens through to the grinding room. A worker empties their basket into the grinder’s maw, and returns it, and back they go to their post. I have run to and fro all day on this work. I can tell you, it is a plague upon our nation, this tongue-wagging, these women. It is exhaustion all round for those who would work against it.

Now I am beyond that. A tattle-worker learns each stage in order, and I am in the Distribution Hall now. Distributors’ work starts later, when everything is readied.

The Hall is, of course, immense—it has to be, to hold all England’s dogs, and for them to be fed in all weathers. Standing at one end, you can barely make out the other, especially on foggy days. The roof is saw-toothed like the kennels’; light pours in through the glassed uprights, so that everything inside may be watched closely.

Two of the four long galleries are filled with the public. A certain class of people is welcomed here—neither the high-born and mightiest in the land, nor yet the lower classes who line the street from gaol to hall. It’s those in between, who run the city and the trade beyond it and call themselves respectable, who subscribe for their tickets and are sent them, who submit them at the door, and thence are shown up to their seats. The other two galleries, naturally, are lined with the tongueless tattles, brought direct from the Cutting Hall in all their states of distress and consciousness, to be seen, and to see.

Below them, the hall proper is paved with dogs. It is not one wild scrum— though, by their fussing, some of them wish it were. Each animal is battened into place in an ingenious frame that allows for his width and length and height, whatever they may be. And neither have they been fed since they were brought from all the corners of the country, and it is wonderful how the smell of ground-up meat will revive a fainting animal. They are all alert and hallooing. It is a pitiable sight and a strange one, and a strange and pitiable sound, too. And if their yearning song should pause or lull at all, behind it sound the groans and weeping of the punished women, their first and failing attempts to speak, to complain, through their tongueless mouths. Oh, the cries! Grown women’s voices, but their speech indistinct as newborns’. They hardly sound human, or like any other known beast. At first I didn’t think I could bear the suffering orchestra, animal on all sides and monstrous above. I heard them all night in my sleep as well as through the days. Now I am well used to it. I look up in amusement to the farmers and lawyers and men-about-town in the gallery, so cleanly clothed, their faces so very white, their eyes wide upon the stained and mutilated figures opposite them, their pale soft hands to their delicate ears to shut out the noise.

We go about the hall of dogs, each Distributor with her pot of paste and her long-handled spoon. We must be neither too generous nor too stingy; there must be no paste left at the end of the day, and there must be no dog left that has not had his taste. The first several days I worked the Hall, the accountant gave us guidance as to the size of the portions; now I only need to hear the numbers—of dogs and of tongues, both always increasing—to know how to round off each spoonful.

We need not hurry. There is no reason why this part of the punishment should be shortened, for the tattles’ sake or for the public’s. We must watch that each spoonful is devoured completely, whether it is taken whole from the spoon or knocked to the ground and licked up from there. The public likes to see that such care is taken, and the tattles need to know that not the merest smudge of minced meat has escaped the dogs’ mouths.

When all is done, we take our shining pots, emptied for the last time, and parade below the galleries, for the spectators’ satisfaction and to show the punished tell-tales that what was once theirs is now part of other beings even more degraded than themselves.

Then the wardens come for the tattles, to take them away to whatever life awaits them now. Some have families outside, anxious to reclaim and console them—it’s surprising how many, if you think of the ruin these women have tried to bring down on virtuous men. Others are fading in mind and health and need to be returned to the gaol and tended by the surgeon. The dispersal of the remainder is complicated and secretive. They can’t just be turned out onto London’s streets—the ruffians out there would eat them alive! They must be removed back to their counties of origin, thrown on the mercies of asylums or benevolent hospitals. If they are sound in mind and tranquil in temperament, they can be left in the streets of any sizable town, where they may beg their living from more respectable people—or fail to, and die of their own abjection.

I have worked as a tattle-girl since I was seven years old. All of my family is in this trade, and we have made our names as hard workers, unmoved by the distressing sights put before us daily. We never gossip about what we do, and we are diligent in every aspect of the work, whether it be with dogs, tattles or only inanimate tongues. If I were to seek other work, any of my superintendents would vouch for my steady temper and my dutiful conduct.

But I cannot think I’ll ever move on from the island. My heart’s well hardened now. None of this business upsets me. I sleep the sleep, not just of the just, but of the deliverers of justice; I rise in the morning and know that I go to perform good work, for and before my fellow man, my country and Almighty God.

THE LAST BOX

LUIGI MUSOLINO TRANSLATED BY JAMES D. JENKINS

How do you do it? How the hell do you manage to fit inside such a small box without breaking your back?

I’ve been asked that question so many times.

You see, it’s a matter of training every day since I was a kid, combined with a peculiar physical predisposition. Apparently people like me have ligaments that are unusually long, more flexible than the average person’s.

You might say that I live in a perpetually stretched state. That I’m constantly practicing how to disappear.

An illusionist of the flesh.

In the morning I get up and go through my stretching exercises. Then I rehearse my numbers for the performance until late afternoon, allowing myself only a short break for a frugal, hamster-sized lunch.

My numbers are difficult ones; my organs shift in my rib cage, my backbone bends like a reed, I slip my head under one knee and then the other, keeping my balance with my hands. Finally I scrunch up on the floor like a dying spider, and when I’m limber enough, my muscles warmed up, my joints greased, I can finally get in the box.

The most complicated number, the one that makes the little kids scream and the young ladies wrinkle their noses: my half-naked body closes in on itself, following abstruse angles and geometries, squeezing into a cube a little bigger than a shoebox.

That’s roughly what my days are like. Marked by discipline, fatigue, and sadness. When we don’t perform I go to bed early, lying in the rundown camper listening to the sounds from the Bertacca Circus. The subdued snorting of the horses, the fakir’s blaring television, the clowns’ mournful laughter, the panting of wild beasts deprived of their liberty.

And I think. Try to find new contortions and new ways to bend. To occupy spaces inaccessible to most. To make myself smaller and smaller and smaller.

I think about the interstices and the last box, about the spectators who laugh and clap but whisper ‘monster’ when they see my hairless, limber body, whose thinness borders on emaciation.

And above all I think about my parents.

My mother, a trapeze artist, whose beautiful, radiant face I can barely recall.

My father, a snake-man like me, driven mad by grief, consumed by loss. One of the best contortionists in the world, without a doubt. I learned the secrets of the craft from him.

My father knew many secrets.

He told me all of them, except for one.

The circus where I was born and raised was a small one. Always on the brink of bankruptcy. I remember the holes in the big top, the starving lions whose ribs you could count, the cannonball lady’s obscene, drunken screaming.

There was nothing romantic about that life. Up and down the boot-shaped peninsula, stopping in nameless provincial towns where permit costs were low and the circus manager knew he could at least sell enough tickets to cover expenses.

We passed through foggy landscapes and sunlit roads in a slow caravan of campers, trucks, and trailers; we trudged through regions and seasons to meet yet another audience of dull-eyed yokels in search of cheap thrills, exposed flesh, and cut-rate exoticism.

Every morning, if we weren’t traveling, my parents would practice.

Mom on the trapeze, pirouetting in mid-air like a feather, defying gravity and the sixty feet that separated her from the safety net. Alone. She had no partner aside from those two iron bars supported on four ropes. And the safety net.

Dad outside, in the square or the field where we pitched the big top, curving his body into insane positions that would have meant dislocations (or worse) for most human beings. And I, only a child, trained along with him. Contortionism is also a matter of genetics. Of the distance between vertebrae, the flexibility of collagen. I had taken after him.

‘You’re going to be good. Very good. Maybe better than your dad,’ he would often tell me, smiling as I imitated his positions. ‘We’ll do our first show together before long.’

Mom would join us after she had finished twirling under the red and yellow apse of the big top, squeezed into a gold-sequined outfit, her legs muscular and shapely, her eyes big with love and adrenaline, and she would stop to exercise with us.

I said earlier that there was nothing romantic about our lives. That’s untrue, a statement dictated by years of loneliness and regret, by the dark shadows of depression that have crept into my adult mind.

We were the romantic part. Our family. My mother and father, young, in love, beautiful, the circus’s main attraction, the only two artists able to elicit a standing ovation from the spectators, half asleep from their work in the fields, from their abusive drinking, from the tedious and repetitive way their strings were pulled by the wretched puppeteer that is provincial life.

Us.

I don’t know how my parents wound up working at such a shabby circus, but the other performers were all of the opinion that they would soon be noticed by some major showman who would help them make the leap to better things. They deserved to perform in a great show. The Togni Circus, the Orfei, the Balzelli, or maybe abroad, in France, under a huge and shiny pavilion where the pay was guaranteed and life was easier.

They never got the chance.

There were shadows on the horizon, a plague infesting the future with a seething, wormy rot, a blackness that not even the lights of the most glorious circus in the world could penetrate.

Winter. It was an ashen and skeletal day that greeted our arrival in Orlasco, a rosary of houses and potato fields beading towards the Alps, twenty miles from Turin. In the sky, vapors of fog sketched a perfect backdrop for the crows gliding over the frost-encrusted fields in search of food.

I was only seven, but I can still distinctly remember the architecture of the village and the far-off mountains. As well as the feeling that our caravan was entering hostile territory, a ghost town. A mantle of abandonment and anguish seemed to weigh on the main street, a strip of asphalt lined with decaying buildings and sad poplars.

“Nice place,” my mother observed, her eyes squinting to peer through the waves of mist beyond the camper’s windshield.

“Nice place indeed,” Dad echoed her. “But it’s not going to be like this forever. I can feel it, we just have to hang in there.”

But dreams of glory lead nowhere, even in the best of cases. In the worst, they lead to disaster, like what happened to my family. There’s no such thing as glory. One day even the greatest conductor, the best writer, will vanish from memory, from the chronicles, from history, because sooner or later the chronicles and history will disappear too and only the void that follows us will remain. Within that void, always at our heels, there are axioms in motion that we can’t understand. And which sometimes, if we’re unlucky enough, can haunt our earthly path. I realized this later, as I cried for the caresses I would never receive again, while my father, insane from suffering, would lock himself in the camper, continuing his crazy contortions.

We made our way slowly through the soft stillness of Orlasco, a funeral procession in search of the burial site, all the way to the center of town. We were met by some townspeople, some children.

The circus exists, lives, for children. But in that place even they seemed little more than haze, the sketch of something in progress that would never fully take shape.

Hurrying through the administrative small talk, the ringmaster returned to the square, shouting orders at us with the ugly expression of someone who has realized that business is not going to be good. The tapeworms of bankruptcy had been eating at him for a while. A few years later he would commit suicide by sprinkling goat’s blood on himself and walking naked into the tiger cage.

We rushed to set up the big top under a fat city councilman’s straw-colored and suspicious eye, shrouded in a damp cold that seemed to seep through our clothes, our bones, our marrow.

Our performance was scheduled for the following evening.

I’ll never know how the news made its way through the trailers and sideshows the next morning. But word started to jump from mouth to mouth, lighting the fire of hope in our eyes. There were quite a few of us who longed for something better for the years to come.

“The manager of the Balzelli circus is supposed to be here tonight, looking for new talent!”

“They’re on tour in Turin. Maybe Madame Balzelli herself will come too, the divine Madame Balzelli!”

“They might sign one of us . . .”

Although none of this could be verified, my parents exploded with joy, for illusions often have a greater power than truth.

All eyes were on them. Envious eyes, for the most part. They were the likeliest candidates. Definitely not the cannonball lady, as irritating as a mosquito, nor the sword swallower who had injured his palate a few weeks earlier, nor the crackhead lion tamer, the squalid clowns, the thuggish strong man.

As if fleeing a hailstorm, all the circus performers retreated to their mobile dwellings, including us. It was time to work out a strategy, refine our tricks, make changes to the performance, in case the manager or Madame Balzelli made an appearance.

There was determination in my father’s eyes. He took me in his arms and ruffled my hair, and I can still smell his scent of aftershave, coffee, sweat, and tobacco. “Tonight, you’ll perform with me. You’ll do the exercises I taught you, you’ll bend into the Frog Boy. The audience will love it. You want to?”

It was what I had been longing for. I almost burst into tears of happiness. I quivered.

My first performance.

A moment later I saw it in my mother’s eyes: she was already there among the circus elite, conquering the world, in a future of high-tech campers, spotlights, big cities, and deafening applause.

“Tonight, I’ll perform without a net,” she announced. “Like the great trapeze artists. Without a net.”

Dad shook his head in fear but did nothing to dissuade her.

In a greasy fog, thick as lard, the first spectators began to materialize in the streets of Orlasco around nine o’clock that night. Little more than distorted outlines, queuing at the box office to buy a ticket that would give them a break in their routine for a couple of hours. They entered the big top in silence, their mouths open wide and eyes looking upwards, as if they were entering an awe-inspiring cathedral or disembarking on an alien planet.

Children laughed and shouted.

The ringmaster shouted his “Come one, come all!” towards the still-undecided townspeople at the edge of the square.

We artists followed the pantomime from behind the scenes, anxiously wondering whether some representative of the Balzelli circus would settle down in the uncomfortable plastic seats or if we’d gotten excited over nothing.

Despite the cold, dismal night, the big top was nearly full. The villagers munched on peanut brittle and cotton candy, rumbling with anticipation under the spotlights that reduced their faces to featureless blobs.

And when we were about to give up on our dreams of glory, five minutes before the start of the show, a loud “Oooh” rose from the crowd, and we saw the ringmaster give an obsequious bow, guiding a small procession towards the best seats.

It was her. The divine Madame Balzelli, accompanied by two no-neck henchmen, bulls with dim-witted faces.

I had often heard about her.

Even as a child I wondered the reason for that nickname. Divine. There was nothing divine about the woman. Very tall, thin as a willow, wrapped in a golden tunic marked with strange arabesques, she looked like an Egyptian mummy. An enormous turban covered her egg-shaped head, competing in size with the aquiline nose that dominated the center of her wizened face, in which the sly and very black eyes of a predator gleamed.

There were cackles, shouts, and applause as Madame Balzelli made her way through the audience and settled into one of the frontmost seats with the movements of an eel, eyeing our battered big top with a mixture of amusement and disgust.

Then the lights went out.

The ringmaster, a misshapen pupil in the eye of the spotlight, made his little introductory speech.

Backstage the performers held their breath, their eyes fixed on Madame Balzelli.

“We’re starting,” someone rasped.

Mom, Dad, and I hugged.

And the show began.

Everyone gave their all, everyone performed to the best of their ability.

In the air there was a smell of revenge, redemption.

The Divine Balzelli followed our adventures with an impassive look, huddling in conversation every so often with her henchmen.

The minutes flew by.

When the ringmaster introduced our number, mine and Dad’s, I experienced a moment of extreme terror, followed by a flash of excitement.

My first show, and in the presence of Madame Balzelli!

“Everything will be fine,” Dad said.

“You’ll both be great,” Mom said with a laugh. “I love you. Show that old witch a thing or two.”

A kiss on the cheek, and the next moment we were out there, in front of about two hundred people, distorting our bodies for glory and because it was all we knew how to do.

It didn’t go well. It went brilliantly.

Synchronicity, elegance, virtuosity, harmony. The audience let out cries at each of our feats, as our choreographies grew increasingly daring and complex.

I transformed myself into the Frog Boy, dislocating my shoulders and legs in such an unnatural way that it forced a shout of surprise from the crowd.

At the end, my father and I squeezed together into a box twenty-eight inches on each side, knotted around each other like two snakes. As we extricated ourselves from our monstrous and harmonic embrace and emerged
from the box, we realized our number had been a success. That maybe our dreams would come true.

Everyone was on their feet clapping.

Even Madame Balzelli.

Mad with joy, I whirled around to meet my mother’s eyes.

I didn’t find them.

She had already climbed up, to a world that was only hers, a universe where life depended on two trapezes dangling lazily over the mere mortals below.

The drum roll. Mom sixty feet above the ground, hundreds of eyes turned towards her, a goddess in silver sequins suspended above our heads. The lights low, the lights low.

She performed alone, as I’ve already told you, she always had. She didn’t trust anybody but herself, that’s what she always said . . .

Platform, trapeze, trapeze, platform. Perfect moves, practiced thousands of times, wrapping and twisting her body like a mermaid of the air, then grasping the bar forcefully, escaping the fall.

Some nights, when I close my eyes, I still seem to see her white, sinuous body twirling in the dark, surrounded in a fluorescence emanating from her strength, her love.

I didn’t realize then the danger of a performance without safeguards. She was my mother. Nothing could go wrong.

Dad was smiling and staring at her, but in his face I read an enormous fear. That was the moment when I realized how much he loved her. I wanted to love someone like that when I grew up, I thought.

Silence after the roar of the drums. Lungs paralyzed from holding in breath.

And then it started.

Without a net. Nothing beneath her but emptiness, sand, the clowns’ melted grease paint, and remnants of horse manure.

Increasingly difficult maneuvers.

Madame Balzelli was mesmerized, her beaky nose stretching upwards, her tiny eyes shining with amazement. When the show was, over she would go and talk with the ringmaster, would cough up a good sum of money and take us away from there, away from mediocrity, yes.

My mother had never made a mistake. She wouldn’t make one this time either. And as a matter of fact she didn’t. She fired up the crowd with a triple back flip, landed lightly on the platform, a goldfinch, and we knew the performance was over, and the lights came on, and it was a triumph.

But Mom wasn’t finished with her number yet. Why she decided to keep going, to attempt one last risky and reckless feat, remains a mystery to me. Maybe she wanted to push herself to the limit, assure a future for herself in Madame Balzelli’s circus. Maybe it was just plain vanity. Or maybe, I sometimes tell myself, she had crossed the line that divides bitter reality from happy ending.

She silenced the enraptured crowd with a brusque hand gesture, then made another hand signal to the technicians to dim the lights.

And she jumped again.

I heard my father moan, “She’s going to do the reverse pike! No! Why . . . ?” and I squeezed his arm tighter.

A slow-motion tragedy.

Mom swung with force, glued to the trapeze, muscles and nerves tensed to the utmost, then finally let go of the bar. The second trapeze didn’t swing in sync with her angle of descent. She tried to grab it, but it was too far away. A matter of a couple of inches.

She came down like a hunk of lead, screaming.

I still hear that scream, followed by the rumble of shock from the spectators, and then a thud.

Thump.

A block of wood, a sack of potatoes, an inanimate object.

Dad hurtled towards the crumpled bundle in the sand, all sequins and bodily fluids, and although someone tried to hold me back I managed to wriggle away and follow him.

Mom no longer looked like a goddess.

The fall, accelerated by the spin of her leap, had been catastrophic. Her graceful body was completely altered; her neck and spine were twisted at a freakish angle, her face planted in the sand, which was turning black with blood, her legs disarticulated like a puppet’s. Two lines of tears and mascara flowed from her dead eyes, the irises turned towards the bridge of her nose in a tragicomic squint. Subjected to a cruel game of levers, her leotard and the skin on her belly were torn, opening into a red and yellow eye of entrails.

The spine broken at an acute angle.

My mother, in death, had become a work of modern art celebrating the fallibility of the material of which Man is made.

I saw the clowns crying, the strong man vomiting, a distraught Madame Balzelli fleeing for the exit. The locals, torn between alarm and morbid curiosity, circled like a human Ouroboros around the circumference of the rink.

Before they dragged me away from the horror of the scene in a state of shock, I looked at my father.

He was studying my mother’s back as though trying to understand, to comprehend the new and abstruse angles and perspectives of cartilage, bones, muscles. His eyes were bulging out of his head.

For a fraction of a second he turned towards me. He was someone else. I almost didn’t recognize him.

I’ve never seen an expression like that since, thank heavens.

The expression of someone who has understood that even gods can die.

We stayed in the shabby circus.

Dad went crazy.

I think from guilt: blinded perhaps by the chance of success, he hadn’t done anything to force my mother to perform with safety measures in place. The final image of her we would carry with us would be nightmarish, terrible.

I understood that he wanted to be left alone, and so I kept my distance, praying every night that he could process his grief and somehow we could be a family again, him and me.

He closed himself off in a pain made up of silence, obsession, and training. It was like I no longer existed, as if the passing of the woman he loved had erased me as well.

We stopped practicing together, but at night we would perform our show in tandem at the circus, which since the accident had fallen into disarray.

Every day, every night, he did nothing but train, shut inside the trailer’s little bedroom, wallpapered with photos of my mother, of their life together. He wouldn’t let me inside for any reason. He would practice up to eighteen hours a day, and his diet became a nightmare of seeds, apples, and self-pity. Already as thin as a rail, he lost another ten kilos. His face seemed to change, becoming closer and closer to that of a repulsive human snake.

I practiced alone outside, with him always shut up in the damned trailer, cold as stone, his eyes empty, not even a tear.

I was little and couldn’t understand everything. But when about three months had passed since Mom’s death, by which time I had become a ghost too, I made a decision: I would spy on him through the keyhole.

What was he doing in there, without any sound filtering under the door? Why didn’t he want me with him, why did he forbid me to be near him?

It was an evening in late spring when my eye approached the keyhole. It took me a few moments to spot my father, whose body an anorexic model would have envied. He stood lazily doing warm-up exercises. Nothing else. Routine movements for a professional contortionist. He went on for at least an hour, with me there the whole time holding my breath. Then, for another hour, he carried out increasingly daring maneuvers, several of which I had never seen him do before and which caused even me to groan in amazement. I had to cover my mouth to avoid giving myself away.

