For anyone who wants to see how things began.
https://www.reddit.com/HFY/s/S97b2fqIjx
“In what universe would I ever do you a favor? “ I say, sweeping the floor of the reinforced barn.
“It’s not a favor, it’s a trade, bud.
What do you want in return? “ Trenchcoat asks from within the coffin-like cage.
“To be back home, 8 months ago. “ I reply.
Over the past few weeks I’ve managed to integrate myself into the day to day life on the farm. Things are still a grim, horrifying slog, but with every day it gets a bit easier to deal with.
“Give me something I can do. “ The creature pleads.
“Why, so I can wind up on the end of another ‘ Gotcha’ moment? I’m good. “ is my answer.
A few minutes of silence go by, Augustus breaks it.
“I don’t know many secrets of the universe. Facts, not really my bag. But I know a couple.
How about I share one with you?
No one, not the pope, not my brother, not the shit-bird perched on the highest branch of my twisted family tree, knows what happens when you die.
Some of us never will, of course. Others have ways of avoiding it, but at the end of the day, when the lights truly go out, we know next to nothing.
We do know one thing though. There is judgement, by who? Who knows? Why? Not important.
But at the end of the day, if your battery can’t be recharged, you really want to be thinking about how many marks are on each side of the ledger. “
I don’t reply, and for the next hour or so I ignore the pleading and hinting Trenchcoat does.
But that night, as I sip acidic tea, and try to get a handle on how in the fuck old televisions function, his offer is at the forefront of my mind.
He wants to kill, specifically 6 teenagers who, according to him, have been murdering classmates yearly in a twisted ritual.
He wants me to think this is some kind of noble act, he frames it as almost superheroic. The evil prick knows how I feel, knows that I see the blood on my hands every day, and would kill ( possibly literally) for some way to atone.
Is it a play? I honestly don’t think so, something about how eager the twisted thing is, about how he’s treating the situation as a buyer’s market makes me think something about this makes it important to him.
He offers me everything besides safety and protection. I’m desperate for help, but I have no way to hold him to any agreement.
So the thought rolls around in my mind, staving off the few hours of sleep I get.
“Okay, so, I have it on good authority that tea is supposed to taste better over here. What the hell is wrong with this? “ I say, sitting around an outside table with Sylvia, Dafydd and Colin.
Sylvia smiles, “ Barium, calcium, and a touch of castor oil. “
I look at the brew, then at her.
“If I had told you when you got here you need to drink that to mitigate the effects of working with void touched objects and creatures, you’d have assumed the worst, and found a way to avoid drinking it.
Good to see you becoming more perceptive though. “ Sylvia explains.
“That’s called paranoia, Syl. “ I reply.
She laughs, lighting a cigarette.
“Do you know why I’ve let you figure things out on your own? “ The ancient woman asks.
“Accepted? Yes. Understood, not in the slightest. “ I answer, wondering what sadist invented the scone.
“It’s because I need a leader. Someone who can understand, not a boy who puts his head down and listens to orders.
Someone who can make their own decisions when the time comes.
And I think that time is coming soon. “ Her statement feels like a question.
“If I chose to be here I’d be honored.” I counter.
“That attitude on the other hand… needs work.
Nikolas, today, we talk about what’s really going on.
We play a role in a much larger organization, us, and other families like us, are the ‘boots on the ground’ so to speak.
Our job is not to capture creatures, or horde esoteric goods. We do not foil the schemes of demons, nor blind those who look too deeply into the abyss.
We’re given information about events that could steer the path of humanity into a brick wall. And our job is to make sure they don’t happen. “ Sylvia reveals.
“Something is happening with these fights? “ I ask.
“As I said, perceptive.
Yes, it could be next week, it could be in a decade or two. Right now, we know very little about it, other than when it happens, it would be in our best interests to be of a high standing in the pits. “ She replies.
I absorb the information, and t drug laced tea in equal measure. As I do, I feel something, I feel I’m a part of what’s going on.
This is going to sound dumb as hell, but up until this point I hadn’t been taking things seriously. Don’t get me wrong, death is on the table, and I was trying to avoid that. But I was just treading water, hoping something or someone came by and to get me out of this situation.
But as Syl lays things out, I start to think of my place here, what I can be doing to better my state.
“Here is the part where you avoid telling me why you couldn’t have used anyone around here. “ I prod.
I keep her gaze, Colin and Dafydd shift uncomfortably.
“Augustus, he’s a tricky one. But a very lucky find for us.
I’ve tried 2 others. A boy and a girl, both I practically raised.
Marco, he was a warrior. But the demon got in his head. There was nothing that could be done beyond end his suffering.
Zelma, I won’t talk about.
That thing, it has a way of turning someone’s best traits against them. You, are a blank slate, but you’re family. You’re my best guess as to how we can use him to our advantage.
And this is why I need you, not to listen, but to understand. To see what’s happening, and make your own decisions. If I were to give you my knowledge, if I were to arm you with the best weapons, and the most powerful esoteric objects I know. He’d just have more to turn against you. “ Sylvia’s revelation scares me and puts a massive weight on my shoulders all at the same time.
Confidence and fear are both dangerous emotions. The two of them are almost like drugs in a way.
After eight months of mainlining fear, the tiny line of confidence Sylvia gave me, went straight to my head.
Trenchcoat told me where to find a video file. And after a couple of weeks of running it through every possible test I could, to check for any kind of manipulation, supernatural or otherwise, I watched it.
I was confident that the world would be much better off without the people committing the vicious acts contained in those twenty minutes of footage.
A teenage view of morality, I admit. But what do you want, I’m a teenager.
We watch the abandoned house from across the street. It’s a dingy, urban blight affected suburb, that being said, how no one seems to notice the seven foot freak with me, I have no idea.
The kid inside smoking stolen cigarettes and illegally supplied booze is a husky young guy of about 14. The half dozen kids that show up a couple hours later look closer to my age, last couple of years of high school I’m guessing.
The way they get into the house tells me they’ve done this before. The backpacks they all carry tell me they’re there for a purpose.
“How fucking funny would it be if I just killed you here and took off? “ Trenchcoat says, looming behind me.
I tense.
“It’s a joke. Out of my whole rotten family, Art and I, are close. I’m not going anywhere.
Unfortunately for you. “ Trenchcoat shoves me to the ground as he walks toward the house.
We get in through a basement window, I fit easily, Trenchcoat contorts his body to fit through the thin opening, somehow doing so silently.
I keep hearing Sylvia in my head. Telling me how she needs someone that can make his own decisions.
As I stand in the litter strewn basement, beside a creature with child murder on it’s mind I question the decision that I made.
At first the illumination is dim, nothing more than scraps of moonlight filtered through splintered wood. But with an industrial click, suddenly a half dozen lightbulbs bathe the basement in harsh, yellowish light.
Harsh, but not harsh enough to cause the reaction I see from Trenchcoat.
He squints and tries, unsuccessfully to turn away from the lights. Something about them is causing him discomfort. I get my hopes up for a moment he’s going to burst into flame or turn into dust or something, but no dice.
The sight of the walking nightmare looking pained and confused makes me panic. But before I can think of how I fucked up, I hear a voice.
The room, by the sounds of it, the entire house, has been rigged with speakers. Cleverly recessed in sconces and corners.
“Augi, long time no see. And I see you brought a little Renfield fella with you. “ The voice is modulated, Trenchcoat looks curious for a moment.
“Who, is this? You that clown that’s been fucking with Art?” He guesses.
The voice laughs, “Nope.
Who I am, is a guy who managed to find a few boxes of lightbulbs from ’93.
Then again, with eBay, that could make me just about anyone. “
Trenchcoat turns and looks toward the window we came in. He reaches a hand toward it, stopping a few inches away.
“That’s fucking interesting. “ He says, eyes darting around the room.
“Isn’t it though? “ The voice replies, clearly hearing the creature’s whisper, “ Tonight you get the pay for centuries of the worst shit committed by man or beast. I’ve made sure of that. No one in this house is going anywhere for the next 8 hours.
I’m sure the rest of the houseguests are pretty confused as to what’s going on. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so let me give you the Cliff’s notes.
You kids have been killing a monster a year for half a decade. You were the perfect bait, and I have faith you’ll be able to outwit Augi long enough to make it out of here.
If not, you’ll still have helped kill one of the worst things to walk the face of the earth. “
“What the hell is he talking about? “ I ask, a sinking feeling in my gut.
“That’s what you’re worried about right now?
Yeah, these kids are more Scooby gang than Manson family. Don’t blame me for the fact it only took an out of context exorcism video and some promises of making things right with the universe to get you on board with killing them. “ Trenchcoat spits.
I feel afraid, stupid and small. Which is to say, lately, business as usual.
I begin to break lightbulbs, I notice no runes, or anything else that would indicate they have any kind of supernatural origin.
As the basement dims, Trenchcoat starts to breathe easier.
“What’s going on, what stopped you from leaving? “ I ask.
“This little shit is playing The Game. “ Trenchcoat says to himself as much as to me. He looks deep in thought, inspecting the glass from the bulbs.
“What are you talking about? “ I say, my voice cracking slightly.
I hear noises upstairs, frantic foot falls. Indecipherable shouting.
Trenchcoat turns to me, exasperated and filled with anger.
“You’ve heard of ‘Rules’ right? All that ‘Don’t turn left on East street at 3:24 am kind of shit? “ The creature starts, “More and more of them popping up lately. Can’t miss the things.
Well, your kind seems great at finding them, but fucking awful at figuring out what they are. It’s not someone’s new job, or creepy school. The answer is so damned simple, but all of you’ve missed it.
It's a game. It’s, The Game.
It’s ran by the thickest branches of my family tree, and the stakes are high enough even I don’t really understand.
And whoever has us here, he’s weaponized it. The crazy fuck. “
“Call on your family for help then. “ I say, starting to deal with the fear and confusion.
“You first. “ Is Trenchcoat’s reply.
I get his point, and for a twisted, shitty moment, I find myself relating to the murderous thing I’ve been saddled with.
“So what’s the plan? “ I ask.
“Get my hands on whoever’s been stalking me. Between A and B, probably kill those little do-gooders upstairs out of spite.
I need you to circumvent rules we come across. Humans need to agree to follow the rules, it’s why people encounter them in jobs and schools so much. I’m not human, if you haven’t noticed. I don’t get a choice. “ I’m shaking my head as Augustus relates his plan.
“We’re not hurting those kids. “ I say defiantly.
“I’m sure you’ll have no problem with that.
But I’m a God damned child killing monster, bud! How long is that going to take to sink the fuck in?
Me not doing what I do, isn’t like giving up smokes. Think of it like not having a slash for months on end. Sooner or later, like it or not, I’m either finding a bathroom or pissing my pants. “ the rant scares me, but it makes me think.
Something about Augustus, it seems very, 90’s. Whoever was on the speakers was talking about the lightbulbs being from ’93. I’m picking up on a very distinct pattern.
I file that information with the rest of the disconnected lore I’ve managed to find on Trenchcoat as I follow him up the steep, narrow set of stairs.
He whips the thin wood door open, taking an aggressive, lurching step into the livingroom beyond. Surely ready to dispense too far quips and limitless violence, as per usual.
But that doesn’t happen, his rage filled scowl turns into a look of resignation, “Fuck”, is the monster’s last word before he disappears.
I cautiously walk up the loose splinter ridden stairs, expecting Augustus to be waiting around the corner, or engaged in combat with some other horror.
But once I get to the top, there’s nothing more sinister than a livingroom covered in dust and graffiti strewn with old bottles and new stains.
I know my chance when I see it. The particle board sealing the bay window is rotten, the glass long since broken.
No monster, no crazy family, I’ll take my chances with the streets of the U. K.
I tap the crumbling wood with a foot, it rattles, it won’t take much to make a hole.
I line up a kick, freedom no more than a quarter inch of rotten wood away.
“I wouldn’t do that. “ Says a voice behind me, male, around my age I’d guess, but with a confidence that makes me listen, “ Rigged with a load of C4 in the window frame.
Don’t take my word for it, guy wasn’t very subtle. ”
Sure enough, I see small wires running along the edges of the frame and embedded in the particle board.
I turn around, the six people standing in front of me have a vibe I can only describe as severe.
“Are we going to have issues? “ a slight, dark skinned guy asks.
“You making threats? “ I reply.
“No, he isn’t. “ it’s the same voice that warned me about the explosives. It belongs to a squared jawed kid with short black hair, he’s wearing a grey hoodie, and separates himself from the group. “ Call me Kent, and I’m in charge of making threats.
Sid, he’s our people person, he’s just trying to see if you’re someone we need to worry about. “
“We don’t have time to figure this kid out, leave him. “ a short, ginger girl says.
“Ami, why don’t I stay out of equipment, and you and Kent let me figure this kid out?” Sid says.
“I’m Nik. “ I volunteer.
“Good to meet you Nik. “ Sid says, walking around Kent, “Didn’t mean to start things off on the wrong foot.
We’ve just gotten used to doing these kinds of things in our own way over the past bit. We get a little… weird around this time of year if I’m being honest. “
I nod, apprehensive at giving any kind of detailed response.
“Derik” says a tall, pale guy, “ Research. “
“Liam. “ a tanned boy in a flannel shirt and deep blue jeans tells me, “ Oxford doesn’t talk, accident a couple of years back. I’m logistics, he figures spooky shit out. “
Oxford is thin and bald, his face looks much older than it should. Like he’s the victim of some kind of wasting disease.
Telling these kids the truth would be, complicated. And something about their war vet demeanor, makes me want to keep things simple.
So I give them a version of the truth. One where I was plucked from my room by Trenchcoat, and brought here for a slow death.
They buy it. I think.
“Well, I don’t know what this Jigsaw wannabe has planned, but trust me when I say, it can’t be much worse than the things we’ve went through. “ Kent says, trying to be reassuring.
“Just, one more thing. “ Sid begins, “ Why all the scars? “
I know I’ve won most of the group over, but I don’t like the look Sid is giving me.
“Work on a farm, on top of that, the family owns an auction. Lots of bent steel and splinters, what can I say? “ I say, trying to sound casual.
“Fair enough, that accent though. “ Sid’s look becomes almost predatory as he talks.
“Immigration my guy. What’s with the third degree? “ I reply.
“We’ve just met and I’ve only asked three questions.
Humor me here though.
You get taken in the night by that thing that winked out of existence.
Seems pretty nice of him to let you put on shoes. “ Sid lets his statement hang.
Kent turns, I don’t like where this is going. Panic and fear start to well up.
“What’re you thinking Sid? “ Kent asks.
“Kid’s lying. But he’s good at it. “ Sid answers.
“You saying this has turned into a, me, situation? “ Kent’s question starts a deep pit in my stomach.
“I don’t know if we need to go that far. But I don’t like the idea of him having seen our faces. I think this is a Liam situation. “ As Sid says this I look to Liam, who already seems deep in thought.
“Local cops will back our story, but he could go beyond them.
We tie him up until all of this is done, and we get some video of him putting a blade into the body upstairs. He goes telling any stories, it’s us and the locals versus some Yank on video stabbing the kid. “ Liam suggests.
I tried to fight, it went, embarrassingly. Kent had me on the ground in some kind of arm lock in about a second.
I’m bound to an old wooden chair with electrical cords, dragged into a room on the second floor where the chubby kid from before lays face down in a coagulated pool of his own blood. Surrounded by the trappings of misspent youth.
The door locks, and I stare at the corpse, wondering what in the hell went on up here, and in what universe are these psychopaths anything other than what they seemed on screen.
Time becomes almost malleable. I’m terrified to the point where every moment seems to stretch out forever.
Then, I hear it. A wet, organic noise. It starts below the body, and slowly starts to spread.
After a minute or two, the body starts to jerk and twitch. The room is dim as hell, but some kind of ropey, flesh-like substance, is sealing off the door.
I watch as the corpse clumsily gets to it’s feet. It’s skin pale, it’s throat slit to the point of near decapitation.
The head falls backward, obscenely with a small spurt of thick blood.
I scream, I thought I’d been getting used to being face to face with monsters. But fully bound, inches away from a kid that seems to be filled with a twisting mass of barbed, writhing, intestine like tentacles, I realize I’m not used to shit.
The ropey mass forms the barest suggestion of features, a shifting, lumpen mass of ever moving tendrils coming from what used to be the kid’s neck.
The sound spreads more, cracks in the floorboards and walls begin to show hints of the tendrils filling them in like spray foam.
No one is hearing my screams, or if they are, they have no interest in helping.
Ever wonder how you’d handle torture? I think if you’re the kind of person to be reading this, it’s likely you have.
I started by pissing myself.
The second the thin tendril touches my hand, I feel a blinding, flensing pain. I can do nothing but watch, as thousands of nearly hair thin spines tear and consume my flesh. As it slowly, almost, curiously makes it’s way up my arm, it leaves a bloodless, scarred furrow about an eighth of an inch deep.
My second reaction was to lose any pretense at defiance or dignity. I thrash and scream, beg and offer. All of this turning into choked sobs as the thing starts to do much of the same with another tendril.
It felt like I was in hell, every inch of me nothing more than a canvas for this artist of misery.
But pain, it can only go so far. Whether we’re talking about my tolerance, or this thing’s interest.
Mutilation, the brutal wedding of pain and loss. That was it’s next step.
A thick, almost centipede like tendril sits on my pinky like a hot iron. I can only watch in horror as I see fat, then muscle, then bone, then, nothing.
My voice shreds, I tear my wrists and ankles trying desperately to break the expertly tied wires.
My mind is at the breaking point, the creature in front of my makes a terrible, high pitched keening I assume is laughter.
My body is a roadmap of scarred pits and lines. My hand sports a cleanly severed finger. Fuck me, I wish things ended there.
Of all the important parts of the human body, the eye, tends to feel the least pain. Which isn’t to say, as I watched the greedy, grasping claws slowly take pieces of one of mine, it didn’t hurt, but the worst part, was knowing what was happening.
The vision in my left eye begins to distort at first, the edges getting blurry, then going dark. Bit by bit, chunk by irreplaceable chunk, the creature takes half my vision.
I can feel the shifting air on the bare socket, to call what I’m doing screaming, would be understating things to the point of absurdity.
My brain reels at what has just happened. I can feel my grip on reality begin to loosen, pain, worse than can bare, loss of half my sight, it’s too much.
My brain feels filled with static, for a few brief moments I swear, I can hear someone, a voice, trying to tell me something.
But then, a smell hits me. Something so foul, so alien, it yanks me back from the brink of disassociation. I gag and choke, as the air becomes thick with the rotten, chemical reek.
Then, I see it, I see, him.
As randomly as he disappeared, in an instant Trenchcoat is in the room.
He’s torn apart, wounds so deep and ragged, I can see the door on the other side of the room through the worst of them.
One arm is a twisted, broken mess, the flesh jacket torn to shreds of necrotic tissue.
The look on his face is panic, paranoia. A rictus grin of someone that has been kept on his toes for entirely too long.
He trembles and heaves, looking like he could fall over at any second.
He points his good arm at the tendril creature, who I notice has a too familiar eye suspended in it’s shifting features.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the motherfucker who just made me kill my favorite cousin, would you? “ Trenchcoat asks, his voice cracked, and strained.
He gets a confused keening in response.
“Bad day for you then. “ Augustus says.
There is no style to his violence, Trenchcoat grabs the shifting mass, his wicked, claw tipped fingers angling themselves in tendrils. As he lifts the thing, floorboards break, and it’s torn free from the root-like system it was creating in the room.
Three brutal slams cover me in ichor and pieces of creature. Trenchcoat tosses the mewling, twitching pile in a corner and looks at me with disgust.
“You let that thing do this to you? Fuckin’ pathetic, bud.
And who tied you up? “ The nightmare I’ve been cursed with chides me.
“The kids downstairs. “ I say only now realizing I’ve still been sobbing.
One handed, Trenchcoat snaps the wires, then stumbles backward, slowly sliding down the wall.
He coughs, grey, bloody phlegm hitting the ground.
“So, what’s the play here? If this shit broke you, I could use the spare parts, if not, well, you know what the Bible says.
An eye for an eye. “ Trenchcoat grins as he talks, nearly on the brink of death.
And that’s where I think I’m going to leave things. Because, honestly I don’t know what I’m choosing.
I’m mutilated, half blind, using too much of my energy typing to strangers online about things because, I’m so fucking alone here.
If you hear from me again, I hope I made the right move. If not, take this as a lesson on what happens when you screw around with the occult.

