The Dark Somnium - I'm Being Hunted Across Realities (Full Story)

Episode Date: April 23, 2024

This is the Full Compilation of The Ghost Tree Series i did, I hope you enjoy this series, let me know what you think! Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Hello everyone, I hope you're having a good New Year's. So this is the full compilation of the Ghost Tree series that I did that has four stories in it. I'll be sure to have time stamps in the video so you can see which one is playing. And one thing about this video, the second part of this story I actually did about two years ago. So in that version, Dexter from the channel you might know him, he plays a character named Solomon, and then in a different part of the story I do that voice. But yeah, I'm excited to see what you all think of the series. Make sure to leave a comment letting me know.

And with that said, enjoy the story. Journal Entry 1. So I just found a strange note in the basement. It is just one sentence, and it says, Come live in the ashes of my heart. Weird, right? It's a bit of strange excitement, but I don't think it's enough to get me out of this funk.

I moved into this house two days ago, and already I regret it. I'm tired and filthy. But that's not the problem. And the house itself, while very old and sometimes creepy, is also very beautiful in a lot of ways. It's certainly nicer than anywhere I've ever lived before, even if that isn't saying much. And what I just found in the basement is the most interesting thing I've run across in a long time. The problem is that I never should have moved here with Phil.

After being with him for two years, I knew in the back of my head that there were problems that went beyond the new. normal growing pains of a relationship. I think Phil knows it too. And that's why he suggested the move to a new state, as though the stress of moving and the isolation of a new town was going to somehow bond us closer together rather than driving us apart. But let me be clear, Phil is a good guy. He drinks too much at times, and he doesn't always have the best judgment. But he's generally responsible, kind, and loyal. I just don't think he's the right person for me. I knew it before I agreed to move. I knew it when we closed on the house. And I certainly know it now. Sitting in a room packed with boxes stuffed full of reminders of our lives. But still, I can't put all the blame on him.

I was fool enough to go along with it, both of us playing relationship chicken, revving our engines, careening towards each other faster and faster, daring the other to be the one that says, no, that's enough. This isn't working anymore. And I think I'm just about there. I started keeping this journal based on a self-help book I read once that said when you have a difficult decision to make, journaling to keep track of your thoughts and feelings over time can help you see the objective reality of your inner self, better than relying purely on memory and your subjective thoughts and feelings at any given time. So that's what I'm going to do for the next few days. And when I look back at it, if I'm still feeling like I do right now, I'm going to tell Phil it's over. But back to what I just

found in the basement. First, you need to understand that when I say this house is old, I mean, it is old. I don't know a ton about styles of houses, but the realtor said that it was Victorian style and may have been built during the Victorian era, as the land records for the area's first account for the house in 1884. But that's also how far back the local records go for anything, and the house was already here, so it's hard to say when it was actually built. In any case, like I said, the house is beautiful. It's made out of light gray brick, with dark gray fans of shingles draping the various peaks and curves of its roof, like the feathers of some large, wintry bird. And the rooms inside are a strange mix of large open spaces, tight alcoves, and

hallways. And while the entire house has a certain weight to it, I kind of chalk it up to it being so old. and most of the weird feelings I get come from when I'm in the basement anyway. The basement is surprisingly clean, being compromised of two large rooms devoid of any furnishings, except for a row of empty gun racks that are built into one wall. My initial thought was to replace them with bookshelves at some point, but now I'm starting to wonder if I'll be here long enough for it to matter. Anyway, enough about that.

It's time to talk about the note I found. So I was moving some of the boxes down here when I noticed something sticking out of one of the walls. It was a piece of folded paper, so yellowed with age that I was afraid it was going to crumble when I opened it. It held, however, and I saw written inside that single line and beautiful handwriting. Come live in the ashes of my heart. I checked the place in the brick I had pulled it from and saw there was a gap in the mortar. I didn't look closely at the time because of the lighting,

but I think I'm going back down there with a flashlight to check it out again. Something is weird about that room anyway. I haven't measured it, but I would swear that it is several feet shorter than the other room. And while there are reasons that could be the case, I almost feel like the brick wall with the note was built later than the rest to divide the basement. The brick looks slightly different than the rest. or at least I think it does. Who knows?

I'll write more when I'm done checking it out. If I'm going to write this stuff down, I would like it to be more than just my complaining about my boyfriend problems. Shit, I'm so lonely out here. And my job doesn't start for two weeks. Anyway, signing off for now. Journal entry too. There's something behind that wall.

I went back down there, shined a flashlight into the gap in the mortar, and it goes all the way through. The hole was too small for me to see and shine the light at the same time, so I got a screwdriver and poked out some more of the mortar until I could remove the brick. I couldn't see much, but there's definitely another room over there, and I thought I saw a part of a bed frame. About that time is when I heard Phil coming in upstairs. For some reason, I didn't want him to know about it yet, didn't want to share me. my discovery. I had the uncharitable thought that I didn't want him to fill all over it, which is a general phrase I sometimes think of when he gets involved in some conversation or

activity and just lessens it somehow. I sound like a bitch right now. I don't mean it like that. I just mean that he can't just enjoy something strange like this. He has an almost hostile reaction to things he doesn't understand, and he would immediately want to either dismiss it or come up with some rational explanation. I just want to savor the mystery of it, even if just for a little while. I put the brick back quickly and went upstairs, managing to avoid mentioning the note or the hidden room I had just found without strictly lying to him. I'm writing this before heading to bed, and I already have plans to go by a sledgehammer in the morning. I'm going to see what's in that room. Journal Entry 3.

So breaking down a brick wall, even an old and slightly crumbly one, is harder than I thought it would be. I kind of assumed that since I had so little trouble getting the one brick-free, the rest would crumble in pretty easily. But not so much. I went to a local hardware store and bought a small sledgehammer, avoiding the cashier's chipper questions about what a little lady like myself was going to use such a big hammer for. and when I got back to the house, I went to work on the wall immediately. The biggest problem wasn't swinging it. It's heavy, but I'm in good shape, and I made sure I could swing it well before I bought it. The problem is the vibration.

Every time it hit the bricks, shock waves went up my arms all the way to my shoulders. I put on some gardening gloves I rooted out of a box in the garage, and it helped a little. but my hands were still buzzing and numb by the time I was done. Still, after a little over an hour, the wall was about third gone, which was more than enough to let me in and allow in more light. I'd also picked up a small electric lantern at the store, and when I turned it on, it sent a wash of cold, white light out across the dark contours of the hidden room. What I had seen before was a bed, a rusty ironed frame bed,

a thin mattress that was half black with rot. Next to the bed was a wooden nightstand that contained a few candle stubs and holders on small plates, and against one wall was a cedar chest with what looked like some kind of leather-bound notebook sitting on top of it. My heart was in my throat at this point. I'd either found an old bedroom that had been walled up without ever being cleaned out, or I had found where someone had been imprisoned at some point. I consider calling the police, but there was no sign of a body, and there was such a sense of age and musty disuse here, that I felt sure that any victims, if there were any, would be long gone by now anyway. I was doing another sweep of the room with the lantern and my flashlight.

When I saw the shape of a man, I screamed, dropping the lantern and backing toward the opening in the wall. Then I realized what I was seeing wasn't an actual man. It was the silhouette of a man painted or burned into the far wall. My breathing still quick and painful. I looked around for several moments to make sure that I wasn't mistaken, and there wasn't some stranger in that abandoned room with me. But I saw nothing.

Bending down, I got the lantern and gave a quick peek to the empty space underneath the bed and nightstand table, before standing and walking to the silhouette. Up close, I could see. see that it looked less like paint or burning, and more like a form of mold or rot, though it was still undeniably in the shape of a man, half a foot taller than myself and half again as broad. When I reached out to touch the black area where its chest would be, the wall had a slight sponginess to it that made me pull back my finger quickly. Wiping my hand on my pants, I went over to the chest and sat the leather book aside.

inside the chest were clothes, most the size for a man, though some towards the bottom did look somewhat smaller. All of them were in surprisingly good condition, particularly given how old-fashioned they looked. I felt a strange kind of guilt going through those clothes, as though I was prying into the private world of a stranger. I guess in some ways I was. But time had made the point moot all the same. There was nothing left but there was nothing left but this dark room and a handful of belongings left behind. And of course, that book. I picked up the book and stepped back into the main part of the basement, where the light was better. The book seemed to be pristine, with signs of age, but none of mold or decay. There was a leather cord tying it

shut. As I gently unwelne the cord and open the book, I could smell not only the leather and the pages, but I imagined I could smell the owner of the book as well, a masculine smell, a good smell that made the experience of holding the book and seeing the words written on the first page more personal, more powerful than I can really describe. The handwriting was the same as the note I had found stuck in the wall. It said, the last testament of Justin Paring, completed June 12th, 1909 may this find its way into kinder hands than I have known I'm about to start reading it and I will try to transcribe it here as soon as possible this feels so important I'm going to have to explain the room to

fill when he sees the wall but for now at least this book is going to stay a secret until next time journal keep my secrets for me journal entry four As I write this, I am a 21-year-old man of what I believe to be sound mind and firm spiritual foundation. Despite what I have been told over these last eight years, I am not insane, and I am not possessed by the devil or any of his lesser imps. To the contrary, even now I hold much love in my heart, with no small portion still being afforded to my tormentors.

My parents and brother, though many of their acts would aptly be described as evil, are not bad people. Misguided and fearful, yes, but I do believe that they still have goodness in them. I am given food and water, candles, and occasionally a book to read, or some scraps of paper to write upon. I have developed a persistent cough in the last year, and I fear that lack of sunlight and the pervasive dampness of this sealed-away space are slowly doing damage that time and medicine may not be able to reverse. I know I get sores at times from my infrequent ability to bathe, and the twin stenches of myself and the waist bucket in the corner are imperceptible to me now. I try to separate my hate from my situation from those that caused it, and most of the time I think I succeed.

My hope is that writing this will help further. I turned 21 two weeks ago, and as a gift, my brother John gave me this notebook and a new set of Waterman safety pens. I didn't know such a thing existed, and it is truly wonderful to have such a convenient writing tool. I cried at the kindness, and outside my room, John looked in and smiled his sad smile as I crouched in the dark, clutching this book and softly weeping as our mother began to close the door for the day. I don't have much dignity left at this point.

Dignity is like a plant. Much as a plant needs sunlight and oxygen, dignity needs an audience and hope. When you are completely isolated, when you move past the idea of ever really escaping the black hole you are in, you find yourself quickly shedding things like dignity. My primary reason for living has been a base animal drive to survive and my internal world. I had always had a powerful imagination, and in this purgatory I have spent many hours far away in some distant land of my own creation. I love to write as well, but since my imprisonment, it has been rare that. that I had had enough paper to write much at any length. That, and the act of kindness behind it,

is what made the book and pen such a wonderful gift to me. Yet when I got them, I found I had trouble finding things to write about. After three days of trying, a realization struck me. My imagination was starting to wither and die, too. This thought terrified me in a way that losing my liberty and dignity had not. It was the final bulwark I had against abject despair. The last remaining island in a rising sea of insanity and death. If I lost the ability to escape into my mind, I would truly be lost.

It was six days ago that I first contemplated taking my life. For some reason, that may seem absurd, as I know many people have considered it or committed the act long before now. I would like to say that I had abstained because my deep moral reserves or my tantanic willpower, but neither would be the truth. In all honesty, the only reason I haven't taken my life before now is because of the ghost tree. I know I need to explain myself. And to do so in a clear fashion, I need to further elucidate how I came to be confined here,

a prisoner in the basement of my own home. It all began when I was eleven. The younger of two children and raised by strict but kind parents, I was still prone to frequent wanderings of thought and flights of fancy. I was a largely obedient child, and I had enough admiration for my own. brother and fearful respect for my parents that when I was rebuked for daydreaming or telling fantastic tales, I truly did try to curb those tendencies, or at least confine them to my own thoughts and late-night conversations with John.

I suppose that is why the trouble with the ghost tree caught me by surprise. When I woke up the day after Christmas and ran outside to play, I found a giant new tree near the edge of our yard. It stood out to me, not because of the oddity of a new tree suddenly appearing, but all Also, because it varied so much from any other tree we had, or that I'd ever seen. Where most of our trees were pine or oak, with the occasional sweetgum or poplar for variety's sake, this tree was something else entirely. It had a massive trunk that twisted and warped upon itself before breaking out into

at least twelve distinct branches of such girth and height that they all stood as substantial trees of their own. Coming off of these smaller trees were swirls of wood, the color of dark, and the dark, and red wine, and sweeping greens that looked more like storm clouds than the clumps of leaves that I suppose they were. I should be clear that from the start I had a sense of strangeness of that tree, but I also felt profound feelings of joy and excitement at its discovery and presence, as though some looming giant had settled in our yard, intent on a deep slumber while he guarded our home.

This thought was firmly in my mind as I ran to the tree and touched it. This bark felt strange, but was oddly solid, and under the canopy of its many arms, I could smell a warm spice smell unlike any I'd ever encountered. It made my head swim slightly, but not in an unpleasant way. The thought suddenly occurred to me that I might be the first one to discover it, and I couldn't wait to show John and my parents my proud accomplishment. Ten minutes later, my parents were walking back into the house, my father shaking his head disgustedly.

John was still outside with me. his face stricken with worry. He was two years older than me, but he never seemed like an older brother, except at times like this. It was the look he would get when he was afraid I was going to get in trouble, or when he couldn't understand something I was talking about, at which times he politely assumed that what I was saying was somehow wrong. I hated that look, but I understood it now.

None of them could see the tree. In the two years that followed, I would occasionally bring up the tree to them, and each time I was met with greater anger and rejection. I was told that I was to give up these childish games and fantasies, that my behavior was continuing to deteriorate, and I needed to start showing signs of growing up and becoming a man. Finally, my father, not the most emotional of men at the best times, struck me across the face one afternoon.