After some cool-down exercises, I watched him head towards the center of the room, where there was a very small box, around fourteen inches on each side. He sat down beside it and began the most absurd and harrowing contortion I had ever seen. And yet I had seen it before.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. I would have liked to gouge them out, but I couldn’t look away.

He was imitating my mother’s death pose.

His spine at an acute angle. His legs twisted behind his back, his head on the floor, turned at an angle not contemplated by a living body, on his face a dreadful and yet ecstatic mask that looked beyond, or perhaps into the great beyond, whatever that means.

It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible for him to bend like that without breaking his neck, without his bones, muscles, tendons, and ligaments snapping apart.

It was a caricature of human anatomy, of medical science, even of contortionism.

Anyone would have died in such a position.

Finally—and I heard his joints creak, his tendons whistle—he reassumed a “normal” position, and with a fluid, reptilian movement, he slipped into that tiny box. An incredible feat, but it was nothing compared to what he had done before.

I stifled a cry, moved away from the door, left the trailer and ran through the fields, into swampy, mosquito-infested poplar groves, freaked out and wondering what I had just witnessed. When I got back to the circus two hours later, my father was still locked in his room.

I promised myself I would never peep through the keyhole again, not for any reason.

I never asked him why he did it, and above all how he had managed it.

Was it pain, love, my mother’s death, that had allowed him to do it? And doing it, did he feel closer to her, did he go to her?

I think so, but . . . who can say?

I can only tell you that my father never recovered . . . How can you survive the death of the greatest love of your life? You can’t. But for a brief period he was the best contortionist in the world.

He pushed the limits further and further every day, even during his performances. One night he caused a couple of audience members to faint when he squeezed into a box nine inches on each side. It sounds impossible, I know. And yet he did it. I didn’t dare imagine what he got up to in the semi-darkness of his room, half starved, more and more withered, obsessed, elastic.

“It’s not even fucking contortionism anymore.” One night I heard these words seep from the ringmaster’s trailer. “Never seen anything like it. It’s magic. Witchcraft. Since his wife died he hasn’t been in his right mind anymore. But he’s my best artist, the circus is still standing thanks to him . . .”

In an atmosphere of constant anguish, the heaviness which precedes those events that trace a boundary line in life, an entire year of mourning, performances, and wanderings passed.

The anniversary of my mother’s death arrived. We were in the vicinity of Idrasca, not too far from Orlasco, another one of those places nobody ever goes—not even by accident—unless they were born there. The big top was pitched, the show scheduled for that evening.

Morning. Dad came out of his room and made me breakfast. He hadn’t done that in a long time. I thought it was a good sign and hugged him, and he returned my embrace, whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

We ate in silence, father and son sitting at a small table in a dilapidated trailer, the dirty windows turning the sunlight the color of an egg yolk.

He drank an entire pot of coffee by himself, smoked a cigarette without looking at me, and I knew he was thinking about Mom. He never thought of anything but her. Neither did I, for that matter.

Finally he stood up, put out his cigarette, and headed for his bedroom. “I’m going to practice my routine. Be good. I love you.”

The door closed, I heard the click of the lock.

I waited and waited and waited, never walking away.

Late that night, worried, I knocked softly. “Everything all right, Dad?”

No response but silence.

The keyhole. Inside, darkness.

I knocked harder, then I shouted, I cried, and still there was nothing but silence. Someone heard me. A bunch of people came running.

The strong man knocked down the door. We turned on the light. There was no one in the room. The little window was latched from inside. While everyone was calling my father’s name, I noticed something in the middle of the room.

A tiny cardboard box, an inch and a half on each side. With trembling hands I picked it up, looked inside.

Empty.

A faint aroma of coffee, aftershave, sweat, and tobacco reached my nostrils.

No one ever saw him again.

Many years have passed. I’ve performed in many circuses, visited thousands of places, and I’ve been working for years now at the Bertacca. I’ve never stopped practicing, pushing myself a little further every day.

Extreme training, smaller and smaller boxes, even during performances.

Like Dad.

During the shows I often watch the trapeze artists and lose myself in my memories.

But I can’t get distracted.

I have to go on, keep bending my body, disassembling my flesh, discovering new levers and new spaces to reach my parents.

I think I’m making good progress. And maybe there will come a tomorrow when I too manage to get inside the last, smallest box. An inch and a half on each side. It’s only a question of perseverance, physical predisposition, pain, and love.

There’s something magical and terrible about pain and love. They can open doors that are sometimes better left closed. But I’ll do everything I can to open them and explore that emptiness that follows us and grants us no respite.

1855

JACOB STEVEN MOHR

The following represents a verifiably accurate transcription of correspondence between a Mr. Timothy Ford in New York City and one Dr. Douglas Montebank at the University of Cambridge in Britain. Historical records indicate Ford was director of the New York City Foundling Institution at the date of postmark; Montebank was a tenured professor at Cambridge at that same time. While certain aspects of this account have been altered to protect the privacy of any still-living descendants of either correspondent, the narrative herein can be understood to be genuine in fact and detail and should be taken overall as a true accounting of events.

Addressed to

Dr. Douglas Montebank

University of Cambridge, Department of the Sciences

1 Trumpington Street, Cambridge, England

29 July 1855

My Dear Douglas,

Apologies first for the tardiness of this communication; the returning train from my younger cousin’s wedding in Virginia was delayed inexplicably, leaving me without my luggage in Richmond for nearly four days. Then upon my return to New York, a new batch of arrivals immediately consumed my attention. The long and short of it is this: a brutal fire in one of the poorer neighborhoods on Long Island took nearly a mile square of tenements, the end result being nearly forty motherless children in need of care. The orphanage on the island itself had beds available for twenty-five; my own institution took the overflow, fourteen youngsters in all. I’ve included a news clipping regarding the fire with this letter, to peruse at your leisure.

These all being children from the same neighborhood, thirteen of the new group knew of each other, which helped them adjust more quickly to their new accommodations. The fourteenth, however, was not so fortunate. I should say straight off that these fourteen children arrived while I was still on the journey back to New York; it was the Sisters in my employ who relayed the details of these early days to me. This last child was called Luca Palermo—dusky of skin and eyes and hair, like the Christ-child is depicted sometimes in paintings. Luca did not seem to know the other arrivals; in fact, in the few days before I arrived back, he failed to speak more than a few solemn words to anyone, as reported by Sister Marie-Francis. These were in heavily accented English: clearly the boy was an immigrant who had somehow been folded into the throng of orphan arrivals at my institute. Even two weeks after my return it was uncertain if Luca was truly an orphan at all, for none of the sisters nor myself spoke more than a dozen words between us of Italian—his native tongue, we discerned.

My friend, it is in the case of this mysterious young man that I would once more call upon your wise council. I have labored for two weeks to come to terms with the implications of the recent events at my institution and, over and over again, the well has come dry when I drop the bucket down in. I hope that your learning, or at the very least your keen intuition, will help me make some sense of this situation, and better still divine the best path forward.

I believe this Luca Palermo to be eight years old, or a little older. In the two weeks I have had to observe him, he interacted very little with either the Sisters or myself, or even with the other children at my institution, many of whom were close to his own age. At first I reasoned that it must be the difficulty of language, coupled with the distress of losing his parents: how huge and lonely the world must seem, being unable to communicate except in fragments of a tongue not your own! Mostly Luca kept to himself, refusing to play with the other children when they were brought out to the courtyard, preferring to find a shaded corner with a toy or two and make his own small mischiefs there. I was concerned initially with thoughts to his education, but on the whole his quiet temperament meant that he escaped my notice for the most part; thus the true strangeness of his behavior did not ring its bell until after the first week or so.

Then came the night of 20 July—a Friday. I was asleep; it was again Sister Marie-Francis making the rounds in the boys’ sleeping-quarters by light of a hooded lantern. I was later woken by a knock at the door of my own bedroom. Covering myself with a robe, I found the good Sister in my doorway. I asked her what she could want at such a late hour, and my friend, I will never forget the cold righteous fear in her voice as she gave her reply:

“The boy, Luca Palermo—he speaks with the Devil.”

I confess my own blood ran a little chilly at this, but it was more from the expression on her face in the lantern-light than from any true fear of a demonic force. I have told you in the past that I am lapsed in my faith—a point of some friction between myself and Marie-Francis and the other Sisters who work under me. So she was not satisfied to simply deliver this news and let me sleep; before I could protest my incredulity, she took me firmly by the sleeve of my nightshirt and led me down the hall and up the stairs to where the boys sleep in their one big room. The door to the room had been left ajar; we crept through it, Marie-Francis still leading me by the shirtsleeve. I remember thinking to myself that if someone had spotted us going up the stairs together, they might have thought we were engaged in a tryst of some kind. But such thoughts fled me soon enough, when we arrived near Luca’s bed.

Sister Marie-Francis had doused the lantern by this point, forcing us to navigate by touch in the darkness. We moved silently—both of us had spent enough time in that old building to know which boards creaked and which did not, and the snores of the other boys covered our steps as well. Luca’s bunk was the bottom of a stack of three; there, in the weak moonlight from an unshrouded window, we could make out the shape of him, sitting up on the bed.

“Listen . . .” Sister Marie-Francis hissed through her teeth.

Confused, I did as I was asked. Luca had not heard us or noticed our presence. At first, I heard only snores and the sound of my own breathing. Then Luca spoke, in Italian as before:

“Mamma . . . Quando torni?”

Only then did I see the other figure sitting in the bed with him.

My breathing and my heartbeat both seemed to stop—but only for a moment. My eyes were still adjusting to the lack of the lantern, and presently I understood what I beheld. Luca had lumped the bedclothes into a kind of person-shape, with his pillow and clothing-bag underneath the blanket to give the thing structure. This form leaned against the wood crossbeams of the bed, seeming to recline—indeed, it appeared so person-like in the dark that I had been completely deceived, at least briefly. I understood the situation immediately, especially when I saw Luca embrace the blanket-shape. He had called it “Mamma . . .” decipherable in any tongue. Here was a boy in extraordinary torment, who could not express his wants or fears to any around him. He missed is mother, so he built one, here in the dark, to comfort him. Very well . . . so he was orphaned, after all. In truth, I felt relieved, if only to have the matter settled in my mind.

Now it was my turn to lead Marie-Francis by the arm. I did not chastise her for waking me or for her foolish superstition—I only told her that we would need to take special care of Luca, and that finding someone to translate the boy’s Italian had now become a marquis issue for the Institution. Perhaps Luca did have family we could return him to, such was my reasoning at that time. For her part, Sister Marie-Francis seemed much embarrassed by her mistake and went back to her chambers without another word on the subject. I returned to sleep immediately, again believing the matter for the moment settled.

My friend, how wrong I truly was. Our troubles were only beginning.

The next morning a fight broke out in the boys’ sleeping quarters. This is not a rare occurrence: boys fight, it is what makes them boys. But this morning, it was Luca in the middle of the fracas. The Sisters were completely unable to separate the two brawlers, so I was called in: immediately I saw them beside Luca’s bunk, the dark-haired boy astride the other, beating him mercilessly with his fists. The other boy was bleeding from the nose and crying loudly, apologizing . . . to Luca’s deaf ears, who of course did not speak English. His victim was also bleeding from a half-ring cut on his cheek; apparently, Luca had bitten him.

Luca kept screaming out this phrase: “Mamma nascosta! L’ hai uccisa!”

Indeed, his blanket-mother was in a pile on the floor beside the bunks. Evidently, one of the other boys had destroyed Luca’s creation, and the dark-eyed boy was taking his revenge. When I pulled him off the other boy, he turned his fists and feet on me, though he was small enough not to injure me much. I still could not communicate with him, so I merely held him aloft in my arms until he stopped thrashing. Soon after he went limp, crying weakly. I brought him to my office and locked him inside, intending to interview one or two of the other children to work out a chain of events, but soon Luca came alive again, dashing himself against the locked door with all his strength, again crying out: “Mamma nascosta! Mamma nascosta!”

I was baffled as to how to proceed at first. I have spanked several of the boys in the past for various infractions, but this seemed to me to be an unusual case—one where corporal punishment might work against my goals, rather than for them. But with no way to speak to Luca, I could devise no method of disciplining him. Eventually I conspired with Sister Marie-Francis to give the boy a sedative to keep him from injuring himself and left him dozing in my office while I consulted with her and a few of the other Sisters regarding how best to proceed next. Marie-Francis again insisted on asserting the child’s devil-connection; disturbingly, the other Sisters nodded agreement at this, but I waved them off.

“Have we not helped troubled boys like this before?” I asked them. “Have we not seen the shock and hurt of losing one’s parents, one’s place in the world, stir such behavior in youths twice Luca’s age? The trouble is that we cannot communicate with him; it has placed a screen between him and us, a screen through which only shadows are visible. You see the Devil in these shadows—I see another kind of torment. But disregarding what shape the darkness takes, we must find some way of shining light into it . . .”

I confess: My voice raised a little when I spoke these words, and the Sisters were all cowed by them, save for Marie-Francis. The fear in their eyes, the zealous fury at this child . . . it frustrated and incensed me in a manner I cannot quite put to words. But the result at least was a productive one. Another of the Sisters, Jeannette, announced timidly that she might know of a solution to our predicament: a priest she knew from a Massachusetts parish, Father Bessio, would be in the city in three days’ time. It had not been his intention to visit the Foundling Institution for more than a few minutes, but surely if he knew the severity of the situation, he could be counted upon to lend whatever aid he could. I was much heartened by this news: this priest, Jeanette said, spoke both English and Italian fluently. With a translator aiding us, we could surely learn the source of Luca’s torment, and set about to helping him at last.

The next three days passed slowly. There was no encore to Luca’s fight with the other boy, but there was great tension in the air at all times wherever he went. The other boys gave him a considerable berth, wary of his fury. He spoke even less than he had when he first arrived, and ate noticeably less as well. The blanket-mother, this “mamma nascosta,” did not make another appearance, nor did Marie-Francis or any of the other Sisters report that Luca was speaking with the Devil or any other entity; I suspected that Luca was disassembling his creation every morning before we awoke, returning her to the bedclothes as men return to the dust.

Then, on the third day, Father Bessio arrived. He was a younger man than I had expected. I had pictured in my head a gray-haired wraith, stooped with age with wispy brows and a mouth pulled down by the weight of heavy jowls. But here was a young soldier, lean and hard-eyed, with a close-cropped beard on his chin and no hat on his head. When he arrived at the door of the Institution, he made very little introduction for himself. He shook my hand, kissed Sister Marie-Francis chastely on the cheek, and stepped across the threshold like a doctor visiting the house of a dying man. He said to me, casting his eyes around the vestibule:

“Show me where you are keeping the boy, please.”

His words were accented, though the slant of his vowels was not so pronounced as Luca’s. I told him I would give him the use of my office to interview the boy; how he had known about Luca I could not say, perhaps Sister Marie-Francis had passed some message to him. To this he nodded gratefully and sat down on a bench in the vestibule to wait, staring resolutely at a painting on the wall. I went upstairs to retrieve Luca, who had napped through the mid-afternoon, as had become his custom in the past few days. I admit I was somewhat relieved to see that no blanket-mother loomed above his sleeping form when I woke him up. Since the arrival of the priest, the atmosphere inside the Foundling Institute had become much heavier, as if the air itself was thicker, more difficult to breathe.

My office has a desk and chair, as well as a low couch on which I will occasionally doze during hotter afternoons in the summer. Father Bessio was sitting in the chair when I arrived with Luca, the Sisters trailing behind me like young chicks after a mother hen. I gestured to the sofa, and Luca sank down into it, his dark eyes wide and slightly dazed from sleep. The Sisters and I crowded around the door while the man and the boy regarded each other a while—then, Bessio stood suddenly, crossed the room, and closed and locked the door in our faces.

Immediately I shouted in protest; I was afraid, you see, that Sister Marie-Francis had made some secret arrangement with the priest, still believing that the boy communed with the Devil. I worried that Bessio might harm Luca or threaten him—or try to perform an exorcism, a gesture I still believed fruitless at this stage. But the Sisters crowded around me, held me back from beating on the door with my fists. It was Marie-Francis who hissed in my ear:

“Let him work. Let him talk to the boy, he’s come all this way . . .

So in this method they mollified me. I resigned myself to listening at the keyhole like a schoolboy. Thus did the interview take on an almost mythic form, as though it were a record of some secret meeting between conspirators. This is what I heard through the solid wood, translated for me by Bessio and transcribed as best as I can remember:

Bessio began: “Sapete chi sono?” Do you know who I am?

To this Luca gave no response; either he nodded or shook his head.

The priest said, “Mi chiamo Bessio, sono un prete. Sai perché sono qui?” My name is Bessio, I am a priest. Do you know why I am here?

Again the boy did not speak; if Bessio was frustrated by this, he made no sign of it. He asked Luca, “Come ti chiamano?” What do they call you?

“Luca Palermo.”

“E dove sono i tuoi genitori, Luca Palermo?” And where are your parents?

“Mamma è morta, è stato tanto tempo fa.” Mamma is dead, it happened a long time ago.

“E tuo padre?” And your father?

Again there was a moment’s silence. I pictured Luca’s face screwing up, or his eyes averting, flickering along the ceiling. Father Bessio repeated his question; at last the boy said:

“Andato.” Gone. Bessio grunted in confusion at this.

“Vuoi dire che è morto anche lui?” Gone? You mean he is dead as well?

“No—andato, solo andato.” No—gone, only gone.

“Dov’ è andato?” Where has he gone?

Luca’s voice was very quiet when he responded, but even before the priest translated the words into English I felt a peculiar thrill squirm through me. He said:

“La madre nascosta lo ha.” The hidden mother has him.

I felt Sister Marie-Francis’ sharp fingernails bite into my arm. Shaking free of her grasp, I pressed my ear to the wood, my nerves still singing. The hidden mother. Was this some reference to the Blessed Virgin, I wondered, or to the strange bedclothes-creation Luca seemed so preoccupied with? I considered that perhaps Father Bessio had not translated this last fragment accurately and was preparing to call through the door to ask for clarification. The good priest and I were of a mind, however; no sooner did I open my mouth than Bessio asked:

“Cosa vuoi dire con questo? Chi è questa persona?”

This Father Bessio did not translate immediately, but I took it to mean, “What do you mean? Who is this person?” And indeed, the next few minutes were spent convincing young Luca to divulge this information. I heard the springs of my office’s sofa squeak; the boy was fidgeting nervously upon it, I could imagine him wringing his small hands in his lap. But at last, after much cajoling and gentle words from the priest, the story began to come out.

Luca spoke slowly at first, as though he were unused to it, but soon enough it was like a dam had burst inside of him. Several times Father Bessio implored him to slow down so that he might translate for his audience beyond the door, but even so much of the tale the priest had to relate to me after the telling was all over. Therefore, some details and phrasings in this account
may be condensed or refracted through my own lens, but I have endeavored to transcribe the boy’s words as accurately as I possibly could. In any case: a stranger or more haunting tale I have not heard outside of the campfire stories of our youth . . . outside, perhaps, of the peculiar encounters my father claimed to have experienced during his time at war.

You will think me mad for believing it, no doubt—at first. But I believe even a learned man like yourself will find skepticism in meager supply after the evidence I intend to present here, not including the physical reproduction I have included with the letter and newsclipping.

Luca’s story begins as follows:

Mamma died when I was much younger, but I remember her. I remember her holding me in her arms, the smell of her perfume, the sound of her voice. She smelled like lilacs and her voice was like an angel’s voice. We lived in a single large room above Pappa’s studio, and when we came to America we lived in much the same way, only somebody else owned the studio Pappa worked in. I do not remember Italy, much the same way I cannot remember my mother’s face.

The sickness took her when I was only three; before, Pappa had taken many photographs of Mamma in his studio, but when she was dead the pictures of her made him sad, and he burned them, all but one. I asked Pappa many times what Mamma looked like, and often his answers were quite different, as though he also could not remember. But one day he simply showed me.

From a box in the small trunk of all Mamma’s things he pulled a photograph, but it was of me and not of Mamma. It was me as a baby, back in Sicily. I was wearing only a cloth and sitting on some sort of strange chair. The bottom where I sat looked like any chair, but the back was shaped strangely, like there was somebody inside it, hidden. It looked like a Samhain ghost wearing a sheet, only the sheet was pattered like a quilt and there were no holes for the eyes.

Pappa pointed with his finger and said, There is your Mamma.

I did not understand at first, but Pappa explained that this was the fashion begun in faraway Britain, to photograph small babies without their parents present in the frame. But of course, babies do not like to sit still for long to be photographed, so photographers there devised a way for their Mammas to hold them while remaining hidden in the developed picture . . .

Here, Father Bessio described Luca demonstrating this particular technique in photography. With great exuberance, the boy took the priest by the hand and pulled him from his chair, then took the blanket from my sofa and, sitting in the chair himself, draped the blanket across his body so that only his feet stuck out the bottom. He held a cushion in his lap, as though he were comforting an infant, like you see girls do with their dollies. He laughed and giggled at this game, but quickly grew somber, perhaps from the gloom under the cover of the fabric.