For anyone who wants to see how I got into this situation.
https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/s/R0DAycoVIm
“In what universe would I ever do you a favor? “ I say, sweeping the floor of the reinforced barn.
“It’s not a favor, it’s a trade, bud.
What do you want in return? “ Trenchcoat asks from within the coffin-like cage.
“To be back home, 8 months ago. “ I reply.
Over the past few weeks I’ve managed to integrate myself into the day to day life on the farm. Things are still a grim, horrifying slog, but with every day it gets a bit easier to deal with.
“Give me something I can do. “ The creature pleads.
“Why, so I can wind up on the end of another ‘ Gotcha’ moment? I’m good. “ is my answer.
A few minutes of silence go by, Augustus breaks it.
“I don’t know many secrets of the universe. Facts, not really my bag. But I know a couple.
How about I share one with you?
No one, not the pope, not my brother, not the shit-bird perched on the highest branch of my twisted family tree, knows what happens when you die.
Some of us never will, of course. Others have ways of avoiding it, but at the end of the day, when the lights truly go out, we know next to nothing.
We do know one thing though. There is judgement, by who? Who knows? Why? Not important.
But at the end of the day, if your battery can’t be recharged, you really want to be thinking about how many marks are on each side of the ledger. “
I don’t reply, and for the next hour or so I ignore the pleading and hinting Trenchcoat does.
But that night, as I sip acidic tea, and try to get a handle on how in the fuck old televisions function, his offer is at the forefront of my mind.
He wants to kill, specifically 6 teenagers who, according to him, have been murdering classmates yearly in a twisted ritual.
He wants me to think this is some kind of noble act, he frames it as almost superheroic. The evil prick knows how I feel, knows that I see the blood on my hands every day, and would kill ( possibly literally) for some way to atone.
Is it a play? I honestly don’t think so, something about how eager the twisted thing is, about how he’s treating the situation as a buyer’s market makes me think something about this makes it important to him.
He offers me everything besides safety and protection. I’m desperate for help, but I have no way to hold him to any agreement.
So the thought rolls around in my mind, staving off the few hours of sleep I get.
“Okay, so, I have it on good authority that tea is supposed to taste better over here. What the hell is wrong with this? “ I say, sitting around an outside table with Sylvia, Dafydd and Colin.
Sylvia smiles, “ Barium, calcium, and a touch of castor oil. “
I look at the brew, then at her.
“If I had told you when you got here you need to drink that to mitigate the effects of working with void touched objects and creatures, you’d have assumed the worst, and found a way to avoid drinking it.
Good to see you becoming more perceptive though. “ Sylvia explains.
“That’s called paranoia, Syl. “ I reply.
She laughs, lighting a cigarette.
“Do you know why I’ve let you figure things out on your own? “ The ancient woman asks.
“Accepted? Yes. Understood, not in the slightest. “ I answer, wondering what sadist invented the scone.
“It’s because I need a leader. Someone who can understand, not a boy who puts his head down and listens to orders.
Someone who can make their own decisions when the time comes.
And I think that time is coming soon. “ Her statement feels like a question.
“If I chose to be here I’d be honored.” I counter.
“That attitude on the other hand… needs work.
Nikolas, today, we talk about what’s really going on.
We play a role in a much larger organization, us, and other families like us, are the ‘boots on the ground’ so to speak.
Our job is not to capture creatures, or horde esoteric goods. We do not foil the schemes of demons, nor blind those who look too deeply into the abyss.
We’re given information about events that could steer the path of humanity into a brick wall. And our job is to make sure they don’t happen. “ Sylvia reveals.
“Something is happening with these fights? “ I ask.
“As I said, perceptive.
Yes, it could be next week, it could be in a decade or two. Right now, we know very little about it, other than when it happens, it would be in our best interests to be of a high standing in the pits. “ She replies.
I absorb the information, and t drug laced tea in equal measure. As I do, I feel something, I feel I’m a part of what’s going on.
This is going to sound dumb as hell, but up until this point I hadn’t been taking things seriously. Don’t get me wrong, death is on the table, and I was trying to avoid that. But I was just treading water, hoping something or someone came by and to get me out of this situation.
But as Syl lays things out, I start to think of my place here, what I can be doing to better my state.
“Here is the part where you avoid telling me why you couldn’t have used anyone around here. “ I prod.
I keep her gaze, Colin and Dafydd shift uncomfortably.
“Augustus, he’s a tricky one. But a very lucky find for us.
I’ve tried 2 others. A boy and a girl, both I practically raised.
Marco, he was a warrior. But the demon got in his head. There was nothing that could be done beyond end his suffering.
Zelma, I won’t talk about.
That thing, it has a way of turning someone’s best traits against them. You, are a blank slate, but you’re family. You’re my best guess as to how we can use him to our advantage.
And this is why I need you, not to listen, but to understand. To see what’s happening, and make your own decisions. If I were to give you my knowledge, if I were to arm you with the best weapons, and the most powerful esoteric objects I know. He’d just have more to turn against you. “ Sylvia’s revelation scares me and puts a massive weight on my shoulders all at the same time.
Confidence and fear are both dangerous emotions. The two of them are almost like drugs in a way.
After eight months of mainlining fear, the tiny line of confidence Sylvia gave me, went straight to my head.
Trenchcoat told me where to find a video file. And after a couple of weeks of running it through every possible test I could, to check for any kind of manipulation, supernatural or otherwise, I watched it.
I was confident that the world would be much better off without the people committing the vicious acts contained in those twenty minutes of footage.
A teenage view of morality, I admit. But what do you want, I’m a teenager.
We watch the abandoned house from across the street. It’s a dingy, urban blight affected suburb, that being said, how no one seems to notice the seven foot freak with me, I have no idea.
The kid inside smoking stolen cigarettes and illegally supplied booze is a husky young guy of about 14. The half dozen kids that show up a couple hours later look closer to my age, last couple of years of high school I’m guessing.
The way they get into the house tells me they’ve done this before. The backpacks they all carry tell me they’re there for a purpose.
“How fucking funny would it be if I just killed you here and took off? “ Trenchcoat says, looming behind me.
I tense.
“It’s a joke. Out of my whole rotten family, Art and I, are close. I’m not going anywhere.
Unfortunately for you. “ Trenchcoat shoves me to the ground as he walks toward the house.
We get in through a basement window, I fit easily, Trenchcoat contorts his body to fit through the thin opening, somehow doing so silently.
I keep hearing Sylvia in my head. Telling me how she needs someone that can make his own decisions.
As I stand in the litter strewn basement, beside a creature with child murder on it’s mind I question the decision that I made.
At first the illumination is dim, nothing more than scraps of moonlight filtered through splintered wood. But with an industrial click, suddenly a half dozen lightbulbs bathe the basement in harsh, yellowish light.
Harsh, but not harsh enough to cause the reaction I see from Trenchcoat.
He squints and tries, unsuccessfully to turn away from the lights. Something about them is causing him discomfort. I get my hopes up for a moment he’s going to burst into flame or turn into dust or something, but no dice.
The sight of the walking nightmare looking pained and confused makes me panic. But before I can think of how I fucked up, I hear a voice.
The room, by the sounds of it, the entire house, has been rigged with speakers. Cleverly recessed in sconces and corners.
“Augi, long time no see. And I see you brought a little Renfield fella with you. “ The voice is modulated, Trenchcoat looks curious for a moment.
“Who, is this? You that clown that’s been fucking with Art?” He guesses.
The voice laughs, “Nope.
Who I am, is a guy who managed to find a few boxes of lightbulbs from ’93.
Then again, with eBay, that could make me just about anyone. “
Trenchcoat turns and looks toward the window we came in. He reaches a hand toward it, stopping a few inches away.
“That’s fucking interesting. “ He says, eyes darting around the room.
“Isn’t it though? “ The voice replies, clearly hearing the creature’s whisper, “ Tonight you get the pay for centuries of the worst shit committed by man or beast. I’ve made sure of that. No one in this house is going anywhere for the next 8 hours.
I’m sure the rest of the houseguests are pretty confused as to what’s going on. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so let me give you the Cliff’s notes.
You kids have been killing a monster a year for half a decade. You were the perfect bait, and I have faith you’ll be able to outwit Augi long enough to make it out of here.
If not, you’ll still have helped kill one of the worst things to walk the face of the earth. “
“What the hell is he talking about? “ I ask, a sinking feeling in my gut.
“That’s what you’re worried about right now?
Yeah, these kids are more Scooby gang than Manson family. Don’t blame me for the fact it only took an out of context exorcism video and some promises of making things right with the universe to get you on board with killing them. “ Trenchcoat spits.
I feel afraid, stupid and small. Which is to say, lately, business as usual.
I begin to break lightbulbs, I notice no runes, or anything else that would indicate they have any kind of supernatural origin.
As the basement dims, Trenchcoat starts to breathe easier.
“What’s going on, what stopped you from leaving? “ I ask.
“This little shit is playing The Game. “ Trenchcoat says to himself as much as to me. He looks deep in thought, inspecting the glass from the bulbs.
“What are you talking about? “ I say, my voice cracking slightly.
I hear noises upstairs, frantic foot falls. Indecipherable shouting.
Trenchcoat turns to me, exasperated and filled with anger.
“You’ve heard of ‘Rules’ right? All that ‘Don’t turn left on East street at 3:24 am kind of shit? “ The creature starts, “More and more of them popping up lately. Can’t miss the things.
Well, your kind seems great at finding them, but fucking awful at figuring out what they are. It’s not someone’s new job, or creepy school. The answer is so damned simple, but all of you’ve missed it.
It's a game. It’s, The Game.
It’s ran by the thickest branches of my family tree, and the stakes are high enough even I don’t really understand.
And whoever has us here, he’s weaponized it. The crazy fuck. “
“Call on your family for help then. “ I say, starting to deal with the fear and confusion.
“You first. “ Is Trenchcoat’s reply.
I get his point, and for a twisted, shitty moment, I find myself relating to the murderous thing I’ve been saddled with.
“So what’s the plan? “ I ask.
“Get my hands on whoever’s been stalking me. Between A and B, probably kill those little do-gooders upstairs out of spite.
I need you to circumvent rules we come across. Humans need to agree to follow the rules, it’s why people encounter them in jobs and schools so much. I’m not human, if you haven’t noticed. I don’t get a choice. “ I’m shaking my head as Augustus relates his plan.
“We’re not hurting those kids. “ I say defiantly.
“I’m sure you’ll have no problem with that.
But I’m a God damned child killing monster, bud! How long is that going to take to sink the fuck in?
Me not doing what I do, isn’t like giving up smokes. Think of it like not having a slash for months on end. Sooner or later, like it or not, I’m either finding a bathroom or pissing my pants. “ the rant scares me, but it makes me think.
Something about Augustus, it seems very, 90’s. Whoever was on the speakers was talking about the lightbulbs being from ’93. I’m picking up on a very distinct pattern.
I file that information with the rest of the disconnected lore I’ve managed to find on Trenchcoat as I follow him up the steep, narrow set of stairs.
He whips the thin wood door open, taking an aggressive, lurching step into the livingroom beyond. Surely ready to dispense too far quips and limitless violence, as per usual.
But that doesn’t happen, his rage filled scowl turns into a look of resignation, “Fuck”, is the monster’s last word before he disappears.
I cautiously walk up the loose splinter ridden stairs, expecting Augustus to be waiting around the corner, or engaged in combat with some other horror.
But once I get to the top, there’s nothing more sinister than a livingroom covered in dust and graffiti strewn with old bottles and new stains.
I know my chance when I see it. The particle board sealing the bay window is rotten, the glass long since broken.
No monster, no crazy family, I’ll take my chances with the streets of the U. K.
I tap the crumbling wood with a foot, it rattles, it won’t take much to make a hole.
I line up a kick, freedom no more than a quarter inch of rotten wood away.
“I wouldn’t do that. “ Says a voice behind me, male, around my age I’d guess, but with a confidence that makes me listen, “ Rigged with a load of C4 in the window frame.
Don’t take my word for it, guy wasn’t very subtle. ”
Sure enough, I see small wires running along the edges of the frame and embedded in the particle board.
I turn around, the six people standing in front of me have a vibe I can only describe as severe.
“Are we going to have issues? “ a slight, dark skinned guy asks.
“You making threats? “ I reply.
“No, he isn’t. “ it’s the same voice that warned me about the explosives. It belongs to a squared jawed kid with short black hair, he’s wearing a grey hoodie, and separates himself from the group. “ Call me Kent, and I’m in charge of making threats.
Sid, he’s our people person, he’s just trying to see if you’re someone we need to worry about. “
“We don’t have time to figure this kid out, leave him. “ a short, ginger girl says.
“Ami, why don’t I stay out of equipment, and you and Kent let me figure this kid out?” Sid says.
“I’m Nik. “ I volunteer.
“Good to meet you Nik. “ Sid says, walking around Kent, “Didn’t mean to start things off on the wrong foot.
We’ve just gotten used to doing these kinds of things in our own way over the past bit. We get a little… weird around this time of year if I’m being honest. “
I nod, apprehensive at giving any kind of detailed response.
“Derik” says a tall, pale guy, “ Research. “
“Liam. “ a tanned boy in a flannel shirt and deep blue jeans tells me, “ Oxford doesn’t talk, accident a couple of years back. I’m logistics, he figures spooky shit out. “
Oxford is thin and bald, his face looks much older than it should. Like he’s the victim of some kind of wasting disease.
Telling these kids the truth would be, complicated. And something about their war vet demeanor, makes me want to keep things simple.
So I give them a version of the truth. One where I was plucked from my room by Trenchcoat, and brought here for a slow death.
They buy it. I think.
“Well, I don’t know what this Jigsaw wannabe has planned, but trust me when I say, it can’t be much worse than the things we’ve went through. “ Kent says, trying to be reassuring.
“Just, one more thing. “ Sid begins, “ Why all the scars? “
I know I’ve won most of the group over, but I don’t like the look Sid is giving me.
“Work on a farm, on top of that, the family owns an auction. Lots of bent steel and splinters, what can I say? “ I say, trying to sound casual.
“Fair enough, that accent though. “ Sid’s look becomes almost predatory as he talks.
“Immigration my guy. What’s with the third degree? “ I reply.
“We’ve just met and I’ve only asked three questions.
Humor me here though.
You get taken in the night by that thing that winked out of existence.
Seems pretty nice of him to let you put on shoes. “ Sid lets his statement hang.
Kent turns, I don’t like where this is going. Panic and fear start to well up.
“What’re you thinking Sid? “ Kent asks.
“Kid’s lying. But he’s good at it. “ Sid answers.
“You saying this has turned into a, me, situation? “ Kent’s question starts a deep pit in my stomach.
“I don’t know if we need to go that far. But I don’t like the idea of him having seen our faces. I think this is a Liam situation. “ As Sid says this I look to Liam, who already seems deep in thought.
“Local cops will back our story, but he could go beyond them.
We tie him up until all of this is done, and we get some video of him putting a blade into the body upstairs. He goes telling any stories, it’s us and the locals versus some Yank on video stabbing the kid. “ Liam suggests.
I tried to fight, it went, embarrassingly. Kent had me on the ground in some kind of arm lock in about a second.
I’m bound to an old wooden chair with electrical cords, dragged into a room on the second floor where the chubby kid from before lays face down in a coagulated pool of his own blood. Surrounded by the trappings of misspent youth.
The door locks, and I stare at the corpse, wondering what in the hell went on up here, and in what universe are these psychopaths anything other than what they seemed on screen.
Time becomes almost malleable. I’m terrified to the point where every moment seems to stretch out forever.
Then, I hear it. A wet, organic noise. It starts below the body, and slowly starts to spread.
After a minute or two, the body starts to jerk and twitch. The room is dim as hell, but some kind of ropey, flesh-like substance, is sealing off the door.
I watch as the corpse clumsily gets to it’s feet. It’s skin pale, it’s throat slit to the point of near decapitation.
The head falls backward, obscenely with a small spurt of thick blood.
I scream, I thought I’d been getting used to being face to face with monsters. But fully bound, inches away from a kid that seems to be filled with a twisting mass of barbed, writhing, intestine like tentacles, I realize I’m not used to shit.
The ropey mass forms the barest suggestion of features, a shifting, lumpen mass of ever moving tendrils coming from what used to be the kid’s neck.
The sound spreads more, cracks in the floorboards and walls begin to show hints of the tendrils filling them in like spray foam.
No one is hearing my screams, or if they are, they have no interest in helping.
Ever wonder how you’d handle torture? I think if you’re the kind of person to be reading this, it’s likely you have.
I started by pissing myself.
The second the thin tendril touches my hand, I feel a blinding, flensing pain. I can do nothing but watch, as thousands of nearly hair thin spines tear and consume my flesh. As it slowly, almost, curiously makes it’s way up my arm, it leaves a bloodless, scarred furrow about an eighth of an inch deep.
My second reaction was to lose any pretense at defiance or dignity. I thrash and scream, beg and offer. All of this turning into choked sobs as the thing starts to do much of the same with another tendril.
It felt like I was in hell, every inch of me nothing more than a canvas for this artist of misery.
But pain, it can only go so far. Whether we’re talking about my tolerance, or this thing’s interest.
Mutilation, the brutal wedding of pain and loss. That was it’s next step.
A thick, almost centipede like tendril sits on my pinky like a hot iron. I can only watch in horror as I see fat, then muscle, then bone, then, nothing.
My voice shreds, I tear my wrists and ankles trying desperately to break the expertly tied wires.
My mind is at the breaking point, the creature in front of my makes a terrible, high pitched keening I assume is laughter.
My body is a roadmap of scarred pits and lines. My hand sports a cleanly severed finger. Fuck me, I wish things ended there.
Of all the important parts of the human body, the eye, tends to feel the least pain. Which isn’t to say, as I watched the greedy, grasping claws slowly take pieces of one of mine, it didn’t hurt, but the worst part, was knowing what was happening.
The vision in my left eye begins to distort at first, the edges getting blurry, then going dark. Bit by bit, chunk by irreplaceable chunk, the creature takes half my vision.
I can feel the shifting air on the bare socket, to call what I’m doing screaming, would be understating things to the point of absurdity.
My brain reels at what has just happened. I can feel my grip on reality begin to loosen, pain, worse than can bare, loss of half my sight, it’s too much.
My brain feels filled with static, for a few brief moments I swear, I can hear someone, a voice, trying to tell me something.
But then, a smell hits me. Something so foul, so alien, it yanks me back from the brink of disassociation. I gag and choke, as the air becomes thick with the rotten, chemical reek.
Then, I see it, I see, him.
As randomly as he disappeared, in an instant Trenchcoat is in the room.
He’s torn apart, wounds so deep and ragged, I can see the door on the other side of the room through the worst of them.
One arm is a twisted, broken mess, the flesh jacket torn to shreds of necrotic tissue.
The look on his face is panic, paranoia. A rictus grin of someone that has been kept on his toes for entirely too long.
He trembles and heaves, looking like he could fall over at any second.
He points his good arm at the tendril creature, who I notice has a too familiar eye suspended in it’s shifting features.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the motherfucker who just made me kill my favorite cousin, would you? “ Trenchcoat asks, his voice cracked, and strained.
He gets a confused keening in response.
“Bad day for you then. “ Augustus says.
There is no style to his violence, Trenchcoat grabs the shifting mass, his wicked, claw tipped fingers angling themselves in tendrils. As he lifts the thing, floorboards break, and it’s torn free from the root-like system it was creating in the room.
Three brutal slams cover me in ichor and pieces of creature. Trenchcoat tosses the mewling, twitching pile in a corner and looks at me with disgust.
“You let that thing do this to you? Fuckin’ pathetic, bud.
And who tied you up? “ The nightmare I’ve been cursed with chides me.
“The kids downstairs. “ I say only now realizing I’ve still been sobbing.
One handed, Trenchcoat snaps the wires, then stumbles backward, slowly sliding down the wall.
He coughs, grey, bloody phlegm hitting the ground.
“So, what’s the play here? If this shit broke you, I could use the spare parts, if not, well, you know what the Bible says.
An eye for an eye. “ Trenchcoat grins as he talks, nearly on the brink of death.
And that’s where I think I’m going to leave things. Because, honestly I don’t know what I’m choosing.
I’m mutilated, half blind, using too much of my energy typing to strangers online about things because, I’m so fucking alone here.
If you hear from me again, I hope I made the right move. If not, take this as a lesson on what happens when you screw around with the occult.

The Pink Gorila
In the whispering darkness of Romania's ancient landscapes, a man found himself on an urgent business quest, his trusty but weary car his only steed. The journey began smoothly on the highway until a serpent-like snarl of cars halted his progress. With the aid of modern technology, he sought an alternative path, leading him into the embracing arms of winding mountain roads, under the watchful gaze of towering pines that whispered secrets of old.
As the road serpentined through the mountains, the car, much like a steed of old tales, started to protest its heavy burden. A steep ascent loomed, challenging the vehicle's resolve. The man, his heart a mix of determination and doubt, urged it onward until—a loud BANG shattered the moment, a sound reminiscent of ancient battles, echoing off the mountain walls. The car trembled and stuttered, barely cresting the hill before it succumbed to silence.
The descent was a silent glide, the only sounds being the whisper of wind and the occasional ominous hoot of an unseen owl. The car, now a silent ghost of itself, came to a rest in the embrace of the dark road. The man's hope dimmed like the fading light of his phone, the lifeline to the outside world now a dying ember.
Determined, he set forth on foot, the crunch of gravel underfoot his constant companion. The road gave way to a mysterious path, leading to a gate that groaned and moaned like a creature from a bygone era as it allowed him passage. The mansion that awaited was a giant, slumbering in the moonlight, its grandeur both awe-inspiring and unsettling.
The giant wooden doors opened with a groan, revealing a world untouched by time. The butler, a silent specter, led the man through halls adorned with echoes of grandeur and whispers of the past. The invitation to stay was both a blessing and a veil to a mystery that lay deeper within the heart of the mansion.
The butler's revelation of the pink gorilla was a scene straight from the pages of a gothic novel, the creature a vibrant anomaly in the shadowed room. The man's curiosity, once piqued, became an obsession, leading him through the mansion's veins, driven by the need to uncover the truth.
The final confrontation, a cacophony of sounds—shrieks of bent metal, the furious roar of the gorilla, and the desperate pounding of the man's heart—culminated in a moment of surreal humor. "You're it," the gorilla declared, a sentence that hung in the air like a twisted punchline, blending fear, confusion, and an absurd sense of camaraderie.
In this extended tale, the journey through Romania's heartland became not just a physical trial but a voyage into the unexpected, where every creak, roar, and silent whisper wove a richer tapestry of adventure, mystery, and an unforgettable encounter with the surreal.
As the echo of the gorilla's declaration faded into the night, the man stood frozen, a cocktail of emotions swirling within him. The absurdity of the situation clashed with the primal fear that had gripped him moments before, leaving him in a state of bewildered amusement. The gorilla, having delivered its message, seemed to regard him with a semblance of curiosity, its eyes glinting in the moonlight that filtered through the torn roof of the car.
The man, now catching his breath, realized the predicament he found himself in was far from ordinary. He was in the heart of Romania, face to face with a creature that defied explanation, in a scenario that seemed to leap from the pages of a storybook. Yet, here he was, his heart pounding not just from fear but from the thrill of the unexpected.
With a newfound resolve, he decided to embrace the madness of the moment. "Well, I suppose it's my turn then," he said, more to himself than to the gorilla, who seemed to cock its head slightly, as if understanding. The man slowly exited the remnants of his car, cautiously stepping around the gorilla, which surprisingly made no move to stop him.
As he walked back towards the mansion, a plan began to form in his mind. He would find the butler, demand answers, and perhaps, just perhaps, turn this nightmarish adventure into an opportunity. After all, not everyone can say they've played tag with a pink gorilla in a Romanian mansion.
The mansion, now silent, seemed to watch his return with a sense of anticipation. The doors, once daunting, now invited him in, as if welcoming him back from a journey of initiation. Inside, the mansion was a labyrinth of shadows and whispers, the history of its walls mingling with the man's own story.
He found the butler in the grand foyer, polishing an ancient vase with a care that seemed out of place in the chaos of the night. "Ah, you've returned. And how did you find our resident jest?" the butler asked, without turning, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space.
The man, pausing to catch his breath, replied, "I believe it's my turn now." The butler simply nodded, as if this was the expected response, and gestured for the man to follow him once more.
This time, their destination was not the hidden cage but a library filled with books that seemed as ancient as the mansion itself. The butler handed him a tome, its cover worn by time, titled "The Lore of the Land." "Perhaps this will shed some light on your encounter," the butler suggested, before leaving the man alone with his thoughts and the book.
As the first light of dawn began to filter through the tall windows, the man poured over the pages, discovering tales of creatures and legends that painted a world beyond the ordinary, a world where perhaps, a pink gorilla in a Romanian mansion wasn't so out of place after all.
His adventure, which began as a simple business trip, had transformed into a journey of discovery, not just of the mysteries hidden in the heart of Romania but of his own capacity for wonder and belief in the extraordinary. As the sun rose, casting a golden glow over the mansion, the man knew that no matter the outcome of his original quest, he had already uncovered a story worth more than any deal he could have hoped to close.
As the dawn's light unfurled across the sprawling estate, casting shadows and revelations in equal measure, the man felt a profound shift within. The mansion, with its myriad secrets and whispered histories, seemed no longer a mere relic of the past but a living, breathing entity that had chosen him to unveil one of its countless mysteries. The book in his hands, a bridge to the arcane and the marvelous, whispered of worlds parallel yet intersecting with our own, where the fabric of reality was thinner, and the extraordinary danced closely with the mundane.
The lore of the pink gorilla, as he discovered, was not merely an oddity to be puzzled over but a guardian of thresholds, a creature that manifested to those at the cusp of significant personal revelations or crossroads. The lore suggested that an encounter with such a being was not random but a deeply personal challenge, an invitation to explore the unknown corridors of one's life and perhaps, to redefine the boundaries of what was considered possible.
Emboldened by this knowledge, the man decided that his journey was far from over; it had, in fact, just begun. He resolved to leave behind the constraints of his previous ambitions and embrace the path of discovery that lay before him. With the mansion as his starting point, he would delve deeper into the mysteries of the land, seeking out the ancient, the hidden, and the mystical.
As he set forth from the mansion, the butler, now less a servant and more a guide, bestowed upon him a parting gift—a compass, not for navigation by conventional means, but one that pointed towards the extraordinary. "May this guide you to the wonders that await," the butler said, his eyes twinkling with a knowledge that seemed as vast as the lore contained within the mansion's walls.
The man stepped outside, the air fresh with the promise of the morning, and looked back at the mansion one last time. It stood majestic and serene, a keeper of secrets and tales untold, now a beacon in his quest for the extraordinary. He turned away, his heart alight with possibilities, and set off into the sunrise, the land stretching out before him like a canvas waiting for new stories to be painted.
His encounter with the pink gorilla, now a cherished memory, served as a reminder that the world was far more wondrous and complex than he had ever imagined. Each step forward was a step into the unknown, a chance to uncover the magic hidden in plain sight, waiting for those brave enough to seek it out.
And so, the man's journey continued, each day a new chapter in a saga of discovery, each encounter a thread in the tapestry of a life redefined by wonder and a boundless quest for the extraordinary. The road ahead was uncharted, the stories waiting to be told infinite, and the world a place of endless marvels, forever changed by one night, one mansion, and one pink gorilla that dared him to dream bigger.
As the man ventured deeper into the landscapes that sprawled beyond the mansion's boundaries, each step took him further from the world he knew and closer to the realms of the unexplained and the mystical. The compass given by the butler did not point north, but towards anomalies of nature and hidden enclaves of magic. Its needle quivered and spun, leading him through forests that whispered ancient secrets, across rivers that sang of lost loves, and over hills that murmured with stories of battles long forgotten.
His first destination was a village whispered about in the mansion's lore, a place where the veil between the worlds was said to be thinnest on nights when the moon hid its face. The villagers, at first wary of the stranger, soon opened their doors and hearts to him, sharing tales of their ancestors who walked with spirits and commanded the elements. Here, the man learned the language of the trees and the songs of the stars, each lesson weaving into him a deeper connection with the world around him.
One night, under a cloak of starless darkness, he was taken to a clearing in the woods where the villagers gathered to witness the dance of the spirits. As the air filled with the hum of ancient chants, shadows began to dance at the edge of his vision, twirling and weaving around a fire that burned with a green flame. The man watched, spellbound, as the divide between the worlds blurred, and for a moment, he felt the touch of the unknown—a feeling both exhilarating and humbling.
With each encounter, the man's perception of reality expanded. The compass led him next to a mountain where the wind spoke in riddles, and he spent a moon cycle deciphering its words, each answer revealing a layer of the world's fabric he had never imagined. On the peak, amidst clouds that whispered of eternity, he found a stone that pulsed with the heart of the mountain—a gem that glowed with an inner light, guiding him further on his quest.
His journey was not without trials. There were paths that led into darkness, where fears and doubts rose like specters to challenge his resolve. But with each step forward, he shed layers of his former self, finding strength in vulnerability and power in the acceptance of the unknown.
The man realized that the true journey was not just about uncovering the wonders of the world but also discovering the depths of his own spirit. He encountered beings of light and shadow, each teaching him that balance was the key to harmony and that every light casts a shadow. He learned to walk the tightrope between worlds, embracing both the light and the dark within himself.
Years passed, seasons turned, and legends grew around the figure of a man who walked the borders of reality, a seeker of truths hidden and a bearer of stories untold. To some, he was a myth, a symbol of the eternal quest for understanding and connection. To others, he was a reminder that the world is far vaster and more mysterious than it appears, that magic lies in belief, and that the extraordinary is all around, waiting for those with the courage to seek it.
And so, the man who once sought only to close a deal for his company became a traveler of the liminal, a bridge between the seen and the unseen, forever changed by a night at a mansion and a pink gorilla that showed him the endless possibilities of the 'what if.' His journey became a testament to the power of curiosity and the human spirit's unyielding desire to explore the wonders of the universe.
In the tapestry of his adventures, the man discovered not just the external marvels of a world unseen but also the internal landscapes of his own soul. With each step into the unknown, he peeled back layers of himself, revealing strengths and vulnerabilities he never knew he possessed. The journey became less about the destinations and more about the transformation within, a metamorphosis catalyzed by the pursuit of the extraordinary.
As seasons melded into years, his tales wove into the fabric of the local lore, a collection of stories that inspired those who heard them to look beyond their own horizons. The man, now a wanderer of realms both earthly and ethereal, realized that his journey had no end, for the pursuit of wonder is infinite, and the path of discovery eternal.
In his travels, he encountered communities that, hidden from the modern world, preserved the essence of magic that once flourished unbridled across the land. He learned the ancient arts of healing from a wise woman whose garden was a mosaic of herbs and enchantments. From a silent monk atop a snow-capped peak, he mastered the art of listening, hearing the whispers of the wind and the songs of the stars. Each encounter, each lesson, was a thread in the rich tapestry of his evolving journey.
But it was in the quiet moments, when he stood alone under the canopy of stars, that the man found the deepest connection to the universe. It was then he understood that every star was a story, every breeze a song, and every stone a testament to the timeless dance of creation. He realized that magic did not exist apart from the world but was woven into the very fabric of existence, visible to those who chose to see.
His legend grew, not as a mere traveler or seeker of oddities but as a guardian of the gateways between worlds, a protector of the ancient truths and mysteries that bind the universe together. People from far and wide sought him, not just for his knowledge but for the light he carried within, a beacon of hope and wonder in an age of skepticism and forgetfulness.
Eventually, the man understood that his journey was also a return, a spiral that led not only outward into the depths of mystery but inward to the heart of his own being. He found peace in the balance of opposites, in the harmony of light and shadow, and in the understanding that every end is but a new beginning.
As he stood on a cliff overlooking the sea, where the sky met the water in an endless embrace, the man reflected on the path that had led him here. He thought of the pink gorilla, the mansion, the butler, and the countless souls he had met along the way. With a heart full of gratitude, he realized that his quest had been not just for the wonders of the world but for the rediscovery of wonder within.
With the horizon stretching before him, the man set down his compass, now understanding that the true direction was always guided by the heart. As the sun dipped below the sea, casting the world in a glow of gold and crimson, he took a deep breath, ready for whatever adventures awaited.
For in a universe of endless possibilities, the journey is never truly over; it only transforms, leading the seeker on new paths, through new doors, and into new realms of wonder. And so, with the stars as his map and his heart as his compass, the man stepped forward, into the next chapter of a story that is as old as time and as new as the next sunrise.
But the narrative of the man, now a timeless wanderer, takes a poignant turn, reflecting the essence of every journey. With the breadth of the world woven into the fabric of his spirit, he sought to impart the wisdom gained from the myriad paths tread and the countless stars counted. The wanderer, once a seeker, became a storyteller, a custodian of tales that bridged worlds and hearts.
In villages and cities, in valleys and atop mountains, he shared stories that kindled the flames of curiosity and wonder in the listeners. His tales were not just recounts of adventures but parables of connection, resilience, and the undying quest for understanding. Through his words, the veil between the mundane and the magical grew thinner, reminding all that wonder did not reside in distant lands but within the grasp of those who dared to dream and look beyond.
His legacy, however, was not merely in the tales told under the moon's soft glow or beside the hearth's warm fire. It was in the sparks ignited in the souls of those who listened, a chain reaction of wonder that transcended time and space. Children who listened with wide-eyed wonder grew up to explore their own paths, discovering new stories to add to the ever-expanding tapestry of human endeavor and cosmic ballet.
As seasons changed and the wheel of time spun, the wanderer's steps grew slower, his journey taking him closer to the heart of existence itself. He ventured into the realm of silence, where the whispers of the universe were clearest, seeking the source of the magic that had fueled his journey. Here, in the quietude of being, he found the ultimate truth that his journey had circled around: that all of existence is interconnected, a symphony of light and shadow, where every soul plays a note in the grand orchestral work of the cosmos.
In this realization, the wanderer saw that his journey had been both outward and inward, a spiral dance that led to the core of existence where all stories began and ended. He understood that his legacy was not the tales he'd told or the wonders he'd unveiled but the reminder that the journey is infinite, and every end is a new beginning.
With this knowledge, the wanderer found a place to rest, a tranquil nexus where all paths intersected. He became a beacon, a lighthouse for those navigating their own voyages through the tempests and tranquilities of life. And as he shared this final piece of wisdom—that the greatest adventure lies in the discovery of one's own soul—he completed his transformation from a man on a quest to a timeless guide, a mentor to the seekers, dreamers, and storytellers who would follow the trails he had blazed.
And so, the story of the wanderer weaves into the greater story of humanity, a reminder that the journey never truly ends. It is passed from one soul to another, through words and silence, in the hope that the magic of wonder, the quest for connection, and the pursuit of the extraordinary will forever illuminate the path of those who walk the earth, gazing at the stars and dreaming of the infinite.
In the continuum of time, where the wanderer's tale merges with the cosmos, his essence diffuses into the fabric of existence, becoming a part of the universal consciousness. This transformation marks not an end but an evolution, a transcendence from physical journeys to ethereal guidance, where his spirit continues to inspire across dimensions.
In the ethereal plane, the wanderer's insights become whispers in the wind, ripples in the water, and twinkles in the night sky, accessible to all who find themselves lost or in search of deeper truths. His presence is felt in the sudden inspirations that strike at the quiet of dawn, in the courage that rises amidst storms, and in the peace that descends with twilight's embrace.
As the world spins and generations rise and fall, the wanderer's tales, now part of the collective mythos, foster a legacy of exploration and introspection. They serve as a compass for the soul, guiding those who seek to break the fetters of the ordinary and embark on journeys of their own, whether through physical realms or the landscapes of the mind and spirit.
Temples, not of stone but of thought and intention, arise in his honor, places where seekers gather to share stories, wisdom, and insights, creating a web of interconnectedness that spans the globe. These gatherings, illuminated by the fire of curiosity and the glow of fellowship, become beacons of light in a world that, at times, seems overshadowed by the mundane and the material.
In these spaces, the wanderer's teachings evolve into a philosophy of life, a path that embraces the beauty of the unknown and the power of the human spirit to transcend limitations. It is a call to view each day as an adventure, each challenge as a riddle to be solved, and each interaction as a thread in the intricate tapestry of the collective human experience.
As the philosophy spreads, touching hearts and awakening minds, the wanderer's spirit journeys alongside those who dare to dream, explore, and discover. He becomes a guardian of dreams, an ally in the quest for meaning, and a guide to those who navigate the myriad paths of life.
The wanderer's journey, which began as a solitary quest, culminates in a universal voyage, a collective endeavor to uncover the mysteries of existence and the wonders of the cosmos. It is a journey that transcends time, space, and dimension, uniting all in the quest for knowledge, understanding, and connection.
And thus, the story continues, a perpetual narrative woven into the very essence of existence, inviting all to join in the eternal dance of the cosmos. The wanderer's tale becomes not just a story but a living testament to the indomitable spirit of exploration, a call to embrace the infinite journey of discovery, understanding, and connection that defines the human condition.
In this unending story, every soul is both a wanderer and a storyteller, contributing their verse to the endless poem of existence, where every end is a beginning, and the journey is eternal, bound only by the limits of imagination and the depth of one's courage to explore the vast, uncharted territories of the heart and the heavens.
In the ever-expanding narrative of existence, where each soul’s journey intertwines with the fabric of the universe, the legacy of the wanderer becomes a cosmic echo, resonating through the ages. This resonance is not confined to the tales of old or the whispers of the wind but lives in the heartbeats of those who carry the torch of exploration and curiosity into the future.
As civilizations advance and technology bridges the gaps between stars, the essence of the wanderer guides humanity's steps into the cosmos. His spirit, a beacon of adventure and discovery, illuminates the path for those who navigate the infinite expanse of space, seeking not conquest but connection, not dominion but understanding.
In this new era of exploration, the wanderer's teachings transform into principles that govern the interaction between worlds and cultures. The ethos of respect, wonder, and a thirst for knowledge transcends the boundaries of planets, becoming a universal language that unites different forms of life across the galaxy. The wanderer’s legacy, now embedded in the collective consciousness, inspires a federation of worlds, each unique yet bound by common values of exploration, peace, and the shared quest for the mysteries of the universe.
This federation, a testament to the wanderer's dream, embarks on voyages that span light-years, delving into the unknown depths of the cosmos. Each expedition carries the spirit of the wanderer, each discovery a tribute to his unyielding curiosity. These journeys reveal the interconnectedness of all existence, showcasing the myriad ways life expresses itself across the vast canvas of space. Through these encounters, humanity learns not only of the diversity of the cosmos but also of its own place within the grand scheme of existence.
As the federation explores, it encounters phenomena that defy explanation, mysteries that echo the tales of magic and wonder that the wanderer once pursued on his own terrestrial journey. These mysteries, remnants of the universe's creation and markers of its evolution, offer glimpses into the forces that weave the fabric of reality. They serve as reminders that, despite the advances in knowledge and technology, the universe will always harbor enigmas, inviting those with the courage to explore them.
In this ongoing voyage, the wanderer's story becomes more than a legend; it becomes the guiding ethos for a civilization venturing beyond the cradle of Earth. It teaches that exploration is not just a physical journey but a voyage of the spirit, a quest to understand not only the universe but also the soul’s infinite potential.
And so, as ships bearing the emblem of the federation traverse the star-studded void, the wanderer’s legacy endures, a timeless narrative that continues to inspire those who look upon the night sky not as a boundary but as an invitation. The story of the wanderer, once a solitary figure traversing the shadowed forests and mystical lands of Earth, now resonates through the cosmos, a symbol of the eternal journey of discovery that defines the essence of all sentient beings.
In this boundless adventure, every heart that dreams, every mind that wonders, and every soul that ventures into the unknown carries the spirit of the wanderer, contributing to the endless symphony of the cosmos. The journey is eternal, the stories infinite, and the legacy of the wanderer a beacon that lights the way to the furthest reaches of imagination, where every star is a story, every planet a poem, and every galaxy a garden of wonders waiting to be discovered.
As the cosmos unfolds its endless narrative, woven from the threads of countless journeys, a unique strand weaves through the fabric of existence, linking every heart that dares to explore the unknown. This strand, a cosmic echo of a tale both whimsical and profound, originates from an encounter that transcends time and space, grounding the vastness of the universe in a moment of playful connection—a link between the wanderer and a pink gorilla.
In the heart of an ancient, mystical mansion, hidden within the fold of reality where the wanderer's journey found unexpected turns, the moment when the gorilla, with a touch and a simple phrase, "You're it," transformed the nature of the quest. This moment, a playful exchange in the shadow of the unknown, became a beacon, a reminder that amidst the grandeur of the cosmos and the depth of our explorations, there lies a fundamental link of shared existence, a thread of joy and simplicity that connects all beings.
As humanity ventured into the stars, guided by the wanderer’s legacy of curiosity and discovery, they carried with them this ethos of connection. The federation of worlds, born from a dream of exploration and understanding, found in the tale of the wanderer and the pink gorilla a symbol of their deepest values. In every encounter with new worlds and sentient beings, in every diplomatic exchange and shared exploration, the story of the gorilla served as a reminder that at the heart of all discovery is the desire for connection, for the simple joy of recognizing oneself in the other, across the vastness of space and the diversity of life.
This ethos inspired a tradition among the explorers of the federation. In their voyages across the stars, whenever a new planet was discovered, or a new species welcomed into the community of the cosmos, the story of the wanderer and the pink gorilla was shared as a gesture of friendship and solidarity. The phrase "You're it," translated into myriad languages and forms of communication, became a universal greeting, symbolizing the invitation to join the grand adventure of exploration and mutual discovery.
The pink gorilla, once a curious anomaly within a mysterious mansion, evolved into a symbol of the interconnectedness of all beings. Statues and holograms of the gorilla adorned public squares and spaceports across the federation, each a testament to the playful spirit that underlies the quest for knowledge and the journey towards understanding.
In this way, the legacy of the wanderer and his encounter with the pink gorilla wove itself into the cultural fabric of a galaxy-spanning civilization. It reminded all who heard it that beyond the awe-inspiring mysteries of the universe, the fundamental connections that bind us are woven from moments of simplicity and shared joy.
And so, as the federation explores the furthest reaches of the cosmos, the spirit of the wanderer and the essence of the pink gorilla journey with them, a timeless link that binds every heart that looks to the stars and dreams of discovery. In every "You're it," there is an invitation to partake in the eternal dance of the cosmos, a call to explore not just the mysteries of the universe but the bonds that unite us all in the grand tapestry of existence.