He had tears in his eyes when he did it, his voice carrying a note of raw desperation as he gripped my arms and gave me a light shake. He asked why I persisted with him. with this tree story and what they had done wrong for me to become as I was. Didn't I care how I upset my mother? Didn't I care what people in town said about my strange ways? What was I to say? His words would hurt far more when I was eleven, but I was growing thicker skin due to

the regular sharp words and scornful looks. Still, it did strike a nerve, him accusing me of not caring, of being so thoughtless. All while they blindly punished me for being so thoughtless. able to see something they cannot. So out of frustration and anger, out of a need to end the debate and the accusations once and for all, I did one thing I always held off from doing in anyone else's presence. I climbed the tree. I heard my father yelling for me to stop whatever I was doing, but even from his vantage on the front porch, I was only two feet up before he could tell at a distance that I was no longer touching the ground. His voice died in his chest, but it was too late. I was

now four feet up, and the earlier commotion had brought out Mama and John. I was focused on climbing the familiar bark of my special tree, the strangeness of scaling it during the daylight hours, or for an audience not lost on me, but of secondary importance. When I heard my mother let out a scream, I almost lost my grip. I shifted my feet and leaned against the nearest branch for a moment, catching my breath and my bearings. Turning to glance back at the house, I saw all three of them staring at me with abject horror. I considered going back down, but no, it was time for this to be done. So I continued to climb until I was over 30 feet up and perched like a raccoon on one of the tallest branches that could support my weight. It was strange, but despite my general

dislike of heights, I never felt scared climbing that tree. It made me feel invigorated as though I was taking part in some secret ritual of nature that was replenishing my body and soul. At the top, I took a moment to take in the sprawling land around us in the fading afternoon light. It was so beautiful. With more than a little reluctance, I turned my eyes back to my family, who sat huddled and broken on the front porch steps. My brother and father still watching me while my mother wept softly into her hands. I had always imagined their reaction being something like this. To them, I suppose it looked like I convulsed and left my way up a tower of nothing.

And now I sat perched in mid-air. I tried to give them a comforting smile, but I couldn't quite manage it, and they likely couldn't have seen it anyway. Instead, I planned to go down and explain to them that I was not making up the tree, and that just because they couldn't see it didn't mean it was imaginary or something to fear. Things went rather differently. As I made my last careful movements back down to the earth, I felt a rope around my neck.

I grabbed at it, losing my balance as I was tugged off my feet. It was John and my father. I fought, but it was a short contest. I tried to explain, but they would hear nothing more from me. I was locked in the basement that night, and by week's end, this room had been constructed, and I was told it would be my new home until I was released from the devil's clutches, as they said. I found all of this terrifying, of course, and I screamed and cried to be released, but it was no use. In the back of my mind, I also found it all very strange. And upon reflection, I find it even more so. My parents were religious people, as were John and I, but not overly so.

I'd never known my family to be prone to bouts of overzealous piety or religious hysteria. And while I had no doubt that what they had seen when I climbed the ghost tree was disturbing, I would never have thought them capable of anything approaching this, the abject abandonment an imprisonment of their own child. Yet I have no clear alternative answer for the past eight years. Their determination has never wavered, and I have never seen any real sign of hope from them that they would reach a point where they would release me. Rather, they move about like corpses, or hot air balloons floating on the buoyancy of sad acceptance

and insane conviction. They go through the routines and rituals of caring for me, the minimal amount that is required, I imagine they try their best to forget about me the rest of the time. Just as I can feel my memory of the world and all its colors and smells and sources of joy and imagination fading from me, I can only imagine I have faded away from the world, a ghost haunting the lowest chamber of this house and my family's minds. And as I have said previously, it was my knowledge and belief in the ghost tree that sustained me through all these dark years, the feeling that it was special, that it had some of the

somehow picked me, and that the magical connection between myself and it would bear more fruit than me dying in this makeshift cell. But still, I felt the last candle of even this secret hope guttering low, and then I saw the root poking through the wall. It was a tiny thing, three feet up the back wall of my room. It was impossible to see in the dark and easy to miss in the candlelight. When I saw it and recognized it as a root from the tree, I felt a thrill of excitement run through me. Reaching out a probing finger, I touched the tip of it gently and gasped at the rush of

energy that shot through me at the contact. Images and sounds flooded through my mind, and I felt a vitality returned to me that I hadn't known since my family had first betrayed me. My finger had come away from the root at the shock of that first touch. When I reached towards it again, I saw the route move to meet me. Holding my finger to it the second time was less shocking, but no less profound. I felt my mind. mind drifting as my eyes lost focus and my breath slowed. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, leaned forward with an index finger touching this strange plant, and as I watched, the wall in front of me seemed to melt away. It was no longer a brick wall, or even the bare earth behind it.

Instead, it was a large tunnel, a foot taller than I was, reaffed in roots from the ghost tree and filled with the sweet-smelling breeze. The smell was the most powerful part at the time, as though my body and mind were so starved for air that wasn't rancid and stale that the breeze from the tunnel sent me into a deep state of euphoria. I stood and walked into that tunnel without hesitation, unaware of where I was going, but resolute in my determination that any place had to be better than the one I was leaving behind. As you might imagine, I had much to learn. Journal Entry 5.

I've learned and experienced a lot more since I started transcribing just to be. and this record is quickly becoming more of an insurance policy for my safety than an outlet for some kind of relationship angst. I think I might be in real trouble here, and I don't understand what's going on. But before I go further into that, I will post the last portion of Justin's writings, and then come back after to explain what has happened since I first read it. When I entered the tunnel the first time, I walked for what seemed like hours. The path would slant up down, wind this way and that, but the strangest part was that I never grew tired, whether it was just my exacerbation at finally being free of that room, or something suffusing the sweet

air I was breathing. I went on until I reached a branching path. I took the right most of three options, and went on. Five more decisions later, always taking the rightmost path, and I found myself approaching a wall. I feared that my journey was either at an end or I would have to try to breach the wall to continue. But as I drew closer, it faded away, and my passage was clear. I was in a basement much like my own, but different in a variety of ways. There was no wall and door partitioning

part of this basement into a cell, and the space was entirely bare of any possessions or furniture. After glancing around the basement for a moment, I crept slowly up the steps and eased open the door to the kitchen. The room was bereft of any signs of life or habitation. The only noise was some distant sound from outside. Exploring the rest of the house, I found much the same. There were no signs of anyone living here. When I looked out the window upstairs, I began to understand why. This version of the house was sitting on the bedrock of a small island surrounded by blue sea as far as the eye could see. That wasn't entirely true, I suppose, as I could see a larger landmass near the edge of the horizon to the west, but that did nothing to change the fact

that this house was wholly isolated and remote. In the span of 30 minutes, I had walked the length and breadth of the island twice, and it confirmed my suspicion that I was alone in this corner of whatever strange world this might be. Well, almost alone. Two hundred yards from the house, the ghost trees stood proudly, its leaves blowing gently in the breeze coming off the water. It couldn't be the same tree, of course, yet at the same time, I felt sure it was. The tree was somehow connecting this place and where I was from, like an umbilical cord of some kind.

My mind was torn between taking in all the strange and beautiful sights and marveling at the implications of this hidden, alternate world. In the end, the joy of being in fresh air and sunlight won out. I spent an hour walking the small stretch of sandy beach in front of the house and looking at the exterior of the house itself. It was strange. The house was like mine, but it wasn't the house. the same. For one thing, it was in far too good a condition, with none of the age or damage

that had existed on mine when I last saw its outer walls. For another, there was no sign that a person had ever lived there at all. I saw no screws or nail holes, no faded stains from a piece of furniture or a plant. I had thought that this wasn't the house at all, but rather the idea of the house. The perfect ideal. The idea was compelling, and for some reason a temporary remolified my need for further explanation. Still, I couldn't stay here indefinitely. I still needed clean water and food, and I wanted to ensure I could find my way back to my world before I stayed too long here or elsewhere, if there were other worlds at the end of those other branching paths. With a heavy heart, I went back inside. Going back down into the basement was the hardest part,

but I forced myself down those steps and into that place that served as my hell in another version of the world. The wall began to resolve at my approach, and on impulse, I bent down and scratched the number two onto the floor in the area where the bed was in my version. I wanted to keep track if there were multiple places too similar to discern, and that seemed the best way on short notice. Then, with a deep breath, I walked back through the wall and into the tunnel. To my surprise, I backtracked rather easily, and within a few minutes I was walking back into my cell. After looking around the room briefly, to ensure it truly was my cell, I scratched a one into the floor beneath my bed.

I then laid down on my bed and began to formulate a plan. I would store up food and water for the next two days and then venture back out on the third. Ideally, I would either find tools in some other world to secure my freedom here, or find a world that would be more accepting of me than this one. Either way, the last two days have been the hardest of all my time here, I think. The anticipation of new places, of more freedom, is so wonderful I can hardly bear it. The fear that it won't work for me a second time, or that my plan will be discovered, fills me with the deepest dread.

But I am at the precipice now. I have made a crude supply bag out of my pillowcase, and the wall, which has been dormant for the last two days, is already fading away like morning midst in a patch of sunlight. It may be that these are the last words I write in this precious book that has been my my sole confidant in the darkness and light of these past few days. I hope the end of this story, chronicled or no, finds me well and safe and free. Journal Entry 6. That was the end of the writing of Justin Paring.

When I finished reading it, I went back down to that room and saw the number one scratched onto the floor as he described. But more than that, I saw what looked like a thin, red root sticking out between the bricks on the far wall. It was just outside the edge of the black, spongy man-shape on the wall, and when I stepped back, I saw it was actually close enough to one shadow hand that it looked as though the root and finger were moving to touch each other. I felt a thrill of excitement and fear, and before I knew it, I was reaching out to touch the root myself. A sudden noise from upstairs brought me up short only inches from contact. It was Phil coming home.

still determined to not share what I'd discovered. I hid the book and went up to greet him, trying to spin vague tales of unpacking and home improvements while counting the hours until he was asleep, and I could think what to do next. Ultimately, I decided it was a good thing that Phil had interrupted me. I needed to learn more about all of this before I made any rash decisions. I started by asking Phil for the name of the real estate agent that had sold us the house.

I'd been present for the signing of some paperwork at the end, but I had never dealt with the agent. But Phil told me that there was no agent. He had bought the house from an estate administrator who had listed the house online. That was strange because I felt sure he'd mentioned an agent before, but I couldn't say for sure. He asked why I was wondering, and I made up the excuse that I wanted to know if the old owners had the names of specific paint colors they'd used in the house. In typical Phil fashion, he accepted this without further argument and finished getting ready for bed. The next day I went to the library, which, unlike every movie or TV show I've ever seen, was grossly unhelpful in finding out any details about the creepy old house I was living in or the prior owners.

I was running out of ideas when I passed a sign that said, historical society. It was apparently a quasi-museum to local history. Though a small size and overwhelming devotion to old farm equipment and pictures of the main street 50 years earlier didn't give the best impression of depth or breadth. Fortunately, the woman that ran the place was very friendly and knowledgeable. She said that her great-grandmother had actually been a distant cousin of the pairing family. They weren't a bunch to be sure. Kept to themselves, especially as the boys got older. Then people started noticing that Justin was no one.

where to be found. Never came to town or went to church anymore. But it was a different time back then. People tended to their business more and they weren't going to ask questions if they didn't have to. Rumors were that Justin had run off or died and the parents just couldn't take it. So nobody ever saw Justin again? I felt a mixture of sadness and relief welling up inside me. Sadness that Justin's terrible life had been real and relief that he might have finally escaped it to a better place. She shook her head. No, but then the rest of the family didn't last long either. One night, someone came in on them and killed the parents and the brother.

Or at least that's what people figured. There was blood and they were all missing, though no bodies were ever found. I couldn't help but feel some grim satisfaction that they were punished for how they treated Justin. Whatever he did to them, it wasn't enough. But the woman was frowning now. I could have sworn I had a picture of them. I know I did. I swear, this is going to drive me crazy until I find it. She looked up from talking to herself and patted my arm with a smile. I'm sorry, honey, but I tell you what? Give me your number and I'll send you. you a copy of the picture if I find it. Half an hour later, I was back down in the basement.

Enough with being safe. I wanted to see how much of it was real. I reached out and touched the root, feeling a surge of power flood my body as I did so. Falling back against the rotten mattress, my hand punched through the fabric and onto rusty springs. I jerked my hand away, fears of tetanus dancing in my head. But I saw no cut. her scratch. Besides, I had other things to think about, like how the wall in front of me had just dissolved. Still feeling the rush of energy crackling across my skin, I stood up and began walking forward. The tunnel was just as he had described, and I could smell the sweet, glowing air wafting into the dank secret room as I felt my phone buzzed once. Then again, stifling a wave of

irritation. I took out my phone and opened it. There were two new text messages from a number I didn't have a name associated with. When I opened it, I realized it was the woman from the historical society. The first was a message. It said, found it. This is a picture from Easter of 1901. The Baptist Church took family photos for all the local families that were members. This is the pairing family from left to right, John, Stort, Edna, Justin. The second text was the picture itself. It was black and white, of course, but of surprisingly good quality for its age. Zooming in on my phone, I filled the screen with the faces of each person in turn.

John, his smile friendly but sad. Stuart, his eyes hard and stern. Edna. her face open and warm. Justin. Justin. It was impossible. I texted the woman back, asking her if she was sure.

If she was sure that the person in that picture, the person on the far right, was Justin pairing back in 1901. A moment later she responded that she was certain. Was something wrong? I didn't reply back. I had no response to give that would make any sense. Because the person in that picture, years younger looking but unmistakably him, a person she said was Justin pairing. I knew him. I knew him very well.