I thought at first Pappa was joking, but this was truly the only image he had of my mother. This was not fair—he could remember Mamma’s face. He knew the color of her eyes, the length of her hair. But there was no changing it. Mamma under the blanket was the only Mamma I would know. It would have to be enough.

But soon I got an idea. Pappa did not own the American studio he worked in now, but I was allowed to wander around wherever I wanted. The other men who worked there knew me, and knew I was a good boy and would not touch anything. I knew the rules but I was going to have to break them to see my Mamma. It was a slow day and the middle of summer. The man who owned the shop had also come from Italy, and was taking riposo in a chair in the corner of the work floor. There was another chair, a big lovely armchair, set in the middle of the floor from a job earlier in the week, and I had the blanket from my little cot and several bundles of clothes. It was enough to make myself a Mamma nascosta, a hidden mother, like in the photographs. I took the bundles of clothes and I shaped them up like a woman’s shape on the armchair, then I covered it up with the blanket. It did not look much like the photograph of Mamma with me in her lap, but when I sprayed her lilac perfume on the blanket, it was like a magic trick.

There she was, under the blanket. My Mamma, like I remembered her. I crawled into Mamma’s lap, and though the bundles of clothes could not move to hold me I imagined her arms cradling me, her angel’s voice telling me how much she loved me and Pappa. My chest was so tight, I thought my heart was going to burst like a wine-presser stepping on grapes. I think I started crying because the man who owned the shop woke up and saw what I was doing. I thought surely he would beat me—for crying, and for moving his things around. But he was kind, and when I explained to him what I was trying to do he did not laugh at me. He told me to sit in Mamma’s lap and he pulled his big camera and the wooden tripod into the middle of the floor. The man told me to smile, but when the flash of light came I squeezed my eyes shut and ruined the picture.

He said, it does not matter. Now I had a new photograph of Mamma and me. He patted my hair and told me he would give Pappa and me the photograph once it had been developed, which would only take a few days.

But three days passed and Jacopo, the man who owned the studio, did not approach my father or me. I became nervous; had I done something to offend him? I thought I had been very well-behaved, but sometimes Pappa says I make una peste of myself. I do not mean to but sometimes it happens anyhow. But on the fourth day Jacopo knocked on the door of our room; I could see on his face something was wrong, for he looked like there was a shadow over his eyes, even though it was the middle of the day and the sun was high and hot. He had something in his hand—the developed photograph. But he kept it turned away from me, and very close to his chest.

He looked at me, then Pappa, then me again. He said, I do not understand what’s happened. I thought something must have gone wrong with the fluid, or the flash. But those do not explain it. Luca, please do not be upset . . .

He turned the photograph toward me. I thought again that something was the matter with the light, or that my eyes had clouded. I rubbed them and looked again. But the image remained the same. In the photograph: there I was, sitting on the big comfortable arm chair. But my face was blurred out, like somebody had smudged their thumb across the picture. And there was no second form behind me. Mamma nascosta, the hidden mother, she was not there.

I did not understand it. I thought I had done something wrong to make Mamma nascosta leave, but I did not want Pappa to see me cry either. So I told him and Jacapo I had to use the bathroom. I went in and shut the door; there I cried, though I did not know why I wept. I did not know Mamma. And Mamma nascosta, she was only bundles of clothes under a blanket, scented with perfume. She was not a woman and could not, did not, love me.

Jacopo let me keep the photograph, with my blurry face. I put it above the mantle but eventually looking at it every day began to make me sad, like the pictures of Mamma would make Pappa sad. So I brought it into the bedroom and put it under the pillow on my cot. Then a week went by, and . . .

At this juncture, I must interject to tell you that Luca broke off talking and apparently refused to continue for several moments. The priest, Bessio, reported that during this time the boy squeezed his eyes shut and lay back on the sofa, making small animal-like grunts whenever the priest asked him to speak or talked to him at all; he even twitched as though caught in some kind of tantrum, but this subsided as Bessio began to pray quickly over him in a quiet strong voice—soon Luca opened his eyes again and proceeded as though nothing at all had changed.

I felt the eyes of Sister Marie-Francis on me, pushing into me like the force of the wind. I would not look at her. I knew what she was thinking, just as somehow, in some secret arcane part of myself, I knew what must come next. Luca went on:

Then it was a week later. Pappa had become withdrawn again, as he does sometimes. Work was slow in the studio and there was not as much money for us; Pappa would sometimes spend what little we had on wine, which he said would help him with his sadness but only made him sadder most of the time.

But this time something was different. For two days he did not work, though it was the middle of the work week. He did move from his chair except to fetch more wine; I did not know where he got the bottles, there were so many. While he drank, he stared at a space above the window. I noticed on the second day that he had taken the photograph of Mamma and me and balanced it above the fireplace. His face was like a great red storm, and his eyes had clouds in them. Soon he would not even leave the chair at all and made me bring the wine to him. He would not pour it into a glass, but drink it from the bottle. The empty bottles piled all around him. And then—

Once more Luca broke off talking very briefly. Through the door I could hear the sound of his low sobs; my dear Douglas, it was all I could do to stop myself storming through into my office and sweeping the child up in my arms. You know I have a tender heart; it is a blessing and curse both in my occupation. But I held firm, and let this Bessio comfort the boy instead. He managed the trick, enough for Luca to say:

—and then on the second evening, I moved too slowly with a fresh full bottle for Pappa; something twitched and changed in his face and his fist came out and struck me on the side of the head. I fell sideways but I did not drop the bottle. Not a drop of the wine spilled. And I did not cry. I was too scared to cry, scared that if I wept I would be beaten harder. From the floor I looked up at Pappa—but Pappa was crying now, his red face down in his hands, his strong shoulders shaking.

I did not understand. I stood up, but I was still wary of him and did not move closer. Through his hands he was saying, Mio cuore, mi dispiace tanto . . . My heart, I am sorry. But he had never addressed me this way. When he picked his face out of his hands, I realized he was speaking not to me but to the picture of Mamma and me on the mantle. Sono rovinato, he said. Ho rovinato tutto . . .

I still did not understand. But before I could put aside my fear and ask him what he meant by it, I heard a sound coming from the space where we made our beds. It was a fluttering sound—like blankets or sheets on wash day, flapping on a drying line in a strong wind. It was like great bird’s wings beating the air. The noise came up suddenly towards us; I shut my eyes tight, and Pappa turned toward the sound, already crying out some foul word in a loud voice . . .

Then—suddenly he was quiet.

I opened my eyes. My father had fallen over sideways in the chair, nearly falling onto the floor. But I could not see him. Somehow the blankets from my bed were covering him now, head to foot so that no part of him showed underneath. He was not like Mamma nascosta; he was hardly shaped like a man at all beneath. I could see him moving slightly under the blanket, like a fly moves when caught in a spider’s web. And strange noises came through the blanket, muffled and wet and soft as though they came from a great distance away.

I crept forward. My heart was like thunder in my ears. I was scared, but I did not understand why I was scared. I thought perhaps it was some child’s game, that I would draw the cover away and my father would emerge, smiling, and tell me somehow that it had all been a game. But he was not moving. And those noises from under the blanket were growing louder. I stretched out my hand, reaching for the corner of the fabric, intent to tear the bedclothes off in one motion.

But I became too frightened. Suddenly I was imagining what I would see when the cover was removed. My mind was full of terrible pictures, but the worst was the idea that I would draw back the blanket and there would be nothing beneath at all, that I had made Pappa disappear like a stage magician’s cabinet. So I crept to the corner of the room where our beds were kept and pressed my face into Pappa’s pillow, facing away from the chair and the rest of the room.

I stayed there for a long time. Behind me, the strange wet noises from beneath my blanket rose and fell like a fog horn’s voice. Once I thought I heard Pappa call out my name—but the sound was so quiet, and seemed to come from such a long way away that I was sure I imagined it. Eventually the room was silent again.

I lifted my head. My face was wet, my cheeks sticky from crying and from a little blood that had come from my nose when Pappa struck his blow. I turned toward the center of the room. There was the chair, and the scattered empty wine bottles. But the photograph was vanished from the mantlepiece. And Pappa was gone.

Sister Marie-Francis’ fingernails dug sharply into me. I hardly felt the pain; my skin had gone cold all over, cold and numb. But still my heart remained as stone to the truth. Still I was unconvinced. Still I remained a non-believer. Luca needed no prompting from Bessio now; his voice held level as a carpenter’s hand, speaking faster and faster now, tight in the grip of some other strange and terrible power . . .

The blanket was still there, showing the shape of the chair under it. But there was nobody beneath. Outside the window, the streets had grown darker. Night was coming; even in our little room the shadows were long. I went over to the chair slowly. I was still wary, even if really I had no cause to be. I touched the rough surface of the wool blanket. It was as I remembered it. It did not jerk out of my grip or twitch in my hand. I pulled it away, and nothing lay beneath it. Pappa was nowhere. I was alone in that room, all alone

But—I would not be alone there for much longer.

I took the blanket back to the bed. I was tired from crying and it was already late. I threw myself down, but I had no more tears in me. I had no feeling in me. Pappa was gone. He had crept out while I was crying, ashamed of me. I rolled over on my back on the bed, like this—but then, there was another weight pressing down beside me. In the dark, I saw a shape. I felt movement. Weight shifted on the bed. The shape was tall and dark and almost formless, like laundry on the line. But I was only afraid a moment. She smelled of lilacs. My Mamma’s perfume. And when she spoke it was in my mother’s angel voice, low and sweet.

I whispered, daring to hope, Mamma nascosta?

It was. I rose and moved toward her on the bed. She gathered me up. Her arms, covered up by the blanket, were so strong. But her embrace was soft and gentle, just like my memories. The smell of lilac was all around me. We rocked back and forth, and the lullaby Mamma nascosta sang was so beautiful even if I did not understand any of the words. Inglese, like the man and these holy sisters speak, Signore Ford and the others. But she could speak to me, and in a way I could understand. I asked if she loved me:

“Sì, cuore. Certo che ti amo.” Yes, my heart, of course I love you.

I asked if she would leave, if I would be alone again.

“No—tu sei mio, e io sono tuo.” No—you are mine, and I am yours.

This was enough. Her smell, her arms around me. The words she spoke.

It should have been enough to satisfy me. But I had one more question in my heart.

“Dov’è papà, per favore dimmi . . . ?” Where is Pappa? Please, tell me ...

At this, Mamma nascosta bent herself above me; the blanket wrapped around me tightly. The smell of lilac was so strong then in my nose, and I could feel cold breath touch my cheek as the wool rubbed against my face.

She gave me her answer, and I was satisfied:

“Nessuno ci farà mai più del male.” Nobody will hurt us ever again.

I slept like that, wrapped in Mamma nascosta’s warm embrace. Then like another magic trick it was light—and I smelled smoke, and there was screaming and sirens outside, and Jacopo pounding the door yelling, Signore Palermo, Luca, come out, come out, there is a fire burning, the whole building will go. I ran outside quickly—by then Jacopo was gone, knocking on some other door. There was a large crowd in the street and I was swept away. All down the street I could smell smoke. Mamma nascosta remained behind; I did not see her again.

Now I am here, talking with you. That is all, and no more.

Father Bessio asked Luca a few more questions after this, but nothing much came of it. I will spare you the boredom of those details and leave you with the meat and gristle I have already imparted. Only then did Sister Marie-Francis let me through to confront Luca and the priest. The boy had moved back to the sofa and lay on his back there, watching me come through into the office with the corners of his eyes. He was flushed and panting; the telling of his story seemed to have taken some toll on him. But when I told him, Go upstairs to your bunk, let me talk with Father Bessio a while, he was calm as he trodded past me out the door. Bessio himself patted the boy’s shoulder fondly as he passed him by but did not speak to him again. He crossed his arms behind him and waited to hear me speak.

I asked him, “Well—what can you tell us?” and he looked at me with a very serious expression, but there was some faraway quality to his eyes as well, as though he were a chessman thinking three, four, five moves ahead of the present.

“I have secured a room nearby,” he said, and pressed a scrap of paper into my hand. “Call on me at this address if the situation worsens—or if anything new should develop. I will return to my quarters and write immediately to Rome. Goodbye, my friend.”

This is all he would say. He bade Sister Marie-Francis goodbye, and shook my hand once more. His strong hand only shook slightly in my grasp; that told me more than his words could. Then the young soldier was gone, and I was left alone with the Sisters, crowding around my office door, looking at me with identical pairs of round staring eyes.

I tell a lie—I was not alone in that office. Luca had left something in my chair for me, the heap of blankets and pillows he had used to describe this “Mamma nascosta” to Bessio, and by proxy to me. There was hardly a shape to this mound; I could make out the barest suggestion of a head, tilted to the side just slightly, and maybe some piece of a right shoulder. No more than that. But in the air, I thought . . . My Dear Douglas, will you believe me if I tell you—

I smelled lilacs. Only for an instant, and then the sweet scent was gone.

I turned back to the heap of blankets and pillows on the chair. She was no more a woman-shape then she had been before. I shook myself; it was a boy’s imagination and nothing more. A delusion, born out of grief at losing a mother too young and a father to some drunken misadventure—and a home to a terrible fire as well. Yet despite this, a peculiar childish urge seized hold of me then. As the Sisters watched, silent, from the doorsill, I went to the chair and rearranged the cushions and blankets with my hands; like a sculptor, I shaped and molded and stacked until I had created a better effigy of a woman sitting upright, facing out into the room, staring blankly out of an eyeless face.

I said to Sister Marie-Francis, “Fetch my camera, please. And the tripod.” Now we come to the reason I must write you this way, my friend. Marie-Francis looked as though she might protest; instead she padded away silently, returning only moments later with the boxy camera in her arms and the black darkcloth slung over her shoulder. Another Sister trotted behind her, bearing the folded tripod legs. They flashed me severe blue glares but assisted me in setting up the apparatus, and only shared between them the slightest exasperated look when I bade them point the lens at the chair and positioned myself in the blanket-woman’s lap. It might have made a peculiar keepsake, I think. Something to show my wife and children someday if I should ever marry and father children.

But instead I am sending the developed photograph to you, along with this letter and the other materials I have gathered. I told you I was lapsed in my faith. I had that lapse shaken in me that day, shaken in my very bones. It was not the boy Luca’s story that accomplished this, nor was it the priest Bessio or the ministrations of the Sisters. No, I am convinced that there must be an Almighty seated in the throne of Heaven, simply because there must be a throne of Heaven just as their is a seat equal in the frigid bowel of Hell. I say this because, in the moment of the camera’s powder-flash, for a brief terrible instant—

Douglas . . . I saw the Devil.

Nobody saw it but me. The flash was too bright, or the movement too subtle or too swift. But as the powder exploded and filled the office with light, the head of the blanket-woman, the hidden mother, turned its featureless face towards me. And although there was no voice to sing them, I heard words, the beginning of a lullaby, a song of comfort in my head. But they were not in English as Luca had described. They were in no language I could place. Perhaps they were not in a language at all. Perhaps they were not words.

I leapt up from that chair as though I had been burned, upsetting the blankets behind me, sending the chair clattering to the floor of my office. The hidden mother scattered, returning to bedclothes. The Sisters cried out in alarm and called out to me as I fled the room, but I did not respond to their pleas to return. I soon found myself in the Institute’s courtyard, red-faced and sweating in the sun, collapsed against a low stone wall. The voice that was not a voice did not pursue me. Neither did the scent of lilac. I calmed myself and fixed the drape of my suitcoat and returned to work, but I could not return fully. I jump at shadows and sudden movements in the corner of my eye, loud noises or unexpected greetings. Grateful for the hot summer nights, I sleep without bedclothes entirely, wary of looming shapes appearing, built of blankets and quilts and pillows, rising and twisting in the darkness. And I barely speak to Luca Palermo.

Father Bessio did not return. Two days ago I visited the address he had provided; the landlord said the priest had vanished, leaving a small but significant unpaid tenancy. This I paid, not knowing what else to do. Now I am left with nothing but questions and the most pervasive sense of cold creeping dread. The Sisters whisper behind their hands and stare at me when my back is turned. I walk the halls of my Institute now as though the mark of Cain burns on my brow. And what is far worse—whatever plagues or blesses Luca Palermo has spread like a queer sickness among the other boys. Any given night I can creep through their sleeping quarters and find a dozen, two dozen, two score of beds with the bedclothes piled up at the foot of the mattress, watchful sentinels all twisting towards me in the darkness. And if the lads are awake, I hear them whisper. I hear them address these shapes with one voice:

“Mamma nascosta—portami a casa . . .”

Hidden mother—take me home . . .

My dear Douglas, you are my oldest and most learned friend. I should have relied on your intellect from the very beginning; not doing so was my foolishness. That, or it was pride that kept me from your doorstep. Now yours is the only shelter I can turn to, and I hope I am not too late to escape the coming deluge. I feel it coming, just as surely as I smelt lilacs in my office that day. Just as surely as I saw the face of comfort and terror both turn towards me in a camera’s flash. Just as surely as Luca Palermo’s wine-dark eyes haunt me everywhere. So I come to you with a plea, and a desperate one. Tell me my anxiousness is irrational, unscientific. Tell me what I fear is mere delusion born of stress or hysteria or worse.

As promised, I have included all available physical evidence with this correspondence. Study them at your leisure; they are yours to keep. But I beg you: write back with all available haste. I have become a desperate man, and I am not used to desperation.

Help me to untie the knot I feel tightening at my neck. Help me unravel this tangle.

With your books and facts—explain away the nightmare I have dragged into my life.

Yours Most Modestly,
Timothy

Timothy Ford was reported missing by his employees at the Foundling Institute on 3 August 1855; Dr. Douglass Montebank was last seen publicly 17 August the same year, vanishing soon after without a trace. The preceding letter was discovered in his office at Cambridge after his disappearance, laying opened on his desk. Included with the missive was the news clipping described, as well as a single developed photograph complete with photonegative. This image depicts a man of Ford’s age and build with his face blurred or smudged, making positive identification impossible even with modern equipment and techniques.

There is no second figure in the image.

According to historical records, neither sender nor recipient was ever seen again.

ENOUGH FOR HUNGER AND ENOUGH FOR HATE

JOHN LANGAN

When she had completed her counterclockwise circuit of the lake, Michelle Word turned toward the center of the frozen expanse and began to walk in the direction of the figure seated on the bright yellow bucket in front of the hole in the ice. Walter Ivorsson: the name she had said so often these past weeks its meaning had ebbed and flowed, sometimes reducing to a series of syllables, consonants and vowels yielding sounds of no more significance than the cough of a deer, the scream of a fox, other times expanding to contain all the pain for which this man had been responsible. He was doing his best to ignore the tall woman in the dark green padded coat and jeans drawing steadily closer to him on her hiking boots—or, it was more a case of, he was pretending to concentrate on the short fishing pole whose line he was tugging up and down while secretly taking in everything about her, from the black hair held back by the green scarf wound about her head to the fawn gloves on her hands. She doubted he could pick out the knife clipped to her belt, although his blue eyes returned to her right hip several times. In turn, as she advanced across the scrim of snow covering the ice, which crunched under her boots’ tread, she studied him, the heavy tan coveralls over the thick black sweatshirt, itself over two or three additional pullover shirts, the red and black checked hunting cap, the black knit mittens the single incongruous detail in the man’s outfit, as if he were attempting to portray himself as possessed of a boyish streak, playful, even, and not

(a monster)

what he was. As if he could hide his nature, when it was there for everyone to see in his pale skin drawn taut to the lines of his skull, the nose hatchet sharp, the eyes a blue so light it was barely a color at all. His scraggly beard and mustache were a blond nearing white, not from age (he was thirty-three), though perhaps from stress. The eyes, Michelle judged, were the principal giveaway, their washed-out regard a mix of simmering hostility and appetite restrained, if just. But it was there in the man’s body language, in the way he held himself ready to leap up from his bucket into violence immediate and terrible. She could not see any sort of weapon near him—she supposed the auger lying on the other side of him would do in a pinch—but everything about Walter Ivorsson said he would have no need of an ax, should the occasion arise, an occurrence he would greet smiling, as a great opportunity.

Ten feet away from him, close enough to counter the wind which sometimes raised its voice over the ice, yet far enough to allow a reasonable chance of reaching the knife should Ivorsson move, she stopped. He went on playing at not registering her. She wondered if he noticed her similarity to Toby. If so, he did not appear overly concerned by it. Not for the first time, she wished she were sighting him through the scope of the Winchester with which her father had taught her to hunt and which he had passed on to her now that the Parkinson’s had stripped the activity from him. Lining up the sights on Ivorsson’s chest from a blind two hundred yards distant would have felt far more secure than this, watching the man’s breath steam from his mouth as he continued jigging the rod up and down. She had no need to stare into his eyes as she killed him, to deliver a pithy statement for him to take to Hell with him. To squeeze the trigger, watch him jerk as the bullet struck him, maybe fall down dead, maybe struggle to keep himself upright, in which case, a second shot would bring to a conclusion the job started by the first, would be fine. Except, according to Dr. Smith, the gunshots would not be sufficient. “Oh, they would make a mess of him, to be sure,” she said on the phone, “but not enough to kill him. Hell, you could stroll up beside him, shoot him point blank in the face, and it still wouldn’t suffice.” Having watched a one hundred eighty-five-pound buck drop where he stood when she shot it, Michelle found this hard to accept. Yet everything she had learned in the past two weeks had encouraged her to adopt a more flexible perspective. Thus, she was here, at the approximate center of this frozen lake near the summit of a mountain deep in the northern Catskills, the peak rising around half the lake in steep rocky slopes to which spruce stunted by the altitude clung in seeming defiance of gravity, while the remainder of the lake was shored by fields in which stands of spruce, oak, and birch gathered in the snow across whose brittle expanse she had hiked something on the order of a mile and a half, from the pull-off where she had parked her Subaru beside the battered Dodge Ram with the unpainted driver’s door. The air was February chilled, the sky a blue equally cold.