Part 1
Part 2
Content Warning: Child Abuse
***
Darkness gave way to dimness as I opened my eyes and saw slivers of gray light printed on the ceiling like lines on the page of a ruled notebook. In the distance, I heard the sound of pans clanking against the kitchen stove, and I became ever-aware of the scent of cinnamon and bacon sneaking in from under my closed bedroom door. For a moment, I was back in sixth grade. My dad was downstairs cooking up his famous from-scratch buttermilk pancakes and cheesy scrambled eggs. It was probably 7:00, maybe 7:05, and I had fifteen minutes to get up, shower, dress, eat, then it was off to Middle School with dad: for me to learn, him to work.
It was the day we were set to be assigned our Ancient Civilizations project. Unless something went terribly wrong, I would be choosing Ancient Rome. I didn't know much about it, other than it was some great empire, but even then I didn't really understand what an empire was. I was just happy that I would get to build something with my dad. I turned on my side and looked at the closed blinds, the source of the gray lines, then the cabinet with all my trophies, and finally the wobbly, firetruck-red chair pushed under my desk. I was home at last. The past fifteen years were nothing but a dream. There was no blinking. No malevolent demon chasing me. No inexplicable chaos…
It was a sweet fantasy. But one that became bitter the longer I tried to chew on it.
I swept my legs out from under the covers and sat, face-down, on the corner of my twin mattress. My feet were adult's feet. My room was my former room. And that was Trent downstairs cooking breakfast. Unless, of course, it was my dad, in which case I'd have bigger problems than merely waking up from a good dream.
After changing into a fresh shirt and pants, I went downstairs and saw that it was, in fact, Trent cooking breakfast. He was wearing a plain t-shirt through which I could see the ripples of his large back muscles as he whisked what I presumed was pancake batter. He must not have heard me, because he didn't turn around when I made it to the end of the hall. I leaned against the wall, arms folded, and watched him for a minute as he finished whisking the batter, then poured it onto a hot griddle (spilling a few dribbles on the counter in the process), watched it bubble, flipped it, then transferred the golden medallion onto a plate stacked five high. Next to the pancakes was a plate filled with bacon, and a small aluminum pan of scrambled eggs.
"Smells good," I said at last. "Find everything okay?"
I thought I might startle him with my abrupt appearance; instead, Trent looked over his shoulder, chewing on a piece of bacon. He swallowed and said, "Oh, it's you. Yeah, I hope you don't mind me using your kitchen. I thought I'd make us some breakfast."
It occurred to me then that Trent likely wasn't a guest in other people's homes very often. Lucky for him, I didn't mind him using a kitchen that hadn't been mine in many years. I was going to tell him as much when I saw an opened box of Bisquick sitting on the counter. I pointed to it and asked, "you found that in the pantry? My dad usually makes his pancakes from scratch."
He turned to look at the box, then back at me. "No, I went out and got that. And the bacon and eggs. I didn't want to dig into your supply without asking, and you were asleep, so..."
I felt my eyebrows furrow as I checked the time on the stove-clock. "It's 8:17 in the morning. Are you telling me you went out to the store, bought all these ingredients, then came back and cooked them? Just how early did you get up?"
"Around five," he answered as casually as if I had asked his dog's name. "I don't usually get much sleep. Around four, five hours is all I need. It's actually unusual for Antennas to need more than that amount. But I suppose you are unusual."
I opened my mouth in disbelief. Not only had he commandeered my kitchen, he was calling me unusual? At 8-fricken-17 in the morning?
"Sorry," Trent said, reading my expression, "I'm… well, let's just say I've not had many personal relationships. I'm used to being blunt. It's just easier that way." He took out a plate and transferred two pancakes, some eggs, and a few slices of bacon onto it. Then he held it up to me as a peace offering.
I sighed. "This better be good," I said with a wry smile and took the plate.
"Trent-certified, but no guarantees. Refunds not allowed." He replied, which made me giggle.
We sat across from one another at the dining room table. The meal was pretty good, but it was no dad's special: the pancakes were clearly box pancakes, the scrambled eggs lacked cheese and had a little too much pepper, and the bacon was… well it was bacon, no complaints there. Still, it was nice to settle down and have a somewhat normal morning.
After we ate, Trent unfurled the long arc of his life, which began as the second youngest brother of eight siblings in rural Oklahoma. Trent's 'pops' was in the logging business, first as a lumberjack, then as an owner of his own logging company. His dad acquired the business while Trent was still young, so school was never a high priority for him—at least not the way contributing to the household was. The rest of his childhood he summed up in two lessons: "Being 'close' has nothing to do with distance," and "don't touch strange plants in the woods."
I asked him if he kept in touch with any of his siblings, to which he responded, saying, "The only reason they haven't had a funeral for me is because it would be too much work." When I asked him to elaborate, he said he'd not had contact with anyone in his immediate family for over a decade. He kept tabs on them. For example, he knew his mother had dementia, and his dad was forced into retirement by his oldest brother (who had gone on to take over the logging company). His sisters were all married and moved to other parts of the country. He considered reaching out several times, but his situation required a degree of security that wasn't conducive of close family ties, not that there were particularly strong ties even before he broke contact. Trent admitted to being a bit of a black sheep.
"It all circles back to one of my jobs as a Home Inspector," he explained. "After I moved out, I tried college and quickly realized it wasn't for me. So I entered the workforce and did a bunch of odd jobs. Construction, carpentry, plumbing. I even drove a garbage truck for a while. But I ended up in Home Inspection. There was one job in particular which made me aware of…" Trent paused and gestured toward the space between us, "our situation. The blinks. You remember what I told you about origin points being like a station where other realms intersect with our world? Well, this house was like Union Station or JFK airport if you prefer a plane analogy. There was a pile of junk up to my knees in the basement of that house; all of it had been blinked in. I spent a couple days on the property, running tests, trying to identify the strange phenomenon, but on day three I rolled up to an army of what I thought at the time were Feds, parading around the property like ants on an anthill and sectioning it off with crime-scene tape." I saw disgust funnel into Trent's expression. "They're not Feds at all though. At least not anymore. I call them "the Organization," a group of people who lead in the formalized understanding of what you know as 'blinking'. And they're the reason I have to take precautions."
I considered this for a moment. Trent's story was certainly plausible, but I was missing a key piece of the puzzle. "Okay, so, what does this 'Organization' want? You make it seem like they're not good people. Have they tried attacking you?"
This caused Trent to laugh for a solid ten seconds. "Sorry, it's just… I mean if you knew what I knew, you might think it's funny, too."
"Then tell me"
Trent took a deep breath, then released. "It's a long story. The gist of it is this. The Organization has a certain device which I call 'the Receiver'. Think of it like a giant antenna—no, not us kind of Antennas, an actual antenna. It's like the machine equivalent of us, but with a billion times the bandwidth. Their goal is to use the Receiver to map our world in relation to other dimensions, then use that map to establish dominion over everyone and everything. In order to do this, they need muscle: both human muscle, and Antenna muscle. They're in the process of harvesting as many of us they can find. They're like a giant diamond company who is taking to the mines. When they find a stone, they take it back to their factory for cutting and refinement. In real terms, they run tests on us and attempt to augment our powers. The ultimate goal is to create a 'Strong Antenna', or an Antenna capable of causing phase shifts—blinks." Trent saw from my expression that he was starting to lose me, so he stood up and began rolling up his shirt.
"What are you doing?" I asked, turning away. Then I saw what he wanted to show me. There was a long scar beginning high up on his ribs and slashing all the way down to his left hip. There was also what appeared to be a patch of burn marks on his stomach.
"It was early on when I got these." Trent explained. "I was naive. I actually thought I'd be able to reason with these people. The only reason I escaped was because of dumb luck and a box of hand grenades. But that's a tale for another time. I learned two important lessons that day. First, the Organization isn't fucking around. And two, they aren't immortal. Most of them are regular, every-day humans, except for their obsession with power." Trent let his shirt fall, covering up the marks. "I ran into them again recently at their Headquarters. My team and I are working on a plan to…" he paused, seemingly weighing his words, then changed gears. "Well, I guess we can go over that another time."
I couldn't help but feel that Trent was holding something back. As much as I tried to resist thinking about yesterday, the old demon-man's words kept ringing in my head. You think he can help you? He's only here to help himself. Then I thought about what Trent said at the deli: "that's the thing that got me really interested in you. Somehow you seem to be able to control it without gear, just by praying." Did Trent think I was a Strong Antenna? Is that the only reason he's helping me? Because he wants to recruit me? And if that is the case, what if I said 'no'?
"Listen, Trent," I started, but I saw Trent was already nodding. Still, I pressed on. "I need you to tell me what I'm actually doing here. Why did you agree to help me? And what does helping me really mean? I want to know the truth."
"The truth is…" Trent started, then stopped and looked out the glass door that led onto the deck. I looked too and saw a sparrow had alighted on our old bird feeder. It tried pecking at some of its non-existent grains, then sang what I assumed was a song of displeasure before taking back off to the skies.
"The truth is: I do want to recruit you. I think you have the potential to be the strongest tool in my arsenal, but I won't require it. To date, I've helped 53 of our kind, but only seven have stayed on. Most decide to go on and live normal lives." Trent scooted his plate to the side. "In our case, this can essentially go one of two ways. In either instance, we pass through Chicago for two stops. First, I need to meet up with an associate who has something to drop off to me. Then I need to stop at a storage locker and trade out some gear that will allow me to open a phase portal. When we arrive at your origin point, I'll open the portal and you'll look inside. Based on everything you've told me, I'm guessing that childhood accident was when the demon appended itself to your life. By seeing how it entered your life, you should be able to figure out how to dispel it. At least that's the working theory. Returning to the origin point has always worked for the other Antennas, although I must admit your situation is different, but I can't imagine it's so different that this method won't work at all. After you return demon-free, you're free. You can walk out and never see me again and hopefully you'll live a happy and peaceful life. Or you can decide to throw your lot in with mine, and I can show you how deep the rabbit hole goes, so to speak." Trent looked into my eyes, and when I didn't respond for a few seconds, he said, "that's it. That's all I got."
I smiled and responded with one sentence.
"When do we leave?"
***
Memories have a strange architecture. In some ways, they are the great safety net of our experiences: collecting them like a bucket under a leaky roof. In other ways, they are an eternal reminder that nothing ever truly lasts. Perhaps a better way of thinking about memories is as the ghosts of our past lingering in the present. As I took one last stroll through my childhood house, feeling that it might be my last time for a long while, I felt the imprints of childhood memories press into my awareness: I could hear my father's voice reading to me at my bedside; I could see him holding one of my stuffed animals above my head as I wrestled him for it; I could recall the times when I'd sneak down the stairs late at night and quietly open the freezer, grab the ice cream carton, then head back upstairs to eat it.
I felt a yearning to return to those memories: to walk into the fictitious pictures my mind was painting on the canvas of my present. I knew I couldn't return, but I still wanted something to hold onto. I went back to my room and grabbed the cotton-stuffed tomato from off my closet cabinet. Then I walked through my dad's study and removed a volume I recalled him frequently reading, a hard-cover book with a green binding called, "A Collection of Great Works". I placed these items by my feet in the passenger seat of Trent's van, and just as we were about to leave, I remembered something else.
"My plant!" I blurted.
"Your what?"
"My plant—and my car. I left them it the deli. Do you think we could swing by and get it?"
Trent checked the time, then said, "Yeah, I guess we can. I just hope it isn't towed."
Luckily, it wasn't. I half-expected to find a ticket on the windshield, but there wasn't one of those, either. I unlocked the door to my Jetta and got into what felt like an active oven. "Hot!" I said and rolled down all the windows, then cranked up the AC. I saw my plant resting in the cupholder that I'd left it in the previous day. I picked it up and touched its soil. It was dry and beginning to crack. Hang on little guy, I thought. Then I led the way back to my house.
When I arrived, I parked at the head of the driveway. I turned off the car, then ran inside with the young tomato plant, bringing it to the upstairs bathrooms sink and dousing it in water. I wasn't sure how much I was supposed to add, but I figured after the sauna experience it had yesterday, I could afford to go a little overboard. Once it was fed, I opened the small purple drapes and placed it on the windowsill which faced East, meaning it would hopefully get plenty of morning sunlight.
"Good, now?" Trent asked after I hopped back in the passenger seat of the van.
"Yeah," I said. "Good now."
"Then lets get a move on."
***
Road tripping with Trent was a much different experience than when we were driving for our lives. For one, Trent wasn't nearly as tense. He drove with the windows down and one hand on the steering wheel like out of a Mustang commercial, talking intermittently about his adventures: people he'd met, jobs he'd done, close calls. He was like a living radio. And when his personal station wasn't on, he was playing one of his CD's—classic rock, mainly. When he was in an 'off' period, I found myself looking out the window at the rolling wheat fields and cloudy blue sky. Journey was playing, and the lyrics to one of the songs crept into my head and reverberated there:
The wheel in the sky keeps on turning.
I don't know where I'll be tomorrow…
I've been trying to make it home,
Got to make it before too long…
Ooh I can't take it, very much longer…
In a strange way, I felt like I was leaving home. But in another way, I was going back. And then it occurred to me that perhaps I didn't have a home at all. Did I ever have one? These past couple days had called everything about my life into question, to the point where the past seemed as mysterious as the future, and both intersected at that one place in the woods. The place where it all began. The place we were headed.
We only stopped once at a gas station to refuel, get snacks, and use the bathroom. Otherwise it was smooth sailing, other than one heated discussion with Trent that began when he addressed his vehicle as "Car" for the fifth time.
"Okay, you need to come up with a better name than that."
"What do you mean?" Trent asked, seeming genuinely confused.
"You have a super-car and you named it 'Car'. That's actually embarrassing."
"But, it is a car."
I facepalmed. "First of all, it's a van."
"A van is a type of car."
"Second of all, would you name your kid, 'kid'?"
Trent thought it over for what I thought was much too long. At last he concluded, "No, I'd probably name him 'boy', or if it's a girl, 'girl'."
After five more minutes of his childish banter, we settled on the name "Ava"—my choice, after rejecting his runner-up name "Scar".
At around the seven hour mark, I dozed off, then woke up a couple hours later to the sensation of the van dipping, then bumping up into an elevated climb. The evening sunlight that was pressuring my eyelids to open, dissipated, and everything was suddenly dark. I opened my eyes and saw we had entered a parking garage. Trent pulled into an open spot on the second level.
"We're here," he said and gathered up his gun which he stashed in a driver's side underboard compartment that I'm guessing he had installed himself.
"I see that"
"You want to wait here, or—"
I opened the car door, which was answer enough for Trent. We both got out and started down Maple Avenue. I had been to several cities before, Chicago among them, but the size of the buildings always struck me with awe. As we walked alongside dozens of other pedestrians, I looked up and traced the closest tower to its peak, guessing how many stories it was in my head. Then I'd be pulled out of my game by the honking of some nearby vehicle.
We continued for two blocks until Trent made a path directly toward the nearest Starbucks. I didn't know what I was picturing for a meeting with his associate, but it definitely wasn't a meetup at a coffee shop. Still, I followed him in. Then when I saw that Trent was leading me to a corner table where a casually dressed Chinese girl who appeared even younger than me was sitting, I blurted in a hushed tone, "her? She's your associate?"
"Took you long enough," said the Chinese girl, looking up from what appeared to be some kind of homework assignment.
"And she's in school?" I asked, incredulous.
The associate looked to me, then to Trent (who nodded), then back to me. "It's just a cover. I'm glad to see it still works, though." She reached out to shake my hand. "I'm Allison. It's nice to meet you."
Trent gave me a smirk, then said, "looks can be deceiving."
I grunted an affirmation and shook Allison's hand. "I'm Lauren. It's nice to meet you, too."
"You have it?" Trent asked, skipping right to business.
"Of course," Allison replied and removed a mailing package from her backpack, setting it on the table. "You want to go make sure it works?" She asked, gesturing up at the ceiling with her eyes.
Trent seemed to think it over for a second, then looked at me. But before he could say anything, Allison cut back in—
"—I'll stay with her. It's been a while since I've had any female company. Why don't you let us girls talk while you take care of that?" She said in a seductive yet authoritative tone which garnered her years that her appearance did not reflect.
Trent hesitated, but only for a moment. "Okay, I'll be right back," he said. Then he hurried out the door in the direction we had come from.
"Come, sit with me." Allison invited. "Tell me about yourself."
I took a seat on the small wooden seat opposite Allison, then crossed my legs. "What do you want to know?" I asked, feeling discomfort rise in my stomach. Nothing about this situation, from the mysterious package, to Trent leaving me alone with this girl, to the girl herself, whose voice was as velvety smooth as the latte she was stirring with a black coffee straw, sat right with me.
"I'm curious about what you think of Trent."
"Trent?" I repeated. I realized this was the first time I was putting any of my thoughts about Trent or our relationship into words. "I guess... he's a pretty straightforward guy. He seems to know what he's doing."
Allison flashed me a small smile, then took a sip of her latte. I saw the sticker on her drink read "Chai". Then she set the cup down and sighed. "Yes, he's very straightforward. Definitely doesn't mince words." She looked up into my eyes. Hers were a rich black, like onyx pebbles, but there was something about the way the light refracted off them which simulated a kind of inward motion, as if they were tiny whirlpools. Her smile spread across her lips. "I'm curious. What did he tell you?"
"Tell me about what?"
"About what you're doing. About where you're off to. What's the plan?"
"Don't you know?" I asked, but it immediately occurred to me that maybe she didn't know. I never saw Trent with a cellphone. Just how did he communicate with his 'associates'? And what if he didn't want her to know what we were doing for a good reason? Should I tell her?
"No, Trent keeps his cards close to his chest. He always has."
"Don't you work together, though?"
Allison waved her left hand in the air. "Of course, but it's because of the nature of our work that most of our communication is done in person, so Trent doesn't tell me much outside of the current job. I was just curious, is all."
"That makes sense. I mean, I'm actually pretty curious about what you do, too."
"Oh?" Allison's voice went high, as if she suddenly sensed an opening. "Then, why don't we trade stories. You tell about your trip, and I'll tell you about mine."
I thought it over for a second. I really did want to hear what Allison had to say, and she was Trent's co-worker, it's not like I was spilling crucial secrets to an enemy. "We're currently on our way to Southern Illinois. Specifically, we're going back to my origin point so I can confront a demon that Trent thinks blinked into my life there."
Allison stopped stirring, but her eyes didn't break from mine. "A demon, huh?" She raised the cup and took a long sip, then placed it back on the table and continued stirring. "I met a demon once," she started, looking up at the walls as if her life was playing on a screen there. "It was back in China, where I was born." She dropped her attention back to me. "Do you mind if I reminisce a little? Maybe you can get something out of it."
I shook my head, but something in my gut started to stir again. Allison continued.
"I was born during the Era of the Once Child Policy. As a result, my mother decided to leave me in a shoebox on the side of the road. I was a girl, so that's just how it was... Like many other babies in my... 'condition', I ended up in foster care. However, for whatever reason, I wasn't adopted. Years passed, and when I turned six, the government decided I'd be of better use building our impoverished town's GDP in a factory that assembled electronic devices for Western countries. Mostly they had me cleaning, but when I turned eight, one of the employees asked for my help with one of the soldering machines. That turned out to be the beginning of the end for me. I sliced open the ring finger of my right hand. I remember specifically seeing the bone underneath the split flesh and thinking it looked so small and white. The employee claimed to have nothing to do with my accident, and the management declared my injury "minimally invasive" and bandaged it up. Two weeks later and who would have guessed that the wound would become infected, and, well..."
Allison dropped the straw into her cup and raised her right hand, spreading the fingers out for me to see. There were only four. Her ring finger was missing, and a small v-shaped scar had taken its place.
"I'm lucky that the surgeon was experienced enough to take out the whole digit, that way it healed in a way which makes it somewhat difficult to notice. You didn't notice, after all. But, then again, is that really luck?" She made a fist and brought it to her lips, stifling a laugh. "No... Now I remember. My luck was still yet to come." She continued stirring. "Because, you see, after that incident, they moved me to a clothing factory with a boss who had a penchant for getting drunk and roughing up his workers, and, well, one night I was walking back to foster care when I heard the outside door to the manager's office slam shut, and there he went, stumbling, slurring insults, curses, and here I was, perfectly in his path. We met eyes, and in them I saw absolutely nothing. A hollow shell of a man, and I can still remember what it looked like to see that shell fill with a demon."
Allison's eyes went wide with some strong emotion that I couldn't place. "He grabbed me by my hair and dragged me out into the field, far away from civilization. I tried to fight at first, but every time I tried to lunge away, I was only ripping a hole in my own scalp. It felt like flames were spewing from my head, and my only respite was when the blood eventually cooled over the wound. By the time he had thrown me against the rock, I'd already all but given up. Then, when my head met the stone, I heard a pop and my grip on the world loosened. The man continued touching me, but it was as if I was disconnected now, floating somewhere above my own head, and gravity was beginning to reverse, causing me to float higher and higher, away from the horrible nightmare below."
Allison paused for a moment, and I suddenly realized I was holding my breath.
"Then I saw the most bright light I'd ever seen. At the time I thought it was either the Sun or Heaven or something like that. It was just too bright for this world. But then after looking for a little longer, I noticed it was in the shape of a person. It reached out toward me, and I had never been so quick to respond. When I touched it, I felt all my pain immediately dissipate. And I felt warm and... peaceful. And I was no longer in the sky. I was back in the field. But when I looked around, the man was gone. Vanished, right out of existence. I didn't understand it at the time, but that was my first experience with the Shifts. All I knew then was that I was free, and I damn well wasn't going to waste that. I ran as far as I could, away from the factories, the foster home, the corrupt governments and corporations. I kept running until I arrived at a City that didn't know me. That didn't want to know me. And I liked it that way, because it's easier to live as a ghost than as a victim."
Allison perked up, and when I turned around to see what for, I saw Trent entering back through the door.
"But you know what's interesting?" Allison blurted out, her voice becoming quieter. "Trent never took me back to confront my demon." Her voice became a whisper. "In fact, I can't recall him ever taking any of us back."
For a moment the whole world became a still frame. Allison's clear, olive skin, and dark eyes, made darker with eyeliner; her narrow nose; her small lips now coiling into a smile. My entire body was a hair trigger hat only needed the slightest force to set it off. And when Trent placed his hand on my shoulder, I whirled around and narrowly missed a haymaker that swept just shy of Trent's face.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa" he said and stepped back with his palms up. "It's just me. Is everything okay?"
I turned back to Allison, but she seemed different now. Her expression was benign; confused, even. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"I—you"
"We were just talking about where you were off to next." Allison said without a hint of pretense.
"Okay, well, chat time is over. It's time to go." Trent said and started guiding me toward the door. I turned back and saw Allison mouth some words which I swear I heard, as if they had been directly transmitted into my brain.
"See you soon" she purred.
She was smiling.
***
The next leg of the trip passed mostly in silence. It was a little over an hour to the storage facility which was located just South of Chicago. My heart was beating wildly in my chest as I pictured Allison's smile. I wanted to ask Trent if demons could possess Antennas, if somehow one of us could become compromised, but then I remembered Allison's words and stopped myself. Because I didn't know if I could really trust Trent. I tried to tell myself I could trust him—that it was Allison who was the liar. Her whole persona seemed fake at best, and possessed at worst. But, then... what if she was telling the truth? What if Trent was the enemy?
He sensed my quietness and tried striking up a couple conversations, but I only gave one-word answers. Somehow, our trust was so brittle that a single, well-placed sentence was enough to snap it. When he asked if everything was okay, I lied and said that I just had a headache and needed more rest. So I leaned my head against the stuffed tomato and tried to sleep, even though I knew I wouldn't be able to.
We arrived at the facility just as the sun was setting for the night. Trent pulled up to the self-service gate and scanned a card which caused the automatic doors to swing open. We looped down a couple rows of the outdoor units until we came to #48.
"We're here," Trent prompted, but this time I didn't budge. I felt his eyes on me after he turned off the ignition. "Hey," he called. "Are you awake?"
I was silent.
I heard Trent quietly click open his door, then close it the same way. I waited a few seconds then turned my head and watched him from the driver's side mirror. He opened the storage locker, then walked inside and turned on a light. It occurred to me then how dimly lit this outdoor storage facility was. There was a weak overhead lantern peeking over every fourth garage like an anglerfish's lure, leaving a large portion of the road not hit by the light bubbles completely dark.
I tried to plan my next move. I could leave Trent and run. But where would I go? Or I could stay and see Trent's plan through. There was a chance this was all an elaborate trap. Maybe Trent was working with the demon, or maybe he was the demon. But then why did he save me? Twice. Maybe he was actually a double agent for the Organization. But he could easily have captured me by now. Unless he needs me to go back to the origin point for a different reason... I considered everything I had learned up until this point: we live at the cross-section of different realms; these other realms interact with our world; Antennas, who are a very small minority of people, can see these interactions; the Organization wants to harness our power and create a 'Strong Antenna' to achieve some kind of universal hegemony; I'm the closest thing to a Strong Antenna to date; Trent knows this; He's taking me back to my origin point, despite not taking the others back to theirs; Trent claims to want to fight the Organization; the best way to fight the Organization would be with a Strong Antenna. What if Trent was trying to make me into a Strong Antenna?
I considered this chain of reasoning. It seemed very plausible, especially after Allison's cryptic messages. Was she trying to warn me of this? But that smile, and the "see you soon"... If she wasn't being possessed, why would she be seeing me soon?
Suddenly my thoughts gave way like a broken dam as I heard a ping come from Ava's radar. I jumped, thinking that all of the electronics turned off with the ignition, but when I looked at the circular sonar map, I saw a red dot had just emerged in the top-right corner. I looked out the window in the direction of the ping, but I couldn't see anything heading down the road.
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
Four more dots appeared behind the first, and they were approaching.
I jumped out the van and ran over to where Trent was hauling in a large cardboard crate into the back of the van. "Trent, there's pings on the radar. A bunch of them."
He dropped the box next to three others, and I realized I had never seen inside the back of the van. It was filled with what looked like pneumatic tubes wired into circuits, and in the center was a tri-pod which was holding a large halo-shaped ring.
"Pings?" Trent said, then his face widened with shock as he realized what I meant. "Shit, how many?"
"Five, maybe more now. And they're getting closer."
"Five?" He jumped out the back and ran into the storage locker. I thought he was going to close the door, but when I saw him hauling boxes back toward the van, I yelled at him. "What are you doing!?"
"I need to load this up for tomorrow. Here," He tossed me his keys. "Get it started."
"Fuck, seriously?"
Trent didn't respond, only kept shuffling boxes into the van.
I turned and ran to the door and hopped in the driver's seat. As I was turning on the ignition, I saw the row of bushes that was just outside of the facility begin to rattle. The next sweep revealed a whole sea of pings. I rolled down the window and shouted Trent's name.
"One more, that's all. Get in the passenger seat, I'll be there in a sec."
I scooted over the center console and waited, clutching at the bottom of my pants legs. Just as Trent slammed the rear door of the van shut, I saw the first figure emerge onto the road ahead of us. It looked like some kind of large coyote, though it was hard to tell because it was still fifty meters out.
"Now detecting 53 controlled agents." Ava said right as Trent jumped in and shut the driver's side door. "Net anomalies: 53."
"Ava, increase radius to five miles." Trent instructed as he backed up all the way to the end of the lane and spun us around toward the gate. Just as we left, I saw the pack of coyotes stalking toward us, slow at first, then in a dead sprint.
"Increasing radius." Ava responded. "Increased. Recalculating… Recalculating… Re—complete. Now detecting 451 controlled agents. Net anomalies: 451."
"What does 'controlled agent' mean?" I asked.
"Hold on," Trent said and accelerated into the gate, bursting through it. The whole van shook, and I heard my phone fall in the crack between the seat and door. Trent steadied the van, then said, "It means the things chasing us are being controlled by something that isn't detectable."
"The demon?"
"That'd be my guess."
"But why can't Ava detect it?"
Trent switched to the right lane, then merged onto the Interstate-South ramp. "Probably because it isn't trying to kill us."
"Then, what—" I looked back at the map and basically had my question answered. All 451 pings were coalesced in a semicircle on one side of the map. The side of the map that we had just come from. "Is it trying to force us toward the crash site?"
"It seems that way." Trent answered.
"Trent, pull over."
"Huh?"
"Pull over!" I yelled.
He looked at me, eyes wide. Then he did as I had instructed and pulled off in the middle of the ramp. The red dots slowly closed in on our position.
"Now detecting—"
"Shut up, Ava." I said. I could feel my blood boiling. "I'm not going one step further until you tell me the truth. Why are we going to my origin point? What is your real motive?"
"What do you mean? I already told you."
I unlocked the passenger side door.
"Wait," Trent said and reached out toward me. "Just, wait."
There was silence, except for the pings indicating that the beasts behind us had re-encroached on our position to about fifty meters.
"Okay, I didn't tell you everything. But we don't have time now—"
I opened the door.
"Okay, okay. I didn't tell you everything, it's true. I've never done this with anyone else, but the reason is because I never needed to. And if I told you what might happen, you would have refused it."
"Refused what?"
"This—me, my help. Lauren, I am trying to help you. But you have to understand—it's likely that neither of us are going to live past tomorrow. You're basically confronting a dark entity in a place where I can't protect you, and if you somehow do manage to kill it, you'll be coming back to the fight of your life. Because I don't have the power to hide you from the Organization. They're going to show up and try to take you. I really don't know how you've lasted as long as you have. Whatever protection you had growing up, it's gone now. And now I'm all you have. And in some twist of fate, you're all I have."
Ava reactivated. "Now detecting 1,117 controlled agents. Proximity till contact: 20 meters. Net anomalies: 1,117."
I closed my door. "But what if I still don't want to go through with it?"
Trent pointed at the screen. "Then we die right here, right now, together. Because I am one-hundred percent certain that if we don't go to that crash site, we're dead anyway. All of us."
Another ping rolled through. I checked the side-view mirror and saw the swarming pack of dogs reach the van and bound around the rear wheels. I suddenly recalled the conversation I had with Father Martin and the conclusions I had drawn. Father, I've been… wrestling with something, and I think God wants me to confront it. I think I've been running away and hiding from it for so long that I'd convinced myself it disappeared...
"Go," I said just as I felt the collision of the coyotes slamming their bodies against the side doors.
Trent didn't waste any time stepping on the gas. I watched as the coyotes diminished in the distance and the pings receded into the back of the map, never disappearing fully, but covering the flank of our retreat—a reminder lingering on the edge of our awareness that there was no turning back now. That, one way or another, this was ending tomorrow.
And I'd either be dead, or something else entirely.