It was Phil. Just then I heard the front door open upstairs. He was home. I consider going upstairs, trying to make up more half-truths or confronting Phil slash Justin. But instead, I ran into the tunnel. five feet in the wall behind me faded back into view and while i assumed i could still get back out that way at the moment i didn't care i was tired of waiting for something special tired of being scared when something this magical was right in front of me i was going to see things for myself instead of just reading about it

the tunnel went on chamber after chamber of deep red roots and dark loamy earth as justin had described I eventually came to a branching of paths. Instead of taking the rightmost, I took the center. On and on, I went for what felt like hours. But I was never tired or hungry. And with each branching path, I just felt my urgency to go further growing. Center path every time, always leading to another choice farther down the tinkled path. Then I saw I was entering a larger chamber.

It was roughly circular in shape. The ceiling and walls made up of an endless cascade of roots woven tightly together, except for several openings every few feet that I assume led to other twisting paths. The roots here weren't red for the most part, but a smoky gray that was almost black. And the flesh of those roots was blistered and scarred in many places, as though there had been a fire here at one point. Looking to the center of the room, I saw a small upgrowth, of branches that almost looked like a pedestal of sorts for the black tangle of roots that lay atop

it. If I had to guess, I'd say this is where the fire had started. But whatever had happened, the ghost tree, or trees depending on how you looked at it, had survived. I could see green shoots and new, unscarred red bark poking through the black ashy residue the flames had left behind. I was reaching out to touch it, felt a strong, compelling need to touch it. But something held me back. Whatever this place was, it was clearly significant, important, and I had a sense that in some ways it was more of a doorway and threshold than even passing into the tunnel had been. So I stepped back, picked a new tunnel, and journeyed on. While my cell phone was useless for phone calls here, I used it to keep track of my choice in the larger chamber,

and the couple of times where there was an even number of tunnels with no center path to pick. Finally, after what felt like another hour or more, I saw a wall. When I approached it, it dissolved away, much like the wall in my house had done. But instead of entering a dank, secret cell, I appeared to be entering a large, well-lit room that someone used as a woodworking shop. Entering quietly, I listened for any signs of movement, but there were none. I was still in the basement of the house, of a version of the house, and the combination of similarities and differences made it seem surreal. I paused to look under a workbench occupied by a belt sander, and what I thought might be a dremel of some sort.

And there was a faded 43 scratched into the floor where the bed was in my version of the house. Going into the other room, I saw it was some kind of media room, though what I thought must be the television was simply a large pain of either glass or plastic suspended from the ceiling by two braided wires. I had no idea how something like that would work, but I supposed it didn't matter. It might be the least of the differences in this world. I crept up the stairs and eased open the basement door. And as it swung open, I saw two men sitting at a table eating cereal, or rather they had been eating cereal. Now they were staring at me. What the hell?

One of them bellowed as he stood up. Who the hell are you, lady? His expression had a dangerous combination of fear and anger. The other man was trying to calm him down, but he wasn't listening. I slammed the door back shut before he reached. it and ran down the stairs two at a time, desperate to reach the wall and terrified that it might not open for me this time. But the tunnel was ready and waiting, and as I passed into it, the wall closed behind me,

protecting me. I stood there for a moment, hands on my knees and breathing heavy, more out of fear and adrenaline than exertion. I had to be more careful. I never knew what I was going to be getting myself into, and I had to be ready. I debated heading back then. I could get proper supplies and then head back out to explore more worlds with more than my cell phone and determination. But I finally decided I would give it one more try first.

I backtrack two junctions, then took another path. This time the tunnel went on for quite some time. And after seven more choices, I found myself at another wall. The basement I entered was pitch black. and I gave a shudder as I crossed over into it with my cell phone's flashlight app acting as my only source of illumination. It was freezing here. I almost turned back, but then I spied a number etched onto the floor. 71.

For some reason, that made me want to go on. I needed to see more of what Justin had seen, try to understand more of what he experienced before I confronted him. He had obviously been lying to me, possibly trying to do. trick me into something, and I didn't want to go into that conversation with nothing but his old writings to guide me. So I went forward very slowly into the rest of the basement, holding up my little phone like a guiding star as I pushed through the cold darkness. I listened at the top of the stairs for a couple of minutes, before deciding it was probably safe to open it. When I did so,

I saw the house was totally empty, much like Justin had described in his trip to the house on the island. I also realized that while the house itself was dark, there was a faint blue glow coming through the windows. My first thought was that I was in a world where it was late twilight or early morning. But when I approached the window over the kitchen sink, I saw I was wrong. I was in a cave. The house, as strange and impossible as it seemed, was sitting in some kind of massive cave. the front door and opened it. The air was even colder outside, and while there were no distant sources of light, the air was saturated with a soft, blue glow. It reminded me in some ways of the light in the tunnels of the ghost tree, but instead of being comforting, it filled me with a vague

and terrible sense of dread. Still, I wanted to see this through. I left the front door open for a quick escape and walked a few steps further into the cave. It was an enormous cavern, and in the distance I could barely make out several dark spots that I assumed were tunnels, leading to the other parts of the whatever cave system this was on whatever world I found myself in. I turned to my right and saw the ghost tree there, its red branches and green flowing leaves blowing in the currents of some breeze I couldn't feel. I felt a surge of happiness and familiarity at seeing it, as though I had run into an old friend, and I found myself heading toward it.

Then I noticed the bodies stacked at its base, perfectly preserved. Twenty bodies or more were stacked at the tree's base. And my first thought was that it was some kind of strange offering by whoever or whatever lived here. Then I saw the black lines of corruption. that traced itself from several of the bodies to the trunk of the massive tree. Bodies were poisoning it. I saw the distended belly of one of the body's shift, or something inside of the bodies was poisoning it.

I took a step back, taking in more of the details of the cavern. I had stupidly decided would be good to explore. There were more bodies at different spots along the floor, some with swollen, shifting stomachs. Others looking as though they were simply taking a nap. All told, I saw over a hundred bodies in the dim gloom of that unending indigo light. And among all those bodies were numerous lines cut into the stony floor, almost as though they had been cut with a blade or saw.

What do you offer as tribute for your need? A voice echoed in my mind, the high tones of a church bell. Intelligent and feminine, it carried an undercurrent of inhuman emotion that could have been a cousin of anger or amusement, or both. I spun around looking for the source. At first I saw nothing, but then at one of the black tunnels in the distance, I saw a pair of blue flames dancing in the air. They were its eyes. I ran into the house, shutting the front and basement door behind me as I ran down the stairs and back to the tunnel. That was enough for me. I wanted to go home and leave all this behind. I'd talk to Justin slash Phil if he wanted,

but after that I was packing my shit and never coming back to any version of that house again. It took what seemed like hours to make it back. I found the way easily, and even when I ran across that central burn chamber with its multitude of paths, I picked the right one without hesitation. but it still felt like it was taking forever. When I finally crossed back into Justin's cell, I was so filled with relief that it took me several moments to notice what was different. The wall dividing the cell from the rest of the basement was back up.

I had dismantled a large central portion of the brick wall that had separated Justin's room from the rest of the house, and that had all been replaced with new bricks, except for a small space, two bricks wide and tall, It was just enough space for me to see Phil looking in at me. Hey there, honey. Been on a little trip, have you? Did you have a good time?

I ran up to the wall, realizing and passing that the cell was now lit by a pair of LED lanterns on the nightstand. And chest respectively. He was setting me up in here. The bastard! Phil, Justin, whatever you call yourself, let me out of here. He smiled at me pleasantly. No can-do buttercup, and even if I did, it wouldn't do you any good. You belong to the tree now.

I felt it when it passed from me to you. I pushed against the brick angrily, but it didn't budge. Why are you doing this? I paused and added. I love you. His smile grew colder. That's real cute, you know. You know, you've been gone for an entire day.

I only started working on the wall a couple of hours ago. Before that, I did some light reading. Your precious journal. Taking a couple of steps back, he lifted my journal from a dwindled stack of bricks he had brought down for the job. You see, the difference between your journal and mine is that I had actual problems to write about. Well, that and mine is far better written. Jesus, I had a ninth grade education when I wrote this, and you have a master's degree.

The modern education system really is shit. He shook his head before taking a deep breath. But no, I'm mad and hurt, and it's making me petty. Let me start over. He sat the journal back on the bricks and approached the hole in the wall. When I went into those tunnels, I was so happy and excited. I thought I was about to go on some magical adventure and live a life full of freedom and wonder. Instead, you know what I found?

My mind was still racing for some way out of this, but I thought it was best to humor him for now. What's that? He wasn't smiling any longer. After traveling to over 200 different worlds, I figured out three things. One, many worlds are filled with people much like us. After a few dozen of those, I gave up on finding a world where people aren't largely selfish pieces of shit. Two, some of those worlds are much, much worse. Phil paused, cocking his head.

Which ones did you go to? I don't know if you noticed, but I numbered pretty much every one I went to. I stared at him dully, trying not to show how much I wanted to break through that wall and reach him. Um, 43 and 71. He seemed to ponder for a moment. And then his eyes went wide. 71. Oh, shit, really?

You have an awesome sense of direction. Wow. Yeah, I don't advise a return trip there. I shuddered at the memory. Yeah, I don't plan to. Look, I don't want to go anywhere anymore. Please, just let me out and I'll do whatever you want. Stay, go.

I don't care. Just don't leave me in here. He was already shaking his head. And he actually looked sad now. No, I'm sorry, but no. Because the third thing I figured out is that once you touch the route and enter the tunnel, you're bound to the ghost tree. At first, I thought it was a gift. I aged incredibly slow.

I never got hungry or thirsty or tired in the tunnels. I had all these places I could go. Phil shoved my journal off the brick pile onto the floor and sat down. But after a few months of that, I got tired of it. I found a world that seemed to be less terrible than most, and I settled down. I built a life there, fell in love. He put his hands in his lap, and I could see they were bald in fists. And then one day I woke up in the tunnels in what I call the heart room.

I found my way back to my new world, my new life. But the tree wouldn't open the way. Eventually, I figured out that I had to go back and stay with it. it in the heart room. I couldn't explore any world during that time. What seemed like an eternity passed, and periodically I would go back to the tunnel I needed and still see it walled up until finally it wasn't. I was so happy. I ran through into the basement, up the stairs, and set out to find my girlfriend, or any of the friends I had made, and then I realized ten years had passed. He leaned forward, looking at me somberly.

What it amounts to was this. You can go and explore, but after two or three years, the tree pulls you back. And after that, you have to stay with it for five times whatever time you had on the outside. I don't understand if it's lonely, or if it needs us or something, or if it's just mean, but that's the rules. I started to say I was sorry, and he just raised his hand with a glare. Save it. I'm trying to explain as a kindness, so you don't start all this totally in the dark like I was. Don't push it.

He waited a second and then went on. After I found out how much time had passed, I gave up on staying in that world. I went to exploring again, although without the hope of a permanent life somewhere. It didn't mean as much. I figured out what I'm telling you over the years. Staying for different amounts of time in different places and after everything I saw, I realized something. I wasn't special.

None of us are. I've seen multiple older versions of the same. myself. They were all unremarkable. I've met people across scores of worlds, and there aren't more than a handful that stand out. But while that was depressing in some ways, it also gave me hope that I didn't have to be the one to bear this burden forever. I could find a replacement. As I think you may have figured out by now, I did away with my parents and brother, too. It was during a dark time really early on, before I had found my new world and love, but after I had become despondent in my travels. I came back and killed them in their sleep, dragging their

bodies into the tunnels for a reason that made sense at the time, but is lost to me now. Years later, I came back and bought the house from the bank who was left holding it. Oddly enough, people hadn't been lining up to buy the old murder house with the creepy vibes, so I got it cheap. This was in the 1950s, and I've been sitting it out since, periodically coming out to try and find a good replacement. But it hasn't been easy. I figured out over time that you can't just knock someone out and pull them into the tunnels. You can't force them to agree to enter either. No, they have to voluntarily touch the route and enter the tunnel for them to be bound in your place. Of course, I didn't know that for sure until now. It was all guesswork. About 15 years ago, I decided it was no

use, and I was better off trying to kill the tree, even if I died with it. So I came out, got a drum of gasoline and tried to burn down the heart room. Yeah, I saw. He looked up at my words and grinned, giving a nod. It didn't look like it worked too well. His expression darkened, and he stood back up. No, no, it didn't. I think it heard it, but I don't know if it can die.

So I gave up on that and went back to trying to find someone I could get to take my place, if it was even possible. That's when you came along. Well, not you, but another. version of you. My eyes widened. What are you talking about? He quirked an eyebrow.

What do you think? Alternate worlds, alternate U's. Keep up! I met another version of you and got into a relationship with them. I got them to the house, but they weren't as curious and hardworking as you are. They didn't take the bait from my subtle hints or even me discovering the hidden room I had made there. By the time I was getting them interested, I was pulled back into that damn heart room.

You should have given them a mysterious note. I knew I should keep quiet since I just made him angrier, but I couldn't help it. But this time, Phil was looking confused. Note? I didn't ever leave you a note. Oh, wait. What did it say? Come live in the ashes of my heart.

You're saying you didn't write that? It was in your, or at least your old Justin handwriting. Phil shrugged. Honestly, no note from me. I guess the tree did that. Its attempts at being mysterious and ironic, maybe? I don't know. I wondered how you got on it so quick.

I guess the tree was tired of me, too, which is understandable. He looked away. His expression strange. Anyway, when I could leave the tunnels again, I came back here and found you. I sought you out, if I'm being honest. And you know, I actually loved you. I've been really conflicted this entire time if I could even go through with this. Well...