There was no need for much conversation—any, really. All she had to do was drop the stones in her jacket pocket on the ice, turn around, and make the trek back to her car. Soon enough thereafter, Ivorsson would discover what had been done to him. Having come this far, however, she could not let pass the opportunity to speak to the man. What she wanted from such an exchange, she wasn’t certain. She had no expectation of anything Ivorsson said doing more than confirming what she already knew. In whatever rationalizations he indulged, she had no interest, though she could guess them with reasonable accuracy. It was as if she had been carried here by the logic, or lack thereof, of the narrative in whose currents she had found herself caught. Perhaps she had been mistaken; perhaps there were some final words she was due to deliver him.

Eyes still fastened on the hole in the ice between his boots, which was much smaller than she would have expected, barely large enough, it appeared, to fit anything worth the time and effort of sitting out here in the cold, Walter Ivorsson opened his mouth. As he did, as his lips, chapped by the wind and temperature, parted, allowing her to glimpse the crooked line of his lower set of teeth, she had a brief fantasy of his jaw gaping wider and wider still, impossibly wide, dropping against his overalls’ bib and dropping farther, the skin of his face stretching, elongating to accommodate his jaw down to his knees, all the way to the ice supporting his yellow bucket and him. Within was darkness and the stink of blood gone bad. A hellish radiance in his eyes, he swung to face her, to consume her. So vivid was the hallucination, she failed to pick up what he said in his sullen voice and had to squeeze her eyes shut momentarily and say, “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” Hardly the opening line she would have chosen for the confrontation.

“I said, your brother was fucking my wife.”

Apparently, he had recognized her. “Ex-wife,” she said.

“Divorce wasn’t final.”

“Seems like a bit of a technicality, doesn’t it? I mean, you hadn’t been living together for almost a year when Toby came along. From what I understand, your marriage counseling crashed and burned before it even got the landing gear up. You only went because your lawyer petitioned the judge to force Karen to give it a try with you. If it hadn’t been for your daughter, I don’t know if the judge would have agreed. Or if it had been a woman on the bench. I like to think she would have taken one look at your history and not only granted the divorce right there, but issued a restraining order—no, fuck that, those never work in cases like this. I prefer to imagine her throwing your skinny ass in jail, sending you away for the maximum possible time. Still wouldn’t have been enough, but it might have given Toby and Karen the chance to get as far away from here as they could and take Rachel with them, to someplace they could have had plenty of warning you were on your way.

“But that wasn’t what happened. The judge was that dipshit, Badrebue, and he agreed with your lawyer’s request for counseling. For the good of the child, he said. Then after the counseling collapsed and Karen stopped going, it allowed your lawyer to claim she hadn’t made a good-faith effort, and everything just dragged on and on.”

“Explain it however you like. Fact is, when Karen took up with your brother, she was still legally my wife. Round about these parts, you mess with a man’s wife, you’ll find the consequences severe.”

“Jesus,” Michelle said, “exactly where is it you think you are? You’re in New York. The middle of Manhattan’s a couple of hours south. The nearest town has a Starbuck’s. The supermarket stocks Greek yogurt and three kinds of
veggie burgers. If you’re looking for a place where your wife is your property, you’re a hundred years and a few thousand miles off.”

“Just because you can have your soy latté doesn’t change the fundamental things,” Ivorsson said. “Your iPhone does not make my marriage any less sacred.”

“No, you did that on your own,” Michelle said. “I’ve known enough guys who vote red and you know what? I can’t think of a single one of them who would’ve condoned your behavior. Oh, they would have commiserated with you over a couple of beers down at the local bar, might’ve rolled their eyes at some of what you described, but when all was said and done, they would have told you to leave, to divorce the woman you couldn’t live with anymore, make sure you hired a decent lawyer so you weren’t screwed in the settlement. Shit happens, right? I guess you followed the lawyer part, though since you don’t appear to have taken most of his advice, I’m not sure what benefit you bought with what you paid him. Although,” she added, “no one’s charged you with anything, and I have no doubt the cops’ve been over your place with a fine-toothed comb, CSI’d the shit out of it, and your lawyer’s stuck with you throughout, so maybe he’s done you some good, after all. No body, no crime, right? No matter how bad the circumstantial evidence might appear. Toby thought you’d murdered her. At first, he wasn’t sure, then he was. The same way I’m certain you killed him. Only, I came to my conclusion a bit more directly than my brother did. In all fairness, I had the benefit of evidence.”

“Bullshit,” Ivorsson said, the irritation he tried to put into the word leavened with uncertainty.

“Wrong.” She reached into the left-hand pocket of her coat and withdrew her phone, holding it up for Ivorsson’s consideration as if it were an unfamiliar object. “He called me,” she said, her voice unexpectedly thick, “at the end. Before you reached him. Had the presence of mind to tell me to save his message. He took a couple of pictures, too, which I’m guessing you were too . . . distracted to notice. Sent those to me, too. Just so you know, there are copies of the call and the images stored on a couple of cloud servers.”

For the first time, Walter Ivorsson turned his head to regard her with his nominally blue eyes. There was in his gaze the endless chill of ice fields, of white expanses empty and vast. Michelle let her right hand drop beside her
hip, her fingers brush the fringe of her coat, ready to tug it up and reach for the knife underneath. After a long, wintry look, however, Ivorsson returned his attention to the fishing hole. “You might have something on your phone, but whatever it is, wasn’t enough to bring the sheriff out here with you. State police, neither.”

“Funny you should mention the sheriff,” Michelle said. “The man is terrified of you. Didn’t want to meet with me, had zero interest in what I had recorded. I played it for him, anyway, but he acted as if what he heard was some kind of prank. He’s a bad liar. I wonder what you did to him, what you let him see.”

“Don’t reckon Sheriff Rudyard saw any more than he wanted to.”

“As far as the state cops go, they were more receptive, were willing to listen to Toby’s call, to have a look at his pictures. They admitted the recording sounded suspicious, if vague. They were less impressed by the photos, said they were too blurry to be of much use, one way or the other. I figured they would subject them to some kind of computer enhancement, but they decided against it, said the pictures were probably of some animal. ‘What kind of animal is that supposed to be?’ I asked them. I told them I’d been hunting since I was twelve and the shape in those pictures bore no resemblance to any creature I’d run across in upstate New York, western Connecticut, or eastern Pennsylvania. Had Toby’s call been more definite, had he named names, spelled things out in a simple, straightforward way, and had there been a modicum of corroborating evidence, they might have stirred from their chairs. As there was no evidence my brother was anything other than missing, as was the woman with whom he had been having an affair, the state troopers chose a neater, less sinister explanation: the two of them had run off together, staggered their departures so no one would suspect them. Toby’s call and photos were part of their plan, intended to divert attention from what had actually happened.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Ivorsson said.

“Maybe to a bunch of cops who want you to believe they’re overwhelmed with all the crime they have to fight. For someone who was talking to her brother every day, who listened to him discuss his girlfriend’s disappearance, his suspicions, what you said to him when he confronted you about it, it was obviously false. Not to mention, from everything Toby told me, there was no way Karen would have left her daughter, abandoned her to you.”

“Never can tell what a person’ll do.”

“You don’t say.”

“Karen and me knew each other when we were kids,” Ivorsson said. “I assume your brother didn’t tell you that.”

“He did not. Can’t say I much care.”

“She was . . . my ma used to say it was love at first sight for us two. Wasn’t for Karen, I know for a fact. Wasn’t for me, neither. Not like the words make it sound. Nothing romantic about it. She was the purest thing I had ever seen. Like something amazing, one of those sunsets you have to tell someone else to look at, because it’s so surprising and so intense, the sun putting on a show for you right overhead, the deep light and color, red and peach and violet—or like standing out in the middle of a blizzard, with the wind driving the snow straight at you, so you can’t see much more’n your hand in front of your face, and any skin you haven’t covered up is freezing, and you can feel the storm moving around you, this giant beast raging, which is kind of scary, but mostly, mostly thrilling, because you’re standing in it and it’s just so big and you’re just so small. I don’t know if you know what I’m talking about, if you’ve ever felt anything like this, been in touch with something completely itself, the way those sunsets and storms are. Anyway, this was what Karen was like. Bowled me over; knocked me out. There was nothing I wanted more than to spend every waking second with her.” His lips hinted at a smile. “She was . . . terrific.”

Michelle said, “You had a strange way of showing your appreciation for her.”

“’Cause I lifted my hand to her?”

“Among other things. But yes, that especially.”

Ivorsson tsked dismissively. “Wasn’t my fault, not really. Hers, neither. It was the Army. Fucked her up, is the way I figure it. She enlisted out of high school, used it to pay for college. The recruiter told her chances were she wouldn’t even be called up to serve. Said more people graduate those ROTC programs than they have postings for, so plenty of them never have to put on the uniform after they graduate. Sounded too good to be true to me. We weren’t seeing one another then. Only friends. Her family had moved away when we were ten, halfway through fifth grade. Father got this great job in Seattle. Five years later, Karen came back with her mom and sister after her folks split up. The two of us picked up pretty much where we’d left off, friendship-wise. Nothing more, though with the changes the last five years had made to her, more was definitely on my mind. Not hers.

“After she graduated Oneonta, Army told her to hang tight, maybe they’d need her. She came back to these parts. Her mom was pretty sick, M.S. Sister was no help. She’d gone back to Seattle to stay with Daddy and spend some of his money. Can’t blame her, I guess. Would’ve been nice if she’d sent a few bucks to help with taking care of her mom. Karen had to do most of it; though the insurance paid to bring in a home health aide part time. Let Karen work the job she’d found. P.E. teacher at the local grade school. Same one the two of us had gone to. We still weren’t together. For a little while, she went out with a professor at the community college. Older guy, taught chemistry. Seemed kind of strange to me—I mean, the guy was going bald, gray hair, liver spots on the backs of his hands. Whatever. Obviously, she had some daddy issues to work out, right?”

“How much longer is this going to go on?” Michelle said.

“Long as it has to,” Ivorsson said. “I wasn’t the one trailed all the way out here.”

“Believe me, I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t think of any other way to find out what I needed to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Where my brother’s body is.” She swallowed. “What’s left of it.”

Walter Ivorsson’s almost colorless eyes did not move from the hole in the ice. “Makes you think I know anything about that?”

“Seriously? Is this what we’re going to do? You play some backwoods Hannibal Lecter while I try to trick you into revealing the information I’m after? I already told you, the cops aren’t interested in you as a suspect. If I go back to them and say, ‘But he knows where my brother’s remains are,’ they’ll chalk it up to coincidence. I tried talking to them before and they weren’t any help. I’ve exhausted that avenue.”

“Maybe you have, or maybe you’re misjudging the troopers.”

“How about this: you tell me where Toby is, I’ll go get him, and I’ll leave and never return? I swear, on everything I hold sacred. No cops.”

“Could be you’re lying.”

“Come on!” Michelle shouted. “There has to be—I can’t believe there isn’t a little bit of humanity left in you. Please. If not for me, for my parents. My dad has been torn up for days, walks around distracted, his eyes full of tears. He knows something bad happened to his son, feels it deep in his gut. Mom plays the stoic, acts pissed because she warned Toby not to have anything to do with a woman in the middle of a divorce, says Dad’s working himself up over nothing. Toby and this woman probably ran off somewhere, like the police said. But you can tell she doesn’t really mean what she’s saying. Look her in the face and you see the dread written all over it. She knows, too, but doesn’t want to let on in case it makes Dad’s health worse.”

“Ain’t you worried about your daddy’s health?”

“If he doesn’t find out what became of his son, then yes, definitely. If he does, then I don’t think it’ll be as bad as Mom fears. I think he’ll be relieved.”

“Bit of a gamble you’re taking.”

“It’s mine to take.”

Nodding, Ivorsson said, “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Might be I have a notion as to where your brother is lying. Not that I’m saying I had anything to do with how he got there. What was your word? Coincidence. Sure. Let’s call it that. I was out in the woods and just so happened to come across him.”

“Fine,” Michelle said. “Whatever you say.” Her heart was pounding so hard she felt it at the base of her throat.

“You think you know me, don’t you?”

“I never said that, but yeah, I figure I’ve got a pretty good read on you. You loved this girl from afar for years, watched her go out with all these other guys while you were right there in front of her, waiting for her to open her eyes and see what she’d had the whole time. Sound about right?”

“Close enough,” Ivorsson said. “Wasn’t as if I didn’t have my fair share of girlfriends.”

“Ah, but I bet you would have dropped any of them in a hot minute if Karen had told you she’d finally come to her senses. Did you, when she—”

“She came back from Afghanistan,” Ivorsson said. “Where the Army sent her when they decided time had come due for her to pay back what she owed them for college. I don’t know how these things work, but she was assigned or however you say it to work intelligence. Should have kept her safe on one of the big air bases, Bagram, though she said there wasn’t anyplace completely safe over there. She was good at her job, so her C.O. chose her for a special mission. The details are a little hazy to me. From what I could gather, there were a bunch of guys—our guys—out somewhere in the field who had discovered something important, like papers, plans or maps, I don’t know. Anyway, the brass picked Karen to helicopter in to do an on-site evaluation of what they’d found. Had to do with troop movements, I think, soldiers from other countries, like Pakistan or Russia or someplace. The guys she flew to were Special Forces, Green Berets or the like, but maybe you figured that out already.

“Well, she looked at what the Special Forces had turned up and it was pretty important stuff. She called it in, and jets were scrambled to bomb the ever-loving shit out of some poor fuckers. Sit tight, she was told, we’re sending another chopper for you. Not long after, the first mortars landed around her. Killed one of the Green Berets right away, sent everyone running for cover. Probably just dumb luck, a case of wrong-place, wrong-time, but Karen always wondered if they’d been set up, stumbled into a trap.” Ivorsson shrugged. “I told her it didn’t matter. What was important was, she’d survived the attack, which became a real battle. There were twenty, thirty of the enemy moving in on her and the Special Forces, who were already down a man. She walked me through the firefight step-by-step. This was when Rachel was four. She’d had a play-date with a neighbor kid and her toys were all over the place. Karen put her down for the night, we got to talking, and the subject of the ambush came up. She’d told me about it before, but always in pieces. This time, I heard the whole thing from start to finish. As she’s telling it to me, she’s taking Rachel’s toys, her teddies and her dolls, and setting them around the living room—which is where we were—to show me everyone’s position. The coffee table was her and the Green Berets. A family of plastic mice got to play them. The couch was the ridge running alongside them, where six or seven stuffed animals manned a couple of cardboard tubes standing in for mortars. On top of the easy chair, which was a mountain peak, a stuffed hedgehog used the view the height gave to snipe at them. The remaining toys, teddy bears of all colors and sizes, Karen spread around the floor in ones or twos. Like the worst teddy-bears’ picnic ever, right?”

Michelle did not acknowledge the joke.

“Don’t mind saying, if it’d been me being shot at and bombed, I doubt I would’ve remembered much aside from, ‘It was loud and I was scared shitless.’ Not Karen. She walked me through who was firing at who, how the soldiers’ thinking was changing with the situation. What I mean is, at first, they were worried about the guys with the mortars, because they were dropping bombs on them. They’d realized there was someone on the mountaintop with a rifle, but they assumed he was too far away to be a concern. Then the sniper killed a second Green Beret, wounded a third, and suddenly he was a major problem. They had to adjust their positions while calling for air support. Through some kind of million-to-one-odds shit, the planes that had been sent to bomb the targets Karen had reported earlier were still in the air with a couple of undropped bombs apiece. They swept over and lit up the mountain like it was a fucking volcano. Karen swatted the hedgehog, sent it flying into the hallway. Next, the jets turned the top of the ridge into a sheet of fire. Karen swept all the stuffed horses and elephants and dragons off the couch onto the floor. The jets dropped the last of their ordnance as near to Karen and the soldiers as they dared, but it was too far. Still, the jets had cut the enemy numbers by half, maybe more. ‘Now it was only three men trying to kill me,’ was how she put it, ‘instead of six.’ For the rest of the day and into the night, she fought those men and their buddies. She called for more help, was told none was coming any time soon. There’d been a much bigger attack on a base and all resources were being diverted there. I guess the Special Forces guys talked a good game, even the wounded one, but this was far outside what Karen had trained for. She was used to studying documents, computer files, emails, not taking a bead on some fellow fifty feet away so she could put a bullet through his head. What else was she gonna do, though?

“The night went on and the enemy moved in closer. On the way, they paid a heavy price. So did the Green Berets. Another one of them was killed. As Karen’s going through what happened, she’s picking off teddies and tossing them to the side in a heap. A pile of dead teddy bears. The moon rose late, she said. It was full, which was good, because she didn’t have any of those night vision goggles. Guess she could’ve taken them off one of the dead soldiers, but she didn’t want to move if she didn’t have to. By now, she was out of ammo. Everyone was, both sides. Enemy was still creeping toward them. She didn’t know what to do. One of the Special Forces guys, the wounded one, passes her a knife. A clasp knife. Tells her to hold it with the point up, not to ice pick it. She’s carried the knife with her since she’s been back from the Army. Goes with her everywhere, like her phone and keys. I had no idea this was how she got it. She slides it from her jeans, folds out the blade and locks it. Since the first time she showed it to me, I thought the knife was pretty big. As your last defense against someone set on killing you, it was puny. She picks up one of the remaining teddies. This one we called Darla. Purple, with some kind of glitter in its fur. Stupid expression on its face. A guy I work with gave it to me. Had won it for his girlfriend at the county fair and she didn’t want it. May have broke up after that; I can’t remember. Whatever. Karen holds Darla by the neck. I know what’s coming next. Not because she’s ever told me, but because this is where the story’s leading. She stabs Darla, right in the bear’s roly-poly stomach. Stabs the toy again and again. Karen’s still talking, saying how she stood up in front of this guy and before he could react stabbed him ten times, more. She’d never stuck a knife in anyone to kill ‘em, and the only way for her to do it was to overdo it. I’m watching her rip the knife into the teddy bear, sending stuffing everywhere, and seeing what it must have been like, the blood on him, on her, on the ground. Blood looks black in the moonlight. No mistaking the smell. She held onto the man until she was positive he was not a threat. Did not want him to get up and come for her a second time. Said she stood with the guy leaning against her like they were at the prom and this was the last dance. She’d stabbed him so many times his intestines were hanging out. Knife was slippery from the blood. But she was ready to stick it into him again if he tried anything. He didn’t. Gave a couple of shaky breaths and kind of slid down her. She stepped back slowly, let him drop to the ground.

“While she had been doing the dance of death with this guy, the Green Berets had finished the rest. She went to pass the knife to the soldier who’d given it to her, the wounded one, but he’d died during the fight. Killed a couple of the enemy, then keeled over. Internal injuries from when he was shot catching up to him. His sergeant told her to keep the knife. She did. Carried it with her the rest of her time in Afghanistan and in her pocket after she was home. The knife she killed a man with. I’d watched her use it to slice open envelopes, cut rope, chop a salami into bite-sized pieces when we were on a picnic. Wasn’t until I saw her with it in one hand, the remains of Darla the teddy bear in the other, white fluffy stuffing all over the living room floor, that I got what it meant for her to have this thing on her every day.

“So yeah. Karen came back from the war. And the war came back with her. I knew what PTSD was. Who doesn’t, these days? Seeing it up close, living with it day-in, day-out was something else. She had trouble with her feelings. Be depressed for days. Get mad—shit, she’d always had a bit of a temper, all the way back to grade school. You did not want to piss her off. But it was like, she’d blow up at you and it was over. Took a lot for her to reach that point. After she came back, the littlest thing could set her off. Seemed like it, anyway. She could stay mad at you for days. Nasty, too, mean-spirited in a way she hadn’t been before.”

“If everything was so terrible,” Michelle said, “why didn’t you leave?”

“’Cause it wasn’t that way all the time. Sometimes—most of the time— things were fine. I loved her as much as I ever had. More. She loved me, too. I waited my whole life to hear her say, ‘I love you, Walt.’ I was not about to let it go, how it made me feel. Yeah, she could be difficult, and maybe I didn’t always deal with her as best I could, but we were married. Had said, ‘I do,’ to all the promises the minister read. Plus, there was Rachel. I was pretty in love with her. Felt like she was my own. Which she was, basically.”

“I’m sorry?” Ivorsson’s words had jolted her, a snowball slapping her on an already cold day.

“Don’t know what your brother said, but I treated my little girl like a Goddamned princess.”

“Only, she wasn’t your little girl, not . . . biologically.”