Part 1
Part 2
***
Darkness gave way to dimness as I opened my eyes and saw slivers of gray light printed on the ceiling like lines on the page of a ruled notebook. In the distance, I heard the sound of pans clanking against the kitchen stove, and I became ever-aware of the scent of cinnamon and bacon sneaking in from under my closed bedroom door. For a moment, I was back in sixth grade. My dad was downstairs cooking up his famous from-scratch buttermilk pancakes and cheesy scrambled eggs. It was probably 7:00, maybe 7:05, and I had fifteen minutes to get up, shower, dress, eat, then it was off to Middle School with dad: for me to learn, him to work.
It was the day we were set to be assigned our Ancient Civilizations project. Unless something went terribly wrong, I would be choosing Ancient Rome. I didn't know much about it, other than it was some great empire, but even then I didn't really understand what an empire was. I was just happy that I would get to build something with my dad. I turned on my side and looked at the closed blinds, the source of the gray lines, then the cabinet with all my trophies, and finally the wobbly, firetruck-red chair pushed under my desk. I was home at last. The past fifteen years were nothing but a dream. There was no blinking. No malevolent demon chasing me. No inexplicable chaos…
It was a sweet fantasy. But one that became bitter the longer I tried to chew on it.
I swept my legs out from under the covers and sat, face-down, on the corner of my twin mattress. My feet were adult's feet. My room was my former room. And that was Trent downstairs cooking breakfast. Unless, of course, it was my dad, in which case I'd have bigger problems than merely waking up from a good dream.
After changing into a fresh shirt and pants, I went downstairs and saw that it was, in fact, Trent cooking breakfast. He was wearing a plain t-shirt through which I could see the ripples of his large back muscles as he whisked what I presumed was pancake batter. He must not have heard me, because he didn't turn around when I made it to the end of the hall. I leaned against the wall, arms folded, and watched him for a minute as he finished whisking the batter, then poured it onto a hot griddle (spilling a few dribbles on the counter in the process), watched it bubble, flipped it, then transferred the golden medallion onto a plate stacked five high. Next to the pancakes was a plate filled with bacon, and a small aluminum pan of scrambled eggs.
"Smells good," I said at last. "Find everything okay?"
I thought I might startle him with my abrupt appearance; instead, Trent looked over his shoulder, chewing on a piece of bacon. He swallowed and said, "Oh, it's you. Yeah, I hope you don't mind me using your kitchen. I thought I'd make us some breakfast."
It occurred to me then that Trent likely wasn't a guest in other people's homes very often. Lucky for him, I didn't mind him using a kitchen that hadn't been mine in many years. I was going to tell him as much when I saw an opened box of Bisquick sitting on the counter. I pointed to it and asked, "you found that in the pantry? My dad usually makes his pancakes from scratch."
He turned to look at the box, then back at me. "No, I went out and got that. And the bacon and eggs. I didn't want to dig into your supply without asking, and you were asleep, so..."
I felt my eyebrows furrow as I checked the time on the stove-clock. "It's 8:17 in the morning. Are you telling me you went out to the store, bought all these ingredients, then came back and cooked them? Just how early did you get up?"
"Around five," he answered as casually as if I had asked his dog's name. "I don't usually get much sleep. Around four, five hours is all I need. It's actually unusual for Antennas to need more than that amount. But I suppose you are unusual."
I opened my mouth in disbelief. Not only had he commandeered my kitchen, he was calling me unusual? At 8-fricken-17 in the morning?
"Sorry," Trent said, reading my expression, "I'm… well, let's just say I've not had many personal relationships. I'm used to being blunt. It's just easier that way." He took out a plate and transferred two pancakes, some eggs, and a few slices of bacon onto it. Then he held it up to me as a peace offering.
I sighed. "This better be good," I said with a wry smile and took the plate.
"Trent-certified, but no guarantees. Refunds not allowed." He replied, which made me giggle.
We sat across from one another at the dining room table. The meal was pretty good, but it was no dad's special: the pancakes were clearly box pancakes, the scrambled eggs lacked cheese and had a little too much pepper, and the bacon was… well it was bacon, no complaints there. Still, it was nice to settle down and have a somewhat normal morning.
After we ate, Trent unfurled the long arc of his life, which began as the second youngest brother of eight siblings in rural Oklahoma. Trent's 'pops' was in the logging business, first as a lumberjack, then as an owner of his own logging company. His dad acquired the business while Trent was still young, so school was never a high priority for him—at least not the way contributing to the household was. The rest of his childhood he summed up in two lessons: "Being 'close' has nothing to do with distance," and "don't touch strange plants in the woods."
I asked him if he kept in touch with any of his siblings, to which he responded, saying, "The only reason they haven't had a funeral for me is because it would be too much work." When I asked him to elaborate, he said he'd not had contact with anyone in his immediate family for over a decade. He kept tabs on them. For example, he knew his mother had dementia, and his dad was forced into retirement by his oldest brother (who had gone on to take over the logging company). His sisters were all married and moved to other parts of the country. He considered reaching out several times, but his situation required a degree of security that wasn't conducive of close family ties, not that there were particularly strong ties even before he broke contact. Trent admitted to being a bit of a black sheep.
"It all circles back to one of my jobs as a Home Inspector," he explained. "After I moved out, I tried college and quickly realized it wasn't for me. So I entered the workforce and did a bunch of odd jobs. Construction, carpentry, plumbing. I even drove a garbage truck for a while. But I ended up in Home Inspection. There was one job in particular which made me aware of…" Trent paused and gestured toward the space between us, "our situation. The blinks. You remember what I told you about origin points being like a station where other realms intersect with our world? Well, this house was like Union Station or JFK airport if you prefer a plane analogy. There was a pile of junk up to my knees in the basement of that house; all of it had been blinked in. I spent a couple days on the property, running tests, trying to identify the strange phenomenon, but on day three I rolled up to an army of what I thought at the time were Feds, parading around the property like ants on an anthill and sectioning it off with crime-scene tape." I saw disgust funnel into Trent's expression. "They're not Feds at all though. At least not anymore. I call them "the Organization," a group of people who lead in the formalized understanding of what you know as 'blinking'. And they're the reason I have to take precautions."
I considered this for a moment. Trent's story was certainly plausible, but I was missing a key piece of the puzzle. "Okay, so, what does this 'Organization' want? You make it seem like they're not good people. Have they tried attacking you?"
This caused Trent to laugh for a solid ten seconds. "Sorry, it's just… I mean if you knew what I knew, you might think it's funny, too."
"Then tell me"
Trent took a deep breath, then released. "It's a long story. The gist of it is this. The Organization has a certain device which I call 'the Receiver'. Think of it like a giant antenna—no, not us kind of Antennas, an actual antenna. It's like the machine equivalent of us, but with a billion times the bandwidth. Their goal is to use the Receiver to map our world in relation to other dimensions, then use that map to establish dominion over everyone and everything. In order to do this, they need muscle: both human muscle, and Antenna muscle. They're in the process of harvesting as many of us they can find. They're like a giant diamond company who is taking to the mines. When they find a stone, they take it back to their factory for cutting and refinement. In real terms, they run tests on us and attempt to augment our powers. The ultimate goal is to create a 'Strong Antenna', or an Antenna capable of causing phase shifts—blinks." Trent saw from my expression that he was starting to lose me, so he stood up and began rolling up his shirt.
"What are you doing?" I asked, turning away. Then I saw what he wanted to show me. There was a long scar beginning high up on his ribs and slashing all the way down to his left hip. There was also what appeared to be a patch of burn marks on his stomach.
"It was early on when I got these." Trent explained. "I was naive. I actually thought I'd be able to reason with these people. The only reason I escaped was because of dumb luck and a box of hand grenades. But that's a tale for another time. I learned two important lessons that day. First, the Organization isn't fucking around. And two, they aren't immortal. Most of them are regular, every-day humans, except for their obsession with power." Trent let his shirt fall, covering up the marks. "I ran into them again recently at their Headquarters. My team and I are working on a plan to…" he paused, seemingly weighing his words, then changed gears. "Well, I guess we can go over that another time."
I couldn't help but feel that Trent was holding something back. As much as I tried to resist thinking about yesterday, the old demon-man's words kept ringing in my head. You think he can help you? He's only here to help himself. Then I thought about what Trent said at the deli: "that's the thing that got me really interested in you. Somehow you seem to be able to control it without gear, just by praying." Did Trent think I was a Strong Antenna? Is that the only reason he's helping me? Because he wants to recruit me? And if that is the case, what if I said 'no'?
"Listen, Trent," I started, but I saw Trent was already nodding. Still, I pressed on. "I need you to tell me what I'm actually doing here. Why did you agree to help me? And what does helping me really mean? I want to know the truth."
"The truth is…" Trent started, then stopped and looked out the glass door that led onto the deck. I looked too and saw a sparrow had alighted on our old bird feeder. It tried pecking at some of its non-existent grains, then sang what I assumed was a song of displeasure before taking back off to the skies.
"The truth is: I do want to recruit you. I think you have the potential to be the strongest tool in my arsenal, but I won't require it. To date, I've helped 53 of our kind, but only seven have stayed on. Most decide to go on and live normal lives." Trent scooted his plate to the side. "In our case, this can essentially go one of two ways. In either instance, we pass through Chicago for two stops. First, I need to meet up with an associate who has something to drop off to me. Then I need to stop at a storage locker and trade out some gear that will allow me to open a phase portal. When we arrive at your origin point, I'll open the portal and you'll look inside. Based on everything you've told me, I'm guessing that childhood accident was when the demon appended itself to your life. By seeing how it entered your life, you should be able to figure out how to dispel it. At least that's the working theory. Returning to the origin point has always worked for the other Antennas, although I must admit your situation is different, but I can't imagine it's so different that this method won't work at all. After you return demon-free, you're free. You can walk out and never see me again and hopefully you'll live a happy and peaceful life. Or you can decide to throw your lot in with mine, and I can show you how deep the rabbit hole goes, so to speak." Trent looked into my eyes, and when I didn't respond for a few seconds, he said, "that's it. That's all I got."
I smiled and responded with one sentence.
"When do we leave?"
***
Memories have a strange architecture. In some ways, they are the great safety net of our experiences: collecting them like a bucket under a leaky roof. In other ways, they are an eternal reminder that nothing ever truly lasts. Perhaps a better way of thinking about memories is as the ghosts of our past lingering in the present. As I took one last stroll through my childhood house, feeling that it might be my last time for a long while, I felt the imprints of childhood memories press into my awareness: I could hear my father's voice reading to me at my bedside; I could see him holding one of my stuffed animals above my head as I wrestled him for it; I could recall the times when I'd sneak down the stairs late at night and quietly open the freezer, grab the ice cream carton, then head back upstairs to eat it.
I felt a yearning to return to those memories: to walk into the fictitious pictures my mind was painting on the canvas of my present. I knew I couldn't return, but I still wanted something to hold onto. I went back to my room and grabbed the cotton-stuffed tomato from off my closet cabinet. Then I walked through my dad's study and removed a volume I recalled him frequently reading, a hard-cover book with a green binding called, "A Collection of Great Works". I placed these items by my feet in the passenger seat of Trent's van, and just as we were about to leave, I remembered something else.
"My plant!" I blurted.
"Your what?"
"My plant—and my car. I left them it the deli. Do you think we could swing by and get it?"
Trent checked the time, then said, "Yeah, I guess we can. I just hope it isn't towed."
Luckily, it wasn't. I half-expected to find a ticket on the windshield, but there wasn't one of those, either. I unlocked the door to my Jetta and got into what felt like an active oven. "Hot!" I said and rolled down all the windows, then cranked up the AC. I saw my plant resting in the cupholder that I'd left it in the previous day. I picked it up and touched its soil. It was dry and beginning to crack. Hang on little guy, I thought. Then I led the way back to my house.
When I arrived, I parked at the head of the driveway. I turned off the car, then ran inside with the young tomato plant, bringing it to the upstairs bathrooms sink and dousing it in water. I wasn't sure how much I was supposed to add, but I figured after the sauna experience it had yesterday, I could afford to go a little overboard. Once it was fed, I opened the small purple drapes and placed it on the windowsill which faced East, meaning it would hopefully get plenty of morning sunlight.
"Good, now?" Trent asked after I hopped back in the passenger seat of the van.
"Yeah," I said. "Good now."
"Then lets get a move on."
***
Road tripping with Trent was a much different experience than when we were driving for our lives. For one, Trent wasn't nearly as tense. He drove with the windows down and one hand on the steering wheel like out of a Mustang commercial, talking intermittently about his adventures: people he'd met, jobs he'd done, close calls. He was like a living radio. And when his personal station wasn't on, he was playing one of his CD's—classic rock, mainly. When he was in an 'off' period, I found myself looking out the window at the rolling wheat fields and cloudy blue sky. Journey was playing, and the lyrics to one of the songs crept into my head and reverberated there:
The wheel in the sky keeps on turning.
I don't know where I'll be tomorrow…
I've been trying to make it home,
Got to make it before too long…
Ooh I can't take it, very much longer…
In a strange way, I felt like I was leaving home. But in another way, I was going back. And then it occurred to me that perhaps I didn't have a home at all. Did I ever have one? These past couple days had called everything about my life into question, to the point where the past seemed as mysterious as the future, and both intersected at that one place in the woods. The place where it all began. The place we were headed.
We only stopped once at a gas station to refuel, get snacks, and use the bathroom. Otherwise it was smooth sailing, other than one heated discussion with Trent that began when he addressed his vehicle as "Car" for the fifth time.
"Okay, you need to come up with a better name than that."
"What do you mean?" Trent asked, seeming genuinely confused.
"You have a super-car and you named it 'Car'. That's actually embarrassing."
"But, it is a car."
I facepalmed. "First of all, it's a van."
"A van is a type of car."
"Second of all, would you name your kid, 'kid'?"
Trent thought it over for what I thought was much too long. At last he concluded, "No, I'd probably name him 'boy', or if it's a girl, 'girl'."
After five more minutes of his childish banter, we settled on the name "Ava"—my choice, after rejecting his runner-up name "Scar".
At around the seven hour mark, I dozed off, then woke up a couple hours later to the sensation of the van dipping, then bumping up into an elevated climb. The evening sunlight that was pressuring my eyelids to open, dissipated, and everything was suddenly dark. I opened my eyes and saw we had entered a parking garage. Trent pulled into an open spot on the second level.
"We're here," he said and gathered up his gun which he stashed in a driver's side underboard compartment that I'm guessing he had installed himself.
"I see that"
"You want to wait here, or—"
I opened the car door, which was answer enough for Trent. We both got out and started down Maple Avenue. I had been to several cities before, Chicago among them, but the size of the buildings always struck me with awe. As we walked alongside dozens of other pedestrians, I looked up and traced the closest tower to its peak, guessing how many stories it was in my head. Then I'd be pulled out of my game by the honking of some nearby vehicle.
We continued for two blocks until Trent made a path directly toward the nearest Starbucks. I didn't know what I was picturing for a meeting with his associate, but it definitely wasn't a meetup at a coffee shop. Still, I followed him in. Then when I saw that Trent was leading me to a corner table where a casually dressed Chinese girl who appeared even younger than me was sitting, I blurted in a hushed tone, "her? She's your associate?"
"Took you long enough," said the Chinese girl, looking up from what appeared to be some kind of homework assignment.
"And she's in school?" I asked, incredulous.
The associate looked to me, then to Trent (who nodded), then back to me. "It's just a cover. I'm glad to see it still works, though." She reached out to shake my hand. "I'm Allison. It's nice to meet you."
Trent gave me a smirk, then said, "looks can be deceiving."
I grunted an affirmation and shook Allison's hand. "I'm Lauren. It's nice to meet you, too."
"You have it?" Trent asked, skipping right to business.
"Of course," Allison replied and removed a mailing package from her backpack, setting it on the table. "You want to go make sure it works?" She asked, gesturing up at the ceiling with her eyes.
Trent seemed to think it over for a second, then looked at me. But before he could say anything, Allison cut back in—
"—I'll stay with her. It's been a while since I've had any female company. Why don't you let us girls talk while you take care of that?" She said in a seductive yet authoritative tone which garnered her years that her appearance did not reflect.
Trent hesitated, but only for a moment. "Okay, I'll be right back," he said. Then he hurried out the door in the direction we had come from.
"Come, sit with me." Allison invited. "Tell me about yourself."
I took a seat on the small wooden seat opposite Allison, then crossed my legs. "What do you want to know?" I asked, feeling discomfort rise in my stomach. Nothing about this situation, from the mysterious package, to Trent leaving me alone with this girl, to the girl herself, whose voice was as velvety smooth as the latte she was stirring with a black coffee straw, sat right with me.
"I'm curious about what you think of Trent."
"Trent?" I repeated. I realized this was the first time I was putting any of my thoughts about Trent or our relationship into words. "I guess... he's a pretty straightforward guy. He seems to know what he's doing."
Allison flashed me a small smile, then took a sip of her latte. I saw the sticker on her drink read "Chai". Then she set the cup down and sighed. "Yes, he's very straightforward. Definitely doesn't mince words." She looked up into my eyes. Hers were a rich black, like onyx pebbles, but there was something about the way the light refracted off them which simulated a kind of inward motion, as if they were tiny whirlpools. Her smile spread across her lips. "I'm curious. What did he tell you?"
"Tell me about what?"
"About what you're doing. About where you're off to. What's the plan?"
"Don't you know?" I asked, but it immediately occurred to me that maybe she didn't know. I never saw Trent with a cellphone. Just how did he communicate with his 'associates'? And what if he didn't want her to know what we were doing for a good reason? Should I tell her?
"No, Trent keeps his cards close to his chest. He always has."
"Don't you work together, though?"
Allison waved her left hand in the air. "Of course, but it's because of the nature of our work that most of our communication is done in person, so Trent doesn't tell me much outside of the current job. I was just curious, is all."
"That makes sense. I mean, I'm actually pretty curious about what you do, too."
"Oh?" Allison's voice went high, as if she suddenly sensed an opening. "Then, why don't we trade stories. You tell about your trip, and I'll tell you about mine."
I thought it over for a second. I really did want to hear what Allison had to say, and she was Trent's co-worker, it's not like I was spilling crucial secrets to an enemy. "We're currently on our way to Southern Illinois. Specifically, we're going back to my origin point so I can confront a demon that Trent thinks blinked into my life there."
Allison stopped stirring, but her eyes didn't break from mine. "A demon, huh?" She raised the cup and took a long sip, then placed it back on the table and continued stirring. "I met a demon once," she started, looking up at the walls as if her life was playing on a screen there. "It was back in China, where I was born." She dropped her attention back to me. "Do you mind if I reminisce a little? Maybe you can get something out of it."
I shook my head, but something in my gut started to stir again. Allison continued.
"I was born during the Era of the Once Child Policy. As a result, my mother decided to leave me in a shoebox on the side of the road. I was a girl, so that's just how it was... Like many other babies in my... 'condition', I ended up in foster care. However, for whatever reason, I wasn't adopted. Years passed, and when I turned six, the government decided I'd be of better use building our impoverished town's GDP in a factory that assembled electronic devices for Western countries. Mostly they had me cleaning, but when I turned eight, one of the employees asked for my help with one of the soldering machines. That turned out to be the beginning of the end for me. I sliced open the ring finger of my right hand. I remember specifically seeing the bone underneath the split flesh and thinking it looked so small and white. The employee claimed to have nothing to do with my accident, and the management declared my injury "minimally invasive" and bandaged it up. Two weeks later and who would have guessed that the wound would become infected, and, well..."
Allison dropped the straw into her cup and raised her right hand, spreading the fingers out for me to see. There were only four. Her ring finger was missing, and a small v-shaped scar had taken its place.
"I'm lucky that the surgeon was experienced enough to take out the whole digit, that way it healed in a way which makes it somewhat difficult to notice. You didn't notice, after all. But, then again, is that really luck?" She made a fist and brought it to her lips, stifling a laugh. "No... Now I remember. My luck was still yet to come." She continued stirring. "Because, you see, after that incident, they moved me to a clothing factory with a boss who had a penchant for getting drunk and roughing up his workers, and, well, one night I was walking back to foster care when I heard the outside door to the manager's office slam shut, and there he went, stumbling, slurring insults, curses, and here I was, perfectly in his path. We met eyes, and in them I saw absolutely nothing. A hollow shell of a man, and I can still remember what it looked like to see that shell fill with a demon."
Allison's eyes went wide with some strong emotion that I couldn't place. "He grabbed me by my hair and dragged me out into the field, far away from civilization. I tried to fight at first, but every time I tried to lunge away, I was only ripping a hole in my own scalp. It felt like flames were spewing from my head, and my only respite was when the blood eventually cooled over the wound. By the time he had thrown me against the rock, I'd already all but given up. Then, when my head met the stone, I heard a pop and my grip on the world loosened. The man continued touching me, but it was as if I was disconnected now, floating somewhere above my own head, and gravity was beginning to reverse, causing me to float higher and higher, away from the horrible nightmare below."
Allison paused for a moment, and I suddenly realized I was holding my breath.
"Then I saw the most bright light I'd ever seen. At the time I thought it was either the Sun or Heaven or something like that. It was just too bright for this world. But then after looking for a little longer, I noticed it was in the shape of a person. It reached out toward me, and I had never been so quick to respond. When I touched it, I felt all my pain immediately dissipate. And I felt warm and... peaceful. And I was no longer in the sky. I was back in the field. But when I looked around, the man was gone. Vanished, right out of existence. I didn't understand it at the time, but that was my first experience with the Shifts. All I knew then was that I was free, and I damn well wasn't going to waste that. I ran as far as I could, away from the factories, the foster home, the corrupt governments and corporations. I kept running until I arrived at a City that didn't know me. That didn't want to know me. And I liked it that way, because it's easier to live as a ghost than as a victim."
Allison perked up, and when I turned around to see what for, I saw Trent entering back through the door.
"But you know what's interesting?" Allison blurted out, her voice becoming quieter. "Trent never took me back to confront my demon." Her voice became a whisper. "In fact, I can't recall him ever taking any of us back."
For a moment the whole world became a still frame. Allison's clear, olive skin, and dark eyes, made darker with eyeliner; her narrow nose; her small lips now coiling into a smile. My entire body was a hair trigger hat only needed the slightest force to set it off. And when Trent placed his hand on my shoulder, I whirled around and narrowly missed a haymaker that swept just shy of Trent's face.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa" he said and stepped back with his palms up. "It's just me. Is everything okay?"
I turned back to Allison, but she seemed different now. Her expression was benign; confused, even. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"I—you"
"We were just talking about where you were off to next." Allison said without a hint of pretense.
"Okay, well, chat time is over. It's time to go." Trent said and started guiding me toward the door. I turned back and saw Allison mouth some words which I swear I heard, as if they had been directly transmitted into my brain.
"See you soon" she purred.
She was smiling.
***
The next leg of the trip passed mostly in silence. It was a little over an hour to the storage facility which was located just South of Chicago. My heart was beating wildly in my chest as I pictured Allison's smile. I wanted to ask Trent if demons could possess Antennas, if somehow one of us could become compromised, but then I remembered Allison's words and stopped myself. Because I didn't know if I could really trust Trent. I tried to tell myself I could trust him—that it was Allison who was the liar. Her whole persona seemed fake at best, and possessed at worst. But, then... what if she was telling the truth? What if Trent was the enemy?
He sensed my quietness and tried striking up a couple conversations, but I only gave one-word answers. Somehow, our trust was so brittle that a single, well-placed sentence was enough to snap it. When he asked if everything was okay, I lied and said that I just had a headache and needed more rest. So I leaned my head against the stuffed tomato and tried to sleep, even though I knew I wouldn't be able to.
We arrived at the facility just as the sun was setting for the night. Trent pulled up to the self-service gate and scanned a card which caused the automatic doors to swing open. We looped down a couple rows of the outdoor units until we came to #48.
"We're here," Trent prompted, but this time I didn't budge. I felt his eyes on me after he turned off the ignition. "Hey," he called. "Are you awake?"
I was silent.
I heard Trent quietly click open his door, then close it the same way. I waited a few seconds then turned my head and watched him from the driver's side mirror. He opened the storage locker, then walked inside and turned on a light. It occurred to me then how dimly lit this outdoor storage facility was. There was a weak overhead lantern peeking over every fourth garage like an anglerfish's lure, leaving a large portion of the road not hit by the light bubbles completely dark.
I tried to plan my next move. I could leave Trent and run. But where would I go? Or I could stay and see Trent's plan through. There was a chance this was all an elaborate trap. Maybe Trent was working with the demon, or maybe he was the demon. But then why did he save me? Twice. Maybe he was actually a double agent for the Organization. But he could easily have captured me by now. Unless he needs me to go back to the origin point for a different reason... I considered everything I had learned up until this point: we live at the cross-section of different realms; these other realms interact with our world; Antennas, who are a very small minority of people, can see these interactions; the Organization wants to harness our power and create a 'Strong Antenna' to achieve some kind of universal hegemony; I'm the closest thing to a Strong Antenna to date; Trent knows this; He's taking me back to my origin point, despite not taking the others back to theirs; Trent claims to want to fight the Organization; the best way to fight the Organization would be with a Strong Antenna. What if Trent was trying to make me into a Strong Antenna?
I considered this chain of reasoning. It seemed very plausible, especially after Allison's cryptic messages. Was she trying to warn me of this? But that smile, and the "see you soon"... If she wasn't being possessed, why would she be seeing me soon?
Suddenly my thoughts gave way like a broken dam as I heard a ping come from Ava's radar. I jumped, thinking that all of the electronics turned off with the ignition, but when I looked at the circular sonar map, I saw a red dot had just emerged in the top-right corner. I looked out the window in the direction of the ping, but I couldn't see anything heading down the road.
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
Four more dots appeared behind the first, and they were approaching.
I jumped out the van and ran over to where Trent was hauling in a large cardboard crate into the back of the van. "Trent, there's pings on the radar. A bunch of them."
He dropped the box next to three others, and I realized I had never seen inside the back of the van. It was filled with what looked like pneumatic tubes wired into circuits, and in the center was a tri-pod which was holding a large halo-shaped ring.
"Pings?" Trent said, then his face widened with shock as he realized what I meant. "Shit, how many?"
"Five, maybe more now. And they're getting closer."
"Five?" He jumped out the back and ran into the storage locker. I thought he was going to close the door, but when I saw him hauling boxes back toward the van, I yelled at him. "What are you doing!?"
"I need to load this up for tomorrow. Here," He tossed me his keys. "Get it started."
"Fuck, seriously?"
Trent didn't respond, only kept shuffling boxes into the van.
I turned and ran to the door and hopped in the driver's seat. As I was turning on the ignition, I saw the row of bushes that was just outside of the facility begin to rattle. The next sweep revealed a whole sea of pings. I rolled down the window and shouted Trent's name.
"One more, that's all. Get in the passenger seat, I'll be there in a sec."
I scooted over the center console and waited, clutching at the bottom of my pants legs. Just as Trent slammed the rear door of the van shut, I saw the first figure emerge onto the road ahead of us. It looked like some kind of large coyote, though it was hard to tell because it was still fifty meters out.
"Now detecting 53 controlled agents." Ava said right as Trent jumped in and shut the driver's side door. "Net anomalies: 53."
"Ava, increase radius to five miles." Trent instructed as he backed up all the way to the end of the lane and spun us around toward the gate. Just as we left, I saw the pack of coyotes stalking toward us, slow at first, then in a dead sprint.
"Increasing radius." Ava responded. "Increased. Recalculating… Recalculating… Re—complete. Now detecting 451 controlled agents. Net anomalies: 451."
"What does 'controlled agent' mean?" I asked.
"Hold on," Trent said and accelerated into the gate, bursting through it. The whole van shook, and I heard my phone fall in the crack between the seat and door. Trent steadied the van, then said, "It means the things chasing us are being controlled by something that isn't detectable."
"The demon?"
"That'd be my guess."
"But why can't Ava detect it?"
Trent switched to the right lane, then merged onto the Interstate-South ramp. "Probably because it isn't trying to kill us."
"Then, what—" I looked back at the map and basically had my question answered. All 451 pings were coalesced in a semicircle on one side of the map. The side of the map that we had just come from. "Is it trying to force us toward the crash site?"
"It seems that way." Trent answered.
"Trent, pull over."
"Huh?"
"Pull over!" I yelled.
He looked at me, eyes wide. Then he did as I had instructed and pulled off in the middle of the ramp. The red dots slowly closed in on our position.
"Now detecting—"
"Shut up, Ava." I said. I could feel my blood boiling. "I'm not going one step further until you tell me the truth. Why are we going to my origin point? What is your real motive?"
"What do you mean? I already told you."
I unlocked the passenger side door.
"Wait," Trent said and reached out toward me. "Just, wait."
There was silence, except for the pings indicating that the beasts behind us had re-encroached on our position to about fifty meters.
"Okay, I didn't tell you everything. But we don't have time now—"
I opened the door.
"Okay, okay. I didn't tell you everything, it's true. I've never done this with anyone else, but the reason is because I never needed to. And if I told you what might happen, you would have refused it."
"Refused what?"
"This—me, my help. Lauren, I am trying to help you. But you have to understand—it's likely that neither of us are going to live past tomorrow. You're basically confronting a dark entity in a place where I can't protect you, and if you somehow do manage to kill it, you'll be coming back to the fight of your life. Because I don't have the power to hide you from the Organization. They're going to show up and try to take you. I really don't know how you've lasted as long as you have. Whatever protection you had growing up, it's gone now. And now I'm all you have. And in some twist of fate, you're all I have."
Ava reactivated. "Now detecting 1,117 controlled agents. Proximity till contact: 20 meters. Net anomalies: 1,117."
I closed my door. "But what if I still don't want to go through with it?"
Trent pointed at the screen. "Then we die right here, right now, together. Because I am one-hundred percent certain that if we don't go to that crash site, we're dead anyway. All of us."
Another ping rolled through. I checked the side-view mirror and saw the swarming pack of dogs reach the van and bound around the rear wheels. I suddenly recalled the conversation I had with Father Martin and the conclusions I had drawn. Father, I've been… wrestling with something, and I think God wants me to confront it. I think I've been running away and hiding from it for so long that I'd convinced myself it disappeared...
"Go," I said just as I felt the collision of the coyotes slamming their bodies against the side doors.
Trent didn't waste any time stepping on the gas. I watched as the coyotes diminished in the distance and the pings receded into the back of the map, never disappearing fully, but covering the flank of our retreat—a reminder lingering on the edge of our awareness that there was no turning back now. That, one way or another, this was ending tomorrow.
And I'd either be dead, or something else entirely.