He glanced down at my journal on the girl. ground. At least before reading that. He turned around and grabbed up a new brick, scraping mortar into the space it was going to go. I started screaming for him to stop, but he didn't pause. After a couple of minutes, there was only one brick left out of place. I put those lanterns in there for you, and there's a backpack on the bed with food and water. I'd suggest you travel around, but be careful and mind your time limits. Don't get too attached to any place because you can't stay forever. And I left you a new journal on the chest.

Maybe you'll write about this part too. If you leave it behind when you're done, I'll keep it safe. Maybe let other people read what you wrote even. It won't matter. He paused. His eyes troubled. I guess I'll be the villain in your story. He started putting mortar around the edges of the final opening.

I went to 211 different worlds and you know what? There were cells like this in 93 of them, along with 93 corpse versions of me. Living in that room, I'd always wanted to believe that my family had just made a mistake, that they were good people that just picked the wrong way when the path forked. But no, that's just who they are through and through. He put the last brick into position and started pushing it in. I guess everyone is someone's villain. Three years ago, I was looking at the local job classifieds online.

when one of the ads caught my eye. Not because of what it said, but because it said so little. Best I remember, the ad just read, job available, good pay, no benefits, discretion required. It then listed an email address, and that was all. At the time, I was managing a music store, but I had already started hearing rumors we would be shutting down within the next year, and the likelihood of a transfer to another store was slim. I had been morosely looking at job listings for the last few days, but this was the first one that stood out, if only because I was bored and it was weird. So, I sent an email.

Half an hour later, I had a response, telling me to go to a particular office building in an upscale part of the city at a precise time for my screening. I went, and after waiting for a few minutes in the lobby, I was taken into an office where I was given a series of forms and questionnaires to fill out. They collected them and told me they would be in touch. I had almost forgotten about the whole thing until a month later I got a call saying I had moved on to the second stage of the hiring process. I was again given an address in time, and when I arrived, this time, it was a different nice office park 20 miles away from the first one. I was met by a man who introduced himself as Mr. Solomon. He escorted me into a large

room that contained a chair and a desk. On the desk were two large monitors, a keyboard, mouse, and a bolted-down metal box with two oversized buttons on it, one red and one green. He told me this room was a model for the place I would be working if I got the job. He described the job as follows. I would be working seven shifts of six hours every week. My job would be simple. I would arrive at work ten minutes early and enter an outer area that was like a locker room. I would have my own personal locker. I would store all my belongings in the locker and change into the provided work clothes. I was never, under any circumstances, to carry any item of my own into the surveillance room. I was never, under any circumstances, to take any item with me

from the surveillance room. As for what I was to do in the surveillance room, I was told that the monitor on the left would constantly show a live stream from a high-definition camera in a remote location. My job was simply to watch the camera. Once an hour, I would get onto the computer attached to the right monitor and enter a brief log describing anything interesting that occurred in the last hour. I would have no pens or pencils or paper, and I should never try to take any kind of written notes about the work. As for the red and green buttons, the red button was only to be used if there was an emergency.

This meant something on the video or in my workplace that required outside health. help. The green button was to be hit if I saw something on the video feed that was particularly noteworthy. It would tell other people somewhere that, at least in my opinion, something interesting was going on. Solomon stressed that while I was given discretion on when to use the button, I should err on the side of only using it if and when something of real significance occurred.

He pointed out the camera on the ceiling of the room we were in. She said the real room would be the same. My work would be observed, and other people were watching the room on the video feed as well. He said I was only a redundancy in case other systems failed. He then smirked and asked if I knew what he meant by redundancy. I nodded, trying not to show my irritation. I don't talk that good to people, so sometimes they think I'm dumb. That's okay.

Let him think that if he paid me good enough. The pay was very good. $25 an hour. This worried me. I was already thinking this was some kind of psych experiment or secret government job, which I was okay with, but that kind of money to sit and watch a screen? My mom always told me that if something good seems too good to be true, it probably is. And this was seeming too good to be true.

I asked if I was doing anything illegal. Solomon laughed and said no. I asked him if anyone was going to get hurt. Again, he shook his head. No. He said the reason they were paying me so much was because they needed employees that were motivated to be professional and discreet. The work they were doing was important, and for various reasons it couldn't be discussed.

If I took the job, I would have to sign papers promising I would never discuss my work there, or I could be sued or locked up. I'm only breaking that now because of everything that's happened. So, I took the job. And because they wanted me to start right away, I had to quit the store with no notice. I felt bad about that, but I was excited about the new job, too. It was a lot of money, and it seemed like easy enough work, if a bit boring. I was nervous that there was something more to it, but I told myself I would just have to

see. No point in chickening out and wasting a good chance because I let my imagination go crazy. I was given the location of the job itself, and when I went there, I was amazed that it really was just like the model room I'd been shown with only a few differences. There was a locker room you had to pass through to enter the surveillance room, and there was a small bathroom attached to the real surveillance room also. The real room had a small water cooler in the corner, but because I wasn't allowed to bring anything with me, I had to eat before or after every shift. The biggest difference, of course, was that the monitors were turned on.

The right monitor was just a black and white terminal like you see in movies sometimes. I could type in my logs, but no internet to look at or anything like that. The left monitor. It was video from a room. You could call it a bedroom, I guess, because it had a bed in it, but it had a lot of other stuff too. A TV, sofa, and chairs, a couple of tables, and plenty of empty spaces. in between. The camera must be high up in a corner because I could see pretty much everything,

except for the far sides of furniture. At first, though, I didn't notice any of that stuff. All I saw was her. She looked to be a little older than me and was very pretty. When I first saw her, she was laying on her side on the sofa. That was the part of the room farthest from the camera, but the picture was very clear, and I could tell she was sleeping. I found myself, leaning into the monitor more so I could see her better, and then I thought about what I was doing and felt embarrassed. It's like I was spying on her, a peeping Tom, my mom used to call it. I didn't want to be a peeping Tom, but I didn't want to be silly either.

I needed to think about it slow. It was a good job, and I wasn't doing anything wrong, right? I wasn't hurting anybody. The woman looked fine, and the room was nice. She probably agreed to be there, and it's all some experiment. or something, I was just overreacting. I sat down in the chair and began my work. It didn't take long before I understood more.

The woman, I took to calling her Rachel, wasn't there of her free will. I never saw her hurt, but it was clear that she never left that room, except to go into what I think is a bathroom area that my camera couldn't see. Well, she never left the room on her own. Periodically, usually a couple times a week during my shifts, men and women in strange-looking outfits would come in and take her from the room. Sometimes she would struggle, but usually she would just go along with her head hung low. They would always bring her back, though the times when she wasn't brought back during my shift

were always the worst for me. I would worry about her until I got to work the next day and saw her in the room watching TV or painting. She never looked hurt, or even that upset, except for when they took her, and even when she fought, they were always gentle with her. Still, I knew something was wrong. I considered quitting the job, or hitting the red button and getting someone to come so I could get some answers, or calling the police and showing them what the camera was showing

me, except I was scared, scared of losing my job, and scared of what these people might do to me if I quit or told on them. Solomon had told me when I took the job that part of being discreet was not asking questions. I would never be asked to do more than I had already been told, but I can never tell anyone what I did or saw, and I can never ask questions about what I was doing or why. So I made excuses. It was all an experiment. She was crazy or sick, and they were trying to help her.

She was doing a job just like I was, or if she really was a prisoner someone. where, at least I was watching to make sure that she was okay. If they ever tried to hurt her, or I saw that she really didn't want to be there for sure, I could get help then. In a way, I told myself I was helping to protect her by watching. I don't expect you to think much of my excuses. I don't think much of them myself, especially now. But in my defense, when things changed, I didn't ignore it or try to explain it away.

I knew something had to be done. Rachel would usually paint for an hour or two every day, and it seemed to always be during my afternoon shifts. The room had no windows, as far as I could tell, but I guess she either used a clock or her own body's time to keep to a kind of schedule. I always liked to watch her paint. The thing she was painting was always facing the wrong way for me to see, but I could see her face as she worked.

She always looked peaceful and happy when she was painting, and seeing her that way, smiling serenely from time to time as she got something the way she wanted it, always made my day. I first noticed something was wrong when she started painting more frequently a few weeks ago. Her expression was more focused and serious, and there was attention to her movements that I wasn't used to seeing. At first I thought she was just really trying to work hard on something, and I wanted to tell her not to worry.

Every few weeks, the others would come in and take the old paintings out anyway. bringing in a new stack of, I think the word is canvas. But it was more than her being focused. Something was wrong. She didn't look happy, and she was going for hours at a time. In the span of three days, she had finished four paintings. I had been growing more and more worried watching her work, and when she finished the fourth,

I found myself telling her to just stop and rest a while. I had grown accustomed to talking to the monitor, talking to her in my own way, but she didn't stop. Instead, she began moving the paintings, arranging them on the back and sea of the long sofa at the far end of the room. This was the first time I'd gotten to see any of the paintings. Even when the others were taking them out, they always seemed to be turned away from the camera. I was still worried about her, but I was also happy to finally see something she had worked on,

happy and amazed. They were beautiful. One was a beautiful green forest, another was an old stone wall. A third was a house sitting alone on a small island. The last was an old-fashioned-looking movie theater. All of them looked like something out of a dream, with trailing lines of color mixing in the air around them, like leaves caught in the wind.

It was only when I looked close that I realized the lines of color weren't random. They were words. Easy to miss if you weren't looking close, and by themselves they didn't seem to mean much, just the ghost of a word somewhere in each of the paintings, easy to lose in anything else that was being shown. I leaned into the monitor and squinted, trying to read the words. Then my heart started thudding as I made them out, blinking and rubbing my eyes, and I looked again, reading them out loud in order, left to right, top pair, and bottom.

I'm... Please... Help... ...thomas. I pushed back from the monitor, my hand over my mouth. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how any of this could be happening. It wasn't just that she was asking for help, though that was a big part of it.

It was that my name is Thomas. I thought about the camera above me and took my hand away from my face. I rolled back to the desk and sat there, trying to stop from shaking. trying to make myself take a breath, think about it slow. The first thing was, should I hit a button? The red button was for an emergency. If she was a prisoner or something and she was trying to escape, they might think that was an emergency, but no one had been hurt that I knew of, and I think Mr. Solomon meant

save that for something that was like a police or ambulance emergency, not something like this, but what about the green button? That was definitely something noteworthy, not only that she was asking for help, but that she was asking me for help. I made myself stop for a moment. I couldn't know for sure she was asking me. I'd gone to school with several boys named Thomas, it was a common name, but the chances of her painting that name when I was working there, I didn't want to be silly, but I wasn't

trying to be too, what's the word? A mom used to say it when she read her angel books. Skeptics? I didn't want to be a skeptic either. I had to believe it was probably meant for me, and that was something they would want to know. But should I hit the green button? My hands were drifting toward the metal box on the desk, but I hesitated. I didn't like breaking rules, and I was scared of what would happen if I broke these.

If they really were holding her prisoner, then they were probably very bad people. But I didn't know that. Maybe they were good and she was bad, but I just... I looked back at the monitor for the first time since reading the words. Rachel was already moving the paintings back off the sofa, as though she knew the message had been received. A canvas in each hand, she glanced up at the camera as she moved across the room, and it felt like she was looking right at me.

My chest tightened as my hands moved away from the buttons. No, I didn't think she was bad. I had watched her for years. I felt like I knew her. Would know if she was bad. Strange as it seemed, in a way she was my friend, and I was going to help her. The only people I had actually met connected to this job were a couple of people when I filled out the papers, and then Mr. Solomon when he showed me the model room and told

me the job. I had no way of contacting any of them except through the buttons. My checks were deposited electronically, and I'd never run into anyone else who worked at the surveillance room. That thought made me stop a second. I'd always thought it was weird that I never ran into someone when I was coming or going, the person I was taking over for, or the person who was taking over for me. I'd always figured there must be other people, other surveillance rooms even, and they just

scheduled us so we didn't run into each other, and I still thought there were others. of why I thought that was because it seemed like I wasn't the only person who used my surveillance room. The water cooler, the toilet paper, the soap, they all seemed to go down faster than I think I was using it by myself. If that was true, maybe I could figure out who they were, and maybe they would be safer to talk to than whoever it was I worked for. I got off work at 8 that night, and instead of grabbing some food and going home, I drove my car around the block and then parked down the street from the building where I worked. Nothing had changed while I drove around for a minute, no new cars had parked or anything, and if I was right, they didn't send anyone to replace me

until they were sure I was gone anyhow. So I sat and waited. I was tired, and the street was pretty empty and boring, but I was too excited and scared to fall asleep. Every time a car passed or someone walked down the sidewalk, I tensed. I kept imagining a SUV or van, but I was too excited and pulling up behind me, men getting out and pulling me from my car, taking me somewhere like where they had Rachel to kill or torture me. Half a dozen times I almost cranked up and drove away. But every time I would think of her alone in that room, she had no one but me to help her, and I had to try.

Two hours later, a fat balding man parked and started heading for the building. As soon as I saw he was able to unlock the door and enter, I opened my car to go to and talk with him. Then I stopped. I needed to be smart. I didn't know where they were, but I was sure they were hidden cameras in the locker room and outside the building. If I go running in there and confront the guy, they'll know for sure that I'm up to something.

Sying and frustration, I shut the door and waited until his shift was over. I considered tailing him like in the movies, but I was scared I would just lose him or he would call someone for help. So I waited until he was walking back to his car after. after a six-hour shift, hopefully far enough away that the cameras wouldn't see. And then I met the man I came to know as Charles Jeffries. Hey, uh, hey, hey man, can I talk to you for a minute? His back was to me and he just waved his hand absently without looking up.