“More to being someone’s daddy than knockin’ up their mamma. Wait,” Ivorsson said, “you mean you didn’t know?”

“I did not.”

“Huh. Don’t matter. But yeah, wasn’t my name on Rachel’s birth certificate under ‘father.’ I offered. Karen refused. Said it was important the truth was there for the girl to find, if she ever wanted to. Not gonna lie, I wondered if it wasn’t because she was hoping Rachel’s actual daddy was gonna show up one day and make the three of them a happy family. She swore she wasn’t. She’d made the choice with me and she intended to stick with her decision. Hadn’t worked so well when we were first seeing one another, which was how Rachel came to be, but that was then and this was now, over and done with. I wanted to believe her. Mostly, I did. But sometimes she’d be working late, or she’d call to say she and some of the other teachers were going out for wings and beer after school, and I’d get to thinking, worrying. Is it him she’s on her way to meet? Has he finally appeared?”

“Did you know him? Was he local?”

Ivorsson shook his head. “Saratoga, these days. Before, Sergeant Robert Dunn was stationed in Afghanistan.”

“Was he one of the Green Berets she was ambushed with?”

“Yeah. Their leader. Two of them met up while she was still over there. Had a fling, I guess you’d say. It was finished well ahead of her boarding the plane to fly home. Only it wasn’t. Not . . . inside, where it counts. They kept in touch, email, mostly. After she’d been here a couple of months, he emailed her. Said he had some leave coming up, was planning to fly to Athens for a week. Wanted her to join him. Without a second thought, she said she would. Went online and booked the ticket right away. Didn’t tell me what she was planning. We’d been seeing one another for a few weeks at this point. After all those years, all it took for her to go out with me was going to war. We weren’t living together or anything, though she spent enough time at my place for me to think this might be heading somewhere good. She didn’t say she was flying to Europe to meet her ex-. Said she was heading the opposite direction, to Colorado, to go white-water rafting with friends from college. I didn’t mind. I already had an idea what Afghanistan had done to her, mentally. A few days outside with some friends sounded like it would be helpful.

“Wasn’t until a couple of months later, when the home pregnancy test left no doubt, that she sat me down and came clean. Once she returned from what I thought was her trip out west, we picked up where we’d left off. She was some actress. Didn’t let on the time she’d had, not in the slightest. Wasn’t like I asked a lot of questions. White-water rafting’s never interested me. She knew that, said it was the reason she’d picked it for her cover story. So I wouldn’t ask about it. There were times she was moody, tearful, but I chalked it up to the PTSD. I guess she wrote to Sergeant Dunn, gave him the news. He wasn’t interested in being a daddy. Then it was my turn. We were out to dinner. Burger King, which was okay. She says she’s got some news for me. Right away, I thought she was breaking up with me. I knew this was too good to last, and here we were, at the end of it. At first, when she said she was pregnant, I was—I was overjoyed. Not what I was planning, yeah, but it was like, I’m thinking things are done, and it’s the opposite. We’re gonna have a kid together. Only we weren’t. Not like that. She laid it all out, as much as I wanted to hear. Felt like I was listening to her from inside a bubble. Minute I understood what was what, all I wanted to do was leave, get in my car and drive home, lock the doors, and never see Karen again. Only, I couldn’t, ’cause she was pregnant, and it wouldn’t be right to leave a pregnant woman in Burger King with no ride home. I didn’t. I sat across from her as she said she wouldn’t blame me for doing exactly what I wanted to. She couldn’t ask me to stick around. She’d lost the right, forfeited it. But if I wanted to, she’d be grateful.

“I dropped her at her place. Didn’t say two words to her the way there. Once she was inside, I headed out of town. Didn’t have a destination in mind. Didn’t have anything in mind. Just wanted to get as far away as I could. Had some money in the bank, couple of credit cards nowhere near their limits. Ran through all kinds of plans—fantasies. Most of them were, I was gonna drive someplace I always wanted to see, like Wyoming, and set up shop there. Send for my shit when I was ready. Or not at all. Wasn’t very much I was attached to. Might be best to ditch everything, make a fresh start.

“Thing was, I knew it was bullshit, everything I was planning. I wasn’t about to leave Karen. I was pissed, yeah, and who could blame me?” Ivorsson paused, as if to allow Michelle the opportunity to say, “I could.” When she did not, he continued, “What I mostly was, was afraid. This . . . situation had come along and it was gonna ruin everything. Just the latest obstacle, after her moving away in grade school, and her dating other guys in high school, and her leaving for college, and her dating the old guy after she came back from college, and her going to Afghanistan. Felt like the universe was doing everything in its fucking power to keep us apart. It was pathetic. Should’ve had more self-respect, more dignity. But the farther I drove, the more panicky I got. Lost track of where I was. I’d been on local roads. Took a wrong turn somewhere and I was lost. Which was weird. My sense of direction’s pretty good. Plus, I’ve driven all over the place. There was heavy fog everywhere. Each road I turned onto was narrower than the last. On my right, the asphalt fell away. I couldn’t see how far. I had the radio on, some local station. Community radio, the woman at the mic called it. I’d tuned in in time for the Heartache Hour. Which went on for at least two. Old time-y shit, Hank Williams, Sr. singing ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’ with his warbly voice, his twangy guitar. Patsy Cline doing ‘Crazy’ in her low, deep voice. Finally reached the point I had to pull over. Needed to piss something awful. Needed to take a break from driving, too. Felt like forever until a spot appeared. I left the headlights on, walked a few feet into the trees to do the necessary. Lights threw my shadow onto the fog in front of me. Like looking down a long, murky corridor. From where I was standing, I saw someone moving around out in it. Couldn’t have been anyone there. It was three in the morning. Wasn’t hunting season. No sign of any houses around. Should have zipped up, returned to the car, and left. Whoever was in the fog was making the back of my neck prickle. Can’t say why. Just too much in my own head, I guess. I decided to investigate. Stupid, yeah. Like every asshole in every horror movie who gets chomped on by the monster. Fine, I thought. It would be the perfect fucking ending to the perfect fucking night. I imagined how bad Karen was gonna feel after my body was discovered. Full of regret. ‘Oh, what a great guy Walt was. Why did I treat him so shitty?’ Would she, though? Really? I wondered. My self-pity turned to anger, which collapsed into self-pity again, until I was moving forward. Straight into the monster’s jaws.

“Ground was rocky. Tricky to walk on. Almost dropped me on my ass a couple of times. Twisting my ankle, or breaking it, was a real possibility. Would make getting back to the car a trial. Also, would leave me vulnerable to whoever was out here in the fog. Not that I wasn’t now. Wasn’t as if I had a clasp knife in my pocket. Or any other kind of weapon. Could grab a rock, I supposed. At least I still had eyes on the person. Sort of. Fog played tricks on my vision. One minute, the guy was so faint, so far away, I figured I might as well head back to the car. Next minute, he was just a few yards ahead. The prickle at the back of my neck had spread to my entire body. I was frightened. Genuinely. Did not want to catch up to whoever I was after, but couldn’t stop. I was at the limit of the headlights’ reach. Through the fog, I saw shapes. Tall, dark. Bigger than a man, I judged. Couldn’t tell what they were, but they made me feel worse. More afraid. Ground was harder to walk on. More rocks—almost all rocks. Clattered and snapped as I stepped on them. Fog thinned enough for me to see I was in a wide ditch, between two low rises. Ground was covered in rocks, none of ‘em too big. Flint, as far as I could tell. Lot of the pieces looked like they’d been chipped into arrowheads, spear points, knives, ax heads. The dark shapes I mentioned? They were standing on the rises, every ten feet or so. Outcroppings of flint, each struck into a rough column, maybe eight or nine feet high by two or three wide. Didn’t seem like they could be natural, but I didn’t know what they were supposed to be. Wasn’t anything carved into them, no shapes or symbols. The way the surfaces looked—the way the facets left from where the rock had been chipped away came together, there was almost something there. Faces, but horrible ones. Every last one staring at me.

“Felt like I was someplace old. I mean, ancient. I stopped walking. I had no idea how far this ditch went. Whoever I was following had disappeared. I listened. Couldn’t hear any footsteps on the rocks. Should’ve made me feel better. Didn’t. Place between my shoulders tingled, the way it does when someone’s spying on you. The flint columns, with their almost-faces, it was like they were watching me. Or something was watching me through them. I’m not putting it right. It’s like there was a smile floating behind each of them, a bad smile, except, it was all the same smile. Or—try this. It’s like the columns were fingers and I was in the palm of their hand. Ditch was like one of the lines in your hand, grown giant. I crouched, tried to make myself smaller. Less visible to whatever had its eyes on me. Suppose everything I was experiencing could’ve been from how tired I was. Not to mention, how upset. Squatting in the ditch, though, with all these sharp objects, these weapons at my feet, I had a . . . sense of the ditch filled with blood, of a river of blood running over the arrowheads and knives, the spear tips and the ax heads. Was so vivid, I could almost see it. Reached out my hand and picked up a piece of flint. Knife, the edge still sharp enough to nick my finger, add a couple of drops of my blood to the flood I sensed. Smarted, but I held onto the blade. It was cold, freezing, like it had been buried under six inches of snow, not lying out in the open. Wouldn’t warm in my hand. Felt good, the cold. Soothing. What was inside me was hot. I let the cold seep into me, and it brought the hot under control. More. It was like I took a part of winter into me. One of those freezing blasts that comes all the way from the North Pole, barrels down full of ice and snow. Covered the betrayal, the self-pity, the anger in white.

“I stood. Slipped the flint knife into my pocket. Still seemed like the columns were watching me. Didn’t matter. Went back in the direction of the car. For a moment, thought I saw a figure walking toward me through the headlights. Wasn’t nothing. Got in the car, started it, headed home. Had no trouble finding my way. In fact, funny thing was, I wasn’t nearly as far from home as I’d thought. Figured I was out somewhere in the west of the state, Horseheads, that neck of the woods. Nope. Pine Hill, just about an hour south and west. I’d been driving a big loop. Never heard of any place like what I found in those parts. Always meant to look into it.

“Anyway, I pulled in the driveway a little after dawn. Waited a couple of hours til I was sure she was awake and went over to Karen’s. She was surprised to see me. Assumed it was over between us. Which was reasonable. Told her I was willing to try moving forward if she was. She asked if I was sure. I shrugged, said yeah. Didn’t realize I still had the knife in my pocket until I went home and changed into fresh clothes.

“Sounds sinister,” Ivorsson said, “but it wasn’t. Not like carrying the knife you killed a man with. Kept my blade on me after that. Was in my jacket on our wedding day. Had it with me when Rachel was born. All the arguments Karen and me had, the out and out fights, battles, I never went for it. Never even thought of it. Not once.”

“Until you did,” Michelle said. A guess, but one rewarded by Ivorsson’s glance away. She wondered if the flint knife was in one of the pockets of his coveralls, within easy reach. According to what Dr. Smith had said, he no longer had need of it.

“Wasn’t how—” Ivorsson caught himself, shook his head.

“Go on.”

He did not. For a long time, Walter Ivorsson remained speechless, his attention so focused on the hole in the ice through which the fishing line he continued to jerk up and down rose and fell that Michelle thought their conversation had reached its terminus. Given her lack of interest in speaking to Ivorsson in the first place, her preference for dealing with him at a distance, the disappointment she felt at the end of their parley surprised her. All she had intended was to draw as near to him as she dared, cast the stones in her coat pocket onto the ice between them, and depart. There had been no need for her to pick up the verbal gauntlet Ivorsson had flung down; there had been less still for her to ask him about Toby. Already, she had reconciled herself to the twin facts of her brother’s death and his body’s disappearance. Until she had asked Ivorsson about him, she’d been unaware she would; once the words had entered the frigid air, however, they had gained an importance which had rendered her previous acceptance of Toby’s loss null and void. Now the prospect of returning to her Subaru with her question unanswered stabbed her like a long, thin needle slid into the thick muscle of her beating heart, an injury insufficient to kill, but more than adequate to cause lasting hurt. Nonetheless, as Ivorsson’s concentration appeared to have plunged into the chill water through which sluggish fish drifted in the wintry glow admitted by their icy ceiling, it seemed she would have no option but to leave with more pain than she’d brought. Had this been Ivorsson’s intent in speaking to her all along? Her hand slipped into her jacket pocket, where the stones slid against her fingertips. She gathered them together, their rounded sides clicking against one another.

Ivorsson licked his lips with a tongue as washed-out as the rest of him. He said, “Took a while for things to go bad. Between me and Karen.” Perhaps he wasn’t done speaking, after all; perhaps, now that he’d started, the urge was proving too strong to resist. One by one, Michelle allowed the stones to slip from her grip. “Didn’t mean they were over,” he added.

“I’d say your divorce argued otherwise.”

“That was your brother’s idea,” Ivorsson said, “Toby,” giving to the two syllables such venom Michelle could easily believe he would have lunged at her brother, teeth bared, had it been him standing in her place. The anger Ivorsson provoked in her, the heated reminder this man had murdered Toby, was diluted by fear, unexpected and unexpectedly strong. She regretted losing hold of the stones. She swallowed, said, “You’re telling me the papers hadn’t been filed before Toby met Karen?” struggling not to blanch uttering both names, as if mentioning them in the same breath might stir Ivorsson to greater wrath. Yet she was damned if she would cower in front of this man, whatever crimes he had committed, whatever he had become. If he made a move on her, there was the knife on her belt; ineffectual as it might prove in the end, it would still hurt him, and the chance to inflict any pain at all on Walter Ivorsson had a fine appeal.

Leaving her parents bereft of two children, however, was not in her plan.

“No,” Ivorsson said. So distracted had she been by fear, it took a moment for Michelle to recall the question he was answering. “He walked into the middle of that mess. Shoulda kept walking. What kinda absolute fucking idiot takes up with a woman with a husband and an eight-year-old daughter?”

“Ex-husband,” Michelle said, remembering her many conversations with Toby over phone and Skype after he told her about the woman he was seeing, the P.E. teacher at the school where he’d accepted a position as school psychologist. Her own first reaction had been unease with her brother dating a woman whose divorce was a work in progress, her nervousness approaching anxiety as weeks built to months, the divorce dragged on, and Toby recounted more stories of the not-all-the-way-ex-husband’s belligerent past and menacing present. “You need to be careful,” she warned him on multiple occasions, which Toby had assured her he would be, was being, even as the lightness in his voice told her he wasn’t unduly concerned with his girlfriend’s ex, no matter what threatening behavior he’d just described. In part, this was because her baby brother was a six-three, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound, third-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do who had shelves full of the trophies and medals he’d won sparring. Beyond that, Toby was fundamentally unable, or perhaps unwilling, to believe the extent of the human capacity for violence, especially when confronted by a situation over which they felt themselves losing control. Her work as an insurance investigator had left Michelle with a much dimmer, if to her mind more accurate, estimate of the chasm into which people might rappel, but no matter how much she tried to argue this to him, Toby would not be persuaded. “The guy’s the head school bus mechanic,” he said. “He isn’t going to do anything to jeopardize that. Plus, he has joint custody of his daughter. If he does anything stupid, he could lose it.” “If he messes with her mother,” Michelle said, “I’m not so sure about you.” Worry for his safety had made her wish they were kids again, so she could tell him what to do, leave this woman with her dangerous ex prowling around like a dog working itself up to bite—or, to be more accurate, so she could run to her parents and convince one of them to order Toby away from the woman whose presence in his life had placed it in such jeopardy. Except, she had seen the pictures her brother had posted of him and Karen on social media and texted to her, and she could not deny the look of happiness on his face, the smile she had missed in his photos of the last several years, as he moved through a succession of failed and occasionally disastrous relationships. His smile had been the marker for the bet she took in trusting his optimism.

Ivorsson ignored her correction. He said, “I helped raise that girl. Got up in the middle of the night with her when she needed to be fed. Rocked her back to sleep. Changed her shitty diapers, and man, did she have some doozies. Strangest foods would set her off. Bananas, which is unusual. She’d fill her diaper, and if you didn’t realize what was happening straight away, shit went everywhere. Down her legs, up her back—I’m talking, almost to her neck. Ruined whatever outfit she had on. Had to drop it in a bucket with some hot water and detergent and hope for the best. Had to take her into the shower and hose her off. It was disgusting, but kinda funny, too. We’d laugh about it sometimes. Most of the time. We’d say, ‘How can something so small make so much of something so horrible?’ Times Rachel was hurt—there was this one night, she took a fall off the living room couch. Cracked her head on the floor pretty good. Screamed and cried like hell. No blood, pupils were okay. Had a hell of a lump. We called the pediatrician. She said Rachel was probably okay, but there was a chance of a concussion. To be safe, we should wake her every couple of hours through the night. Karen and me traded off checking her. This other time—Rachel was about a year old, she got this weird bruise on her forearm. Neither one of us could figure out what it was. Didn’t look like she’d hit herself or anything. ‘Course your mind jumps to the worst-case scenarios. Cancer in all its flavors. Weird, incurable infections. We found the bruise too late to do anything except leave a message for the doctor. All we could so was wait and worry. Finally, we heard this sucking sound, and there’s the baby nursing on her arm. Gave herself a Goddamn hickey. We were so relieved, both of us had tears in our eyes.” He shook his head. “Homemade birthday piñatas, summer trips to Lake George, taking her to ballet lessons—hell, I played the fucking mouse king when she was in the Nutcracker. What father could’ve done more? Not fucking Bobby Dunn. Not fucking Toby Word.

“But no, first Dunn reappears, emails Karen saying he realizes what a terrible mistake he made, not having anything to do with his daughter. Says he’s living in Saratoga. Out of the service, doing executive protection for some of the bigwigs who live around that neck of the woods. Great pay, flexible schedule. Would be no problem for him to nip down to visit, if Karen thinks it’s a good idea. Which she does. Doesn’t consult me. Tells Rachel before she tells me. Rachel always knew she wasn’t mine. Never tried to hide it from her. Still, she grew up calling me daddy. Having Dunn enter the picture confused her. She was nine. Didn’t need this kind of uncertainty. But her mother had insisted on putting Dunn’s name on the birth certificate, hadn’t she? Like she knew this was gonna happen. I argued about it with her. Couldn’t change her mind. ‘He needs this,’ she said. Can you—I mean, don’t that beat it all? He needs this. What about me?” Ivorsson clenched his teeth and jerked his head, a gesture of lingering resentment.

“Read this book when I was at the community college. The Sun Also Rises. About this guy who got his dick shot off in World War I and can’t be with the woman he loves. Who’s a slut. Anyway, there’s a scene where this other guy is talking about how he went bankrupt. Says something to the effect of, a little bit at a time, then all at once. What happened with Karen and me was like that. Starting with her inviting Dunn into our lives, things went wrong. Routines we had, Chinese takeout on Sunday, watching Fallon on The Tonight Show, weren’t any good anymore. With Rachel especially, it was, ‘Bob’ (which was what he told her to call her) ‘and I went out for Indonesian food,’ which, there wasn’t an Indonesian place nearby. I’d get frustrated at that, at her, ‘It’s okay,’ which she said with a sigh, to let you know it wasn’t okay. If I called her on it, on her attitude, she’d walk away from me. Go to her room and refuse to come out. Lock the door. Karen told me I was overreacting, but what the fuck did she know? She was the one who’d caused this in the first place. She emailed Dunn all the time. Sent him pictures of Rachel, Rachel and her. Never pictures with me in them, or almost never. Started calling him, too, filling him in on everything he’d missed. Consulting with him, planning for Rachel to spend even more time with him, for him to come to our place for Thanksgiving, maybe.

“Yeah. There was plenty for us to argue over. Seemed like all the time I’d known Karen, I’d been—not unhappy, exactly, but not all the way happy, either. Always another complication coming up. For once, I wanted to feel like I was at peace with her, her with me. Like the two of us were settled with one another. Like she said she was, when I agreed to stay with her. Direction things were headed, it didn’t look like this was gonna be the case, ever. Felt like I was trying to hold onto Jell-O. Stuff keeps slipping between your fingers, and the tighter you squeeze, the more it comes apart. Went from saying stupid shit to her—nasty stuff—to getting in her face. Menacing her, you would call it. Shoved her sometimes. Knew she had her clasp knife on her. Every time I crowded her into a corner, pushed her against a wall, I knew there was a chance this would be the time she took it out, used it on me the way she did the poor fucker in Afghanistan. Didn’t want her to, exactly. Wondered what it would feel like. Seemed if she stabbed me, it would be proof of everything I’d said about the way she treated me. The way she made me feel. But she didn’t. Never went for it once, even when I . . . when things got worse. I’d been physical with her before. Slapped her to bring her out of her PTSD states. Stuff like that. Didn’t mean nothing bad by it. This was different. First time, we made up. Second, she threw me out. Third, she took herself and Rachel to a friend’s house. Next day, I heard from her lawyer. Pretty soon, I had a lawyer, too.”

Ivorsson sighed. “Everything was fucked up. Not gonna lie, there were times I wondered if we should go our separate ways. If nothing else, I thought we might have to end the marriage. So we could start over. Put the past behind us, make something new, better. Almost had Karen convinced of it. Then your brother comes on the scene. I was not happy at Karen seeing him. But I told myself it was just a fling. No big deal. Took it as penance, something I had to endure because of what I’d done. Balancing the scales, like.