A newcomer to the strange town of Maelstrom finds himself embroiled in a strange festival dedicated to their Great Eel God
“Maelstrom! Everyone off for Maelstrom!” The lethargic voice of the bus driver rang out.
I felt a dozen seated eyes on me as I awkwardly stood up, mumbling apologies as I shuffled past the unhappy-looking man beside me and onto the aisle. I couldn’t help but notice the bus driver’s stare on me as I clambered down the steps off the rickety old bus. Nobody else had alighted with me.
“Hey, sir!” He called out. I gulped. Did he notice…?
“You sure you’re alighting here? Augusta’s two stops down.” He continued.
“I’m alighting here, that’s right.” I said, a small sense of relief washing through me. His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to say something else, but apparently decided otherwise and bit his lip.
“You’re letting the bugs in!” An annoyed voice shouted from within the bus.
“Alright, suit yourself.” The driver gave me a slow shake of the head before closing the doors. The bus drove on down the lonely road, spluttering black exhaust as it clattered onwards.
I took a deep inhale, breathing in the salty scent of the sea. It had been a long time since I was on the coast, or anywhere nice, really.
It was a short walk off the road and along the coast before I came upon it: Maelstrom. The tiny quiet fishing village stretched from the coast all the way up the side of a hill. The villagers had carved the slope up into terraces, each packed with houses, narrowing the higher up the hill they went. Each terrace had its own path, and they were connected by steep flights of stairs cut into the earth.
Something caught my eye. At the heart of the village, around halfway up the hill, construction was ongoing. It seemed like some sort of festival square, wooden beams and arches draped with unlit white lanterns. Two open-air wooden towers flanked the square reaching in height to the next terrace up, a wooden plank connecting it to that path. Banners with all colours of the rainbow were strung up between them.
My gaze then leapt from house to house, spotting a lone red one at the very top where I presumed the village chief stayed, but none of them showed any signage designating them as an inn.
 
“An inn?” The first stranger I’d gone up to asked as if it were the strangest question in the world. He was slightly taller than me, with dry matted hair and leathery sun-baked skin. “We don’t have an inn.”
“You don’t?” My eyes widened.
“Don’t get visitors around here. We don’t like tourists.” He gnashed his crooked teeth together.
“I’m not a tourist. I just want to stay here for a few days before moving further upstate.”
“Well, doesn’t change much. We don’t have an inn, a motel, or a hotel here.”
“Great…thanks anyway.”
Staring at the man as he limped off towards the coast, various possible solutions ran through my head. This wasn’t going to be fun.
 
My sore knuckles rapped against the next door down.
“Hey, sir, I’m new in town. I’m wondering if you have a room that I could rent for about three to four days.” I forced a smile for the umpteenth time.
“No tourist is going to live in my house.” The bald grumpy fisherman slammed his door in my face.
“I don’t even have enough rooms for my own family, run along.” The bearded man with a long scar across his eye shooed me away.
“Leave!” I heard the elderly lady latching at least three locks on her door.
“Sorry, no openings here.” A young woman said, only peeking her right eye at me from behind her door.
The setting Sun’s orange rays peeked through from behind the hill and cast a long shadow behind me as I went for what must have been my millionth door and tapped on it. It slowly creaked open.
“Hi sir, I’m new here. Do you have room for rent or something?” I asked. God, I was thirsty.
“Room?” A raspy deep voice emerged from the house. Elongated thin fingers about the length of my hand wrapped around the edge of the worn wooden door and pulled it open, slowly revealing the inhabitant to me.
The man was tall, at least two metres in height. He towered far above me, bending down nearly 70 degrees to avoid hitting the doorframe. I barely reached his hips, which were supported on disproportionately long and thin legs. A belt had been curled three times around his waist to hold up his baggy pants…or were they regular-sized?
“You need a room, you say?” His beady eyes surveyed me as he leaned out the doorframe, then grunted in annoyance at the sunlight reflecting off the sea. The brief glimpse of him in the light illuminated what his wrinkled, sagging oval-shaped face. Both it and his long neck were covered in black festering sores. He settled back halfway out the door.
“I think I’ve one to spare, young man.” The man said, scratching his arms. I had a sudden, very bad feeling about this situation.
“A-actually, I don’t need one.” I stammered out.
“So, you knocked on my door for fun?” He glared at me, his scratching on his arms getting faster and faster. “I think it’d be rude not to come in to take a look, wouldn’t it?”
“No, no, um…how many rooms do you have on offer?”
“One.”
“Ah, see, I’m actually renting for two people.” I said, before another thought rushed into my mind. “And we both cannot stand being in the same room with each other.”
“Hmm…well I think I could spare two rooms.” He pondered, biting on the skin of his index finger and pulling it a dozen centimetres away before letting it snap back.
“Did I say two? I meant three people total.” I nodded frantically. “Three rooms. We all hate each other.”
He stared at me.
“Welp, gotta go then.” I gave him a slight bow and power-walked away from the house as fast as I could.
Just my luck! I grumbled under my breath as I walked off. I’d chosen this town since it was so remote and unknown. Just one review on Google too (one star), saying it was weird but cheap. Everything lined up, or so I’d thought.
Now what? Addison was probably heading this way, if she hadn’t been caught already, but it would take three or four days. The thought of sleeping rough in such a strange town didn’t bode well, but if I had no choice…
I was snapped out of my thoughts when I nearly walked straight into a thick wooden pillar in the middle of the terrace path. Looking round in annoyance at this awful bit of town design, I realised I’d accidentally stumbled my way onto the festival square. Nobody seemed to be around; it was evening after all.
Rounding the pillar of the leftmost tower, I stepped onto the festival square. It was about 15 metres wide or so, with the centre having a massive rectangular platform raised slightly from the ground, stretching to the edge of the terrace facing the sea. Perhaps they’d construct some altar of sorts, I thought.
I stared into the sea, waves gently lapping at the shore. I blinked. For a moment, I thought there had been something utterly massive under the waves.
“First time seeing this?” A gentle-sounding voice came from behind me. I quicky turned round to see an attractive young man, looking to be around my age, with loose, neck-length black hair and tanned skin, dressed in a T-shirt and frayed jean shorts.
“Umm…sorry I was just taking a look.” I tried to explain.
“Yeah, don’t worry, you’re new.”
“Oh, is it that obvious?” I scratched my hair sheepishly, cheeks turning red.
“We don’t get many visitors, and people who live here don’t gawk at the festival square like that.” He said, running his hand along the wooden pillar of the towers. As if on cue, a tall woman with stringy blonde hair walked by, clasped her hands, and slightly bowed at the square, before continuing onwards without a second glance at us.
“What’s this festival about anyway?” I asked, glancing round at all the beautiful decorations in the half-finished square.
The young man stepped closer to me and pointed out to the sea, where the waters twinkled with the orange sunlight and where several boats were slowly pulling back to the small harbour.
“This town worships a god, who lives in the sea. Each year, we hold a festival, lighting this square up, and bring him to shore where we give him our devotion.”
“And he shows up?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright.”
“You don’t believe me, I get it.” He giggled. “Just look there.”
I followed his finger, watching it trace an invisible line from the square all the way to the coast, across dozens of houses. At first, I didn’t quite get what he was showing me. There wasn’t a road or path for this god of theirs, it was just various houses, somewhat haphazardly built.
That’s when I noticed it. These homes. They were repaired out of seemingly whatever materials the villagers could get, unlike the ones to the edges of the village or in the terraces of the hill. They looked awful, like two halves made from different materials and by different people had been awkwardly smushed together, but only houses in a rough wide line from the coast to the square. Almost as if a very precise tornado ripped through there a year ago.
Or a god.
“Well, if that’s true,” my mind was racing for explanations, “why would they rebuild their houses in the same place? Why not leave a proper gap for your god?”
“That’d be the smart choice, I guess,” he had a small grin on his beguiling face, “but people think its auspicious if their homes get touched by the divine.”
Touched? Just how big was this god of theirs, if he were actually real?
“When is this festival?”
“In two days. We’ve never actually had a newcomer arrive this close to the festival. Will you be staying?”
That stomped my current conundrum firmly back into my conscious thoughts and all I could do was sigh. “Well, I want to, but this place doesn’t actually have an inn, and people don’t want me to rent out a room.”
A twinkle seemed to appear in his brown eyes.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
 
“Hmm…”
I sat straight as a needle and sweated buckets as the short, middle-aged woman with dark eye circles and braided hair circled me, looking me meticulously up and down by the light of a candle.
At the other side of the small wooden dining table sat the young man, who I now knew as Erik, giving me an embarrassed smile, frequently averting his eyes.
“Mom, come on, isn’t that enough? Nick's fine.” He shook his legs anxiously.
“Hmm…he seems nice enough, not like a troublemaker.” She said in a wiry voice. Erik covered one side of his face in sheer awkwardness.
“Plus, he’s not bad in height.” She continued.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, throwing in a half-hearted laugh to avoid sounding rude.
“We like tall people around here. The taller, the better. It symbolises closeness with our deity.” Erik explained. The image of that grotesquely tall man staring at me in the doorframe crept back into my brain.
“We’ll let you take that room then.” Erik’s mother pointed to the closest of a set of three doors. “Rent will be $30 a day, and you will have to pay for what you eat here at the end of your stay.”
“Thank you so much!” I leapt up and shook her hand, feeling the weight of one solved problem being relieved, and at a price I could afford too! I’d been saving so much on my money that I’d even actually not gotten a real ticket for that bus ride. That would be solved once Addison makes it here. If she could without getting caught. Right away, I handed over the $30 in cash.
“Hope you like seafood.” Erik was positively beaming, an alluring smile from ear to ear.
“Don’t worry, I love seafood.” I said, sitting back down at the table again.
“Speaking of seafood, those useless fishermen caught less than half their usual haul today.” She said, bringing a plate of steamed fish to the table, the aroma making my famished stomach grumble.
“Mom, it’s just that they caught so many eels this time.” Erik said, clearly salivating at the food too.
“Eels are nice.” I said, causing both to look at me. “I’ve a friend, Kana, who’s really into researching them.”
“Research?” Erik’s mother raised an eyebrow.
“You know, studying them in jars, cutting them up after death, that kind of stuff.” I’d just finished the sentence, but it was like someone had taken a knife to the mood. Both the others at the dinner table now stared at their food, disdain slowly rising in Erik’s mother’s face.
“Um, Nick,” Erik cleared his throat, “eels are kinda sacred here in Maelstrom.”
I felt a deep sinking feeling in my gut.
“Sorry, really sorry, I didn’t know.” I said, looking over to Erik.
“Newcomers are always like this, right?” He gave his mom a light laugh in an attempt to defuse the situation.
“Don’t say it again.” She stared straight through my soul.
“Never will.”
 
The room they gave me was alright apart from all the junk that looked like it had been dumped in the corner and chopped apart with an axe.
“And that is?” I pointed at it, small candle in hand.
“Ah well,” Erik sat down on the bed, bouncing on the mattress a little, “this was my uncle’s room. But he did something we didn’t like.”
“We as in you and your mom?”
“We as in Maelstrom.” Erik looked down at his feet. “Look, there are some lines you don’t cross if you were born here, and he did.”
“And he’s…gone?”
“He left the village. Mom gave him three days to come back, and when he didn’t, she destroyed everything that he owned and has been looking for someone to live in this room for a while. To get rid of the scent, according to her.”
“Why not burn it, instead of just leaving it lying in a corner?”
“We’re not really allowed to start a fire so close to Storålens natt, even during the day. Inauspicious thing.”
“Sto-what?”
“The festival.” He let out a giggle. “Like I said earlier, we light up the square at night and bring our god in once a year. Every other night, Maelstrom is darkness incarnate.”
I peered out of the window, and he was right. The only light source was the dim glow from the candle in my hand. Everything outside the wooden windows had been swallowed up by the pitch-black night. I could hear footsteps in the dirt and some light chatter from nearby, but unease crept into me at not being able to actually lay eyes on those producing the sounds.
“That’s…creepy.”
“You get used to it. You can start unpacking now, I guess.” Erik motioned towards my bag.
“I don’t have much.” I chuckled softly, unslinging the backpack from my shoulders, placing it on the floor, and pulling my camera from it.
“Is that…?” His eyes widened.
“A digital camera, yeah. Smile.” I raised it to my eyes and aimed it at him. He let out a childish squeak and waved his outstretched hands to block his face.
“Don’t worry, I’m just joking.” I laughed again, lowering the camera and moving to replace it in my bag.
“Are you any good at photo taking?”
“Sure, I’m decent.”
“Hmm, I suppose it would be a waste to not take a picture.”
“So, you do want it, Erik?”
“Alright, Nick, you can take your photo. And you can delete it if it’s not good either.” He hurriedly threw the second sentence in.
“Smile.” I brought the camera up. Erik scrambled to a better position on the bed, crossing his left leg over the other and giving a slight smile. I clicked the button and enveloped him in a bright flash which made him flinch in surprise.
“Careful, don’t aim that out of the window.” He warned, before pushing that concern aside and practically bounding across the room to me. “How does it look? Not too bad, I hope.”
I flicked it over to gallery, staring at the captured image: his twinkling brown eyes, his smooth hair, and semi-confident look. “I think you look great.”
“That’s quite good. Uncle never took photos like this with his camera.” He rubbed his hands together in excitement.
“Did it get smashed to pieces?”
“He took it when he left.” He said with a wistful tone that clearly divulged some sort of longing for that man. “Do you have anything else fancy?”
“Just my extra clothes mostly.” I gave him an apologetic smile.
“You’re not traveling with much. Where are you going after these three days?”
“Upstate probably. Just waiting right now for a girl, Addison.”
“A…girlfriend?” He looked away at the floor.
“Nah, just a good friend. A partner of sorts.” I just hoped she’d avoided trouble so far.
“And you’ll be settling down somewhere in northern Maine then.”
“I suppose, yeah. You?”
“We’re not really allowed to leave. That’s part of why my mom was so mad about my uncle.” He sighed, anxiously fiddling with his fingers. “When we reach adulthood, all of us swear an oath for a lifetime of devotion to our god.”
Both of us fell silent for quite a few seconds before he awkwardly got up and cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to it then. Goodnight, Nick.”
“Goodnight, Erik.”
 
They say the first night in an unfamiliar place is always sleepless. I’d managed to sleep in all sorts of places just fine since I left home seven years ago. But now here I was, staring into the ceiling, engulfed in total darkness now that I’d snuffed the candle out. Something about Maelstrom was off. It wasn’t just the weird customs or religion. The whole village felt wrong.
As I tossed and turned in the bed too short for my stature, strange sounds began to creep through the closed windows. I strained my ears, trying to make it out.
That was…hammering? Sawing? Soft chatter. Dragging wood and metal. Slowly, I got to my feet and crept to the window, pulling them open. The noises got louder. It was definitely construction, and it seemed to be coming from the direction of the festival square. Of course, as much as I squinted, I failed to pierce the veil of night that hid them. Why were they doing building up the festival stuff without any light? It seemed like a safety hazard.
Should I…take a photo with flash?
No, no, awful idea. Erik already warned me about the rules. Physically shaking my head as if to get that dumb thought out of it, I closed the wooden windows again and settled back in bed, the sounds of them building the festival square forming a monotonous background noise.
I’d just began to drift into sleep when I heard a different, louder sound. Boots crunching in the rocks and dirt, getting closer and closer. My mind shot awake immediately, but I stayed lying under the blanket. Just someone passing by with materials, probably.
The footsteps got closer and closer until they got to outside my window. Then they stopped.
I sat up quietly.
Sniffing sounds came from outside. I heard the wooden windows slowly open with a creak.
As silently as I could, I reached into my bag, taking extra care until I felt the metal blade of my knife and the remnants of dried blood on it. Tracing my finger along until it touched the handle, I grabbed the weapon and pulled it out, crouching low to the ground and very slowly creeping until I was beside the window, which had just hit the angular limit of its opening.
Then nothing.
They were waiting, I was sure of it. Waiting for me or waiting for something. I couldn’t see a damn thing, so I only had my ears. It was quiet except for the distant construction and the loud thudding of my heart, pounding at my ribcage. My hands were so sweaty I was sure I was going to drop the knife and alert whoever it was.
I could smell something vaguely fishy. As in actual fish. What the hell was happening? Should I go back to the bedside and light the candle?
Something big touched me on the front of the chest. Barely able to restrain a yelp, I hacked the knife down as hard as I could, cutting through it. Something heavy thudded to the floor and a deep howl of pain came from outside the window. Footsteps quickly retreated away from my window towards the festival square.
One hand still clutched on the knife handle in a death grip, I backed away until I felt my legs hit the bed. My left hand swept across the bedside until I grabbed the lighter, flicking it on and reigniting the candle.
I pushed the windows closed with my foot to make sure no light escaped and crouched down to the floor, searching for whatever I’d chopped off. My heart nearly stopped when I saw red blood staining the wooden floor. Following the trail, I spotted my target.
Still squirming on the floor was a severed human finger, at least fifteen centimetres long.
 