Sorry, I don't have any money. I have a good... He froze as he glanced back at me while talking. Oh God, no, no, no, you need to get out of here, kid. We aren't allowed to talk. I could tell he was scared. But I couldn't risk letting him go yet, not after all this. I stepped up and pushed the door back shut as he was trying to get into his car.

So you know who I am? I tried not to sound mean, but I could hear how mad I was in my voice. He yanked at the door again, but I was still holding it, and I was stronger than he was. After a second, weaker tug, he turned around, his face strained and tired looking. Yeah, I know who you are. You work here just like me. I'm telling you, we aren't supposed to be talking. We aren't supposed to meet, ever.

I frowned. Mr. Solomon never told me that. He never said it was one of the rules. The man shook his head. Mr. Solomon, yeah, well, there are plenty of rules they don't tell you. I bet they didn't tell you what you were going to be watching before you started, did they? When I just lowered my eyes, he went on. Yeah, me either.

I've been at this job for ten years. I've seen other people come and go. No, usually because they broke one of the rules they never mentioned. The only reason I'm still here is because I keep my head down and my mouth shut. He wagged a finger at me. You should do the same. If it's not already too late. I felt my stomach curling into a cold knot.

Too late. The man rubbed his face. Kid, do you think they don't know we're talking? Do you think anything happens that they don't know about? He looked back toward the building, a look of sadness and fear in his eyes. Hell, for all I know, you've already killed us both, shaking his head. He pushed me back and started opening the door. Either way, I'm done risking it.

You need to stop asking questions and just do your job. It's a lot healthier. With that, he got into his car and shut the door. I didn't try to stop him this time, even though I had already been worried about what he was telling me. Hearing it confirmed was paralyzing. What exactly was my plan? He probably didn't know any more than I did.

and even if he did, what can I do with anything he told me? I walked back to my car with a heavy heart. I was still afraid, but more than that, I was sad and ashamed. I wanted to help Rachel, but I wasn't sure how. I wasn't giving up. But as I drove back to my apartment, I couldn't think of what I should do next. This wasn't a movie, I wasn't a hero, and the only ideas I had left were to either go to the police who might be controlled by whoever I worked.

for, or try to get proof of her being held prisoner myself. As I parked my car and walked into my apartment building, I made a decision, unless I thought of something overnight, I would do both ideas. Tomorrow I would break the rule about carrying anything in. I'd use my phone to record a video of the surveillance room, of Rachel and how she was trapped somewhere, and of me telling everything else I knew. I would email it to every newspaper, website, and internet channel I could think of. I'd then go to the police and give them a copy too if I could make it that long without

getting caught. Maybe if I did all that, even if they got me, someone would help Rachel. I was filled with worry and dread at the idea of being hurt or killed. A part of me kept saying I should just do as I was told and hope that it all went away. But I couldn't live with myself if I did that. Even if I messed up, I felt like I had to try. I was so preoccupied that I didn't hear the person coming up behind me as I unlocked my apartment door. Thomas?

I turned around and felt my legs weakened as I stumbled back against my door. I had to be dreaming or crazy. I grabbed the doorknob for support as I looked at the woman in front of me. It couldn't be her, but somehow it was. Rachel? She hesitated a moment before breaking into a smile. Is that what you call me? I like it.

My name is actually Melanie, though. I felt my face reddening. Of course, her name wasn't actually Rachel. That was just something I made up in my head. Still, my embarrassment couldn't keep up with my confusion and joy. Is it really you? She nodded. Yeah, it's me.

Rachel, or Melanie, grunted as I stepped forward and started hugging her. Laughing, she hugged me back for a moment, but then she whispered in my ear. Thomas, we need to talk. And not out here. Can we go inside? I broke away and nodded, wiping at my eyes as I tried to finish unlocking the door with a shaking hand. My heart was pounding, and I still felt like I was in a strange and wonderful dream. But when we had gotten inside and sat down on my living room sofa, I forced myself to focus on the biggest question I had.

How? Melanie had still been smiling as we sat down, but now she looked worried and sad. Thomas, that's what I'm here to tell you. Things aren't like you think they are. They never have been. I frowned, a new line of fear cutting through my happy haze. What do you mean? She held the bridge of her nose for a moment,

looking down like she was trying to figure out how to say, whatever it was she had to say. Thomas, you're part of a psychological experiment. I've been a part of it for longer than you have as one of the actors, and I still don't know all the details. I'm pretty sure it's run by some government agency, and I know they're investing a lot of money and time into it. But for what reasons that I'm not so sure?

I realized I was ringing my hands. No, that wasn't right. It couldn't be right. This was some kind of trick. Melanie went on. What I do know is that you're being watched as a long-term subject. They have constructed this whole system. scenario where you do a secret job watching someone, me, who looks like they might be trapped.

They give you instructions and a way of making choices. You've got buttons or something you can choose between, right? I nodded weakly, my tongue thick in my throat. Yeah, a red one and a green one. She sighed and nodded. I think they're testing how much you'll obey. What choices you'll make based off your morals, your intelligence, and your fear. It's interesting, or at least I thought so, when I first joined up six years ago.

They've never officially given me many details, just the overall gist, but people talk. The other actors in me, sometimes we hear things and we gossip. That's what caused me to start feeling bad. I interrupted. Other actors. Melanie's eyes widened. Oh, shit, yeah, sorry. I think they still call him Mr. Solomon, and there are a little bit of him.

Others, too. When I just stared at her, she went on. Anyway, for a long time, it was just the normal job, right? I spend six hours a day acting like I'm this trapped girl, mainly faking painting or watching TV, you know. Boring stuff. I couldn't help but interrupt again, hating the hurt trembling in my voice. You fake the painting? You aren't really painting those wonderful pictures?

Now, Melanie looked embarrassed. No, sorry, I can't paint a bit. I'm a pretty good singer, though. She tried to smile, but faltered. Reaching forward, she touched my arm. That's why they always have the paintings turned where you can't see them. They're already done beforehand. All you ever see is some blank canvases and, well, when they want me to show you something.

Her expression darkened as she went on. That's why I had to break the rules and contact you. When they started doing this hidden message mind game bullshit, I got worried, worried you would take it too serious, that you could get hurt or even hurt yourself. As soon as you left your shift tonight, I talked to one of the guys in the video department. He told me about how you had reacted,

showed me how you were still parked down the street from the building. I drove over. The bedroom set is in a building outside of town. I saw you sitting in your car, and I almost approached you then. But I was scared of getting caught and fired. So I parked and waited until I could follow you somewhere else and let you know I was okay. She blinked back tears. I am ashamed to say I almost left a couple of times.

I don't want to lose this job, and I tried to tell myself you would be okay after a day or two. I could get them to change the script enough that you felt like I was okay and wouldn't worry too much. I felt an angry heat growing in my chest. Well, that's nice of you. She looked up, her eyes red. I know. I'm a shit. I'm so sorry.

I was being selfish and cowardly, but I didn't actually leave. And then when I saw Charlie leaving the building, saw you running over to talk to him. I knew they were escalating it even further. Charlie, Melanie rolled her eyes in frustration. Shit, yeah. Sorry. Charlie Jeffreys, he's another actor, and an earlier version of the experiment he actually played Mr. Solomon, but they decided he wasn't scary enough, so now he's usually one of the suits.

He's actually done that for your version a lot. You just can't recognize him under all that get-up they wear. I was curling and uncurling my hand on my lap. It was all too much. I felt like a pinball going between anger and relief and embarrassment and confusion. So all the that stuff he told me. That was all just to scare me? See how I'd react? She nodded as she sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Yes, I'm sorry. That's why I knew I couldn't wait any longer to tell you. I could see how worried and scared you were going back to your car. I pulled my arm back from her touch. Well, thanks, I guess. At least you stopped me before I went to the police and looked like a joke in front of them too. I just wanted her gone. Her sympathetic,

pitying eyes off of me. Thanks for stopping by and letting me in on it. I tried to make my voice sound hard and unfeeling, but it came out watery instead. Standing up, I turned away from her, so she couldn't see as I started to cry. If you don't mind, I need time to think about everything. It's a lot.

A moment passed, and then her hand was on my shoulder. Thomas, you don't have anything to be embarrassed about. They are very good at what they do. do. All you did was what you thought was right, because you're a good man. I shrugged. I thought that you were in trouble, and I wanted to help. She gently turned me toward her, and when I looked up, she smiled and sniffed again. I know, but you need to realize most people wouldn't have tried to help, not when it meant giving up their job or risking themselves like that, not for a stranger. I wiped at my face as I looked away. Well, I still feel dumb, but I'm glad it's not real. I'm glad you're okay,

but we both are. I paused and caught her eye again. We are, aren't we? Safe, I mean. She hesitated before nodding. Yeah, I think so. Like I said, they have a lot invested in whatever this is, and the fact that they're willing to go as far as they have with you makes me wonder. But I've never seen any signs of anyone getting hurt. I think the worst that could happen is one or both of us gets fired. I felt my face getting red again. Oh, don't worry about that. I'm going to quit tomorrow.

I'll finally get to hit their damn buttons. Maybe both of them. I started to smile. But then I saw the look on Melanie's face. Thomas, please don't do that. I don't think they would hurt us, but if you up and quit, they'll figure out I've talked to you.

I don't think they watch us all the time, but I don't know what they can find out. You know, tracking cell phones, spy satellites. whatever. I'm taking a big risk just being here, and I don't want them catching on. I took a step back from her. So you want to keep getting paid to trick people like me? She reached out and grabbed my right hand. I had been clenching it unconsciously, and it relaxed at her touch. No, I don't want to. But I wasn't expecting this, how the experiment has changed, getting to actually meet you. I can't do it long term, but another month or two to save up money.

Now that you're in on it and won't be scared or hurt by it anymore, that I can do. That we can both do. We can keep going on like normal, take some more of their money, and then one of us can quit. The next month, the other one can. How does that sound? I shrugged uncertainly. It made some sense, and once I'd calmed down, it would probably make more. She gave my hand to squeeze.

And when this is all over, I want to get to know you better. I know I've been playing a role, but for the most part, that's been me you've been watching all this time. I think it's only fair I get to see more of you, too, assuming you're interested in that. I felt my hand growing clammy in hers as my stomach fluttered. Well, I mean, yeah, I would really like that. Swallowing, I added, how long do we have to wait to see each other again? Melanie grinned at me. Work another month or so, save what you can, and then quit.

I'll wait another two or three weeks, and then I'll do the same. And then... She looked up at the ceiling as she pondered it for a moment, and I was struck again by how beautiful she was, even if she was a little different in person than I had imagined. Three months from tonight, we'll meet right here. I'll come over, and we can start getting to know each other better. How's that sound? Returning her smile, I nodded.

That sounds great. When she left, a couple of minutes later, part of me hated to see her go. But another part was relieved. I was so exhausted, and while I was so happy she was okay and we had finally met, I felt like the burned-up wire in an old light bulb. I needed time alone, time to think and calm down, and most of all, time to rest. I didn't even really remember falling asleep, and when I woke up, I realized my alarm had been buzzing for over thirty minutes.

I jumped up and raced to get to my shift at work. As she had been leaving, Melanie had stressed again how we needed to act completely the same. That meant not freaking out, but it also meant not acting like everything was okay either. If I suddenly showed no signs of being worried about her, that would tip them off too. I promised, and she left after a brief hug and kiss. Remembering that now, through the haze of my tiredness the night before, it felt like a dream. Still, I went into the surveillance room with a much lighter heart. I didn't have to worry or feel guilty anymore about not helping her, and there was some satisfaction

in finally pulling one over on the people who had tricked me for so long. Besides, in three months I would be done with this place, and I'd get to see Ray, or Melanie, again, in person, at least. Because I got to watch her on the video feed as soon as I came into work, she was asleep when I first got there, and I found myself wondering if she was as tired as I still felt. When she woke up later and started reading a book, I found myself beginning to smile and had to stop myself. I should still be worried acting, not smiling like I had a crush.

I had to do better so Melanie didn't get in trouble. An hour or so later, she started working on another of her paintings. Watching her work, I was amazed at how real it all looked. It was hard to see everything from my angle, but I would have sworn she had paint on those brushes and was really painting whatever was on the canvas. I found myself feeling proud of her. She really was a great actress. Not only did I see her not giving any clues that we had met or talked, but she really did

seem different in the room than she had in my apartment. I suppose that was what she meant by playing a role. I was almost at the end of my shift, and while I hated to leave her, I had to admit that I was ready for some more sleep, trying to guard my reaction. all day had been exhausting, and I was dreading the next few weeks, but then I realized she was done painting. I expected her to just go and do something else, but instead she picked up the canvas at its edges and carefully walked over to the sofa.

Her body was blocking it at first, but then she stepped aside. It was a painting of a massive tree. The bark was dark and red, with a huge twisting trunk that broke off into a dozen branches. Those branches were covered in leaves that were so deep green that they almost reminded me of storm clouds more than the top of a tree. Like all the paintings, I felt touched by it, even now that Melanie had told me she didn't paint them. The images themselves, combined with the colors and small details, they really were amazing. Just like this one, if you looked close enough, you could see that there were several small blackbirds in the branches of the tree. It was funny, but they almost looked like they were...

It almost looked like they were made out of words. I felt my heart start to hammer, and I forced myself to stay calm. No point in being silly. I knew it was all a game now, and I just had to play my part a little while longer. Still, the worried me would want to know what the words said, so I might as well try to read them. I squinted, following the birds right to left and top to bottom. That girl isn't. Me.

I looked away from the painting to see Rachel staring up at me. She looked terrified. Oh no. I had to do something and I had to do it right now. If Melanie was somehow a fake, that meant they must have sent her. And if they sent her, that meant they know. They knew about the messages in her painting. They knew about me asking questions.