“Next thing I know, Karen’s pushing to get the divorce done. I tried to slow things down. Thought I could outlast the new boyfriend. Was sure he’d get tired of her soon enough, and then what would she be left with?”

“How romantic,” Michelle said.

“Didn’t work,” Ivorsson said. “Son of a bitch was dug in like a tick. Worse, Rachel liked him right away. Talked about him nonstop when I took her for our time together. Yeah, Judge Badrebue hadn’t given Karen what she wanted as far as the divorce went, but he agreed Rachel should live with her, especially after she told him I wasn’t Rachel’s biological father. Meant I saw her every other weekend and one day during the week. Could’ve been more if Rachel had asked for it. But she never did. Wonder why that was. We’d sit eating ice cream at the Cone E Island and she’d chatter on with Toby-this and Toby-that. Unless she was telling me about the plans Bobby Dunn had for them the next time she went to see him. Between Dunn, and your brother, and school, and ballet, there wasn’t any room left in her life for me. I was being squeezed out.”

“You don’t think acting like a lunatic might have had something to do with it?” Michelle said. “I heard about the shit you pulled. Sitting out in front of the house in your truck at two in the morning. Calling at all hours of the day and night and not saying anything. Showing up at Rachel’s school and saying you were there to pick her up. You cannot have believed any of that was going to help whatever case you imagined you were making.”

“Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I couldn’t help myself.”

“Bullshit. You didn’t want to help yourself. You were wallowing.”

The fishing rod stopped its up and down motion. Ivorsson’s gaunt face seemed to grow thinner still, the flesh to tighten over the bone. Underfoot, ice crackled.

“What I can’t understand,” Michelle continued, “is how you convinced Karen to go with you to wherever you murdered her. Because the cops all agree, there was no sign of a struggle, not in her house, at least. Did you con your way inside, then pull a gun on her? Or did you tell her a story, something designed to get past her defenses? Something about Rachel?”

“Something to do with me.” The words rasped from Ivorsson’s throat. “Got to the point, living lost its savor. Everything turned gray, like. Couldn’t find pleasure anywhere. Stopped watching TV, listening to music. Ate less and less. Couldn’t taste the food. Was always hungry, but couldn’t work myself up to care about it. Finally stopped eating altogether. Weak, lightheaded all the time. Figured I was starving myself to death. Didn’t care. One morning, just wouldn’t wake up. Pictured how upset Karen would be, how full of regret. Serve her right. Only problem was, I wouldn’t be around to see it. Shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. Seemed like one more disappointment. The final frustration. Guess I could’ve faked my death. Spied on everyone at the funeral. They did that on an episode of Little House on the Prairie, I think. Didn’t want to, though. What I wanted was to watch Karen’s face as I died in front of her.

“Didn’t take long to come up with a plan. Had to be sure Rachel wasn’t around. Or your brother. This was between me and Karen, no one else. Fortunately for me, Rachel was visiting with Bob Dunn the same weekend your brother was away doing something with your family.”

“Our mother’s birthday,” Michelle said. “Toby wanted Karen to come with him, but she didn’t feel comfortable going. She hadn’t met any of us yet, and the prospect of doing so all together was intimidating. Especially with her divorce not completed, she was self-conscious about showing up as Toby’s date. Which was stupid, and got her killed.”

“Couldn’t drive to her place. Too light-headed. Cut through the woods between the cottage I was renting now and the house that had been mine not long before. Started snowing on the way. Part of me felt like lying down right there in the middle of the trees and letting the snow cover me. Ignored it, kept going. Thought the radio said something about a storm heading our way, but wasn’t sure. Wind blew over the tree tops. Made a spooky sound, like ghosts crying. Came to the house. Her house. The house she and Rachel were living in without me, but sometimes with your brother. Her car was in the driveway. Would’ve been funny if it wasn’t, if she’d gone somewhere, too. Jokes on me! you could’ve said.”

Michelle did not respond.

“Banged on the front door. Best I could, anyway. Nearly passed out from the effort. Karen answered. Didn’t act surprised to meet me standing there, all snowy. Just looked tired. Said, ‘What is it, Walter?’ Like I was a nuisance, same as some asshole going door to door trying to sell you on his church. Rachel wasn’t there, she said, as if I didn’t know. Can’t remember exactly what I said. Something about the snow. Asked her if she was gonna make me stand out in it. She crossed her arms. Didn’t move from the doorway. ‘So this is how it is,’ I says. Reached into my pocket and came out holding my flint knife. That got a reaction. She stepped back. Stuck her hand in her jeans pocket for her clasp knife. Guess I understood why. Still made me sad. Tilted my head back, pressed the stone to my throat. Over the carotid. Blade was sharp as ever. Wouldn’t take much pressure to part the skin. Stared up into the snow falling. Seemed like the prettiest sight I’d ever seen. Thought it would be okay to die looking at this.

“Then Karen said, ‘Stop. Please.’ And I did. Or didn’t, I guess. Kept the knife where it was. But lowered my head to look at Karen. Her hands were empty. No clasp knife. She held them out in front of her. The way she was standing, kind of crouched down a little, it was like she was getting ready to jump at me. To wrestle the blade out of my hands, maybe. Felt something wet on my face. Snow, I figured, melting. Realized I was crying. Started sobbing. Like a kid. Hadn’t cried like that since . . . don’t know how long. Maybe when my ma died. Not in all the time Karen and me were together. Couldn’t stop. Seemed like everything inside me was forcing its way out through my tear ducts. I saw Karen’s face. Some suspicion, but mostly pity. Which didn’t help my crying none.

“‘What is it you want?’ Karen says. Like she didn’t know. Like I hadn’t told her a thousand times. Like my Goddamn lawyer hadn’t told her Goddamn lawyer. Like she couldn’t see what was right there in front of her and know what it meant. She waited for me to answer. I couldn’t, with the crying. Finally, she said she would drive me home. Didn’t argue. Waited for her to pull on her coat and boots, grab her keys and bag. Seemed foolish to keep the knife at my throat. Kept it in my hand, though. She started her car. She brushed the snow off the driver’s side. I brushed the snow off mine. Belted ourselves in and set off. Wasn’t far to my place. Took a while, on account of the weather. Couldn’t see two feet in front of you. Felt like we should be having some kind of important conversation. Held the knife in my hand and ran my thumb along the edge. Was done crying. Had the hollow feeling you get afterward. Empty. Hungry, too. So much my stomach hurt. Wished we could keep driving. Eventually, though, we were at the end of my driveway. Karen put the car into park. Kept looking straight ahead. ‘Well,’ she said.

“I unlocked my seat belt. Leaned toward Karen. Like I was going to kiss her cheek. She went all stiff. I came up with the knife and slashed her throat.”

He had said the words. Though she had expected them, Michelle flinched. “Blood sprayed over the steering wheel, the dash. The smell filled the car. Karen grabbed her throat with her left hand, grabbed for the seat belt lock with her right. I caught her wrist, pulled her hand away from the lock. Her eyes were wide. Blood was leaking through her fingers, running down her neck onto her coat and sweater. She tried to yank her wrist free. Couldn’t. I held on tight. She rocked against her seat. Kicked at the floor. Her mouth opened like she was going to say something. But her eyes were losing focus. Strength was leaving her arm. She tipped against the door. I let go of her. She slapped at the seat belt. Eyes rolled back in her head. Hand dropped from her throat. More blood ran out of her neck, but in a trickle. Like a faucet with no pressure. It stopped. I waited. She got very still. I lifted her arm. Felt for a pulse. None. She was gone.”

“You mean she was murdered,” Michelle said, voice shaking. “You murdered her. Toby was right. My brother was right. You fucking murdered your ex-wife.”

The description bothered him far less than she would have expected. One side of his mouth lifted in an expression of dismissal, as if to say, “Well, what can you do?” He said, “You could call it that.”

“Is there a better word for cutting someone’s throat and holding them in place until they bleed out?”

“Holy,” Ivorsson said. “What I did in the car with the snow covering the windows was holy. Felt like I was in a huge space. Like a church. Full of darkness. And something else. Something big, set back in the shadows. Watching me. Like when I found the stone knife. At the stream bed full of flint pieces. Where I’d sensed something looking at me. Didn’t know if this was the same . . . thing. Thought so. Seemed like it was holding its breath. Waiting to see what I’d do next. Was still trying to figure that out myself when a snowplow went by. Splashed snow and slush over the car. Lit up the windows yellow with its roof light. Came so close, it rocked the car side to side. That made me move. Got out my side of the car. Looked to see if there was anyone else nearby. Just the plow, heading off into the storm. Went to the driver’s door. Dragged Karen out of her seat around to the trunk. Found a couple of old blankets in it. Used to keep them in there for Rachel, in case she wanted to stop and have a picnic. Lifted Karen into the trunk, covered her with the blankets. Wouldn’t do much to hide her from anyone intent on finding her. With all the blood on the driver’s seat, the steering wheel, the dash, I figured that was the last of my worries. Wasn’t time to do anything about the mess. Climbed behind the wheel, set the wipers going, turned up the heat, and put the car in gear.”

“Where did you take her?”

“Someplace secret. There’s secret places all over these mountains. Old houses down long driveways. Logging camps up dirt roads. Summer camps in little valleys. Clearings where someone laid the foundations for something and never finished it. You can run across rusted out cars with trees growing through them halfway up a mountain. A washing machine sitting at the foot of a cliff. A tuba half in a creek. Caves, too. You find caves everywhere. Some are shallow. Some go down, right into the heart of the mountains. Under the mountains, if you believe some of the stories folks tell.

“Kept to the back roads. Which was tricky, in the storm. Headed deep into the mountains. Weather got worse. Had to slow to a crawl. Put on the hazards. No one else out, but wasn’t taking any chances. Couple of times, thought I might be lost. Wasn’t. Was just the snow making everything look strange. Finally reached my destination. You woulda seen a gap in the trees beside the road and not thought it was anything. Most people would’ve thought the same. Put on my damn turn signal.” Ivorsson barked a laugh. “Don’t that beat all? Here I am, in the middle of a blizzard, with the road empty, with my trunk full, and I’m worried about using my signal.” He shook his head in amusement. “Force of habit, I guess. Anyway. Steered off the road, between the trees. Hemlocks. Drove through a grove of them. Came out the other side next to an old tannery. Used to be tanneries all over the Catskills. Wasn’t much left of this one, foundation and part of one wall. Went around it. Would’ve been slow going without the weather. Followed another old road down a steep slope. Wheels slipped. Half-slid the rest of the way. Rolled across a brook. Came to the mouth of a cave. Eased the car into it. Kept going. Place went back and back and back. Cave ceiling came right down to the car’s roof. Decided to stop once I judged I’d gone far enough not to be seen by someone standing at the entrance to the place. Wasn’t expecting anyone to be there. The storm would cover my tracks pretty well, on top of me driving to a place not ten men knew about, and nine of them in nursing homes. Turned off the engine, but left the lights on. Wasn’t ready to be in the complete dark yet.”

“‘Yet?’”

“Plan was for me to stay with Karen. Until I died. Felt like I was already most of the way there. Couldn’t believe I’d had the strength for . . . everything. Managed to fetch Karen from the trunk, sit her against the front bumper. Sat down beside her. Leaned my head on the car. Closed my eyes. Imagined the two of us being discovered like this some day far in the future. All dried out, a couple of mummies. Was a little sad for Rachel, not knowing what had happened to us. Where we were. Seemed for the best, though. Dunn would look after her, I assumed. Wanted nothing more than to let go. Drift out into the dark. Fade like the car’s headlights, which were starting to lose juice.

“Problem was, I was hungry. Worse. Couldn’t believe one man could feel such hunger. It was like, my appetite was outside me, giant-sized, crouched in the shadow beyond the light. Smell of Karen’s blood was everywhere. On her sweater, my jacket. Made my mouth water. Stomach growled like a bobcat. Waited for the feeling to pass. Didn’t. Got worse. Drool spilled down my chin. Wiped it with the back of my hand. Realized I was holding the flint knife. Couldn’t recall taking it out of my pocket. Gripped it tight. Saw something at the edge of the darkness. A face, hanging in the air. Like a man’s, but huge. Broad. Heavy black hair. It was squinting at me. Lip raised on rough teeth. Jagged, the lot of them. Broken, maybe. Pair of horns stood out from the temples. Thick, like an elk or moose, but weird, warped, like they were diseased. Licked its lips. Tongue was thick, pointed. Rolled out of its mouth and hung there, swishing back and forth. Something moved on the tongue. Maggots. Like it was a length of dead meat dangling there. Some of the maggots fell on the cave floor. Sounded like raindrops. I was sure I was hallucinating. Had to be. On account of the hunger. Seemed pretty real, all the same. Scared me so bad it was like I wasn’t in my body. Pissed myself. Might as well have been someone else’s jeans getting wet. Was like the face was more real than I was. Fear was so strong, it was almost another feeling . . . joy, I guess. Felt the knife weighting my hand. Came back to myself a little. Found I could move. Move in that greater reality. Turned to Karen. Hunger twisted my gut.

“Seemed like a kind of wind passed through me. Like the face breathed out. Only, the breath was cold. Freezing. There were words in the wind—or, not words, exactly, but meaning. I’m not describing it right. More a case of, I knew I didn’t have to die. No reason to starve to death, with all this meat fresh in front of me. The other stuff I thought, about dying next to Karen, didn’t matter anymore. What did was eating. Stood and almost fell down again. Legs were asleep. Forced them to walk me to the driver’s side door. Wasn’t a hundred percent sure the car would start, but it did. Right away. Headlights glowed. Wanted to make sure I’d have light to last me. For what I was gonna do. The face was gone. Didn’t pay it any mind. It—or what it gave me—was inside me. Swear I could feel horns on either side of my head. Had to remove Karen’s clothes and then . . . don’t suppose you know how to dress a deer?”

“I do,” Michelle said, the words weighted and difficult to say, because already her mind’s eye was viewing memories of Saturday hunting trips with her father. Having opened the buck or doe they’d shot and removed the wet mass of the organs, saving the heart and liver, they tied its legs together, hauled the deer out of the woods, lashed it to the roof of the family car, and headed back down the Taconic, their gruesome cargo drawing wide-eyed looks from their fellow drivers. Their destination was not the brown and white Tudor in which Michelle was raised; rather, they made their way across Yorktown Heights to the strip mall in which Dad’s friend, Van, had his butcher’s shop. They would drive to the back of the store, where Van would be waiting for them. Together, they would untie the deer and carry it inside. If the trip had been long, if she and her father had to sit in their blind until almost the last minute before a deer picked its way into sight, they would hang the carcass in Van’s walk-in freezer, to await his attentions the following morning. If they had been successful immediately, or near enough, Van would set to work on the remains with the knives he laid out on a small wheeled table he rattled over the tiled floor. From the first moment Michelle had expressed an interest in accompanying her father on his annual hunt, he had insisted she commit to the entire enterprise, from cleaning the rifles, to helping to load the car the night before, to field dressing the deer, to standing by for this last, bloody chapter, in which the Van’s knives separated the cloudy eyed carcass into steadily smaller pieces, until all that was recognizable of the animal her or her dad’s bullet had brought to the leaf-strewn earth was its head, its hooves, and its hide. The rest was in stacked packages wrapped in white butcher paper, the identity of their contents scrawled on them in black grease pencil. For his labors, Van retained twenty percent of the meat; the rest went into a pair of large coolers in the car trunk, and from there to the big freezer in the garage.

The methodical, surprisingly quick process by which skin was sliced from muscle, muscle freed from bone, bone sawed from bone, had not bothered Michelle. She herself had been surprised at her lack of any emotion other than a keen interest. Picturing Walter Ivorsson employing a flint knife to perform the same series of actions on the still warm corpse of his ex-wife, however, was an entirely different matter, particularly as what it was preliminary to. “He will have eaten human flesh,” Professor Smith had said. “Not just tasted it, but consumed it. From what you’ve said, his ex-wife. I would fear your brother, too.” Seated in her cushioned office chair, her cell pressed to her ear, Michelle had felt her arms and neck crawling with horror, her two cups of coffee burning at the top of her throat, at what the community college professor (emerita) had been saying to her. The response was nothing compared to what swept her out here under the sky’s bright blue bowl, a revulsion so profound it made her legs tremble with the urge to run, to flee from this man and his depredations. As long as she remembered to drop the stones in her pocket on the way, why shouldn’t she let her feet do what they wanted?

Because, she thought, you don’t know where Toby is. Given the chance of learning the location of his remains, which it seemed she was on the verge of, she had to take it, didn’t she? Besides, it was too late. She had heard Ivorsson’s terrible confession, been shared secrets toxic as uranium. Some part of her . . . spirit? soul? call it what you would, the interior space where her truest self lived, had been poisoned and would remain blighted forever. A line from a college literature class sounded in her ears: “After such knowledge, what forgiveness?” (From a poem by T.S. Eliot, she was reasonably sure.) At the time, she had read and re-read it, labored over its nine syllables, whose apparent clarity masked a meaning she had been unable to grasp—or, not grasp as much as appreciate, feel. Knowledge was knowledge, she had contended in class, information. How could it be either good or bad? Little had she known the answer to her question was waiting in her future, on the frozen surface of a lake high in the Catskills. And if this was the case, if she was tainted, she might as well remain in place, and see her bitter mission through to the end.

“Not a lot of women know how to clean a deer,” Ivorsson said.

“Yeah, well,” Michelle said.

“Flint knife worked better’n I woulda guessed,” he said. “Got hard to hold at times. Slippery. But I managed to do what I had to. Didn’t have nothin’ but time. Was so hungry, I wanted to rush. Forced myself to go slow. Do things properly. What was happening was . . . sacred. As much as if I’d been in a church. More. I dressed every last bit of Karen. Then I sat down to table. Never tasted anything so sweet. Brought tears to my eyes. Assumed I’d have to pace myself. But it was like, the more I ate, the more I could eat. Like I was growing gigantic, until I had to lean forward to keep my head from hitting the cave roof. All of her went into my mouth. Was still hungry after. Broke open the long bones and sucked out the marrow. Licked the rest clean. Only part of her I didn’t touch was the head. Set it on top of the car, facing into the cave. Reached into the car and shut off the engine. Turned off the lights. Everything went black. Didn’t matter. Walked toward the cave mouth. Didn’t bother saying goodbye to Karen. No need. She was inside me.

“Reached the entrance at dusk. Snow over everything. Ice hanging from the trees. Setting sun turned all of it red. Had stripped off back at the car. Didn’t much feel the cold now. Even though the breath was steaming out of me. Still seemed like I was bigger than I had been. Like the feeling I had while I was eating was right, real. Have to admit, I half-expected a bunch of cops to be waiting for me, guns drawn. Don’t know what I would have done. Wasn’t no one. Which was a relief, I guess. Mostly what I was was hungry. Not like I had been, but enough so I noticed. Stepped onto the snow. Stung my feet. The wind I felt in the cave raised in my chest, and I ran across the snow. Back up the way I came. Feet burned like they were on fire. I was barely touching the ground. Running faster than I ever had. Climbing up into the air. Through the trees, then over them. Soles of my feet all fiery. Everything sped up. Next I knew, I was at the back door of my cottage, reaching under the doormat for the spare key. No one saw me.

“Which made it easier when the sheriff came knocking. Couple days later. Asking if I’d seen Karen. Told him I had not. Said I’d been sick. Flu, maybe. Called into work about it. Had, too, since I’d been home. Told them I’d been too ill to phone before, and they believed me. Sheriff Rudyard was less convinced. Snow was piled up on my car, though. Driveway hadn’t been plowed. He stuck his head through the doorway. ‘Come in,’ I says. ‘You wanna have a look around, go ahead.’ Man checked out the entire house. Went from the attic crawlspace to the basement crawlspace. Kept his hand near his pistol. Only thing he paused over was the flint knife. I left it sitting on the coffee table in the living room. Rudyard stared at it for a long time. Never touched it, never asked me about it. On his way out, he said I should stay put until Karen turned up. Sure, I said. Was just about sure he’d be back.

“Next day, he was. Had a couple of deputies with him. Said he wanted another look at my knife. ‘What knife?’ I says. ‘So this’s how it’s gonna be,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I says. ‘I let you have a look around the other day out of courtesy. You won’t do so again without a warrant.’ Turns out, he had one. No matter. Knife was hid where the likes of them wouldn’t find it. Didn’t stop ‘em from tearing the place apart searching for it. Still had my lawyer’s number from the divorce stuff. Called and gave him the low-down. Not ten minutes later, he was at the end of my driveway. Got right up in Rudyard’s face. Sheriff had ideas about taking me into custody. Escorting me down to the station, was how he put it. To conduct a more in-depth interview about Karen’s disappearance. Uh-uh, lawyer says, no way. Mr. Ivorsson will be happy to drive himself into town, where I will be happy to sit with him while you interview him. Rudyard was mad. Oh man, was he ever. Went along with it. No choice, really. Our talk was what he woulda called inconclusive. Was obvious he wanted to come out and ask if I’d killed Karen. With the lawyer there, wasn’t no way that was gonna happen. Kept my answers short. Honest as I could. Closest Rudyard came to accusing me of anything was asking if I had any thoughts as to what might have happened to Karen. I said I didn’t. But also said he should be putting the same question to Bobby Dunn and your brother.”