All the colour drained out of Erik’s face when I showed him the bloody mess the next morning.
We went out for a walk at dawn at his insistence, and I watched as he quickly tossed the finger into a small pond nearby, where the fish began to devour it ravenously.
“Don’t talk about it.” He told me grimly, and I could do nothing but nod. After a quick breakfast, Erik led me down the hill and into the more coastal section of Maelstrom. We navigated through streets filled with junk, where stray cats hissed at us and tired-looking villagers shot us glances as they went about the chores. Up close, these hastily rebuilt houses looked even worse. Walls barely held up corrugated metal roofs and gaping holes led water into them.
Finally, we arrived at the vacant remnants of a house that evidently never got reconstructed. Most of the items in the house had been cleared, as had much of the debris, leaving several piles of junk and the occasional weathered piece of furniture, where two others sat, a young man and young woman with dark tanned skin.
“Who’s the tagalong?” The woman asked, giving us friendly waves.
“This is Nick, he showed up in Maelstrom yesterday. Nick, my friends Jonas and Sigrid.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“We haven’t had a newcomer come this close to Storålens natt before.” Jonas mused.
“How exciting.” Sigrid said with a level of sarcasm I didn’t know was possible. “You looking to get eaten too?”
“Eaten?!” I exclaimed in alarm. “What do you mean?”
Both of them looked over at Erik.
“What?” He shrugged sheepishly. “There wasn’t a good time to explain yesterday.”
“You’re saying this festival involves people getting eaten? I thought your god just came ashore, crushed a few buildings, and got worshipped.”
“See this house we’re sitting in?” Sigrid said.
“Not really much of a house.” I pointed out.
“Exactly. The Larsen family used to live here. Two elderly parents and an unmarried son. The two old folks got eaten a couple of festivals ago, and their son finally went with them last year. Nobody was left to rebuild this place, so the village chief just collected their stuff and distributed it.”
“You need to explain what the hell happens.”
“Our god, a great eel, comes out onto land on Storålens natt every year.” Erik said, a deep frown on his suddenly crestfallen face. “Part of the festival…the most important part…devotees feed themselves to him.”
I gulped reflexively.
“They stuff him as much as possible, and he vomits out most of them before he leaves. Those ‘lucky’ ones are consumed, and we believe he takes them to his underwater kingdom to live for eternity. The Larsens got lucky, as they say.”
Words failed me in the moment. I looked back and forth at all three of them. Jonas gave me a sympathetic shrug.
“And those that get thrown up?” I finally said after what felt like an eternity of silence.
“They get blessed by the Great Eel God, physically.” Sigrid said.
My mind, overwhelmed by racing thoughts, snapped on a crystal-clear image. “You mean they get really tall and thin.”
“That’s one of them.” She nodded.
“Erik,” Jonas said hesitantly, “is your mother still insisting on feeding the Great Eel God tomorrow?”
He looked away. Both Jonas and Sigrid gave him empathetic looks.
“But don’t you all think that’s good? I mean, in your religion?” I asked.
“We’re supposed to.” Sigrid sighed. “But once you’ve actually…lost people or seen them change, it doesn’t feel good.”
“All the proper adults, our parents, the chief, everyone. They say it’s the nature of youth to have shaky faith in the Great Eel.” Jonas threw his hands up. “As if we don’t know anything.”
“Hate the chief.” Sigrid growled. “Spineless prick. When my grandma got eaten, he scolded me when I was sad. Said I was selfish.”
“We just have to go with it. Not like we can leave anyway.” Jonas continued.
“Why not?”
“I already told you last night. We’re not allowed to.” Erik said.
“Are there guards preventing you from leaving?”
“Um…no?”
“Then why can’t you leave?” The three of them stared at me incredulously.
“We can’t just leave our parents, you dick.” Jonas’ face reddened.
“It’s Nick. And I ran from my home when I was just 13. Sometimes, if there’s a situation where you just have to get out, you get out, even if it hurts. You have to let go.”
They all glanced at each other, except Erik, who stared at the ruined ground and refused to look over.
“And has your life been good since you ran away?” Sigrid asked.
I took a sharp inhale. “Well, no, it’s been pretty awful to be honest, but it was better than staying with my mom and dad. I’m just saying, really think about it.”
We stayed talking for a while, them prodding me for life details and me prodding them on this festival, but nothing substantial came from it. Sigrid and Jonas showed me around the coast, and before I knew it, the Sun was setting again. We bid goodbye to the two and Erik led me back up the hill through the steep terrace staircases and back to his home.
As we reached the terrace where his home was located, our path was blocked by two figures. I recognised the first man immediately. Looming menacingly before us was the same tall, thin man that I had rejected the room rent offer from, his saggy face with disgusting black sores moving closer to me.
“Village chief!” Erik greeted immediately, standing up straight.
“He’s the village chief?” My disbelief that my luck could be that bad rising.
“Is there a problem?” The village chief rubbed his ten spindly fingers together.
“Oh, no, chief. I’d just assumed that the village chief would be staying at that lone house up there.” I pointed to the highest house on the hill, roof glinting with sunlight.
“That’s just where Old Henriksen stays. Just a weirdo who never shows up.” Erik explained. A weirdo even by Maelstrom’s standards? That I had to see.
“Through my tenure as chief and my predecessors before me, it was deemed untenable to move Old Henriksen from his rightful home. But enough about that. I see you have decided to stay, newcomer.” He said.
“Yes, with Erik here.”
His lips curled open, but not into a smile, instead showing his rotting pointed teeth.
“I recall you saying you had two companions with you who required separate rooms. Yet young Erik here only has one room to spare, that of his rotten uncle.” His breath was pungent like rotting fish and meat.
“They decided they hated this place and left for Augusta.” I stood as strong as I could, barely hiding the sheer panic telling me to run for the next town.
“Very well. You are welcome in Maelstrom, even to observe Storålens natt, but we will not allow you to participate.”
“I understand.” Not like I wanted to get eaten by this supposed eel god anyway.
“And you will not take any photographs or videos to share with the outside world. This is our most sacred ceremony…I hope you understand for your own good.” He slapped me on the shoulder with his hand, fingers wrapping halfway down my spine.
“Of course.” I said, stepping back to dislodge the physical contact. “We will be hosting it here tomorrow night.” He gestured at the festival square one terrace step down. Work had been done on it since yesterday. A wooden roof structure with angular bent pillars covered the rectangular platform, now covered with a glittering piece of purple velvety cloth. The decorations of unlit lanterns and banners was far more complex, criss-crossing over and hanging from every available height.
“One more thing, don’t forget not to use any bright lights at night, or there will be consequences.” The chief said, breaking into a smile. “At last, after having been so devoted for so long, I will finally get my chance to join our god down in his eternal abyssal domain.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Erik asked, surprised.
“Yes, Edvard here will be taking over.”
The man behind him, even taller and thinner with crumpled scratchy skin, nodded in a way that was somehow threatening. He scratched furiously at his face, where the skin was clearly peeling off and red raw.
“You better listen, newcomer.” His voice was thin and croaky.
His hand. Where his index finger should be was instead bandaged and stained with dried red blood.
“Lost your finger recently?” I stared at him. He returned the gaze with his beady dark eyes.
“Fishing accident.”
 
The exquisite taste of the salmon was almost enough to make me cry.
Erik’s mother looked at me amused as I scarfed down the food as soon as it touched my plate.
“See, son? My cooking is as good as it still is.” She boasted with the proudest grin on her face.
Erik stared sullenly into his own plate of food, taking the smallest nibbles once in a while. As dinner went on, his mother talked constantly to both of us, but he never replied to her once.
“What are you so angry about?” She finally asked. “Is it about Storålens natt?”
He didn’t speak.
“Erik, I’ve been waiting for this chance for a long time. I know your faith is shaky.”
Silence.
“Your father got lucky that day, you know?”
“He did. But we didn’t.” Erik mumbled just loudly enough for us to hear.
“Stop talking nonsense, Erik.”
“He got to go to his eternal underwater kingdom. We had to live life without him.”
“You should be happy for him.”
“I am. I’m just not happy for us.”
“I know you miss him, Erik. I miss him too.”
“Then why did you let him go?” He was shouting. “Why did you let the Great Eel God consume him?”
“It’s what he wanted.”
Erik silently shook his head, staring down at the table. “He was being selfish, letting us go.”
“Erik, what are you talking about?” His mother snapped at him.
“How much of our money did you have to spend on this?” He jabbed a fork at the salmon.
“Having a guest over is a special occasion.” His mother awkwardly glanced at me.
“Uncle Jakob had to get two jobs to help earn us enough money. He saw Storålens natt for what it was. That’s why he ran away.”
“That idiot abandoned us!” She slammed a palm on the wooden table. “He left us to have to fend for ourselves.”
“Isn’t that what dad did too?”
The sheer boiling rage displayed across her face made me want to cower under the furniture. She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him with little resistance to her room and slammed the door shut. I heard loud cursing and the sound of palms colliding onto flesh. My appetite suddenly gone, I hurriedly retreated into my room.
About half an hour later, I heard the door open and slow footsteps shuffle into Erik’s bedroom. I heard him crash onto his bed and softly sob for a long while. Part of me urged me to go over to talk to him, comfort him, but when I stood up, nothing but a huge wave of anxiety and fear washed over me.
Giving up on that thought, I sat back down on the bed and took my camera out in the dim candlelight. Clicking into the gallery immediately took me to the pleasant photo of Erik last night.
Could I? Should I?
Two sides of my mind were in fierce debate. I’d enough run-ins with the law not to risk it. Not to mention the village chief had warned me of ‘consequences’.
But listening to the quiet weeping next door, I had to. I was going to capture evidence of this accursed festival tomorrow and get some sort of law enforcement intervention.
 
Read PART TWO here.

I've been playing chess for a few years now, and I love it. I also picked up solving puzzle cubes randomly and enjoy getting a new cube and figuring it out.
I know these are not really connected, but I wanted to find another hobby that I can become obsessed with, isn't expensive, can be done anywhere ie. I can do it online or I can pull it out somewhere where ever I am, and will let me use my brain. I already play an instrument and read often, too.
I did think about Poker or another card game, but online poker seems way too easy to become an addiction. I do like the competitive online element, though.
Any ideas?

Puzzles are nothing new in the world of Wuthering Waves. You will encounter various puzzle types as you explore more of the Huanglong region. As you step foot in Suspended Ruins, you will encounter a few puzzles around the area. There is a pressure plate puzzle where you need to place the cubes on the plates within the area to hold them down, thus unlocking the chests here. In this guide we will see how to solve the Suspended Ruins pressure plate puzzle in Wuthering Waves
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I’m sitting in a booth at a roadside restaurant named Hank’s Diner. There is no actual Hank. The Hank who named this place after himself sold it off years ago, retired, and died. Now it belongs to someone named Sid, but he didn’t want to name it Sid’s Diner, so he left Hank’s name there. It’s a bit morbid to eat at a dead guy’s diner, but here we are.
The seat cushions in this booth are red and squishy but also brown and stiff in some places. The material is cracked and the foam insides exposed like gaping wounds. Speaking of morbid, yeesh. The only way I can get my butt comfortable is by sitting with one leg crossed beneath me. Outside, the night overwhelms everything. I take a sip of an off-brand Dr. Pepper soda to try to settle my tummy which is currently doing cartwheels in my chest cavity..
The waitress approaches me in a pink checkered uniform with a white apron that’s got yellow grease splotches all over it. Her name is Glynnis Welch, no relation to my arch-enemy Lisa Welch. Glynnis is a mother of two, grandmother of two, has been married twice, divorced twice, and has two cats at home in her apartment, which is --surprisingly-- not on the second floor of her apartment building. But she was born in February. I find her fascinating. I wonder how much of her life is defined by the number two?
“Where’d your father go?” Glynnis asks me. She does not find me equally fascinating. The only thing Glynnis finds fascinating is how big of a tip she’s going to get.
The “father” she is referring to is Dutch, who excused himself just five minutes ago to use the bathroom. She’s worried we’re going to stiff her on the check. Neither of us looks like we’re exactly rolling in dough. If anything, we look like we roll in mud like that Peanuts character, Pigpen. Some of this mud on me is actually blood, but Glynnis doesn’t need to know that.
“He’s in the bathroom,” I jab my thumb in the direction of their restrooms. “Don’t worry, we wouldn’t leave without paying.”
Her face turns red, a response to being called out on her concerns about us dining and dashing. “I wasn’t thinking that, hon,” she lies. Her eyes survey the landscape of our table, trying to find anything to use to change the subject. Her attention eventually finds its way to my head. “That’s a cute headband.”
“It’s my Rambo band.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She wants to walk away from this conversation. What is with this weird, dirty-looking, little girl sipping her Mr. Pibb in the middle of the night when she should be in bed, dreaming of homework and cartoons about wacky, talking animals? Glynnis could be talking to the guy working the grill in the back of the diner instead of to me. His name is Bartholemew. He insists on being called by his full name because he doesn’t want to be associated with the Simpsons’ character, who he finds annoying. Glynnis and Bartholemew get along like peanut butter and chocolate. Or is it chocolate and peanut butter?
Glynnis takes a couple dishes away with a mumbled, “I’ll be back,” nonchalantly turning Dutch’s plate over, and marveling at how polished and clean it is as she walks away. The guy ate like he never had a cooked meal before. The truth is, he was trained to feed that way in the military. Take what you want but eat what you take. My Nana used to say that too. It’s a generational thing.
“Lily.”
A shadow slides into the booth seat across from me in the spot Dutch was in minutes ago. I look up to see a man staring at me. It takes me a moment to recognize Nathaniel. His face is paler than I remember it being before, and his eyes have big, dark circles around them like his whole face is turning into a giant bruise. Nate smiles at me, but there’s sadness behind it, and pain. I’m just impressed he’s up and about considering not that long ago he was split up the middle like a human wishbone. I wonder if they found a flesh-stitcher to speed up his recovery.
“It’s Alex now,” I tell him.
He nods. “Right, sorry.” He reaches into his big trench coat and pulls out a stack of thin, tan books with my old name written in cursive. “I believe these belong to you.”
My jaw almost hits the table. “No way!” I grab my journals and clutch them to my chest. I had just assumed that they were going to be lost forever. Maybe buried with my other body, which is going to be buried next to Mom and Dad and Roger in the Madwhip family plot.
Nate’s smile broadens ever so slightly. He cinches his coat closed and glances around. “Your friend Detective Gumby had them.”
I snort out a laugh at him using Detective Guthrie’s nickname I gave him by accident.
“Is he going to be looking for them?”
“No, he gave them to me willingly,” Nate says, taking a moment to clear his throat. “I may have given him the impression that I was an officer of the law and was going to be placing them in evidence.”
“Looking like that?” I ask in disbelief. Maybe Guthrie isn’t as great of a detective as I thought he was.
Now it’s Nate’s turn to snort-laugh. “I applied a bit of a glamor with the help of one of the remaining dreamkind.” He can tell I have no idea what he’s saying. “That’s like an illusion.”
Glynnis eyeballs us from the kitchen. She’s wondering who this strange man is talking to the underage girl in her establishment this late at night. Is my father going to come back from the bathroom in time to keep her safe? Does Bartholemew need to get that Louisville slugger he keeps by the freezer door? Should she call the cops?
I smile and wave to her. She immediately snaps out of her trance and turns away, saying something to Bartholemew that I can’t hear.
Nate coughs again. It sounds dry and scratchy. The napkin I left sticking out from under my bowl sizzles and turns black around the edges. I pluck an ice cube out of my drink and rub it over the napkin to keep it from catching fire.
“Sorry about that,” Nate says bashfully. He rubs the tips of his thumbs against his other fingers. “I’m still not at a hundred percent.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask, “Why have they got you running around fetching my journals for me? You should be in bed, sipping on a hot bowl of soup or I don’t know, in the freaking emergency ward?”
“Azrael said the same thing, but I volunteered. I wanted to be the one to do this for you.”
“But why?”
Nate’s smile twitches at the edges. His eyes get that misty look an adult’s eyes get when they’re trying not to cry. “Because I wanted to say thank you.”
“Thank you? I mean thank me?”
“For finding Meredith and getting her home. You’re a good friend.” He pauses. “You’re a good person.”
His words feel like a dagger in my heart. I look down at my roasted napkin and mindlessly play with the melting ice cube. “But everything that happened to her... it was all my fault,” I remind him.
“No, it’s not.” He reaches across the table and touches my hand. His fingers are really warm. Like ridiculously warm. Unnaturally warm. For a second my mind instinctively tries to jerk my hand away to prevent getting burned, but through sheer force of will, I don’t let it. “I can’t make you not believe that, but you should know that Meredith doesn’t. Isn’t that what really matters? Nobody else does either. We know... Samael caused all of this.”
I’m sure he believes that. Paschar believes it too. But I don’t believe it. Only some things were caused by Samael’s actions, but many things were caused by my own. I have to take responsibility for the things I do, especially when they cause harm to others. I don’t say this though, I just shrug. No sense in arguing with someone who is dead set on trying to cheer me up.
I casually flip open the top journal and reread a few entries I wrote weeks ago, back when the world still made sense. I don’t always get to write things in the moment, so I try to make sure to jot stuff down that happens to me when I’m able. Sometimes that leads to me getting details wrong because I write about them so much later, like my first jaunt into the Veil two years ago. What a pain in the ass it was to recall everything that happened and get that all written down after the fact.
Wait, someone else wrote something after my most recent entry. It’s in sloppy, cursive handwriting. I can barely read parts of it.
I joined the police force to protect those who could not protect themselves, to bring justice for those who are wronged, and to ensure the safety of all. I wanted my son to grow up in a world where he felt safe because he knew I was looking out for him. I admit that over the years it has been a struggle to not feel jaded by witnessing the harm that people do to one another. Violence, cruelty, abuse, and abandonment are choices people make. There are no accidents. Despite it all, I’ve always tried to reject the normalizing of evil.
A child died this week. It happened so violently and suddenly that I doubt she even felt it. But I felt it. I was there when it happened. I couldn’t save her; I could only avenge her. I shouldn’t say that. The killer had a gun. I shot him for my own safety. I shot him as much out of fear as out of rage. Christ, you’d think I was a rookie for letting myself get attached to a victim.
Her name was Lily. She was sad and dark and lonely. I knew her because I was the lead investigator into the death of her parents a couple years prior. Everyone that knew Lily seemed to die in horrible accidents. Her brother, her parents, her pets, her friends, even her foster family. It was like she was a walking curse, and she knew it. I can’t imagine living with that, the knowledge that anyone who gets close to you will suffer. Maybe that’s why she pushed me away when I tried to reach out to her.
I can’t help but wonder if she wanted to die. I shouldn’t think about it, and yet it eats at me. It always seemed to me that she danced on the edge of a razor, daring the world to make her bleed until finally it did. The man who killed her had a history of violence and should never have been allowed around children. How he got a job at a traveling carnival that caters to families is a mystery I hope I solve one day. Someone put him on that field, gave him that gun, and pointed him at a twelve-year-old girl.
Despite the tragedy, I do find a glimmer of hope in all this. Lily believed in something beyond her life. I’ve been skimming through these journals in which she wrote about strange experiences with angelic beings, walking in a realm of death and pure imagination, battling powerful enemies like she was some sort of fantasy heroine. As fantastic as it all was, what truly sold it was her absolute belief in everything she described. As far as I can tell, Lily was never diagnosed with any sort of mental disorder. Maybe it was all a coping mechanism for dealing with the constant death that seemed to follow her.
The thing is, she was so persuasive in her fantasy world that I almost believed in it myself at times. She actually sold me on the notion that she knew the future, that she talked to angels and the dead. I’m a grown man, someone who knows what is real and what isn’t, and yet she had me questioning the reality I know to be true. She was a unique soul, that little girl. Maybe that’s why I’m so shaken by her death. If I believe the things she told me about the world beyond, shouldn’t I be happy for her?
Something bothers me though. For starters, Lily had a doll. Every time I saw her, she had it with her. In her journals, she talked about it as if it was an angel, or some sort of walkie-talkie that let her speak directly to them. I’ve looked for it. It wasn’t on her when she died. I’ve been unable to find it. Did someone else take it? Who has the doll and what are they going to do with it? I’m probably being ridiculous. After all, a doll is just a doll. But she had me believe in its power once, who knows who else she may have convinced?
The entry goes on for another paragraph but it’s most unreadable. I’ve heard that some grown-ups have a special kind of writing that makes sense to them and nobody else, kind of like Morse code only nobody but you can read it.
“Detective Guthrie wrote in my journal.” I look up. Nate’s gone. He didn’t even say goodbye. It’s just me and Glynnis in the otherwise empty restaurant. Bartholomew in the kitchen of course, and Dutch in the toilet. Not the toilet itself, I mean the toilet room. The restroom. I don’t know why they call it a restroom though, since nobody really uses it to rest. If I go in a place called a restroom, I expect there to be couches to lie down on and maybe some elevator music to put you to sleep. Not some stinky bathroom that a dozen other people have used and left their germs all over.
Glynnis comes back over, reluctantly. “Friend of yours?” she asks me. She’s talking about Nathaniel.
“Maybe.” I stare at her. She has no idea how good I am at staring.
She stares back. She loses.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Your father is taking a while, huh?” She looks out the big window at Dutch’s beat-up, old truck that we arrived in. What she’s really making sure is that he isn’t sitting in it, ready to start the engine.
As if he heard her, Dutch finally comes out of the bathroom. Both of his hands are dripping wet. The blow-dryer in the men’s room is on the fritz. He slides into the booth across from me, frowns for the briefest of seconds as he notices Nathaniel’s lingering butt warmth, then looks at the waitress and me and mutters ”sorry" to nobody specific.
Glynnis takes it to be directed at her and she shrugs. “We thought maybe you fell in,” she offers with a half-hearted chuckle.
“No, we didn’t,” I tell Dutch. I don’t need him thinking I’m speculating on his bathroom activities with some strange lady. I don’t want our relationship starting off like that. He needs to know he can trust me not to talk about him when he isn’t around. Trust. It’s going to be life or death for us both.
Glynnis’s face turns red again. She gives me a quick frown and starts to stutter something, then twitches and her fake smile returns. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Just the check, please, ma’am.” Dutch says, wiping his wet hands on the paper napkins that came with our meal. He looks at me, gives a head nod in the direction he just came from, and asks, “Did you need to go before we head out?”
“Yes,” I lie, and then gather up my pile of journals and hurry-walk to the other restroom, leaving the two of them to handle the bill. I don’t have to go. I just need a moment alone with my books.
As I predicted, the bathroom smells. There’s a lavender air freshener on one of the sinks and it adds a nauseating aroma to the mix of odors. I go into the farthest stall, just in case Glynnis comes in, but in my mind, I know she won’t. The last thing she wants to do is come looking for me when I’m out of her sight. She’s actually relieved. Story of my life, really, people being relieved I’m gone.
I pull my feet up, hugging my journals to my chest and cry. My ribs feel tight like they’re crushing my organs. I don’t care. Let my organs get mashed into slime. Let them run out of my belly button and pool on the floor of this bathroom.
“I’m sorry, Guthrie!” I whisper to him as if the journal we both wrote in has formed a psychic connection between us and he can hear me apologize. But he can’t. He’ll never know that I lived. He’ll die thinking he failed to protect me, and I hate myself for causing his faith in himself to falter more than anything else I ever said or did to him.
I take the next several minutes rocking gently on the seat and whispering apologies to a man hundreds of miles away who can’t hear me. Then I clean myself up so it’s not obvious I was crying, dry my hands with the working blow-dryer, gather up my journals, and pop back out into the restaurant.
When I come out of the bathroom, Dutch is putting on his jacket. He hands me mine, something we bought at an outlet mall on the state line. It’s made of jean material and has patches of cartoon kitties on the front and back. It was this or an ugly, yellow sweater.
“Y’all take care!” Glynnis calls after us as we exit the front with its little jingling bell. She doesn’t mean it.
It’s some time near midnight and we’re not stopping until we’re at least two states away. Then we can pull over and sleep, no sooner. I need to get far, far away from where we started to feel even remotely alright. I told Dutch that before we stopped for food, and he nodded quietly. I know he won’t argue. His world view was shattered the moment he learned that angels are real. He would fight for them, die for them. And they told him his duty was to protect me. He’ll do it without question. They’re using him in a way, and though I feel a little weird about it, I’m not going to stop it because without him, where does that leave me? Alone, that’s where. And then I’m as good as dead. I wanted to die once. Maybe several times. But not today. I have to make things right first, no matter how long that takes. Even if it takes forever.
“Do you have any idea where we’re going?” asks Dutch over the music he turned on to keep himself awake.
I only have one clue to start with. The name of a place I heard Samael use when talking to Ohno after using that flesh-stitcher to patch me up. “Narvik” he had said. I just need to figure out where that is. Find that flesh-stitcher, send it home, and then--
The angel radio fills my brain with information about this place, Narvik. Apparently, it’s in Norway, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Okay, that’s not going to be our first stop, definitely. There’s no way we’re getting to Norway without passports. I can’t tell Dutch this though. I’m going to have to get in touch with Dumah or Barrattiel and figure something else out.
“I’ll know when we get there,” I lie with confidence, “Have you got a pen?”
“Check the glove compartment.”
"That pen you stole from a bank? It ran out of ink and I threw it away."
"There should be another, check around."
Of course there's always a pen in the glovebox. You can throw out a zillion dead pens and still pop open the glovebox and find a pen. It's like magic. You know what you won't find in a glovebox? Gloves. Does a glovebox ever have gloves in it? It must have at some point; otherwise, why did someone name it the glovebox? It should be named the flashlight box. Or maybe the owner’s manual compartment. And yep, there is another pen, thankfully. It’s a long, erasable ballpoint with the words “Dutch Brothers Plumbing” on the side. I scribble it on my pant leg to see if it works. It does.
Dutch sees the name on the pen. “My brother Werner had a bunch of those made, back when we tried to start a business together.”
He doesn’t mention that his brother Werner died during the same war Dutch was a soldier in. He took shrapnel from a landmine that somebody else stepped on. Imagine dying because someone else was careless. I’m sorry, Meredith.
I take the Dutch Brothers Plumbing pen and scratch out my old name on this journal. “Alex’s Journal” I write. I really need to work on that signature. My capital ‘A’ looks like Pac-man with a runny nose. I flip the book open to the entry before Guthrie’s. What did I last write down? The laundry room door crumbles to ash? Oh man, I’m so behind on writing in this thing.
I flip back past Guthrie’s entry and scribble the date from a week ago before writing what I can remember of my thoughts and actions. “Alright, Lily, it’s no big deal. So you’ve got the Devil chilling in your meatball.” It feels weird calling myself Lily when I just wrote my name as Alex on the cover. Best to stick with things as they happened though, so I don’t confuse myself as an adult if I reread all this.
Dutch glances at my hand scribbling furiously. “What are you writing about?”
“The past.” I don’t look up. The road is bumpy and the truck’s shocks are garbage. It takes Herculean effort to keep my hand from turning the page into an infant’s attempt at a Picasso.
“Do you ever write about the future?”
“Never in the moment where it would matter.”
Ahead of us, the road is dark and empty. Everything and everyone we know lies behind us. But the world is round, and you can only go so far before what once lay behind you now lies ahead instead. Maybe someday I’ll go home. Maybe I’ll stop by my own grave and leave myself a flower. A lily, just because.
Maybe.

Jigsaw puzzles have long been a source of entertainment and mental stimulation, captivating people of all ages for centuries. These intricate mosaics of interlocking pieces, once assembled, reveal a complete picture that can range from stunning landscapes to intricate patterns and beloved characters. The history of jigsaw puzzles is as colorful as the images they depict, and their benefits extend far beyond mere amusement.

A Brief History of Jigsaw Puzzles

The origins of jigsaw puzzles date back to the mid-18th century when John Spilsbury, a London-based cartographer and engraver, is credited with creating the first one. In 1766, he mounted a map on a piece of wood and cut it along the borders of the countries. Spilsbury's invention was initially intended as an educational tool to teach geography to children. These early puzzles, known as "dissected maps," were hand-cut with a fine saw and were primarily used by the wealthy due to their high cost.
By the 19th century, advances in printing and die-cutting technology made puzzles more affordable and accessible to the general public. The Victorian era saw a surge in their popularity, particularly in England and the United States. During this time, puzzles were often made from wood and featured themes ranging from historical events to famous works of art.
The Great Depression in the 1930s marked another significant period in the history of jigsaw puzzles. They became a popular and inexpensive form of entertainment for families facing economic hardship. Cardboard puzzles gained prominence during this era due to their lower production costs compared to wooden ones. This shift made puzzles even more accessible and cemented their place in popular culture.

The Benefits of Jigsaw Puzzles

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The Modern Renaissance of Jigsaw Puzzles

In recent years, jigsaw puzzles have experienced a resurgence in popularity, partly fueled by the global COVID-19 pandemic. With people spending more time at home, puzzles became a favored pastime, providing a sense of achievement and a welcome distraction from the uncertainties of the world.
Modern puzzles come in various forms and complexities, from traditional flat puzzles to 3D structures and even digital versions. Companies have introduced puzzles with custom images, allowing individuals to create personalized puzzles from their own photographs. This blend of tradition and innovation ensures that jigsaw puzzles remain a beloved activity for generations to come.