They knew I didn't hit a button during any of it. I felt panic and fear crawling up my chest, making it hard to breathe. Standing up, I started pacing periodically, glancing back at the monitor to see if Rachel could help me, tell me what I needed to do next. But she had laid down on her bed. It was hard to tell for sure with her back to the camera, but I think she was crying. No, I needed to fix this, get her out of there. And if I didn't have a better plan, I'd just have to go with the one I already had.

Feeling the hard eye of the ceiling camera on me, I went to the door and stepped back into the locker room. My phone was in my locker, and after messing up the combination the first time, I got the door open and got it out. Gripping it tightly, I tried to hold it by my side casually, but I knew there was little point. If they knew everything, I wasn't going to be able to hide anything. I just had to try and be fast.

some kind of message out to people that could help Rachel before they got to me. I opened the camera on the phone, and as I re-entered the surveillance room and hit record, it made a small beeping noise, and once I was sure it was recording, I turned the camera on myself. My name is Tommy, Thomas Calhoun, and my job is watching a woman trapped in a room. This is not a joke or a movie or whatever. This is real. For three years, my job is to sit in this room. I moved the camera slowly around the room, taking in the door to the bathroom, the water cooler,

the desk with the monitors, keyboards, and buttonbox. And watch a video feed of a woman locked up in a bedroom somewhere. I stepped closer to the desk and made sure the monitor showing Rachel was clear and in focus. I didn't know this woman was a prisoner at first, or I tricked myself into thinking she wasn't because the money was good. Either way, I know she is now. She is in danger and so am I. After lingering on video of her for a few more seconds to make sure every detail could be seen, I turned the camera back to myself. I had to hurry, or the video might be too long to send quickly.

I was trying to stay calm, but I felt myself tearing up as I went on, and did my best to keep my words clear. Please help her. I don't know where she is. I don't know who has her, because I don't know who I really work for, but they are bad people, and she is not safe. All I know is that I work at a building right outside. of San Antonio. I only know the names of two other people connected to this place. The man who hired

me, Mr. Solomon, and a man who might have a job like mine, Charlie Jeffers, or no, Jeffries, I think. But I don't know if they're real people. Well, I mean, I don't know if that's their real names. Please, I'm not crazy. I know how this sounds. Just come here, see the room, figure out where she is and help her. And... I heard the muffled sound of the outer door opening. into the locker room and I frantically fumbled with the phone to stop the recording. How do I send? Oh, no.

How do I... Oh, there it is. I hit the button to share and felt a new panic rising. Who should I send it to? I only had a handful of contacts, and I just selected them all. Maybe at least one of them would take it seriously and get help. As I heard the door to the surveillance room opening behind me, I hit send. Not connected to data service or Wi-Fi.

Please send again when connected. What? No! No! No! No! No! I turned to see Mr. Solomon entering the room. He was flanked by two large men in dark suits that looked like bodyguards or something, raising a finger. He wagged it at me. No service in here, Thomas. But then you should never need service in here, so long as you followed the rules. They took me easily. I tried to make it to the bathroom and close the door, but the two guards stopped me and pulled me down. They put the... what do you call it? They called them zip ties on my wrists and feet and pulled a black bag over my head.

Then I was being carried out of the room, and it felt like they must have put me in the back of a van that was pulled right up to the building. I was laying on what felt like thin, weird-smelling carpet that covered a hard metal layer underneath. I heard someone get into the van with me, and I asked where we were going, if they would just take me and let Rachel go. There was a short laugh overhead, and then Mr. Solomon's voice, as he told me that he would explain everything when we got to where we were going. For now, he said, I needed to relax.

It's a long drive, and I would need the rest. I went to say more, but then felt a sharp pain in my neck. They had stabbed me, or no, they injected me with something. I was feeling so strange now, but I had to stay awake. I had to try and get away. I had to... Thomas? I blinked as I began looking around.

My mouth was dry, and my head hurt, but otherwise I felt okay. I wasn't tied up anymore. Instead, I was laying on a padded table like I'd seen when I went to the doctor. But this wasn't a doctor's office. The room was large, and aside from the padded table, it held a small desk, a desk with a computer monitor on it, and a couple chairs. in one of those chairs was Mr. Solomon. I raised up slowly, blinking at him. Where is she? Is Rachel okay? The man smiled. You really are something, Thomas. Trying to be the hero, even if you don't

quite know how. I respect that. Licking his lips, he leaned forward slightly. In fact, I respect that so much that I've decided to start our new relationship with as much honesty as I'm allowed. Some of my colleagues disagree with this approach, but you know what? Fuck them. This is my project, and I think you deserve to know what's going on. Looking more serious, he stood up, lifting the gun he had been holding casually in his lap. But before we get into details, would you like to see Rachel? I slid off the table and nodded as I caught myself from falling. My legs were still wobbly from whatever they had given me, but I barely noticed. Yes, yes, please. Let me see her. The real her. Mr. Solomon gave a small laugh and gestured toward a nearby door.

Yes, reality is always best. She's just in the next room. I stumbled my way forward. My legs getting better as I walked. When I grabbed the doorknob, it turned easily. I expected the door to lead to her bedroom, but instead it opened into another room a lot like the one I'd been in, though the stuff in it was different. Strange machines filled the walls, and in the back of the room was a large, aquarium? I don't know. It was a big cylinder, taller than I was, and it was filled with some kind of gray liquid. There was a shape in that liquid. Go ahead, Thomas. Feel free to go have a good look. You've earned it. I felt my stomach clenching tighter at Mr. Solomon's words and the meanness in them. My legs felt heavy again now. but it wasn't from the drugs this time. Shuffling forward, I could see the shape was a person, oh no, or at least a body, because it was clear from just looking at it that the person was dead.

It was very well preserved, but I could see how the skin hung wrong and looked bloated in spots. Oh God, no, no, no. Its hair, which had been floating like seaweed in front of its face, drifted away as I reached the glass. I could see Rachel staring out at me. Murderer! I turned on Solomon and started to run toward him when he shot me. Suddenly I was on the ground, convulsing as he stepped closer. Don't worry, Thomas. It won't kill you. Just make you unable to move for a bit. I heard more footsteps as my body began to still. Get him up. Take him back in the other room. I could barely feel anything as I was carried back to the padded table and propped up into a sitting

position. This time I was strapped down, but I guessed it was more so I didn't fall off, because I couldn't move anything other than my head, and even that, just a little. I could hardly see it all for crying, but I recognized the blurry shape of Solomon sitting back down in front of me. Before you ask, well, when you're able to ask anything again, yes, that is Rachel, not a fake Rachel, not a dummy, and not some kind of trick. As I said, the time for tricks is past. Now is the time for truth. Frowning slightly, he went on.

Thomas, I understand that showing you that, showing you her body that way, might seem very cruel. You may hate me for it right now. I would understand if you did. But you called me a murderer. And at least in this specific context, I think that is unfair, because I didn't kill. Rachel. In truth, I've been with this aspect of the project for only seven years. He gestured back to the door behind him. And Rachel has been dead for over eight. I felt my eyes widened as though they belonged to someone else's body. It was more lies,

more tricks, all of it. Oh God, it had to be. Do you know what remote viewing is? He rolled his eyes. Sorry, right. You can't talk right now. I'll just assume you don't. Remote viewing is a broad term for the ability to see things that are far away from you physically, to know things you shouldn't be able to know through your normal five senses. Some describe it as a psychic ability, though there are several schools of thought as to how and why it works. His eyes fixed on mine intently.

Because it does work, Thomas. Various governments and private organizations have studied it for a very long time. And while publicly it is always ridiculed as pseudoscience and foolish superstition, the reality is that some people have the innate ability. That means it comes naturally. To somehow see other places. Rachel was one of those people. She came into the program when she was 17,

having been identified via a front-facing screening process. that was ran as a psychological test that paid subjects well at a time when Rachel was looking to make some money. Three months after being identified as a good candidate, she was taken, and after the initial adjustment period, she became a largely compliant asset that quickly rose to the top of our talent pool. Solomon folded his hands on his knee. I know you cared for her, Thomas, so I think this is worth sharing. Rachel was never treated badly, other than her confinement and the occasional test that was mildly unpleasant. No, we all treasured her. She was enormously talented, not just as a remote viewer, but as an artist.

That's how she would convey what she saw, you understand. She would enter into an almost trans-like state when she painted, and when she was done, she would have given us a painting of images and words that provided, well, it was very valuable information. If you ever wondered, that's why there was always such care that the paintings were never shown to the camera. Picking at his pants, he went on. Rachel was so talented that she was selected for a new program that we thought might greatly

enhance or alter her ability. We introduced something foreign into her body. If anything, the accuracy of her remote viewing was declining, which was a problem for us and for her. But then we realized that we were reading the new paintings wrong. She was able to see more clearly than ever. She was just no longer bound to only current events. Now her sight transcended time. He paused, and I realized he was enjoying telling the story.

The bastard was having a good time. pausing to make it more dramatic. I would fucking kill him. Well, this made some of her paintings less immediately useful. They became much more valuable as we were able to decipher them. For a time, it looked as though everything was working better than we had ever hoped. His lips thinned. And then, one day, she showed a painting to the camera.

It said, please help me, Thomas. This immediately sent up all kinds of red flags. She knew not to show paintings to the camera, and now she was trying to communicate with someone. We didn't disrupt her routine, but an intensive investigation began into who she was talking to. Was it one of her handlers? One of the technicians? Someone from her past life, but nothing checked out. Leaning back in his chair, a look of pride grew on Solomon's face as he continued.

I was the one that first suggested the idea that she was, intentionally or not, knowingly or not, seeing and talking to someone from the future. I was still an outside consultant at the time, but by that point we had more strange behaviors from her, including the second message painting. That girl isn't me. My theory made some sense, but it very quickly ran into a greater obstacle. The introduction of the foreign material had not been as seamless as we had hoped. Despite her having been stable for almost three years since it was implanted, whether it was due to her increasing emotional upset and stress

or simply the passage of time, she suddenly began to deteriorate. Her work became more erratic and hard to understand as her body began to decline. We were monitoring her health closely, but it didn't matter. Five days after she painted, that girl isn't merely. She suddenly went into cardiac arrest and died. Somewhat inexplicably, we were unable to resuscitate her. This was a great loss, and it required adjustments of my theory. Based on everything we knew, it still made sense that she was talking to someone.

Someone with access to the camera feed, and very likely someone named Thomas. If Thomas was viewing that camera footage, in the future, as I believed, that he must be working for us in the future. He gave me a thin smile. And whether you believe that future is set in stone or not, I'm all forgiving at a helping hand. Seven years ago, I began the Thomas Project. Over the course of that time, I have overseen the screening and hiring of 43 men named

Thomas at several different sites, all with one very specific job. To watch the videos of Rachel from just before the implant to the time of her death. I tried to speak, but my mouth still wouldn't work. I wanted to say he was lying, that it was another trick, but I think I wanted to hear it for myself, because I didn't think he was lying. I didn't think it was a trick, and I thought I was starting to understand. The point wasn't really them watching the videos, of course. It was how they reacted to watching the videos.

What they did and how that matched up with what Rachel had done in response in the past. 13% quit after the first day. 38% hit either the red or the green button after the first message, asking for help and saying their name. 22% attempted to contact the authorities before reaching the stage where Melanie was introduced. He shook his head slightly. I wish I could take credit for her introduction, but it wasn't my suggestion. we assumed from the That Girl Isn't Me message

that there was a double of Rachel introduced to you at some point perhaps to kill you or dissuade you or find out what you knew but it took a few tries until we felt it was well refined and as I've pointed out

only 27% made it that far and all of them failed the next test he pointed at me her name you see the girl You've been watching, that talented, wonderful girl whose body is preserved in the next room? Her name was Rachel Donovan.

I had always wondered if Rachel was merely seeing you, or if there was some kind of connection between the two of you. When you called Melanie Rachel, I knew that we had finally found the right Thomas, the distant point of light that our Rachel was looking at across space and time. I swallowed thickly and found I could feel my tongue. If only a little. Slurring badly, I pushed out a single word. Why?

Solomon looked surprised. I'd have thought that'd be clear by now. You're our only remaining link to one of our greatest treasures. Perhaps you have a similar ability. Or it may be that she forged the link purely through her own talent and will. But either way, you are important, and you have more work to do. He stood up and moved over to the table where he turned on the monitor. As it came to life, I saw it was a frozen image of Rachel's room.

A tape paused where I'd left off watching. Turning back to me, the man looked solemn. You have to watch the rest of it, because Rachel painted you more pictures before she died, and we have to know what they mean. I spent the next five days watching Rachel die. From the outside, just watching the monitor, it didn't seem that different than what I'd just been watching for the past three years. Rachel slept, she watched TV, she read, and she painted.

But there were signs if you were looking for them. She seemed tired and tense, and she had taken to sleeping more. And occasionally, just every once in a while, she would glance up at the camera, at me. It was then that I could see the fear and sadness in her eyes. Well, inside, I felt like a burned-out house collapsing in on itself. At first, I refused to watch, to do anything they wanted me to do. Solomon didn't get mad at me, but just shrugged. He said while cooperation was preferred and could go a long way toward making my stay with

them more comfortable, it wasn't required. If he was right, Solomon had said with a thin smile, things would play out as they were meant to, regardless of what I wanted or thought I chose. Either way, he said the video was about to start again and would not stop for another five days. Whether I wanted to spend that time getting to see her again was entirely up to me. I tried not to watch, but a part of me knew from the start I was going to. Maybe I would find some clue that they were lying about her being dead, or Rachel could give me some advice or warning about what I needed to do next. I didn't No. What I did know was that I couldn't miss the chance to see her again. And despite knowing

in my heart that she was dead and everything on the video had happened a long time ago, I still felt that by watching I was with her somehow. She had been taken away from everything she knew when she was barely grown, trapped for years for just being special, experimented on, treated like property, kept from ever having friends or family or a life, and yet through all of that. She was still beautiful, not just on the outside, but on the inside too. I'd spent years watching her, getting to know her in a thousand tiny ways that so few people ever truly know each other. I had seen her kindness and the grace and her actions, even when she was fighting against the people holding her. I had watched her strength when she woke up day after

day in her prison and never gave up, and I watched the beauty of her soul and her paintings. full of swirling colors and—what was the word? Wonder. She was able to paint these things she saw with such care and love, despite living in a world that had abandoned her so completely. Well, I wasn't abandoning her. I would watch every bit of the video I could manage, try to burn into my memory every frame of her I saw, not for them and their stupid project, but for me and for her.