“The cops talked to Toby several times,” Michelle said. “Called the rest of the family to verify his alibi. Not to mention, to find out if everything had been okay between him and Karen. I can’t say if they checked on Dunn, but I would be surprised if they didn’t. Sounds to me as if the sheriff liked you for the crime. Better judgment than I would have given the man I met credit for. You did something to him, didn’t you?”

“Day after my visit to the station, sheriff comes by a third time. Around dinner. Says he’s giving me one last chance to do the right thing. Spill the beans on what I did with Karen. Says it’ll go easier on me if I help locate her. Asks me to think about Rachel. Who’s still with Dunn. Did I mention that? When Karen wasn’t around for her to come home to, son of a bitch decided to keep her with him. Ran it by Karen’s sister—the one in Seattle—who said, Yeah, sure. Not like there’s anyone else she could stay with. Like, say, the man who raised her. Who’s still supposed to have some rights.

“Anyway. Answered Rudyard’s same questions same as I had sitting next to my lawyer. Didn’t go over any better outside my front door than it had in the station. Rudyard’s hand was on his pistol. Could see him thinking about taking it out, waving it around. Reckless. Might go off. Was already pretty sure it wouldn’t hurt me if it did. Wasn’t in a hurry to test the theory, though. Have to admit, him showing up made me—not nervous. Antsy. Pissed off. Mostly, I was hungry. Always. Like I had been in the cave. Like the emptiness in me now was a bridge to the emptiness in me then. To what had flown into me there. To what I had become. Just like that, I brought what I had been across that bridge to this moment. Felt like a storm blew up around me. Sheriff looked like he was shrinking. Old Rudyard had no fucking conception what was going on. His eyes bugged out. His mouth opened and a high-pitched sound came out: Eeeeeeeeeee. Backed away from me. Missed his footing, fell on his ass. Forgot all about his gun. Crawled to his car and took off with the driver’s door hanging open. Heard he had a heart attack later the same night. Kept him in the hospital the better part of a week.” Ivorsson made no effort to hide his grin. “Didn’t see him again after that.

“Your brother—Toby—he was another story.”

“You want to know what’s funny?” Michelle said. “He thought you were innocent. At first. Said it was too obvious; there was no way you would do anything so dumb. You would have to know you were the first person everyone would suspect, the estranged, soon-to-be-ex-husband with a history of domestic ‘problems.’ Not that he liked you personally; he was afraid the cops had wasted precious time on you while whatever had happened to Karen was receding further into the past. Since there was no sign of the car, he thought she’d gone out for a drive, decided to take a day trip somewhere, and had an accident, run off the road and not been found, yet. I told him in all the cases I’d worked, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, when someone goes missing, a family member is behind it.”

“‘Cases?’” Ivorsson said. “Didn’t figure you for a cop.”

“I’m not,” Michelle said. “Insurance investigator. Some overlap as far as the ringside seat for human folly—and occasionally worse.”

“Sounds like you aimed your brother in my direction.”

“I talked over the details of Karen’s disappearance with him. Walked through different scenarios. From the start, we dismissed her running away. Well, Toby did. He couldn’t believe she’d abandon Rachel. What he really meant was, he couldn’t believe she would abandon Rachel and him. I wasn’t as sure. People can surprise you in all sorts of unpleasant ways. Based on everything I knew, I admitted it sounded unlikely. The car accident theory, we pursued for a while. Toby compiled a list of locations Karen had been to and enjoyed, and a list of places she’d expressed an interest in visiting, and plotted out the most likely routes to each and every one. Any on main roads, he crossed out. Any on back roads, or that you had to drive on back roads to reach, he highlighted. He took a couple of days off work and spent them driving these routes, eyes peeled at every twist and turn for evidence of a crash. He had a fantasy of finding her car buried in a snow drift at the bottom of a gulch, Karen inside, unconscious, possibly comatose, but clinging to life. For his sake, I wanted it to be true, but I wasn’t optimistic. By the time he decided you were worth considering, after all, it sounds like you’d had your final . . . encounter with Sheriff Rudyard, because the man was in the hospital. His deputies weren’t any help. I wanted him to go to the state police, which he did, only to have the guy he spoke with inform him they were aware of the situation and offering assistance to Sheriff Rudyard as he requested it. In other words, not at all. By this point, Toby was in a low-level panic. He’d left so many messages on Karen’s cell, the mailbox was full. None of her friends or family had heard from her. He considered hiring a private investigator, went as far as to call a woman in Albany. She listened to him and said it sounded as if he’d done a lot of what she would have. She could go over the same ground he’d covered, see if she noticed anything he’d missed, but she was reluctant to take his money if she wasn’t going to be able to contribute to the search. Much as I respected the P.I.’s honesty, I can’t help wishing she had been just a little less scrupulous, because then she would have been the one to knock on your door. It might have led to her death, I know, but I would still have my brother.”

“Nah,” Ivorsson said, “things were always gonna heat up between him and me.”

“You’re saying you were bound to murder him?”

“Don’t know as I murdered the man . . .”

“Oh, come on,” Michele said. “You already admitted to killing your ex-wife.”

“Wife. And killing her, yes. Murdering her, no.”

“What word would you prefer?”

“Karen was a sacrifice.”

“To whom?”

“Face I saw in the cave. What came into me there.”

“You didn’t know about any of that when you cut her throat.”

“You forget,” Ivorsson said, “the place I found the knife. The flint river. First time I was aware of it. The presence.”

“Is this what Toby was, another sacrifice?”

“He was more in the way of,” Ivorsson searched for the correct term, “prey. Don’t talk about murdering prey. Don’t make sense. Being killed’s what prey’s for. What makes it prey.”

“Prey and provender,” Michelle said. “That means—”

“I know what provender is,” Ivorsson said with pique. He did not say if Michelle’s use of the word was correct.

“Toby called me the night he confronted you. He was . . .” She recalled the emotions fighting for control of her brother. She had heard anger quivering in the first thing he said to her: “He did it, Shelly. The fucker murdered her. He fucking murdered her,” the trembling continuing as anger crumbled to anguish and he said, “She’s dead. Oh my God. She’s gone. I’m never going to see her again,” the shaking subsiding, his volume diminishing as anguish gave way to something like wonder and he said, “He isn’t human.” Of course he wasn’t, Michelle had said, he was a monster, but where she had been speaking metaphorically, her brother had not. She caught the thread of what she had been saying to Ivorsson, continued, “He was upset. He was sure Karen was dead and you had murdered her. I tried to get him to tell me what you’d said, what had convinced him you were responsible for Karen. Depending on what it was, I thought we might be able to take it to the cops, force them to do more than they had. He wouldn’t say. Or he couldn’t. He was too overwhelmed by something else, something he’d seen. He didn’t make any sense, not to me, at least, not at the time. He kept repeating, ‘I saw him, Shelly, I really saw him.’ You were tall, he said, so tall. Thin, too, as if you were starving. There was something about your head, but he had trouble describing it. Like horns, he said, which sounded ridiculous, insane. He couldn’t talk about your face, just said what he saw there made him run to his car and leave as fast as he could. He said you followed him part of the way, walking on air.”

Ivorsson smirked. “Can guess how that went over.”

“No,” Michelle said, “I didn’t believe him. Can you blame me? You knew— you knew you could show him what you were and as long as there was no one else there to corroborate his story, you were fine. You were more than fine: the narrative someone like Toby, or the sheriff, would’ve told sounded so crazy there was no way anyone would believe it. Instead, it would seem like you were the object of a delusional person’s obsessive fantasy.”

Ivorsson nodded. The smirk had stretched to a grin, which would not have been out of place on the muzzle of a wolf.

‘Afterward, he said you were following him. Stalking him, right? Every time he turned around, there you were. In the Price Chopper, at the other end of the meat counter. At the McDonald’s, eating your quarter-pounder a couple of booths away, your lips smeared with ketchup. Standing outside his kitchen window in the middle of the night, when he got up for a glass of water. Watching him get in his car from across the school parking lot. None of it was anything he could tell the cops. It would have gone even worse if he’d told them everything he’d seen: your tongue flopping past your lips, impossibly long and crawling with maggots; your mouth opening wider than any man’s could; you with the soles of your boots three feet off the ground. You watched him from high up in the branches of tall trees. You floated on the other side of his bedroom window, scratching at the glass and whispering to him.

“Yeah, I thought he was having some kind of extended breakdown, brought on by the stress of Karen’s disappearance and likely death. I had no problem believing you were responsible; like I said, the odds, not to mention, what I knew of the facts, argued in favor of it. The other stuff, you as a supernatural monster, was harder to accept, to put it mildly. The thing was, Toby didn’t come across as out of his mind. At this point, we were on the phone with one another every day, and what I heard was confusion, my very smart brother struggling with information which couldn’t be true but all the same was. Since he disappeared, I’ve become a lot more sympathetic to what he must have been going through.”

“All my life,” Ivorsson said, “it’s been me on the receiving end. Of Karen’s bullshit, mostly. At work, too. Always the butt of someone’s joke. Was the same in high school, middle school. To be the one giving shit, instead of taking it, was great.” The smile had decayed to a sneer. “Didn’t hurt it was the guy who’d been fucking my wife.”

“He figured out what you were,” Michelle said. “Not immediately. At first, he was worried he was losing his mind. Eventually, he decided to do research, to see if he could find a connection between what he was going through and anything in the real world. Such as it is. It took him a little while, but with Karen gone, time was one thing he had plenty of. Online, he found a couple of articles in an academic journal which seemed to relate to what he was experiencing. He reached out to the author, and she was willing to speak with him. He didn’t tell her the truth. Instead, he said he was working on a horror novel set in the Catskills, and he needed help with the monster for it. She listened to him enumerating your various activities and gave what you are a name.”

“Oh?” Ivorsson said. “What is that?”

“Wendigo,” Michelle said. Or Stone Coat, Professor Smith had said. Or Chiroo. The native peoples of this land had different names for the same figure, a giant who eats human flesh but is not filled. It has cousins as far afield as India—the Rakshasa—and as far back in time as ancient Greece—the Laestrygonians, who destroy most of Odysseus’s ships and consume most of his men. It is monstrous, evil, the end result—usually—of a great crime, a profound betrayal, typically cannibalism.

“Wen-di-go,” Ivorsson said, drawing out the syllables. He shrugged. “If you say so. Didn’t help your brother none. He came for me, you know. Wasn’t ready to be done fucking with him yet. But he’s waiting when I come from work. Didn’t see where he was hiding. Back of a big willow in the front yard. Must’ve walked, ’cause there was no car in the driveway. Holds on til I’m at the front door, then steps out and points the gun he’s carrying at me. Big thing. .357. Says I’m gonna tell him exactly what I did with Karen. If he doesn’t like my answer, he’ll blow a hole in me with his hand cannon. ‘Tell you?’ I says. ‘Shit, son, I’ll go one step better. I’ll show you!’ And I did. Credit where credit’s due: he didn’t run. Not right away. No, he lifted the pistol, steadied his wrist, and pulled the trigger. Got off four shots. Two missed me. Smacked the cottage. Other two hit me. Full in the chest. Felt like being kicked by a horse. Staggered me. I’d had a hunch a gun wouldn’t kill me. Turned out to be true. Hurt, all the same. Pissed me off. Made me roar. Like, I don’t know, a bear. Or the wind. That was it for your Toby. Turned tail and ran. Straight into the woods. Situation might’ve turned out differently if he tried for the road. Especially if he flagged down a car. In the forest, he was mine. I didn’t bother walking on the air. Wanted to run him down. Already was pretty far ahead. Fast.”

Michelle heard herself saying, “He ran track in high school, sprints,” which was absurd but somehow important to say now, as the story of her brother’s life was reaching its end.

“Took me a little bit to catch up to him. Right as I was nipping at his heels, he stopped, turned, and shot the last two bullets in his gun. Surprised me. One went wild. Other caught me straight in the head.” Ivorsson released the fishing rod with his right hand and raised it to point at a spot over his right eye, a location which would been incapacitating, if not out and out fatal, for anyone else. His mitten traced the skin there, in whose pale surface Michelle could detect no hint of a scar. “Took the wind out of my sails for a good couple minutes. Who knows? Maybe if he’d had an automatic, he coulda done more damage. Or if he brought extra bullets. In one of those speed-loader things. Instead, he tossed the .357. Went back to running. Stopped one last time. Took a couple of pictures with his phone. Didn’t get much farther. Tried to run and do something with his phone. Guess he was sending the photos to you.”

“Yes.” She had been out with her friends when her phone chimed to announce the arrival of a new message. A glance at the screen had shown a pair of attachments from Toby. The images tapping the phone brought up were blurred, poorly lit, and would have been difficult to discern even had she not been standing in a crowded club whose sound system was thumping so hard it was making her beer dance on the table. Toby must have messaged her by mistake, she thought. (Though whom he could have been sending such pictures to was unclear.) Before she returned the phone to her pocket, she set it to shunt directly to voicemail, and so missed the last communication she would have from her brother until it was a message from a ghost.

“Should’ve used the knife,” Ivorsson said. “If I had time to plan, I would’ve. Happened too fast. Plus, I was pretty mad. Head was a mess. Pieces of it hanging in front of my eye. I was hungry, too. Felt like I spent my days with my stomach hurting. Surrounded by the food I really wanted.” Ivorsson’s milky tongue licked his lips. “No knife. Still, had my hands. Teeth. Wasn’t as neat as the flint would’ve been. All the same. Managed to keep him going for a good hour or so. Not nearly long enough for me. Expect it was a lot longer for him.”

Here at last was the worst part of Walter Ivorsson’s tale, the detail Michelle had been hoping not to hear even as dread rose in her like icy water. Toby’s death, she had been led by her investigation of the last weeks to conclude as likely—Karen’s, too, although the probability had not affected her as deeply. While she resisted it, every skill she had learned at her job, a decade and a half of observation, analysis, induction, and intuition, had delivered her to the same destination, the one where her brother’s remains lay under a thin layer of dirt and snow. If his death was quick, if it had occurred before he understood what was happening, if he had not suffered, then she could clutch at this as a kind of mercy, albeit, of terrible stripe. For him to spend his final moments in agony and terror, however, was intolerable. For twenty-eight years filled to the brim with canoeing on Lake Taconic, with playing acoustic guitar at Sunday folk mass, with a semester abroad at Oxford, with medium-rare cheeseburgers at his favorite restaurant, encyclopedic knowledge of every Simpsons episode, the first Ph.D. in the family, with all the minutia that gave his life its particular shape and texture, to be reduced to flesh ripped open and torn away, blood steaming on snow, organs wrenched from their places, nerves alight with the same idiot message—PAIN—blinking on and off, on and off, made her throat constrict with horror, even as another emotion rushed underneath, sorrow of such profundity it threatened her eyes with a lifetime of tears. She sniffed them back, because this was neither the place nor the time for weeping.

Ivorsson had set his abbreviated fishing rod on the ice and was rising to his feet. Despite herself, Michelle retreated a step, fumbling in her pocket for the stones. At a certain point, when he described murdering Karen, he had made it inevitable he would not allow her either to leave or to live. The time had come, it appeared, for him to enact his latest plan. The stones slid maddeningly around her fingertips. Ivorsson leaned down to the yellow bucket on which he had been seated and placed a mittened hand flat on either side. Michelle ran the stones through her thumb and index finger, counting them, One, two, three, four, five, or was that one again? There was no time. Ivorsson was raising the bucket carefully, the way you might lift the plastic cover from a store-bought cake in order not to smear the frosting. Michelle brought her clenched hand out of her jacket and opened it. The stones—all five, yes—fell to the ice at her feet with the glassy clatter of marbles on pavement. If Ivorsson noticed the sound, he ignored it, focused on the object his seat had concealed.

It was a human head—it was Toby’s head, resting slightly askew on the ragged stump of its neck. All the breath left Michelle’s lungs. Toby’s skin was gray, his eyes rolled up under his lids. His lips were gone, from the look of his mouth chewed away, as was a piece of his left cheek, through which bone flecked with muscle showed white flecked with dull red. A loud ringing filled Michelle’s ears. The edge of Toby’s neck was crusted with blood turned black. Due to the damage to his face (the bites the fucking bites the bites), it was impossible to ascertain her brother’s expression, but Michelle thought it was one of terror, of fright so commanding it had swept Toby to death. Dark spots flickered in front of her eyes. Ivorsson bent over and seized Toby’s hair with his left hand. As he rose, he threw the head to Michelle with an underhand toss. She caught it reflexively, wrapping both arms around and hugging Toby’s poor, mutilated head to herself. It was cold, heavy, as if sculpted from ice. Michelle did not look at it.

Instead, she watched Walter Ivorsson, whose face rippled as if it were behind a sheet of glass across which a spray of water passed. Wind gusted over the ice, whirling snow around him. Within the snow, he seemed—no, was taller, much taller, so tall she had to crane her head back to see his face, which had expanded, broadened, eyes pale fires, enormous mouth brimming with blackened teeth like a wolf’s fangs. A coil of tongue flapped over the lips, tiny white forms crawling on it. From either temple, a misshapen web of bone flowered, the horn of an elk or moose distorted by some dire sickness. The Wendigo’s white skin stretched tight over the rack of its misshapen bones. White flame danced around feet halfway to hooves, rushed over the ankles, up shins and calves. Under other circumstances, her mind would have reeled at the thing leering at her, ravenous. It was fantastic, unbelievable, an affront to the world as she knew and understood it. With Toby’s head clasped to her chest, though, the beast Walter Ivorsson had revealed himself to be was only another manifestation of the crack that had split open the center of existence. She went to speak, found her mouth too dry. She swallowed, said, “I guess this is you keeping your word.”

In reply, the Wendigo’s tongue lashed, spraying maggots across its face and chest.

“The Wendigo isn’t new,” Michelle said. “They were around when there was a land bridge connecting Siberia and Alaska, hunting the people who crossed it. Those people learned how to fight them. An especially powerful shaman could seek them out and kill them. A brave warrior might do the same thing. I think this is what Toby was trying to do. The problem is, my brother wasn’t a warrior. I’m not, either. What I am is thorough. He had sent me the pictures he took of you, the audio of you . . . savaging him. The photos were too blurry to make out. I had to take them to a guy I know who specializes in cleaning up these kinds of images. Even then, I didn’t understand what I was seeing: a monster with a bloody hole in its forehead. The recording of his screams was enough to tell me what had happened to him, but I needed to understand the connection between Toby screaming and those pictures. I ran through his emails, his texts, until I found his communication with the person I mentioned, the scholar. I reached out to her and she agreed to talk to me. We went over what she and my brother discussed, some of which I already knew. After she was finished, I told her the real reason Toby had been in touch with her. She didn’t believe me—or, let me put that another way. She was prepared to accept my brother had been harassed and stalked by someone pretending to be a supernatural creature, who maybe even believed he was this creature. But the things Toby had described to her were not possible. I shared the cell phone pictures, the originals and the enhanced versions I’d had made. She refused to accept any of it, said photos can be faked, which, God knows, they can be. For me, the opposite was happening. I was understanding how everything fit together, at least, everything I knew. Profess—the scholar became very agitated, accused me and my brother of playing a weird joke on her, threatened to hang up. I begged her to give me five more minutes. I apologized for dumping all this on her. Maybe I was wrong, I said. What if we forgot all my assertions? What if we went back to Toby’s story, to the novel he said he was writing? Imagine we’re inside the novel, I said, and there’s a Wendigo. What do we do about it?

“She repeated the information about the shaman and the warrior. Those didn’t work, I said. Do we have anything else?”

Ice creaked as the monster shifted its weight. It was growing impatient— was already impatient, eager to add the taste of her flesh to that of Toby and Karen’s. There was no need for Michelle to tell Ivorsson—what had been Walter Ivorsson—any of this; she would have been as well to turn and start back across the lake. Yet with the moment arrived, she was possessed by the urge to let him know what was about to occur here, in this secluded spot high in the Catskills on a February afternoon. She said, “The people who started to visit this area at the end of the last ice age—the scholar called them the Clovis—had ceremonies for dealing with the Wendigo, rituals dating to when their ancestors hunted in Siberia. Those practices were handed down over millennia. The one she knew of came from the Iroquois, who lived a little ways north of here. Maybe you learned about them in middle school. This ceremony consisted of walking counterclockwise around the Wendigo until you had returned to where you started, chanting a spell as you went. Then, you approached the monster and cast five stones at it. There were details the scholar couldn’t remember. She knew the chant was calling on the god the Iroquois call Flint. He’s associated with monsters. She thought the stones were made of granite, carved with important symbols or characters of some kind. I asked her if she could find out the exact information and email it to me. She said she would, she did, and I got what I needed for this, our confrontation.”

The Wendigo tilted its horned head back and howled, a high cry which echoed off the hilly amphitheater. Michelle heard mixed in it the mournful wail of the coyote and the shriek of the winter wind. Snow belled around it as it took one giant step forward. The ice shuddered.