Conclusion

Jigsaw puzzles are more than just a pastime; they are a fascinating blend of history, art, and cognitive challenge. From their origins as educational tools to their modern-day status as a beloved hobby, puzzles continue to engage and delight people of all ages. Whether seeking mental stimulation, stress relief, or a way to connect with others, jigsaw puzzles offer a timeless and rewarding experience.

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Hiya
I don't really know if I should post, if I should be here. It's all speculative, despite the evidence.
And I'll say, if this is bad, and needs deleting then I will. And I'm sorry if this is bad.
Really, I wanna ask how I can learn more. I think I have it, but... Due to social stuff, and my own susceptibility to suggestion, I was always scared of exploring.
But, therapy has shown it's likely. And I'm wasting time (I feel) trying to string theories together. Whereas I could try working with something more concrete to know for sure.
TL;Dr is there any good (cheap?) books on it? Can anybody tell me it does get easier? I'm so tired. And... (Because I'm very needy and dependent on other's perceptions) I'd like to ask for your views. I want to know if people experienced with this resonates at all. It's... Very long, so I am extremely very sorry, but I've put it down anyway. Just in case.

Tbh, I feel kinda lost. And tired.
I've been through therapy for about 3 years straight, undoing the knots of past trauma. I don't know if it's 'really trauma', but therapist suggest that it applies. Emotional abuse
I've always had voices. I've felt feelings and impulses that didn't always align with how I felt. But somehow, in the moment, I felt it was. It would be like Simon says, a different light was on. I'd be green and do something, then I'd be yellow and feel utterly repulsed or deny any interest. But I was still a Simon says.
As therapy continued, I learned about some blacked out memories. I was asked to complete dissociation questionnaires, and it started to scare me. Things that seemed harmless, unrelated or typical of me were on it.
But one of them was "do you hear voices?" "Do people recognize you and you don't?" "Do you take aliases and respond differently to them?" "Does your performance change unpredictability?" "Do you get lost in books/films? Like you're there?" "Do you see yourself in the 3rd person?" Yes. Yes, I do. Doesn't everyone?
Depending on activities, I can switch and I can lose myself in those moments. I can get so lost in something, hours can pass when it felt like minutes. I've had examples where I go to buy something, I've mentally pictured myself doing it step by step, but when I get home... I can't find it. But I could swear I bought it. It goes the other way. I'll buy something, go home, think I didn't buy it, fix it, and... Great now I have 2 things. Budget's ruined. But the one that's convinced me is... It was cold. I was thirsty. I like cola, so I got some ice and made a drink. I left it somewhere and did something else. I'm still thirsty, so I go back and... It's empty. There's melting ice, cola residue in the bottom. But I don't remember drinking it. Maybe I didn't pour the drink? But there's no liquid where the ice melted, not enough for what I put in.
When I talk to therapist, she's happy to listen but we both struggle with making sense of it all.
I've insisted to her that, currently, there was 5 'us'. The main ones with autonomy. I feel they are all "me", but different aspects, different views, different ages maybe. I don't know. It's so.... Unclear.
I know there are constructs. I've had fictional characters created that have their own agency, say and tell things I've never thought of myself. It's fun, but I don't think they have any influential significance. They tell me stories. I use them in my writing.
But... I've been one of the 5 at various points in my life. Like kids in a car, taking turns at the wheel trying to find their way. The voices might've had opinions, but they felt like they were still 'my' opinions. As I grew, I'd have a (flawed) mindset of how the world is, how I should behave and how to get what I want. When it didn't work after months/years, the grip on the steering wheel would slack and someone else would hop in like "you failed -my turn to try 😃" I don't remember the exact moments, but I remember something happened between 2 and 3. I remember as 2 being an arrogant brat 8-12. Guilt caught up, and 3 slipped in. I spent the next few years pretty damaged and broken. and I was preferred and rewarded for it by my family, my friends.
As I am now, I believe I'm #5. I think I appeared when there was an inability to decide on a life-changing fork in the road. on the left we go back to our abusive mother. On the right, we can try solo and risk the dangers alone. Do we go left? Or right? 2 argued left, 2 right. And I just.... "Woke up". And tasked with the decision. I became very aware of it all.
I went straight to the doctors. I didn't like all the chatter. Thoughts come and go, but never so vehemently opposing. "No, you don't have it. And besides, if you did, you're not dangerous. So you don't need help. You're fine." That's what the doctor said. I went with it. I felt ashamed for even thinking it. I must be doing it for attention, how awful of me.
I'm fine, I'd tell myself. I'd shut the door on the others, I'd suppress and hush the urges, the impulses, the thoughts and feelings of the others. And... I was miserable. In schematherapy, I was told I had "emotional deprivation". I suppose it makes sense.
I'd dissociate a lot and just chalk it up to "thinking hard a lot". Often I'd end up doing the impulses and desires without thinking it. It feels so scattered It felt like I was a collage of junk, trying to look like an oil painting. Or maybe a jigsaw puzzle, where somehow the puzzle can be complete with other puzzle pieces I was naturally unpredictable, inconsistent. When all I wanted was to be one thing, and combine it with whatever others wanted me to be. I wanted to be 'me'. But... 'me' is hollow. Incomplete. Artificial. As #5. I feel the most bland, undefined, defined by the wants and needs of those who slipped it onto the checklist when I wasn't looking. It feels kinda like running a social media brand and trying to stay "on brand" in the eyes of the public, for fear of reputational damage I'd start subconsciously switching. I'd be one part to one friend, like I'd be cool and laid back, but to another I'd be different, I'd be childish and craving their affection they'd give willingly. Maybe to one I'd be coarse and comical in my jaded views of others without regard for feelings, when for others I'd be kind and soft spoken, with no intention of hurting others. "So lovely."
But, if those friends were to meet, I'd be terrified. It would be like being caught. They'd all have a different interpretation to who I am. And I can't choose how I am with them. The parts resonate With particular people, to behave differently around them would raise suspicion about "inconsistency". For some I can, it's slow and cautious, but it can happen. Some people are understanding. Or maybe they don't notice, I don't know. You can be kind, and have different traits. But, in a way, the part that's kind and sincere would be mortified to hurt another. And the part that would throw insults would rather put up walls than ever be sincere.
I used to think an incident happened and I couldn't cope. The environment I was in drastically changed very quickly. emotional surrogate spouse to mother as little as 2. It's her favorite memory of me. We were close, I had responsibility a child shouldn't have, but I was loved. We met lots of people who were also kind. I felt cherished. Then she remarried. And she was miserable, her partner was miserable. They had more kids. They were always so angry. So resentful. So spiteful. I was usually the butt of one joke or another. School was tough. Nothing I said was in confidence, everything was shared and everyone would side with mother unconditionally. Myself included. I was trapped and I wanted it to be different. Go back. How do I get it back?
I used to think I split in two different directions in that moment. I wanted to change my world but... How? What did I need to do? "I... I just need to stay nice and soft. And people will love me again. Like they used to. The world is full of nice if you are too." But I wasn't sure. I wanted to believe and hope. But I was also upset. Angry. Hurt. "We should fight back. Take the respect they took from us. And we should just give back the horrible things people do to us. This is how the world works, clearly." These were very opposing values. How can you be so universally kind but uncompromisingly ruthless to the world? You can't. You can't give someone a flower then kick them. You can't do both. I mean, you can, but you won't get both results. So... There was a fork in the path. In the end they stayed together, the first went into hibernation, the agreement being they'd return when it was "safe." They do now. Sometimes there are kind people, who take a liking of the soft nature of the first and they'll value and acknowledge a need for affection. But the second was awful. For a long time. Believing that they would be respected by fear. But, it didn't happen.
A plushie isn't fearsome.
Eventually, the second said something off-handed 'as a joke's the kind family would do And saw how it hurt the person they said it to. I remember how their face fell. Suddenly, the worldview didn't work. The second still wasn't respected, just seen as unpleasant.
I really believed it was just those two. that in that moment, there was another dichotomy of values.
"We're hurting people. That's awful! We're not a nice person. That must be why people Are so means to us... That's it. I just must be so awful, and they know this. That's why they know it's okay to do it. If I had value, they might want me, use me. That gives me purpose, without it I'm worthless. That's how the world works."
But the second would insist. "It's not true! We have worth! I just don't know how to get it!
"If that was true, then we would have it, would we not? People would tell it to us, give it to us. Love is such an empty, meaningless word. You don't want to live in that world, but I am at home here."
And so the path diverged. The second would appear occasionally, to protect, to fight, but once conflict ended, the third returned.
Truthfully, I now believe 3 was also at the start. When the two lived in denial and anger, 3 was the depression.
But the third couldn't cope. And so, a fourth would step forward. The fourth is jaded and is disinterested in engaging with the world. They just like problem solving. The fourth would rise to challenges and tasks the third couldn't. I used to think 4 was as construct, a manifestation. But I believe she was always there. Her defining thing is a love for science, a wild curiosity.
This worked for a few years. Then I appeared, the one to resolve their arguing, their disagreements, their bickering about timeshares. Too much work, too much indulgence, too much self destruction.
It feels exhausting. I feel like a mother driving her kids to all their clubs. Only to wait until they were done to go home and start all over tomorrow.
Therapist is struggling with me on this. My friends either accept it, or.. they don't. They don't believe it. "Everyone has that" "yeah I get that sometimes- it's normal" "Maybe it's just a state of mind you give yourself, I don't think it's that."
Maybe I just suck at explaining. Maybe I don't have it. Therapist has said she thinks I might, but ... "You don't seem to tick all the boxes." Which I was told something similar when a psych said I might have autism. "You tick a few boxes." Where does that leave me? Do I have it or don't I? What does a few boxes mean????
Thing js I don't fuckin want it. Like maybe people think it's fun to be different like that. I really, really don't. I just want my head to be clear. I want the quiet. I want to put the kids to bed in my head and just wind down with a nice drink and a good book without something asinine like "hey do you think if reincarnation is real animals remember their past lives?"
I want to choose something and stick with it without the sense of wanting to do 20 other things that I don't want to do... But will a few hours later. I have so many different projects I want to do.
I don't know when it happens, when I change my mind, who wants what. It's like a bucket list. "Write a book." "Be a performer." "No I get stayed right, make a kids book." "No do a video game" "let's learn electronics."
Therapist has been kind and patient to me.
The last thing I want to be is a liar. I've been abused by people who thought I was a liar. Including my mother relentlessly I try to live as honestly as I can, so the evidence showing when people suspect me of lies knows I'm not like that. However insincere that might sound, I live honestly to protect myself from accusations.
Therapist's so patient. She's the mother I never had. And whenever I've checked, not once has she said she doubts, only that she struggles with understanding enough to help. She once said that, people going through it quite often enjoy and appreciate each other. That they wouldn't be apart.
But... I feel in myself there's a Mexican standoff. If there was a chance for full autonomy, they'd take it. But... I suppose it's like moving away from a closee sibling. When together, you bicker. When you're apart... You miss them. Truthfully, they synergize really well. I once explained to my Japanese friend and she gave me a drawing to show how they might collaborate better. "This one sounds like x type and y type, and maybe would work well with a type and b type."
I just want my head to be clear. I want them all to be happy. To not be sabotaging each other.
Overall, there are agreed goals. There's shared memories. Quite often everyone is watching, commenting. And it's tiring too. It feels like the eyes are a livestream, the parts are the audience that can participate, suggest and comment. It can feel like having the self as a 'brand' and different employees managing the account to stay consistent.
There is often a shared/agreed goals, but the methods differ, or have different weaknesses. One goal is to be a freelancer. Services were offered for sourcing a product, the person gets weird, saying how he'd like to "learn how to do that himself" They scattered, all shouting around a table about their feelings, what they wanted to do next. "Not what I offered, but we can do it for praise :)" "No I don't want to! He's trying to MANIPULATE!! >:(" "Let's just give him what he wants, it makes me feel useful. :(" "...or we can negotiate and try to salvage this. :/"
I had to walk out until everyone calmed down. It was hell. I can't work like that on the fly. Different parts have different sentivity. What might hurt one might hurt another, but differently.
In the real world, it's so stressful. It's... It's so much.
And yet I still don't know if it's real. If I'm doing it for attention. If there's some way I can filter. I just wish I could give myself more bodies. So they can live freely.
Because they have a code. "Do no harm" for one. But there's also a prohibition from doing anything that risks another's identity.
If one seized autonomy and meets friends that know another part .. That redefines perceptions. Complicates things. "Why are you doing this? This isn't you..." "This is weird, you weren't like this before..." "Since when did you start doing this...?" "Oh, you're not doing that anymore...?"
It's terrifying.
But... The worst part is... I don't even know if it stops at 5. There might be more. I wonder sometimes if the parts have 'subcategories' Say there was the third. There might be 3.0, but also 3.2ii from a specific time or place. That's not the same 3.0 that was a month older.
I know for a long time, through the isolation, I really wanted a big sister. And... I used to picture her. Talk to her. Be comforted by her. I would avoid indulging. I didn't want this to be a real thing. Even though it already was maybe. But she's still there. As she always was. And I can embody her, or her me, and... I don't know. Sometimes I do for those that would need it. To be the big sister I always wanted for me.
"To give you what I never had."
But I don't know.
I really don't. It makes me wonder what counts, what doesnt. If it's enough. If it's so insignificant that I'm exaggerating for sympathy. If I'm still making shit up for attention.
I just wish I had a manual for my brain. A video game strategy guide with a section that says "oh by the way, you have.... And it's defined by...." Instead of constantly looking over my shoulder.
/Asking the part "hey are we sure?"/
But also.... I'm the dreaded trans And therapist has asked if I think a 6th might appear due to hrt affecting the mind too It scared me. Will I change? Will I fade to the back? Will my control be limited? I'm... Okay with it. I've had a good run, far longer than the others. But mostly because I've had to keep such a tight grip on everything. And I'm exhausted.
With the 6th... It was strange. I remember having a hard cry one night, and I was asked a question. "There's people with a specific purpose in mind. What should I be? What do I need to be?" I answered it. I said that we've got it covered, so be who you want to. Be free. If there truly is a sixth, if I am to fade... Then I want to let someone finally act freely. But again, maybe this is all bullshit.
I just... Maybe I'll never be okay. But I want to be. Therapy's been healing, but I still hurt a lot.

But one day maybe it's different.

And that's it. Thank you for listening.
If I may ask, if this is allowed to remain, where can I learn more? Where can I start?
I always hesitated. I didn't want to somehow gaslight myself into this, internalize what I read just because I could relate.
I once had a friend online who said they had it. I remember them blogging that "oh, part 24 is a clown." And... I don't know. Others were saying it's attention seeking. I didn't know what to believe. But moreover, when I looked at myself, I didn't know if that meant anything to me.
Like, my grasp on reality is so fragile, and it's tied to facts and truth as defined by others. So to have 2 different views... I didn't know what to do. I used to see things not really there when I was little. I had to rely on other's lack of reaction to know it wasn't true. Maybe that's sad. But if I can ground myself in facts, I'd feel more secure.

C/W; Antisemitism
This story comes from the very first D&D campaign my friends and I ever played in. We were all pretty bored during the early days of covid and wanted to add something new to our rotation of games to keep us feeling connected. Everyone mentioned in this story other than myself had played one session before this campaign with a DM off of Fiverr. In total there were six of us playing; The DM, the Barbarian, the Bard, the Paladin, the Rogue, and myself (who played a very cool druid if you ask me). While this story is primarily about the titular Cube of Force incident our Rogue caused (as well as other shenanigans he got up to), I've got a "mini horror" for everyone else just to share the love.
I do want to give a little context to the relative dynamic of my group of friends for some additional info. I had known all of these guys for at least three years, though I had known the Bard and Rogue for 14 years at this point. It was well known that Rogue had a pretty bad upbringing due to his less than stellar parents. We had known this and were always trying to be a support system for him when possible because he was our friend and we wanted the best for him. At various points in his friendships with all of us he had various fallings out with the group, though we always welcomed him back because we were worried about what he would do if he no longer had a group of friends supporting him. However, our good will was running very thin around the time this campaign started. Without making this paragraph too long, he called one of our friends not in this campaign his "favorite n-word". We yelled at him about it for days before he offered up a lack luster apology and we warned him that we wouldn't tolerate much more of that.
Anyway, dungeons and dragons. Our group was playing Lost Mines of Phandelver and sticking pretty close to the book. I have a rapid fire list of our "mini horrors" that we all like to look back and laugh at now that we've played for a while.

• The Bard was very adamant about always being involved in situations - including melee combat. He would always run into the front lines to cast his spells. Before anyone asks, all of his spells were ranged and he was a lore bard. I don't think he made a single weapon attack across our whole campaign. This man's mind is truly an enigma.
• Our Barbarian was almost certainly fudging his rolls. The man had 5 stats at 18 or higher starting at level 1. He was a standard human and we had rolled stats - so it was theoretically possible - but extremely unlikely. He also almost always succeeded on every d20 roll he made, regardless of the circumstance. His good stats obviously increased his totals for checks, but you'd still expect failures decently often. For barbarian, it was about 1 in every 15 rolls that failed.
• The Paladin did not believe in consequences (at first). When we first rolled into Phandalin he found a child and threw them as hard as possible into the air before catching them. He got banned from the tavern for that because the kid was the owner's. We then went into a store and after talking to the shop keep, the Paladin slammed his face into the counter to intimidate him into cheaper prices. We were promptly banned from the store.
• The DM didn't actually read the rules before running this campaign. Like, not even checking out the basic rules. We had a lot of rulings change throughout the campaign as we learned how the game actually worked. This may be a surprise, but the game functions much better when played as intended rather than by six dumb college kids who haven't eaten a real meal in three days.
• I'm sorry to betray your trust dear reader, but I too was not perfect. You see, I am a severe loot goblin. I'm happy to share the stuff, I just want to be the first to get the item so I can read about everything it does. I really love knowing things, and getting the loot would let me think of cool ways to use it (if possible). I found a pile of loot once and tried to keep it secret just so I could examine it all. I got busted by a party member and they then cut me out of the loot sharing; I didn't love that, but also felt it was fair enough. I would also sometimes fudge my rolls if I was rolling super shit. We were playing on D&D Beyond before the game log was added, so no one could see rolls you made on it. I stopped this habit when I tried re-rolling a nat 1 twice and got a nat 1 on both re-rolls. The dice gods sent me a message and I listened.

Alrighty, now for all the bullshit our rogue got up to before his grand "cube of force incident"

• Anytime a player referred to a character by their player's name, he would loudly interrupt the conversation to yell "WHO???". This was his very cool way of trying to get us more immersed in the story. Totally unrelated, but he refused to share any tidbit of his very awesome backstory (dead parents, wants revenge).
• Never once actually bothered to learn how his character worked and then complained about how terrible he was compared to everyone else. I think he used sneak attack about four times across 20+ sessions.
• Would ask if he could use two-weapon fighting after doing actions completely unrelated to attacking.
• Got annoyed by other players taking too long while simultaneously taking 10+ minutes to take a turn in combat or make a simple decision
• Groped a barmaid with mage hand
• When we fought the young green dragon at Thundertree, he decided to instead be halfway across the town fighting giant spiders and yelled at us to come help him. We told him to just dash + disengage to safely escape. This was a bad suggestion and we were bad party members for suggesting that.
• When negotiating with the cult in Thundertree, our barbarian announced "don't follow me inside, I'll pretend I don't know you and attack". After two minutes of talking, the rogue decided to follow him in before promptly being attacked. He threw a fit for ten minutes before we all muted him on discord and continued playing.
• Caused us to cancel two different sessions because he decided to door dash instead at the last minute. He then got mad at us for telling him it was disrespectful to us to just bail at the last minute.
• Would argue that his character could use various loot better than anyone else, only to never actually use the item. He had the staff of protection for 15 sessions and never once cast a spell from it. I had to debate like a lawyer to get the ring of protection from the necromancer later in the campaign.
• Later in the campaign he would try to shoot down any suggestions about what to do/where to go from any player that disagreed with him.
• For the final session of our campaign, he just didn't show up. We messaged him for an hour before meeting because he wasn't responding before we ultimately decided to play without him. He had been asleep and woke up 30 minutes after the session started. Rather than join late, he just didn't join at all because "we were basically already done". After that message was sent, we played for another four hours - making it the longest session our group has ever played.

After that final session, our DM decided to continue our character's stories with a homebrew campaign tacked on. Going into this campaign we all got to pick a magic item from a vault based off our their description. The Rogue didn't like his item (the cube of force) so he tried to get me to trade the cloak of elvenkind I got. My druid was an elf and felt the cloak matched his aesthetic, so he refused. After this event he refused to talk to me for five days. Five days. Over an item in a roleplaying game. He only started talking again because I mentioned that if he got something cool later down the line I could be more inclined to trade.
Now we reach the titular Cube of Force incident. We had taken three weeks off of playing to let our DM properly plan the story so he had stuff to work with when we inevitably went off the rails. During this time we got to know our Bard's new girlfriend by gaming with her. She was really interested in playing D&D with us, so we invited her and she rolled up an Aasimar bard - I will call her Aasimar to avoid double bard confusion. Our friend Rogue referred to with a slur also joined as an Artificer. He was a bit more hesitant about joining, but ultimately did it because he wanted to hang out with us more. We talked to Rogue a lot leading up to our next session about sensitivity and why he needs to think before saying shit that could easily offend or upset people. Artificer isn't relevant to the story beyond this point, I just felt bad leaving him out. Aasimar is jewish, which is a detail that is tragically relevant to this story.
During this first session of the homebrew campaign the new characters were introduced and we got involved in a pretty intense combat. After a few rounds we ended up fighting an invisible stalker in a cramped hallway. We dealt with some fun rogue antics during this fight, like him forgetting sneak attack, him getting mad he didn't get extra attack, him not understanding why the spellcasters had more spell slots than him (he was an arcane trickster), and him just zoning out. He had zoned out while we were pinpointing the invisble stalker's location by baiting attacks of opportunity since the stalker liked to move each round. When he zoned back in he screamed at us for being morons for "running away from the monster that's right there" before he attacked the empty space the invisble stalker left. His strategic genius knows no bounds.
During his next turn he decided he wanted to use the cube of force to wall off the invisible stalker in part of the hallway that had no exit. This was actually a good plan, but there was one small issue with it - he wanted to use two-weapon fighting afterwards. Our DM explained why that wouldn't work, and the rogue then spent fifteen agonizing minutes trying to come up with different sequences of events that would let him two-weapon fighting and activate the cube of force. At one point he also tried adding drinking a potion to that combination as if THAT was the key to solving this nightmare of a rules misunderstanding. After that argument, Rogue decided he would just attack and do nothing else because "DM is being a fucking Jew about actions". That, my dear reader, was the end of his time playing D&D. We stopped everything and took turns yelling at him about why that wasn't remotely okay to say and that this was it. He promptly kicked him from the campaign and he then didn't speak to any of us for six months. He crawled back to us briefly before we all agreed that we much preferred not having him around and we kicked him from our discord server. Bard and Myself went nuclear and blocked the dude on everything, and I mean everything. I dug up my 3DS just to remove him.
We still play the game as a group. Bard, Paladin, and I have all DMed campaigns to various degrees of completion at this point. We've kept the same core group, though a few friends have joined for a bit before deciding D&D isn't their cup of tea. We still adore this game and the tabletop hobby as a whole. I know this story follows the whole 'several paragraphs of lore before asshole mcgee says a slur' format, but I wanted to share this story after realizing how often I cited small events from this campaign to new players about examples of being a problem player and how players can either grow past those behaviors or delve deeper into the asshattery.
Thanks for taking the time out of your day to read this! I've needed a writing outlet since I never bothered to finish my english minor in college, lol.
tl;dr - Rogue player is a general twat and then gets antisemitic.

After playing the game since Day 1 and until now, here's my honest review of the game(and yes, I've just created a reddit account to give my honest full review of the game):
The intro of the game is just a ripoff of Genshin and HSR's intro...heck, the only difference out here is that the player is wearing some chinese aesthetic outfit(does this mean the whole world is just a visualization of china but its the whole planet instead? that's rough), they don't have their own siblings just like HSR, and the big difference that I find is that they don't have a mascot companion on them(not until the final act but whatever), the way they wake up is just small difference from HSR's having the 2 same person along with them, aside from WuWa where its 2 girls instead of 1 girl and 1 man (so its already a harem game from the protagonist, not even bringing a single man along with them).
As for the story goes, its so rough at the start, all the people there just starts appreciating on Rover like a chosen one cliché, its so unrealistic just because they found someone lying on the ground and just eats up a crownless dude's echo, the only time the story got a little better is when the guy in red introduced himself and starts making a story for the protagonist, though its a bit lacking with just him teleporting the MC to a card dimension thing and then after that Yangyang is again on your sight after losing consciousness like if she can just get out of that card dimension why wait until the protag have to go fight a lot of enemies on that card dimension including Scar himself...
And then a character story is unlocked and its about Lingyang, his quest is so lame (though I appreciate the 2D dungeon angle they did) everything just leads to Lingyang being the creature that theyre looking for, even Lingyang's story all leads down to him in every way possible, just how dumb is everyone on that region to not piece it all together that he's the beast all along? it would already be even more obvious if its his old model but okay I guess.
Since I got story gated and need to increase my rank to progress, I started doing puzzles and farming echoes, the echoes feels like its gonna start to get worst later down the line due to how much time needed to even get those.
After I reach the next Story, I did some puzzle that doesn't even require to use my brain at all since everything has its quest points and all I need to do is just interact with them, just how small brain do you think the player base is just to make the puzzle to just interact stuff, at least give the players time to solve the puzzles for themselves... and then the Scar fight, its decent but I find the dialogue of Scar getting cutoff to a black image of him going to jail is outright hilarious, after that some talks and then the quest ends and then another story-gated that needs me to level up to 20+, what the heck? that main story is just too short just to give another story quest that's level-gated to much higher level, geez
After which, I continue completing quests, puzzles, farming echoes and more, and then some issues starts happening like music getting cut off and then after a few more minutes it just goes deaf, my attacks and character's voice doesn't even have a sound at all, I have to restart my whole game to fix that but it happens again just by teleporting...the stuttering is also unbearable too especially when fighting enemies in the wilderness, just how optimize is this game?
finally reached Act V of the game, Jiyan sure is cool from the start, and then for Rover they just did an Avenger's post which is so cringy and then they include the Blue bearded guy like I don't even know him at all yet! And why is Lingyang along with them on the battlefield when he is much better off being inside the village? I appreciate them for making them fight alongside the players but there's only like 3 - 4 sets of enemies out there, why cant they add more to make it even more enjoyable and this is the only time they did this shtick, what a bummer
Jiyan's coolness disappeared on my sight after he started praising Rover and makes HIM / HER do the strategy, like why though???? He is much more experienced for that as a GENERAL... so if the Rover failed is he gonna start blaming the Rover for his own f*** ups? that's just embarrassing.
Others said that the story starts to get better on Act 5 and 6 but I can't see the part where it starts to get better when its just full of Rover getting praised and strategizing of the battlefield...
Overall my opinion on the game is that its really lacking a lot on the story department and then the issues it has is just abysmal and the amount of grind needed on this game is just not good at all.
The things that I appreciate on the game though is the movements around the map and Scar for starting the story to be good (which starts the downfall even more after him being in jail), I appreciate them for giving us 10-limited pulls and a standard character selector but they're just damage control for the game and I won't fall for that.
4/10 needs better story and optimization

Hi.
When i was 5yo i had taken some online IQ test meant for adults and got 116~119 points in average (i think i did 3 tests or more and there were too many answers options per question, so no place for lucky-guess). Now i’m 16yo and when i do an IQ test i usually got 133~140 points on spacial intelligence, pattern-recognition and general problem-solving.
But i don’t trust these answers at all! I think i may fall into 115~120IQ category, with 120 at best (based on my experience as a self-learner). I can learn pretty quickly (half a year ago i didn’t know how to sum up fractions) and discover interesting things in a creative way (such as math and physics subjects, one example is that i don’t know calculus yet, but i discovered how to find the tangent line of a function “ax^n+bx^(n-1)+…+z” and some other interesting results by myself in my own way of doing math), but yet my cognitive performance drastically decreases when these two things happens simultaneously: A problem is not invented by me and there’s too many variants to consider (for example a combinatorics problem, most of the time i got the right idea to solve it, but i forgot many important elements while calculating).
I’m usually bad at math puzzles involving board games, combinatorics, etc. Mostly not because i don’t know how to solve it, usually i get the right idea, but when the number of things to consider in the problem increases my brain starts to forget most of these things and that’s because i got most of them wrong. And when i know i got something wrong i need to go back all the way through to the starting point and do the entire problem again, so i lose a lot of time in each problem i try to solve.
So that’s why i feel my IQ lies between 115~120: I’m a quick learner, but have my limitations. I can become almost anything i want to (by the way i want to be a scientist), but i have to work a lot harder than people with IQ higher than 130 if i want to achieve the same results.
My questions which i mentioned are: Do anyone feel the same way? If so, do you know a way to improve? Is my memory what decreases my IQ by some points?