I may not have much to do in my life before they lock me away somewhere or kill me, but I could do this one last thing. Rachel wouldn't die alone. I watched nearly all of it, stopping only to eat quickly and use the bathroom until the last two days. I would ask the guards to pause it, but they would only shake their heads and say Solomon said it had to play normally until it finished. By the fourth day, I was in a stupor.

I had already dozed some of the first three days, but when I woke up on the fourth day, I could tell a few hours had passed. There were two trays of food on the bed, one breakfast and another lunch. I looked back at the screen in a panic, worrying I had missed something, but Rachel seemed to be just waking up too. I noticed her putting her hand on her stomach as she got out of bed and felt my own stomach twist. She was already hurting.

So glanced at the camera and tried to smile before moving to set up a new canvas for painting. This was the second of three paintings she did in those last days. The first had been on the inside of an old-fashioned movie theater from the viewpoint of someone sitting in a back row. On the movie screen was just the image of a sludge hammer propped against a brick wall. I didn't understand what it meant, and I found myself scanning the picture for some message or other clue. I found what it might be, though I didn't understand it either.

Rachel must have come to understand that they knew what she was doing with the paintings and didn't want to stop her, because these last three she set up much closer to the camera. I was still squinting and studying the painting closely when I realized the flipped-up seats in the next row up had brass number plates along the front edge of the seats. Though they were upside down from the viewpoint of the painting, the angle was good enough, that once I noticed them, I was able to read them. 2.43.26.89. I didn't understand any of it, but I committed it all to memory, focusing all my attention

on the painting until she finally took it away. Even that early on, I could tell painting was taking a lot out of her now. And like I had for so long, I found myself talking to her, telling her to go rest before I remembered her body in the next. next room. I almost stopped then, but no. Maybe she couldn't tell if I was talking to her, or maybe she could. Either way, me talking to her couldn't hurt, and it made me feel a little less lonely and sad as I watched her. The second painting, the one she started after I woke up from falling asleep for a few hours, was stranger than the rest. It looked like it was in a room with curved walls made of tree roots, and in the center of the same.

of the room was a little table made out of the same stuff. Some of the roots around the room were a deep red, but other parts, including the table thing, looked burnt and black. I looked closer and saw that I could see a person's shadow over the table, hands holding some long, oval-shaped bundle. I studied it for a long time, going over it again and again in my mind after she took it away. I couldn't make sense of it, of any of it. I wasn't smart enough and I was failing her. Rachel slept for a long time after that painting. Then she got up on the fifth day, her last day, and immediately started working again.

This time she was painting faster, and while I saw her wince occasionally, she never lost her look of determination as she slashed lines and colors across the canvas. When she was done, Rachel picked up the painting and turned it toward the camera, giving me a small, tired smile as she was blocked from view. It was looking out from the front porch of a house somewhere. It was out in the country, and the morning view of the yard and the land beyond were wonderful, but closer up, the painting was of two hands, holding on to each other tightly. Their interlocked fingers seemed to glow red and orange in the light of the rising sun.

I found myself crying as I looked at it. Part of it was because I didn't know what it meant, and I felt a growing sense of desperation at the thought that Rachel's last works might be wasted on me. Part was because I knew it had been five days, and I could sense I was close to the end, to her end. But there was something more than all that, too. The last painting, even with everything else in my head and my heart pulling me down, gave me hope.

I didn't know why. But I started to think that maybe the only message Rachel had for me in that last painting was that somehow, somewhere, everything would be okay. Outside the edge of the painting, I could see motion in the room, people hurriedly coming in with some kind of medical equipment, and then the monitor went black. You've done well, Thomas. Very, very well. For the last five days of video, we had charted 1,047 microvariations.

micro-variations in Rachel's behavior that we believed might correspond to your behavior, your reactions, and your emotional states while watching the video. Like before, the two of you remained in sync, as though you were in the same room. It really is remarkable. I sat, staring at Solomon. I listened to what he said, but I didn't care. I just wanted it over. Whatever this was, I just wanted it over.

Clearing his throat, he went on. That's why we've decided to move the implant from Rachel's body to your own. That's one of the many reasons we've preserved her so. The foreign body was still showing signs of life all this time, but just barely. And we were afraid to attempt removal. Our hope is that, given your connection to Rachel, it will accept you, perhaps even thrive in you more than it ever did, our girl. I was suddenly on my feet, and it was only the raising of Solomon's gun that stopped me from attacking him.

Don't you fucking talk about her like that. Like any of you gave a shit about her. I'll fucking kill you. Solomon's face darkened slightly as his lips thinned. No, you won't. But if idle threats make you feel better, go ahead. It will only make things harder, not easier. Feeling a stab of panicked fear, I sat back down.

What is this thing you're going to put in me? The man looked at me for several seconds before responding. I'm tempted not to tell you after you're stupid. and frankly hurtful outburst. Letting out a small sigh, he went on. Thomas, somewhere there is a tree, a very special tree. We suspect it is the same tree Rachel painted for you that time, though we cannot say for sure, as we have never been able to find it.

It is either hidden away very well, or it is able to hide itself from those it wishes. I just looked at him, trying to kill him by just wanting it to be so. In any case, we have the next best best thing. thing, an ancient clipping from the tree, secured at great cost and sacrifice, and studied for a long time without much success. We have, however, in recent years, been given advice that this clipping could be grown in the right soil. We thought that soil was Rachel, but while it did develop further inside of her, she died before the necessary growth was finished. Leaning forward, he smiled at me. We have it on fairly good authority,

however, that you might succeed where she failed. I fought them when they came, but it didn't matter. I woke up sometime later with a dull ache in my chest and a small, already healing scar on my upper stomach. I didn't really feel that different other than the little bit of pain, but I knew that would change with time. I had more time than Rachel, or maybe I had less. It didn't matter. I just... Wait, what was that? There was some kind of soft voice coming from where.

It wasn't in the room. It was in my head. It felt like a thrill of excitement. Maybe this was Rachel's voice. Had she somehow stayed in the tree thing they had put inside me? But no, I had never heard Rachel's voice. But I sensed this wasn't it. This voice was too delicate to really be heard or unheard, and it reminded me of music coming

from a distant room that you felt in the back of your mind without realizing it. It was a melody, a kind of song, but it wasn't Rachel's song. I realized with a shiver that it was the song of the thing inside of me. At first I was afraid, but that didn't last long. It wasn't trying to hurt me. It was trapped here just like I was, but it started to sing. It was time for us to be free. I stood up and walked to the door.

As I did so, the lights went out. The door in front of me clicked, and when I reached out and turned the knob in the dark, it opened easily. How was this possible? And if it could do this, why hadn't it helped Rachel get out? There was no answer, but there was also no time. I could already hear boots around the corner as the glow from flashlights began to light up the far end of the hall.

They would drag me back in there, chain me up, or take this thing back out of me before we could get away. If I was ever going to get out, it had to be now. The voice was singing again, pushing me to go further into the dark, to run until we were safe. So I listened, and I ran. Every door unlocked for me, every turn kept me barely out of sight. The people looking for me were barking orders over a radio, asking someone what was the holdup

on the generator kicking on. Whatever the response, the hallway stayed dark as I drifted through them, blind but not falling, lost but not being found. When I reached the final door, I opened it into a bright afternoon. My lungs burned a little at the first fresh, unrecycled air I had breathed in a week. Blinking. I waited for the voice to tell me where to go. But it had fallen silent.

I closed the door as panic began to rise in my chest. All this and I would get caught because I didn't know where to go. I was outside a plain brown building in the middle of nowhere. There was a road going off to the right, and to the left there was Rachel's forest from her first painting to me. I knew it was the same forest immediately, and not just because it was matching the painting so closely. I had some strange sense that felt like a kind of magnetism.

or how birds know which way to fly. Looking around for a second, I felt like I was being pulled when I looked again at those woods. This was right. Somehow I knew this was the way I needed to go. So I went. I had made it to the edge of the forest when I heard the noise of men coming outside the building. I thought about hiding, but I knew that was a bad idea. They would just catch me.

And I felt a drive to go deeper into the woods. I plunged ahead, running at close to a reckless speed, but never tripping or stumbling as I went. I would occasionally hear a noise behind me as they spread out to search, but the sounds grew fainter as I ran. I almost thought I had lost them for good when I heard a short cough that was muffled off to my left. Someone had gotten close without me knowing it. Panicking, I looked for any place I could hide. There were only bushes and trees, and over there.

A well? Not just a well, but Rachel's well, with the same worn, grey stone walls capped with a weathered wooden lid. I felt a moment of happy recognition, but then it faded away. How did that help? They'd check the well if they found it. And I didn't have any way to get down it without getting hurt or stuck. Then an idea struck me.

Crouching low and staying to the bush, I moved to the well and gingerly pushed on the lid. At first it resisted, but when I pushed a bit harder, the wooden circle slid aside enough that you could clearly see someone moved it. Glancing around, I eased back into the bushes as I heard soft footfalls approaching. We need to check this out. You think he went down the well? Better hope not. He probably broke his neck if he did, and then it's our asses.

I could see the two men approaching, both of them wearing dark body armor and carrying assault The older of the two shrugged back at the other one. Better that than he's hiding in there and we didn't check. Looking irritated, the younger man nodded. I'll look. He went over to the well and shoved the wooden lid aside, causing it to clatter to the ground. Hitting a button on his rifle, a flashlight sprang to life on the barrel. He started to shine it down into the well as the other continued to look in every direction.

I was worried he would see me if I moved, but I couldn't wait. I just had to stay calm, think slow, and move fast. I kept expecting to hear them yell or feel something or someone strike me in the back, but nothing came. As the afternoon light began to dim, I saw the trees thinning ahead. I was approaching a road. It looked like a normal public road, too, with several cars passing one way or the other as I walked out of the forest and up the hill to the asphalt.

The idea of hitchhiking, especially this close to where they held me, was frightening, but I saw a little choice. I was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt they had given me in my own shoes, but I had no money or ID or phone. My only chance was to get far enough away that I could try and get help. I jumped slightly at the hiss of hydraulic brakes as a large semi rolled to a stop next to me. The passenger window rolled down, and an older man with white hair. and a graying mustache leaned over and peered down at me.

You look lost, son. You need a ride? I looked down at the door of the truck. It had a logo that said, Martinez and Sons Construction and Hauling. Below it was a cartoon man hitting a wall with a sledgehammer. Looking back up, I smiled at him. Yes, sir, I do. I woke up five hours later as we pulled into a truck stop somewhere in Nevada.

I had planned on staying awake the entire trip, but that had only lasted at a few minutes before exhaustion overtook me. I glanced over at Oliver Martinez, and he gave me a toothy grin. I'm tired, but you were plum-tuckered out. I've got to fuel up, shower, and get some grub. I'm going on to California after that. If you want to ride further, just be back here in an hour. Sound good? I nodded and thanked him again for the ride as I got out. I felt groggy from sleeping, but otherwise okay. I just needed to decide whether this was a good spot to ask for help, or if I should ride with Martinez further. He seemed like a very nice guy, and he would probably try to help if he could, but I wanted

to avoid putting more people in danger if I could help it. Looking around, I saw we were in a fairly nice little town. I decided I would go look around for a few minutes and then decide what to do. I was only three blocks down the street when I saw the flickering of lights in the distance. It was a movie theater. As I got closer, I felt my chest tightening. It was the one from Rachel's painting. Hey there, welcome to Phoenix.

The guy standing at the counterbar of the movie theater looked a little younger than me, and while he seemed friendly enough, he also looked slightly concerned. If you're here for the horror double feature, I'm afraid the second movie is about thirty minutes in. I can give you a half off rate if you want to see it, though. I shook my head and tried not to look as strange and crazy as I felt. Oh, that's okay. I...

Well, I recognized this place from a picture, a friend of mine painted, so I came in to ask if you knew anything about her. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Okay, weird. He smiled and added. Weird, but interesting. Who is she? I swallowed.

Her name is... Well, it was, Rachel Donovan. I expected him to look surprised, more excited, or angry. But I could see right away the name meant nothing. to him. Shaking his head, he shrugged again. Sorry, it doesn't ring a bell. I'd say you could ask the owner, but he's on vacation this week. Nodding. I searched my mind for something else to ask, some way to make this place matter the way her other paintings had. Is there anything unique about this place then? It's history or something? The man grinned. But he clearly not from here.

This place is super boring, not just the theater, but the whole town. frowning in thought, he added. The only thing I know about the history of this place is that there used to be a house here that burned down. This was like in the 1920s or 30s when this wasn't even a part of the town. Couldn't tell you the first thing about it beyond that, but I still bet it's the most interesting thing that's ever happened here. I let out a disappointed sigh.

Okay, well, thanks. I turned to leave when the guy called out again. Hey man, I'm sorry I couldn't help more. If you come back, I'll get your discount on a movie. Half off. If I'm not working, tell them Marshall said it's okay. I waved and tried to smile as I headed for the door with a heavy heart. Why did you lead me here, Rachel?