Michelle glanced down and saw the frozen surface of the lake had turned from opalescent to transparent, allowing an only slightly distorted view of the fish throwing off their winter torpor to crowd it. Although no fisherman, she recognized bass both large- and small-mouthed, crappie, pumpkinseed, bluegill, muddy catfish, pickerel, a scattering of larger fish, pike, all pressing their mouths to the ice like goldfish eager for their flakes. She looked up from the mass of scaled bodies in time to see the corona of snow fly away from the Wendigo in all directions, with a noise like a great fire being extinguished all at once. The monster paused, sniffed the air as if scenting something new, and although it was difficult to read the creature’s expression, its features relaxed in such a way as to suggest confusion, indecision, perhaps fear.

A moment later, it dropped to the clear ice, its great form jerking as if all its nerves were firing. Its flesh seemed to liquefy, to slide back and forth across bones losing their size. It cried out a second time, but the sound was more that of a man attempting to scream with a mouth whose shape kept changing. Its right horn cracked off and shattered on the ice; the left contracted into and against the head, stopping as a kind of bony tumor. All at once, the Wendigo was gone, leaving only Walter Ivorsson writhing naked on the ice. If he had appeared thin before, now he was truly emaciated, skeletal, as if his body were so far along the path of starvation it was consuming itself. His mouth opened and closed, trying to seek sustenance from the air itself.

Beneath her feet, the fish had turned on one another, attacking each other with a savagery Michelle could scarcely credit. The ice trembled with the violence of their heads and tails striking it. Blood bloomed in the cold water as, without regard to species or size, fish bit chunks out of each other’s sides, tore away each other’s fins, shredded each other’s tails. Even suffering from tremendous wounds, mortal wounds, half of their heads bitten away, their bellies open and guts trailing after them, the feeding frenzy continued. Nor would it stop until the lake’s inhabitants had consumed themselves.

From his position on the ice, Ivorsson glared at her.

“What I did—the ritual traps you here,” Michelle said. “Although it doesn’t look like you’re in any kind of shape to leave. Without the Wendigo inside you, I doubt you’ll last very long. According to the forecast, the temperature’s going to drop tonight. I believe the weatherman’s exact words were, ‘dangerously cold.’ From what I understand, not many people ice fish here. Too difficult to get to. I bet this is why you like it. I imagine someone will find you, eventually. If the coyotes don’t eat you, first. I wish there were some way for everything you’ve done—for the truth to be known. I can’t think of one, so this will have to do.”

Ivorsson’s teeth had started to chatter.

“I guess there’s some doubt as to whether you’ll remain confined to this place after you die, or go to whatever hell is waiting for you. I’ve thought about it, and either is fine with me.”

There was nothing more to say. Her dead brother’s brutalized head in her arms, Michelle turned away from the man who had killed him and the woman he loved and began the long walk off the lake beneath whose glassy surface the bloody remains of fish spun in the diminishing currents of their awful death.

For Fiona, and for Brian Horstman

HONORABLE MENTIONS

Ballingrud, Nathan “Three Mothers Mountain,” Screams From the Dark.

Brownlee, John “The Bleating Belfry,” Vastarien Fall.

Campbell, Ramsey “Someone to Blame,” Classic Monsters Unleashed.

Carroll, Jonathan “Porgee’s Boar,” Tor.com, August 10.

Cluley, Ray “The Wrong Shark,” All That’s Lost.

Dawson, Sam “Godless,” Supernatural Tales 49 spring.

Dawson, Sam “Shod,” Supernatural Tales 51, winter 2022/23.

DeMeester, Kristi “Suffer, the Children,” The Dark February, #78.

Dries, Aaron “Nona Doesn’t Dance,” Cut To Care.

Evenson, Brian “Good Night, Sleep Tight,” Conjunctions: 78 Fear Itself.

Files, Gemma “Wet Red Grin,” Screams From the Dark.

Flowers, Joshua “A Random Aquarium at the Pier,” Underland Arcana 8.

Ford, Jeffrey “Beautiful Dreamer,” Screams From the Dark.

Gosling, Sharon “Souvenirs,” Close to Midnight.

Hirshberg, Glen “Devil,” Screams From the Dark.

Humble, C. S. “Ambush Predator,” Human Monsters.

Jakeman, Jane “Tin Bath,” Supernatural Tales 49 spring.

Jiang, Ai “Give Me English,” F&SF May/June.

Jones, Penny “Behind a Broken Smile,” Behind a Broken Smile.

Jones, Stephen Graham “Flowerkicker,” Uncanny 45.

Jones, Stephen Graham “Men, Women, and Chainsaws,” Tor.com April 20.

Jones, Tyler “The Golden Rule,” Burn the Plans.

Langan, John “Blodsuger” Screams from the Dark.

Lees, Jonathan “Power Out, Wind Howling,” Even in the Grave.

Little, Bentley “In the Valley,” Horror Library Volume 7.

Malerman, Josh “A Sunny Disposition,” Human Monsters.

Malerman, Josh “Dungeon Punchinello,” The Hideous Book of Hidden Horrors.

Malik, Usman T. “Challawa,” Dark Stars.

McMahon, Gary “The Kites,” This Isn’t Anywhere You Know.

Neugebauer, Annie “Churn the Unturning Tide,” Other Terrors.

Neugebauer, Annie “The Pelt,” The Hideous Book of Hidden Horrors.

Nevill, Adam L. G. “Rise Up Together,” Close to Midnight.

Oates, Joyce Carol “The Father of Modern Gynecology” . . . Screams From the Dark.

Rogers, Ian “You Have What I Need” Screams From the Dark.

Surface, David “A Trick of the Light,” Strange Little Stories newsletter.

Wagner, Wendy N. “Halogen Sky,” Vastarien Spring.

Warren, Kaaron “The Smell of Waiting,” Screams from the Dark.

White, Olivia “Maddy Long Legs,” A Woman Built By Man.

Wise, A. C. “Wind Come Down the Mountain,” The Dark #90, November.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Gemma Amor is a Bram Stoker and British Fantasy Award nominated author, voice actor, illustrator, and budding screenwriter based in Bristol, in the UK. She has published eleven books, and is the co-creator of horror-comedy podcast Calling Darkness, starring Kate Siegel. Her stories often feature on the hugely popular horror anthology shows The NoSleep Podcast, Shadows at the Door, Creepy, and others. Her work has also been published in a number of print anthologies. The short gothic horror film she co-wrote, Hidden Mother, is currently showing in festivals. Amor illustrates her own works, hand-paints book cover artwork, and narrates audiobooks.

Andy Davidson is the Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of In the Valley of the Sun, The Boatman’s Daughter, and The Hollow Kind. Born and raised in Arkansas, he makes his home in Georgia with his wife, Crystal, and a bunch of cats.

Tananarive Due is an American Book Award and NAACP Image Award-winning author who was an executive producer on Horror Noire: A History of Black Horror for Shudder. She teaches Afrofuturism and Black Horror at UCLA. She and her husband, science fiction author Steven Barnes, co-wrote an episode for Season 2 of The Twilight Zone. Due is the author of several novels and two short story collections, Ghost Summer: Stories and The Wishing Pool and Other Stories. She is also co-author of a civil rights memoir, Freedom in the Family: A Mother-Daughter Memoir of the Fight for Civil Rights (with her late mother, Patricia Stephens Due). In 2013, she received a Lifetime Achievement Award in the Fine Arts from the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation.

Steve Duffy lives and works in North Wales; his most recent collection of stories, The Faces At Your Shoulder, was published by Sarob Press, and he’s currently at work on the next. “The Harvester Of Ladslove” is all that’s left of a discarded novella about a fictional member of the Uranian group of writers: what was bad sank to the bottom, and the bits that floated to the surface were repurposed in the construction of a shorter and more seaworthy tale. Two strong and traceable influences on the finished story are Paul Fussell’s The Great War And Modern Memory, and PJ Harvey’s “Let England Shake.”

Gemma Files has been an award-winning horror author for almost thirty years. Probably best known for her novel Experimental Film, she has also published four other novels, five collections of short fiction and three collections of speculative poetry. Her most recent collection, In That Endlessness, Our End (Grimscribe Press), was nominated for a 2021 Bram Stoker Award. She has two more collections upcoming, one from Trepidatio Publishing in 2022, one from Grimscribe in 2023, and a new poetry collection from Plutonian Press.

Jeffrey Ford is the author of the novels The Physiognomy, Memoranda, The Beyond, The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque, The Girl in the Glass, The Cosmology of the Wider World, The Shadow Year, The Twilight Pariah, Ahab’s Return, and Out of Body. His short story collections are The Fantasy Writer’s Assistant, The Empire of Ice Cream, The Drowned Life, Crackpot Palace, A Natural History of Hell, The Best of Jeffrey Ford, and Big Dark Hole. Ford’s fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies from Tor.com to Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction to The Oxford Book of American Short Stories.

Charlie Hughes writes dark suspense and horror stories. He lives in South London with his wife and two children. In 2016, Hughes won 1st prize in the Ruth Rendell short story competition. Since then, his work has been published by Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, NoSleep Podcast, and Mystery Weekly. Some of Hughes’s stories, including “The Collection,” are inspired by his hometown of Shipston-on-Stour, Warwickshire, England. He hopes the locals forgive him. Find Hughes on Twitter at @charliesuspense and at charliehugheswriting.blogspot.com.

Garry Kilworth has now had forty-one novels and 173 short stories published. He has recently decided to concentrate on short fiction, that being his first love. His most recent collections are Elemetal Tales, a collection of short speculative stories with a metal element at the heart of each and Blood Moon, a collection of horror, fantasy, and science fiction. In addition, a fantasy novel, The Wild Hunt—set in the seven Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of the seventh century—was published in 2022 by NewCon Press.

Margo Lanagan has published two dark fantasy novels, Tender Morsels and The Brides of Rollrock Island, with a third in the offering. She has also published seven short story collections including Black Juice, and collaborated with Scott Westerfeld and Deborah Biancotti on the New York Times bestselling YA superheroes trilogy, Zeroes. She is a four-time winner of the World Fantasy Award, has won nine Aurealis Awards and five Ditmars. Lanagan mentors writers through the Australian Writers Mentoring Program. She lives in Sydney.

John Langan is the author of two novels and five collections of stories. For his work, he has received the Bram Stoker and This Is Horror Awards. He is one of the founders of the Shirley Jackson Awards and serves on its Board of Advisors. He lives in New York’s Mid-Hudson Valley with his family and certainly not too many books.

Alison Littlewood’s novels include A Cold Season, Mistletoe, The Hidden People, The Crow Garden and The Unquiet House. She also wrote The Other Lives of Miss Emily White, and The Cottingley Cuckoo, as A. J. Elwood. Littlewood’s short stories have been picked for a number of year’s best anthologies and published in her collections The Flowering, Quieter Paths and Five Feathered Tales. She has won the Shirley Jackson Award for Short Fiction. Littlewood lives in a house of creaking doors and crooked walls in deepest darkest Yorkshire, England. She has a penchant for books on folklore and weird history, Earl Grey tea, fountain pens, and semicolons.

Livia Llewellyn is a writer of dark fantasy, horror, and erotica, whose fiction has appeared in over eighty anthologies and magazines, including The Best Horror of the Year, Year’s Best Weird Fiction, and The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. Her collections Engines of Desire: Tales of Love & Other Horrors (Lethe Press) and Furnace (Word Horde Press) were both nominated for the Shirley Jackson Award, and her short story “One of These Nights” won the 2020 Edgar Award for Best Short Story. You can find her online at livia.llewellyn.com.

Gary McMahon is the award-winning author of several novels and short story collections. His short fiction has appeared in varies professional markets been reprinted in several “Year’s Best” anthologies. He lives in Yorkshire with his family and two weird cats. In his spare time he studies shotokan karate—in which he currently holds a 2nd dan black belt.

Don’t buy the hype: Jacob Steven Mohr was not raised by wolves. Feral children are capable of many things, but weaving wild words into flesh and terror isn’t one of them. Lucky us: if it was, we’d all be speaking Wolf. Mohr’s work has appeared previously in Cosmic Horror Monthly, Shortwave Magazine, Chthonic Matter, and Story Unlikely, as well as featured on The NoSleep Podcast and Scare You To Sleep. He writes out of Columbus, Ohio.

Luigi Musolino was born in 1982 in the province of Torino, Italy, where he lives and works. A specialist in Italian folklore, he is the author of several collections of short stories in the areas of weird fiction, horror, and rural Gothic: Bialere (2012), Oscure Regioni (2 vols., 2014–15), Uironda (2018), Pupille (2021), and Un Buio Diverso (2022). His first novel Eredità di carne (Legacy of Flesh) was published in 2019. His stories have been published in Italy, the United States, Ireland, and South Africa.

He has translated into Italian works by Brian Keene, Lisa Mannetti, Michael Laimo, and the autobiographical writings of H. P. Lovecraft.

Jordan Shiveley is the author of the Dread Singles (@hottestsingles) Twitter account. Their work has been published in a variety of short fiction venues such as Nightmare Magazine, Voidjunk, Baffling, and in tabletop roleplaying games. They live and work in Minneapolis, Minnesota. More at jordanshiveley.com

Angela Slatter is the author of six novels, including All the Murmuring Bones, The Path of Thorns and the forthcoming The Briar Book of the Dead, as well as eleven short story collections, including The Bitterwood Bible and The Tallow-Wife and Other Tales. She’s won a World Fantasy Award, a British Fantasy Award, a Shirley Jackson Award, a Ditmar, two Australian Shadows Awards, and eight Aurealis Awards. Slatter’s work has been translated into multiple languages. She has an MA and a PhD in Creative Writing, teaches creative writing, and occasionally mentors new authors. She can be located on the internet at www.angelaslatter.com.

David Surface lives and works in the Hudson River Valley. He is the author of Terrible Things, a collection of thirteen stories published by Black Shuck Books, and Angel Falls, a novel co-authored with Julia Rust and published by YAP Books/Haverhill House Publishing. His stories have appeared in The Best Horror of the Year #13, Shadows and Tall Trees, Nightscript, Supernatural Tales, and other venues. A new collection of stories, These Things That Walk Behind Me, will be published in 2024 by Lethe Press.

Steve Toase was born in North Yorkshire, England, and now lives in the Frankenwald, Germany. His fiction has appeared in Nightmare Magazine, Shadows & Tall Trees 8, Analog, Three Lobed Burning Eye, and Shimmer amongst others. His stories have been selected for Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year series, and Paula Guran’s Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror. He also likes bonsai forests, old motorbikes. and vintage cocktails. His debut short story collection To Drown in Dark Water was published in 2022 by Undertow Publications.

Daniela Tomova was raised by a herd of feral books in an underground library. She draws her inspiration from Balkan folklore, the worlds of Ray Bradbury, the dreams of Andrei Tarkovsky, and the everyday magic of people who live in the ruins of countless civilizations. She is a Bulgarian-Norwegian writer and a graduate of the Clarion Writers’ Workshop. Tomova’s work has been published in Apex Magazine, Tor, and elsewhere. Data scientist by day, she lives in an abandoned airport in Oslo, Norway with her partner and their cat.

Stephanie M. Wytovich is an American poet, novelist, and essayist. She is a recipient of the Elizabeth Matchett Stover Memorial Award, the 2021 Ladies of Horror Fiction Writers Grant, and has received the Rocky Wood Memorial Scholarship for non-fiction writing. Wytovich is a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, an active member of the Horror Writers Association, and a graduate of Seton Hill University’s MFA program for Writing Popular Fiction. Follow her at http://stephaniewytovich.blogspot.com/ and on Twitter and Instagram @SWytovich and @thehaunted-bookshelf. You can also find her essays, nonfiction, and class offerings on LitReactor.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF COPYRIGHT

“The Zoo” by Gemma Amor. Copyright © 2022. First published in Damnation Games edited by Alan Baxter, Clan Destine Press. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“The Myth of Pasiphaë” by Andy Davidson. Copyright © 2022. First published in Human Monsters, edited by Sadie Hartmann & Ashley Saywers, Dark Matter Ink. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“Incident at Bear Creek Lodge” by Tananarive Due. Copyright © 2022. First published in Other Terrors: An Inclusive Anthology edited by Vince Liaguno and Rena Mason, William Morrow. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“The Harvester of Ladslove” by Steve Duffy. Copyright © 2022. First published in Supernatural Tales 50. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“Bb Minor, or the Suicide Choir: An Oral History” by Gemma Files. Copyright © 2022. First published in Looming Low II edited Justin Steele and Sam Cowan, Dim Shores. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“Gate 9” by Jeffrey Ford. Copyright © 2022. First published in Conjunctions: 78 Fear Itself edited by Bradford Morrow, Bard College. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“The Collection” by Charlie Hughes. Copyright © 2022. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, July/August. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“Flaming Teeth” by Garry Kilworth. Copyright © 2022. First published in Screams from the Dark: 29 Tales of Monsters and the Monstrous, edited by Ellen Datlow, A Nightfire book. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“Tale-Tale Tit” by Margo Lanagan. Copyright © 2022. First published in New Worlds edited by Nick Gevers and Peter Crowther, PS Publishing. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“Enough for Hunger and Enough for Hate” by John Langan. Copyright © 2022. First published in Dark Stars: New Tales of Darkest Horror edited by John F.D. Taff, a Nightfire book. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“In the Wabe” by Alison Littlewood. Copyright © 2022. First published in Close to Midnight: An Anthology of New Horror Short Stories edited by Mark Morris, Flame Tree Press. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“New Fox Smell” by Livia Llewellyn. Copyright © 2022. First published in Blood Bank, edited by Marc Ciccarone and S.C. Mendes, Blood Bound Books. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“Lifelike” by Gary McMahon. Copyright © 2022. First published in This Isn’t Anywhere You Know: sorrows, eulogies, and laments by Gary McMahon, Black Shuck Books. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“1855” by Jacob Steven Mohr. Copyright © 2022. First published by Godless. com, Emerge #3. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“The Last Box” by Luigi Musolino, translated by James D. Jenkins. Copyright © 2022. First published in A Different Darkness and Other Abominations, Valancourt Books. Reprinted with permission of the author and the translator.

“New Meat(™)” by Jordan Shiveley. Copyright © 2022. First published in Nightmare Magazine, January Issue 112. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“Solivagant” by Angela Slatter. Copyright © 2022. First published in Isolation: The Horror Anthology, edited by Dan Coxon, Titan Books. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“Eyes Like Small Black Stones” by David Surface. Copyright © 2022. First published in Ornithologiae, edited by Mark Beech, Egaeus Press. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“On the Hills, the Knitters” by Steve Toase. Copyright © 2021. First published in Bourbon Penn 26. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“The Loneliness of the Long Distance Reporter” by Daniela Tomova. Copyright © 2022. First published on Tor.com March 16. Reprinted with permission of the author.

“Dinner Plans with Baba Yaga” by Stephanie M. Wytovich. Copyright © 2022. First published in Into the Forest edited by Lindy Ryan, Black Spot Books. Reprinted with permission of the author.

ABOUT THE EDITOR

Ellen Datlow has been editing sf/f/h short fiction for four decades. She currently acquires short stories and novellas for Tor.com and Nightfire. She has edited numerous anthologies for adults, young adults, and children, including The Best Horror of the Year annual series, When Things Get Dark: Stories inspired by Shirley Jackson, Body Shocks, and Screams From the Dark: 19 Tales of Monsters and the Monstrous. She’s won multiple Locus, Hugo, Stoker, International Horror Guild, Shirley Jackson, and World Fantasy Awards plus the 2012 Il Posto Nero Black Spot Award for Excellence as Best Foreign Editor. Datlow was named recipient of the 2007 Karl Edward Wagner Award, given at the British Fantasy Convention for “outstanding contribution to the genre” and was honored with the Life Achievement Award given by the Horror Writers Association, in acknowledgment of superior achievement over an entire career and honored with the World Fantasy Life Achievement Award at the 2014 World Fantasy Convention.

She runs the Fantastic Fiction at KGB reading series in the East Village, NYC, with Matthew Kressel.

She can be found on the website Datlow.com, and on Twitter and Facebook (Google her).

Table of Contents

- The Best Horror of the Year: Volume Fifteen
- Publishing Details
- Acknowledgments
- Table of Contents
- Summation of the Year 2022—Ellen Datlow
- Solivagant—Angela Slatter
- Gate 9—Jeffrey Ford
- Flaming Teeth—Garry Kilworth
- On the Hills, the Knitters—Steve Toase
- New Fox Smell—Livia Llewellyn
- The Harvester of Ladslove—Steve Duffy
- Incident at Bear Creek Lodge—Tananarive Due
- The Myth of Pasiphaë—Andy Davidson

- The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Reporter—Daniela Tomova

- In the Wabe—Alison Littlewood
- New Meat﹝™﹞—Jordan Shiveley
- Eyes Like Small Black Stones—David Surface

- Bb Minor, or The Suicide Choir: An Oral History—Gemma Files

- Lifelike—Gary McMahon

- The Zoo—Gemma Amor

- Dinner Plans with Baba Yaga—Stephanie M. Wytovich

- The Collection—Charlie Hughes

- Tell-Tale Tit—Margo Lanagan

- The Last Box—Luigi Musolino (translated by James D. Jenkins)

- 1855—Jacob Steven Mohr

- Enough for Hunger and Enough for Hate—John Langan

- Honorable Mentions
- About the Authors
- Acknowledgment of Copyright
- About the Editor