Hi.
When i was 5yo i had taken some online IQ test meant for adults and got 116~119 points in average (i think i did 3 tests or more and there were too many answers options per question, so no place for lucky-guess). Now i’m 16yo and when i do an IQ test i usually got 133~140 points on spacial intelligence, pattern-recognition and general problem-solving.
But i don’t trust these answers at all! I think i may fall into 115~120IQ category, with 120 at best (based on my experience as a self-learner). I can learn pretty quickly (half a year ago i didn’t know how to sum up fractions) and discover interesting things in a creative way (such as math and physics subjects, one example is that i don’t know calculus yet, but i discovered how to find the tangent line of a function “ax^n+bx^(n-1)+…+z” and some other interesting results by myself in my own way of doing math), but yet my cognitive performance drastically decreases when these two things happens simultaneously: A problem is not invented by me and there’s too many variants to consider (for example a combinatorics problem, most of the time i got the right idea to solve it, but i forgot many important elements while calculating).
I’m usually bad at math puzzles involving board games, combinatorics, etc. Mostly not because i don’t know how to solve it, usually i get the right idea, but when the number of things to consider in the problem increases my brain starts to forget most of these things and that’s because i got most of them wrong. And when i know i got something wrong i need to go back all the way through to the starting point and do the entire problem again, so i lose a lot of time in each problem i try to solve.
So that’s why i feel my IQ lies between 115~120: I’m a quick learner, but have my limitations. I can become almost anything i want to (by the way i want to be a scientist), but i have to work a lot harder than people with IQ higher than 130 if i want to achieve the same results.
My questions which i mentioned are: Do anyone feel the same way? If so, do you know a way to improve? Is my memory what decreases my IQ by some points?

I've had a bunch of chronic, non-specific symptoms my entire life that doctors have never quite been able to get to the bottom of. In many cases it's quite hard to get taken seriously. I live in the UK so I get mostly free access to healthcare but what exactly I get access to depends heavily on whether or not my GP takes me seriously. There are private options too for certain things.
I've had asthma and hayfever from a young age (5 and 12 respectively), these are confirmed diagnoses. I also have confirmed allergies to certain grass and tree pollens, house dust mite, cat & dog dander. My only prescription drug is a combined inhaler (corticosteroid and LABA) for the asthma. Once a day normally, twice a day during grass pollen season.
I also take a daily antihistamine - Cetirizine 5mg daily. Smallest tablets are 10mg so I cut them in half and take one in the evening from April - August, or when my histamine-related symptoms are causing problems. I've settled on 5mg cetirizine after years of trial and error with different antihistamines and different doses. Loratadine had too many side effects, fexofenadine did nothing for my symptoms. 1st gen antihistamines wipe me out. 5mg cetirizine is the sweet spot between symptom relief and the side effects I usually get on most antihistamines (namely, drowsiness and fatigue). They help keep my sinuses clear, stabilise my mood and most of the time, allow me to get a full night's sleep. I also take melatonin 5mg most nights for sleep.
The symptoms I've been experiencing over my life are:

• Chronic fatigue - working a 40h week full time job leaves me exhausted, I have no social life and few hobbies outside of work because of this. 30h a week or less is good for me but it's hard to support myself on less-than-full-time hours and have any chance of financial independence in the future
• Brain fog - on my good days I'm pretty intelligent and creative, quick to learn new things, but on my bad days my brain just refuses to work, on really bad days I can't even focus on watching a film or TV show without zoning out every few minutes
• Upper respiratory tract symptoms related to asthma and hayfever, chronically obstructed nose/inflamed turbinates, ear 'popping' when it gets bad, intermittent cough and sore throat
• Chronic dry, sticky eyes
• Generalised muscle aches and pains, mild most days but I've had really bad days when my entire upper back/neck has just become stiff and very painful for no identifiable reason, after waking up. Also used to always get leg pain and terrible headaches the day after drinking beer (even if I didn't drink much), but I don't drink much alcohol any more
• Generalised itching on bad days - this is much less of a problem with daily cetrizine
• Insomina, used to be a big problem for me but I've kept this under control with cetirizine, melatonin and good sleep hygiene.
• Gastrointestinal symptoms - these come and go in phases and I suspect they are strongly related to gut & microbiome health

I spent years trying to solve this problem, been diagnosed with depression, tried on 4 different antidepressants of various doses which never fixed the underlying problem. I do have psychological trauma from my childhood that has been kicking my arse my whole life but no amount of antidepressants or CBT have ever fixed that underlying problem. I've recently been made aware that psychological trauma is connected to bodily inflammation/immune dysregulation though, so that could be a potential angle. My symptoms do tend to get worse during/after periods of stress.
About 5 years ago I discovered histamine intolerance and it tied so many pieces of the puzzle together, i.e., why my (non-hayfever) symptoms got so much worse during pollen season, why antihistamines stabilised my mood, why I felt so awful the day after consuming certain types of food and drink, why my sleep quality was so poor (CNS histamine plays an important role in the sleep/wake cycle)
It was a breakthrough for me because it allowed me to start taking steps that have actually lead to a noticeable increase in my quality of life. Before that, I was stuck and frustrated.
I dived further into the role of histamine in the body, how it's produced and metabolised.
Most people's HIT is a result of DAO insufficiency in the digestive system, but I knew this wasn't my main issue, because my gastro-intestinal symptoms are relatively mild and intermittent, my main symptoms are related to systemic histamine overload, especially in the brain and central nervous system.
Essentially - my issues with histamine are two-fold. Too much histamine coming in, and too little going out.

1. Too much in because of my allergies, constantly triggering an inflammatory response and resulting in the release of histamine from mast cells.
2. Too little going out because, most likely, I have some kind of HMNT dysfunction that slows the rate at which my body is able to actually process all the circulating histamine molecules.

I've been able to successfully address point 1) by reducing exposure to environmental allergens. Getting a large, HEPA air-purifier in my bedroom made a significant difference to my quality of life. It gives me at least 8 hours of respite a day from all the little things floating around in the air that make me feel ill but doesn't solve the fact that I'm still breathing all this stuff in at work. Changing my diet has also helped - avoiding high-histamine aged & fermented foods, wine, beer and aged spirits.
Tried Keto and Low-FODMAP diets when my gastro-intestinal symptoms were bad but didn't experience any improvement in any of my symptoms. So far I've found the best diet for my overall wellbeing to be a mostly whole-food plant based diet with lots of fresh fruit, especially raw apples, and occasional oily fish (sardines, brisling, mackerel) and shellfish.
I've also found 2:1 intermittent fasting useful for good digestion, gut health and preventing weight gain.
I've also lived in three different countries, in a bunch of different environments, and noted major differences in my well-being depending on where I am. I tend to feel better in drier climates, near the sea (ideally where the prevailing wind blows from sea-to-land) or at higher altitudes. High humidity and dampness tend to make me feel worse, especially in poor quality housing with damp and mould problems.
Regarding 2) and HMNT - I've tried to confirm this through genetic testing and uploading my 23&me raw genome data to Geneticlifehacks.com . Unfortunately I only have data for one of the SNPs related to HMNT:
"rs1050891 A AG Reduced breakdown of serum histamine"
To get the rest of the data I would probably need to do full genome sequencing, which is expensive and likely wouldn't teach me anything I don't already know, just confirm some pre-existing ideas.
I'm trying to figure out how else I can make myself feel relatively normal and not chronically exhausted.
A few ideas I want to try:

• Immunotherapy for grass and dust allergies. Available privately through https://smartallergysolutions.co.uk/ In the UK this is a 3 year course of treatment that costs over £3000 - I'm on a fairly average income for the UK, £3000 is a lot for someone like me, but if it might drastically improve my health it could be worthwhile.
• Probiotics to heal my gut biome. There's a German brand of probiotics available: FurstenMED Bifidoflor HIT, specifically tailored for people with histamine intolerance. Contains the following strains; lactobacillus gasseri, lactobacillus rhamnosus, lactobacillus salivarius & bifidobacterium longum, infantis, breve, and bifidum.
• Supplement stack - quercetin and bromelain to inhibit histamine release. Creatine, choline, vitamin C, B vitamin complex, zinc and magnesium to support MTHFR and methylation
• In the long-term - moving into a relatively new, well-insulated and ventilated property, I don't need a lot of space as I'm very minimalistic but it's important to have good air quality. But I need to be in a more financially stable situation before I can settle down long term.

I wonder if anyone else finds this all to be relatable, and what your insights are? Any ideas to try that I haven't thought about?

Picked up this game just a couple days ago from a reccomendation and been having quite a bit of fun, however I'm at a point where I'm not sure how to solve a certain type of puzzle I keep seeing all over the world, one that I'm going to call "Tetris columns" for lack of a better name.
For context, I've made it quite far in the game I believe, having collected 31 yellow cubes +6 fragments 11 anticubes, and I'm on New Game+, so I'd like to think I've gotten basically all of the map unlocked, and there is one room in the door that required 8 cubes that seems to be trying to tell me what to do with the Tetris columns but either it's incomplete and/or I'm missing something either there or somewhere else. So if I could have a gentle pointer on what I might be missing, that would be helpful, thanks!

Chapter 1
Scene 1
Sunlight streamed through the windows of my modern apartment as I meticulously folded clothes and packed my bags, the anticipation of an upcoming trip tingling in the air. The day seemed ordinary enough until the doorbell shattered the tranquility.

Startled, I hurried to answer it, only to find Elena bursting into the house with her usual exuberance. She was a whirlwind of energy, her long chestnut hair tied back in a messy ponytail, her bright blue eyes sparkling with excitement. Her olive skin glowed with vitality, and her infectious smile lit up the room.

"Peter, what took you so long to answer?" she exclaimed, her voice carrying a mix of impatience and amusement as she took in the array of luggage before me.

I shrugged, avoiding her gaze. "Just packing for a trip."

Elena scoffed, her voice laced with sarcasm. "Immigrating, are we?" She scanned the room before turning her attention back to me. "Seriously, though, what's with all the luggage?"

I chuckled at her bluntness. "You know me, always overpacking."

She rolled her eyes, reaching for her phone and cranking up the volume on her favorite song. The heavy riff of "Passenger" by Deftones filled the room, adding a pulsating rhythm to our conversation.

Taking a seat at the cluttered kitchen table, Elena flashed me a mischievous grin. "I came to hang out with my friend. Is that a crime?"

I raised an eyebrow, eyeing her suspiciously.

Elena's laughter filled the room, unapologetic. "Okay, you caught me. I need your help." Despite my curiosity, apprehension flickered, yet her sparkling eyes drew me in. "Come on, Peter," she urged. "I promise it'll be worth your while."

"What do you need me for?" I asked, unable to resist her infectious enthusiasm.

Elena's brows furrowed, and she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I was hired by a family in Silverlake to find their missing daughter, Emily. She disappeared without a trace, and I've been investigating this case for weeks. But I have zero leads."

I frowned. "And you think I can help?"

Elena nodded eagerly. "You're one of the best investigative journalists I know, Peter. Your skills are exactly what we need to crack this case wide open."

"I promised my mom I'd spend a vacation with her. I leave in 2 days. I'm sorry, I cannot help you," I said firmly, my resolve wavering in the face of Elena's determination.

"In 2 DAYS AND YOU'RE PACKING FROM NOW?!" Elena exclaimed incredulously.

"Well, I've got to be well prepared," I defended with a shrug, trying to downplay the urgency of the situation.

"This will be over in less than 2 days. All I need from you is to help me identify her last known location when she disappeared and any digital data you could find linked to her disappearance. Do that for me, and you can continue with your plan," Elena bargained, her eyes pleading with urgency.

I hesitated, torn between my obligations to my family and the pressing need to help Elena solve this mystery.

"Well, you could get that from CCTV cameras and her social media, what do you need me for?" I asked, raising my voice slightly to be heard over the blaring chorus of "Passenger."

The heavy guitars and pounding drums filled the room, drowning out Elena's next words as she searched my face for a response. "Well, don't you think I tried that?" she retorted, frustration evident in her voice. "I couldn't get access to CCTV footage, and her social media revealed nothing. I need a deeper search into the digital landscape, and you're the one I trust the most with this."

"One thing is never enough for you, though. You have a way of always pulling me with you, and I really need this. My mother needs me right now. I haven't seen her since the funeral, and I cannot let her down," I said, my voice cracking with emotion.

Elena's expression softened, her eyes reflecting understanding. She reached out and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "I get it, Peter. Family comes first. But think about it, helping me could bring closure to another family who's desperate for answers."

Her words struck a chord within me, igniting a sense of duty and purpose that I couldn't ignore.

Taking a deep breath, I nodded slowly.

I grabbed a notebook and a pen, my determination solidifying as I focused on the task at hand. "I'll do it for the girl's family."

A flicker of relief crossed Elena's face, her shoulders sagging slightly as she realized I was onboard. "Thank you, Peter," she said, her voice tinged with gratitude.

"The town of Silverlake, where Emily had disappeared, was 140 miles away. It was a daunting distance, but one that felt insignificant in the face of the urgency of the situation. Little did I know, Emily wasn't the only one missing. There was a series of disappearances in Silverlake that had gone unnoticed until now."

With a shared glance, Elena and I made an unspoken agreement. We would go to Silverlake, together, to start investigating immediately.

Scene 2
As Elena and I approached the reception desk, the polished tiles of the lobby floor echoed softly beneath our steps, carrying an air of anticipation. The lobby itself exuded a quiet elegance, bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sunlight streaming through the expansive windows. A gentle hum of activity filled the space, punctuated by the occasional rustle of papers.

The receptionist, a woman with an air of indifference, glanced up from her notebook as we approached. Her eyes, cool and assessing, swept over us before settling on Elena with a hint of curiosity. "How can I help you, dear?" she asked, her voice monotone yet tinged with a subtle edge of detachment.

Elena, undeterred by the receptionist's demeanor, greeted her with a warm smile that illuminated her features. "We're in need of a room for my friend here," she said, gesturing towards me with a nod of her head. "He'll be staying with us."

The receptionist's expression remained unchanged as she reached for another key, her movements precise and methodical. Retrieving the key, she handed it to me with a detached air. "Room 204, second floor, fourth room on the right," she repeated mechanically, her attention already drifting back to her notebook as if our presence was of little consequence.

As I accepted the key, my gaze was drawn to a striking symbol adorning the wall beside the reception desk – the Eye of Horus. Etched in gold against a backdrop of deep blue, its intricate design seemed to watch over the lobby with an enigmatic presence, casting a subtle aura of mystery over the space.

"it's all over the place in here they believe it protects them from evil" Elena shrugged, noticing my gaze lingering on the Eye of Horus.

I nodded thoughtfully, intrigued by the symbolism woven into the fabric of the hotel. "Interesting," I murmured.

With the key in hand, I turned to follow Elena as she led the way towards the staircase, the soft echo of our footsteps mingling with the hushed whispers of the hotel's guests. As we ascended the stairs.

As Elena entered the room, she immediately shed her coat and rushed to the counter, grabbing her phone. Without pause, the familiar strains of Metallica's "Master of Puppets" filled the room, blasting at an ear-splitting volume.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at Elena's predictable ritual.

"Okay, Mr. P, we have no time to waste," Elena declared over the blaring music, oblivious to my annoyance. "Grab your notebook and let's start with the case."

"Emily's disappearance was the initial focus of my investigation," Elena began, her eyes reflecting the seriousness of the matter. "According to her family, Emily was extremely close to her mother. Her life seemed to be on track, with a successful career in marketing and a new boyfriend. However, her parents didn't approve of her relationship with Matthew, citing him as a point of contention."

She paused, her gaze drifting as if searching for the right words to convey the complexity of the situation. "The police initially dismissed Emily's disappearance as a case of a young woman running away, especially since Matthew was also missing."

Elena's voice wavered slightly, betraying the weight of the uncertainty surrounding Emily's fate. "For a while, I entertained the possibility that Emily had indeed chosen to leave her life behind. But then, three days ago, another woman disappeared under similar circumstances."
"And where is Matthew?" I interjected, my mind grappling with the complexities of the case. "His friends and family filed a missing persons report on him as well. He disappeared one day before Emily. But there's no reason to think of him as a suspect, is there?"

Elena's expression darkened, mirroring the shadow of uncertainty that clouded my thoughts. "That's the perplexing part," she replied, her voice tinged with frustration. "All three people disappeared without a trace. One moment they were there, and the next... poof, disappeared as if they've been captured by ghosts."

Her words sent a chill down my spine, and I couldn't shake off the sense of foreboding that gripped me. It was as if we were peering into the abyss of the unknown, where answers remained elusive and danger lurked in the shadows.

As my mind raced, struggling to contain the torrent of thoughts swirling within, I sought desperately for patterns amidst the chaos. With furrowed brow, I turned to Elena, my voice trembling with urgency.

"Is there any connection between the third woman who disappeared and Emily or Matthew?" I inquired, grasping at straws in the hopes of unraveling the enigma before us.

Elena shook her head solemnly, her eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation. "No," she replied, her voice tinged with frustration. "The third woman is a 50-year-old, last seen exiting her workplace at the quaint bistro, La Petite Cuisine, and heading home."

The revelation sent a shiver down my spine, the realization sinking in that the disappearances were not isolated incidents but part of a larger, more sinister web of mystery. As I pondered the implications, a sense of unease settled over me, the unknown looming ominously on the horizon like a gathering storm.

"Listen, P," Elena's urgency resonated in her voice as she spoke, her words cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. "I acquired CCTV footage of Emily's last sighting, and that's what I need you for."

Without a moment's hesitation, she raced to retrieve her laptop, returning with it clutched tightly in her grasp. With a sense of urgency, she opened the device, revealing the footage of Emily walking down a seemingly ordinary square, her demeanor betraying no hint of the impending turmoil.

But then, like a sudden storm on a clear day, a police patrol car flashed across the screen, casting a shadow of doubt over the otherwise mundane scene. "That means the police have more information on Emily's last movements," I realized, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach.

In a voice tinged with frustration, Elena explained her futile attempts to obtain a statement from the police, leaving us stranded in a sea of uncertainty. It was a crucial piece of the puzzle that remained tantalizingly out of reach, teasing us with its elusiveness.

Turning to me with pleading eyes, Elena's hand reached out to grasp my arm, her wide eyes locking with mine in an unspoken plea. "I need you to secure an interview with the chief of police or any detective working the case," she implored, her voice soft but desperate. "You could still go on your awaited vacation with your mum afterward."

Her touch sparked a fire within me, "alright el I'll think of a plan but I need some rest first, maybe we could meet at the lobby after 2 hours?"

"Thank you, Peter, for real," Elena's gratitude washed over me, momentarily easing the weight of the task ahead. "Also, two hours sharp, don't be late, ey?"

I offered her a reassuring smile, my resolve firm. "I am always on time," I assured her, though a flicker of uncertainty danced behind my eyes.

"Yeah, right," Elena retorted sarcastically, her skepticism evident as she exited the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

As the door clicked shut behind her, a sense of apprehension settled over me like a heavy shroud. Contemplation mingled with reservation, and a hint of fear gnawed at the edges of my mind.
Scene 3
As Elena departed, I surveyed the room. It bore the marks of neglect, with faded wallpaper peeling at the edges and worn furniture showing signs of age. The bed, positioned against one wall, appeared tired and weathered, its mattress sagging in the middle and the sheets bearing wrinkles. Above the bed, an out-of-place symbol caught my attention once again - the Eye of Horus, its intricate design etched into a wooden plaque and mounted on the wall.

Feeling the weight of exhaustion settle upon me, I sank onto the bed, craving a moment of respite. Before I could even settle in, the insistent ring of my phone shattered the silence. With a resigned sigh, I reached for the device, noting the caller ID - it was my mother, FaceTiming me.

I answered her call, greeted by the warm glow of her smile radiating through the screen. Our exchange of greetings was laced with the gentle familiarity of mother and son.

"Hello, dear," she chimed, "So, you finally found some time to visit your old mum, did you? How kind of you."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, accustomed to the underlying reproach that often accompanied her affectionate words. "Yes, Mom," I replied, trying to mask the unease in my voice with forced cheerfulness. "I'm looking forward to spending some time with you."

Her smile widened. "Well, I'll believe it when I see it," she quipped, her words laden with a veiled challenge. "Don't keep me waiting too long now. You know how precious my time is."

"Are you calling me just to do that?" I interjected, a hint of frustration creeping into my voice.

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Do what, dear?" she inquired innocently.

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat as I grappled with the swirling emotions inside me. "Never mind, Mom," I murmured, a wave of guilt washing over me for even entertaining the notion of confronting her.

But before I could retract my statement, her expression softened, and her voice took on a tone of vulnerability that caught me off guard. "Listen, Peter, I'm sorry," she began, her words tinged with a hint of sadness. "I just miss you. You don't call enough, and it feels like there's nothing for us to talk about. I just..."

Her voice trailed off, leaving the weight of her unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between us. In that moment, I felt a pang of sympathy for the woman on the other end of the line, grappling with her own insecurities and yearning for connection in the only way she knew how.

"I understand," I replied softly, feeling a surge of empathy. "I've been too caught up in my work, but that's why I decided to take this vacation. I've missed you too, Mom, and I really am looking forward to spending more time with you."

A genuine smile spread across my mother's face, her eyes lighting up with warmth and relief. "Oh, Peter, that's wonderful to hear!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine happiness. "I've missed you more than you know, dear. It's been too long since we've had a chance to catch up properly."

Before we could delve further into our conversation, my mother couldn't resist injecting a bit of her trademark humor. "Well, now that you're finally taking a break from work, maybe you'll have some time to find yourself a nice, not-at-all-crazy wife," she teased, a mischievous twinkle dancing in her eye.

Her playful jab elicited a hearty chuckle from me, knowing full well it was all in good fun. "We'll see, Mom," I replied with a laugh, shaking my head affectionately. "But for now, I think I'll focus on spending time with my favorite woman - you."

With a heartwarming laugh, my mother waved goodbye, her parting words carrying a hint of playful insistence. "Don't forget to keep your eyes open, Peter! You never know when Mrs. Right might come along," she quipped before ending the call, leaving me smiling at her enduring humor and unwavering love.

As she hung up, the old bed's worn embrace felt oddly inviting. I sank into its tired folds, finding unexpected comfort in its familiarity, and drifted into a well-deserved sleep.

scene 4

The sound of my alarm rang, and I half-opened my eyes, seeing only in black and white. I hit snooze and repeated the process five times until I finally woke up. I hoped Elena wouldn’t get mad at me for being late. The bed squeaked as I got up, and I hastily washed my face. As I turned on the water tap, I noticed water droplets leaking from the sides.

"Jeez, this place needs serious renovations," I muttered to myself.

I walked to the lobby, only to meet Elena.

"Hi, El," I said, bracing myself for Elena to scold me for my lateness.

"Hello, Peter," she replied in a low voice. She seemed to be staring at a void behind me, her face expressionless and still. I took a step closer to her.

"El, you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, all is good. Uhm, weren't you supposed to leave for a trip to see your mom?"

"Well, yeah, in two days. I'll help you with this thi—" I began, confusion visible on my face, but Elena interrupted me. Her voice was firm, yet she avoided making eye contact.

"No, Peter, it's fine. I've thought about it, and I don't need your help anymore. You can go."

"I am not your toy, Elena. You can't just make me travel with you and then ask me to leave before I even get the chance to do anything," I snapped, my anger blinding me to the obvious. There was something Elena was hiding, and I needed to be calm to understand what was going on.

I tried to salvage the situation by apologizing and reassuring her that I was by her side, but it was too late. Elena's eyes welled up with tears. "I'm sorry, but please, Peter, leave. Go on your trip," she said, storming out of the lobby.

As she left, I noticed a necklace with the Eye of Horus dangling around her neck. Why does Elena wear this, and why is this place filled with an ancient Egyptian symbol? I froze, unsure of what to do. As I ran after Elena, desperation gnawed at my insides. She wasn't in front of the lobby anymore. I hopped into my car and started scouring the streets, telling myself she couldn't have gone too far.

I drove down every street, checked every alley, but Elena was nowhere to be found. Panic rose within me, and my breath quickened as I frantically tried to contact her, only to find her phone out of service.

Finally, I parked in front of an old bar. It was midnight by now, and the place was bustling with people. As I entered, I was greeted by a middle-aged man with a full beard. "Hey, newcomer, welcome to the Allure Bar," he slurred, his breath heavy with alcohol. He introduced himself as Michael Convivial, the owner of the bar, and offered me a shot on the house since it was my first time there.

"I didn't come here for the drinks," I said, the song 'What Am I to You' playing softly in the background. I showed him a photo of Elena, and he instantly recognized her, laughing as he muttered something I couldn't quite catch.

"That crazy girl who still hopes," he said, his speech slurred. He mentioned that he last saw her two days ago.

As I stepped out of the bar and headed towards my car, a ping from my phone startled me. It was a message from an unknown ID, accompanied by a chilling photo. In it, Elena lay unconscious, her Eye of Horus necklace smashed beside her. The caption sent shivers down my spine: "Listen to Elena, outsider. Get out of Silverlake and don't get involved in a fight you've got nothing to do with."

Dread washed over me as I stared at the image, my mind racing with questions.

As my fingers moved almost of their own accord, typing out a message, my mind raced with a mixture of fear and determination.

"I don't know who you are, but I will soon, and I will make you pay," I wrote, my fingers trembling slightly as I pressed send. "You've made it personal by kidnapping Elena, and I won't let you hurt her even more, you hear me?!"

Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared at the screen. I never knew I cared for Elena this deeply until this moment. The thought of her in danger filled me with a sense of fierce protectiveness, driving me to do whatever it takes to bring her back safely.

I wrote these thoughts a few weeks ago when I did them.
“Novus is literally a new game being redone. Not liking new content is part of the process, as the community is anticipating horrible changes, and crown sales just weren’t happening. Show UV maps. I loved this world, it is my favorite, until Wallaru. Nightmare is hitting 21 and drinking for the first time, blacked out not knowing where you are. I’ll have to look into the bosses and what they might mean.”
“Arcane Toad (Freddie Kroaker) is a check for solo Storm wizards
Here is how the fight goes down as a solo storm, and how they want you to use your brain to beat it.
Every 4 turns, starting round 1, he casts a “Nightmare” curse which gives you a -45% accuracy debuf and a stun shield which marks you for getting hit by a powerful death spell every single turn.
He is storm, so he has resist, and he hits hard. Running feint feint hit won’t cut it, because you’ll be dead. Even with the minions gone, he will out chip damage you at this point regardless of your damage/resist ratio. This is a literal check to where Storm wizards CANNOT solo this boss unless they think. So I thought.
I remember my boy cleanse ward. It’s a myth spell, and cannot be trained, and tc’s basically don’t exist. but there is an amulet with it in the bazaar, so I used it. But I had to restart because the -45% made me fizzle. So it’s both a gamble to go first and then cast. But once I did, he cheat casted an aura which removed the nightmare cheat entirely and I whooped his ass.
All the boss fights are set up like this in the later worlds, where you will hit snags that could easily be solved by another player, or it’s a puzzle to be solved by a solo player who knows the game really well.
School pips also factor into this a lot. The fights are structured to screw you over if you have 6 pips instead of 7 to cast your aoe at this particular time. It didn’t really dawn on me how much of w101 is controlled and the extent of awareness KI has on the gear sets until I played these later worlds where more than damage matters.”
Hey Freddie.

A friend bought me a mefferts skewb ultimate and I have yet to find the resource online that I have the patience (or brains?) for.
I'm looking for an in-person training from someone who can solve this thing. I'm a father of two who has managed to learn and teach how to solve the 3x3 and the 4x4 and the 5x5 rubiks cubes, but this thing is truly pissing me off.
I've already asked at the chess store Het Paard if they know anyone, they said no...
Are there any cube liefhebber clubs in Amsterdam?
There must be someone who can easily help me solve this thing. I can tell it's probably pretty easy, but I don't have the brain power anymore and my children have lost interest in these things. ... anyway, I can't just NOT solve it, right?