What's here that will help? I was outside again, staring up at the theater's bright blinking signs as though they were going to give me some kind of secret signal when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. There was an alley that ran alongside the theater and went behind it to something. Whatever was back there, the light of a distant security lamp cast shadows along the wall of the alley, and those shadows were moving.

Instead of feeling afraid, I felt excited as I started down the alley. Rachel had led me here, and I just had to trust that there was a reason for it. I kept moving until I... The shadows were made by leaves, blowing in some wind I couldn't feel. As I got to the far end of the alley, I saw there was a small backyard behind the theater surrounded by a chain-link fence, and on the other side of that fence was the tree from Rachel's painting, with its deep, red, twisting bark and foam of green leaves waving to and fro in the night air.

I felt a surge of warmth in my chest as the distant singing began again. This was the place, the special tree that could not be found unless it was a surge of warmth unless it wanted you to find it. It sat at the edge of a small, overgrown lot, surrounded on all sides by buildings and yards, somehow forgotten when whatever land this had once been was divided up, and despite its location, I had a strong sense that I was the first to see it in a very long time. Climbing the fence, I felt a jagged wire dig into my leg and rip my pants as I fell over the top.

I was bleeding a little, but I hardly noticed. I could smell the tree now, and it was a rich, good smell unlike any I had smelled before. Reaching out to it, I felt the singing grow louder as I touched it. I felt stronger and less afraid then. And when I saw the light opening up at its roots, I didn't tremble. I smiled. There was a hidden tunnel under the tree, a tunnel filled with sweet-smelling air that was like the tree smell, but also different. And the tunnel wasn't dark. No, not at all. It glowed with

its own golden light that called to me, urged me forward. Rain was beginning to fall as I looked around the dark lot. I had the thought that I was leaving this world behind, and I found that I didn't mind that much at all. The tunnel had continued to grow, slanting down gently and tall enough that I walked in without stooping. The roots of the tree went on and on, woven through the dirt walls as I went deeper. I looked back and saw the tunnel had closed behind me, but I wasn't surprised. The way forward was the only way that mattered. I walked for what might have been hours, but I never felt tired or hungry, and I never worried I was lost, though I had no idea where I was or where I was going. Still, I felt a surge of happiness and excitement when I turned a corner

and saw something in the tunnel ahead. As I got closer, I realized it was a brick wall, but just as I began to think I found a dead end, the wall faded away, revealing a dark room. I paused at the edge of the tunnel, looking out at the floor of what looked like a basement. It was empty, but in the light from the tree I could make out something scratched into the floor. It was the number two. I felt my pulse quicken as I thought back to Rachel's painting with the theater seats, and then I stepped out into the room. It was the empty basement of a house, and as I went up the stairs and opened the door,

I saw that the rest of the house was empty as well. No lights were on, but bright sunlight poured in through every window, and in the distance, I could hear what sounded like small waves crashing on a beach. I wanted to go out and see where I was, but I forced myself to check the house first for any people or clues, but there was none. The house was utterly bare of any sign of people other than the number scratched into the floor below. My nose tingled with salty air as I stepped outside.

The house was near the beach on what I soon figured out was a small deserted island. I realized, with little surprise, that I recognized the house from Rachel's painting. As I stepped off the porch, I saw no signs of people, but I wasn't entirely alone, because sitting some distance from the house was the tree. I knew it couldn't be the same tree as in the abandoned lot, but at the same time I knew that it was, or at least a different part of the same tree that made the tunnels and appeared in my old world and whatever place this was. Because I had started having that thought as soon as I stepped out of the house, I didn't

think this was my world. Not exactly. I could see a larger island some distance away, and it might have people on it, hotels and cars and planes, or it might not, as those things might not exist here. Either way, my newfound intuition was growing stronger, and I could tell that the... What was it called? The con... No...

No. The texture of things was different somehow, if only a little. Not bad, more scary, just different. Still, after a couple of hours of exploring the island and checking the house, I began to feel terribly lonely, even with the tree nearby. I decided to go back into the tunnel and keep going. The basement wall faded away as I walked up. to it and I entered the tunnels again. It was only a short time later that I found my second

version of the house. Much like the first, the wall faded away into a basement, but this one was far from empty. It was a workshop of some kind, full of tools I wasn't familiar with. I glanced down and saw 43 scratched onto the floor. Who is doing that, and why? I was going to explore the house, more carefully this time, as it looked like there were people here, but then I froze. Propped against the brick wall, next to a small stack of boards, was a sledgehammer. Trying to be quiet, I crept over and picked it up before heading back into the tunnel. When I was little, before Dad died, he had loved to hunt. I never went with him and didn't remember much of what he hunted, but I do know he had an old

hound he'd had since before I was born. The dog had only loved him, well, him and being on the trail of something. His name was Rockefeller, got a scent. It was like he was in a trance. He would go and go, this way and that, and to look at him, it looked like he was having a fit, both lost and certain at the same time. But whatever Rocker knew or didn't know, he always found what he was looking for. I felt like Rocker now. I was moving faster and faster as I went down this turn and that. I felt like I was on the trail of something or traveling on memories I didn't have. Ripping the sledgehammer tightly, I could hear the rising hum of the distant music in

my head as I turned the last corner, and then it fell silent. There was another brick wall, and as I approached it fell away. It was another basement room, but this one was much smaller. It contained a table, a clothes chest, and an old metal bed that had been broken apart. At the far brick wall, a woman was using one of the metal legs from the bed to attack the wall and whatever lay behind it. I felt my head began to swim as I looked at her from behind, and as she turned to look at me, eyes wide with surprise and fear, I felt the sludge hammer slipped from my grip as

I stumbled back against the now solid wall. I could barely breathe at all, but I managed to get it. out a single word. Rachel? The woman looked at me, her expression less fearful but still guarded. Yeah, do I know you? She had the bed-leg partially raised in warning. It was her, but it wasn't.

Much like the tree on the island. This Rachel looked a few years older, and while she looked stressed and confused at that moment, her eyes didn't seem weighted down by the same quiet sadness I had come to recognize watching the other Rachel for all that time. Still, I didn't know how to answer her question and not sound creepy or crazy. I stared at her for a second, floundering when she asked another. You came out of the tree tunnel, right? I nodded, grateful for something I could answer easily. Studying me, she said. Where did you come from? Before the tunnel, I mean. I flushed as I tried to think of the right words. Um, well, I came from Texas originally.

She grinned at me for a second before catching herself and trying to look serious. Yeah, okay. But like, do you know how the tree works? How did you find out about the tunnel? How did you get here? Sighing, I rubbed my head and just stared into it. Look, I know this will sound crazy, but I had a job watching a woman trapped in a room, and that woman was you, or another version of you, and she asked me for help, and I couldn't

couldn't help her, and I found out she had been dead for a long time, but could see me in the future, and then they put something from the tree in me that had been in her that had killed her, and then I escaped, and then I figured out where to go to find the tree from things she had painted, and I somehow knew how to go into the tunnels to find different spots, and I'm pretty sure the tunnels lead to different worlds, and I got this sludge hammer, and then I— Hold up! God damn! Take a breath! You're going to pass out!

She was smiling again, and this time she didn't try to hide it. She looked over what was left of the bed to where the sledgehammer was laying on the floor. And did you say sledgehammer? So yeah, I believe you. I've been in those tunnels, too. My ex-boyfriend tricked me into moving here so he could tie me to the tree in his place. Well, not. Tie me to the tree, literally.

Take his place as, uh, what, the tree's buddy or something? I don't really know, but it's all pretty fucked up, and I don't understand all of it. But what I do understand is that the fucker walled me up in here. At first, I thought I could just pry loose some bricks over time, but nope, he put a layer of concrete on the outside this time. Good old Phil, or Justin, or whatever, I mainly think of him as fuckface now. This is taking forever. I stepped up and put my hand on the sledgehammer. Let me do it for a bit.

We can take turns. We had cleared away even more brick than she had already managed, but the concrete wall was only starting to show small cracks. I wanted to just keep looking at her, have her talk to me, but I knew she was tired. She nodded reluctantly and let go of the hammer. Before I swung, I looked back at her. How long have you been in here like this? Rachel scowled.

It's hard to say for sure, but I think about eight months. I let the hammer drop again as my eyes widened. How did you survive all that time? Her scowl deepened. It's the tree. It won't let me die. I just dip into the tunnel every day for a bit, and I never get that hungry or thirsty. A thought occurred to me then.

Why didn't you just escape through the tunnels? She quickly shook her head. No, thank you. you, I've had enough of seeing other worlds. Some of them aren't so nice, and I don't want to be more tied to this tree than I already am. I just went out of here, into my own world, and then I can try and figure out how to get free of my connection to the tree for good. She shrugged.

I would have done it eventually with the stupid bed parts. But who knows how long it would have taken. She smiled again. I'm very happy you came to help and brought a sledgehammer with you. Returning her smile, I nodded as I lifted the... hammer again. Me too. We were both ringing with sweat when we crawled through the hole we'd made in the outer wall. Rachel told me that she thought her ex-boyfriend was long gone, but she couldn't be sure, so we had to be careful. Grabbing the sledgehammer from inside the

room, we made our way towards the stairs. The house was decorated but quiet, and we saw no sign of anyone as we walked to the front door and opened it. Outside, the sun was coming up. up on a new day, and as we walked out onto the porch, I jumped a little as Rachel took my hand and gave it a squeeze. I looked over at her. I hadn't been able to help the other Rachel, but maybe that had never been the point at all, because I thought now she had been able to see more than just other places or the future. She'd been able to see into other worlds and possibilities, like this one, where another

version of her was trapped and needed help. A place where I wouldn't be hunted and she could be free. In the end, even when she knew she was dying, Rachel had been determined to help us be together and happy. The morning sun painted beautiful colors on Rachel's face, and looking into her eyes, I saw how much she was like the woman I had watched and cared about and tried to save, the woman who, in the end, had saved me instead. I wanted to tell Rachel so many things, ask her so many questions, but all that could come

later. Squeezing her hand back, I walked with her away from the house. For now, this was enough. My phone buzzed on the nightstand like an angry wasp, and at first I thought it was the alarm to get up. I picked up the phone and blinked at it as I realized that it had stopped buzzing, and I was supposed to have another hour to sleep, because it wasn't the alarm. It was a text notification.

You have a delivery scheduled. I frowned at the phone as I looked at the sender. It was just a series of numbers, letters, and symbols that looked like someone had rolled their hand across the keyboard. Certainly not a phone number or an online store that I had ordered something from. Super weird, which meant that it was probably a scam. A foreign prince was going to send me a diamond if I would only send money first. Sure thing.

Still, there was always the possibility it was least. I hadn't ordered anything out of the ordinary, but maybe somebody was sending me something as a surprise. My birthday was next month after all. The chances seemed low, but the idea still got enough inertia that I hadn't deleted the message, the way I usually did with spam. Instead, I closed my phone and drifted back off to sleep. When I woke up to the alarm a bit later, I found myself checking for another message.

I felt a bit disappointed that there was none, and that, in turn, made me to the alarm a bit of made me feel a bit dumb. Shaking my head, I went back and deleted the first message. By the time I got out of the shower, I'd forgotten about it almost entirely. That afternoon, I was eating a sandwich at my desk when my phone jumped in my hand. I had been scrolling the internet, but now the top of my screen was filled with a new notification. I tapped at it and slowly sat my sandwich down as I read the full message. You have a delivery scheduled.

Delivery time will be 12.45 p.m. Please be prepared at that time. What the hell? Rereating the message, I pondered it. Who gives that specific of a time? And please be prepared for what? Hey, Becky. I knew she was over there. Just like me, she never took a lunch break.

Yeah. I stood up and leaned over the cubicle wall as I held out my phone. Have you ever gotten a delivery message like this? She took my phone and studied it for a moment before looking up at me. Her gray eyebrows arched. No, I don't think so. I think it's a hacker or something? I shrugged.

Who knows? Probably some kids sending people odd messages as a prank. Becky gave a little laugh and went back to looking at her computer as I sat back and stared at my own little screen. The sender name was different this time, right? Still a mix of stuff that made no sense, but with more letters than before. Frowning at my phone, I debated just deleting it again. Still, something with the new message made me feel a bit excited, a little bit of a little.

worried. No doubt it was just a mistake or an automated fishing scam, but for the moment, it was making my day a bit more interesting. So, even though I knew it was a waste of time, and against my rules on responding to sketchy internet shit, I decided to text back. Who's this? What is being delivered? I didn't order anything. I chewed the rest of my sandwich robotically, as I played on my phone, trying to pretend like I wasn't just distracting myself while I waited for a response. I finished watching a video about an orphaned raccoon and something when I noticed the time. It was already getting close to 1.30. I needed to get back to work, and if something was delivered, I wouldn't be home until after

six anyway. But my guess was I'd probably be looking at an empty porch when I got there. My phone buzzed about an hour later. It was my mom, asking if I was still coming over this weekend. I was starting to type an answer when my phone shook again. It was a response from the mystery sender. You will see soon. Okay, so this is either someone being creepy or someone I know doing some kind of practical. A shrieking sound began tearing across the office, and for a moment I had the panic

thought that this was what was coming. But this sound was some terrible thing screeching and wailing as it clotted its way toward me. Then I heard Becky's voice over the noise and I looked up. What? It's the fire alarm. Come on, we have to go down the stairs. Glancing back down at my phone, I caught a final glimpse of the last message before my screen went dim. I stuffed the phone in my pocket as I went with Becky and everyone else out of the office

and down the stairs to the lobby of our building. It was a slow process, made slower, because I got in front of Becky in case she stumbled and went to fall. I knew she had trouble on stairs, and I didn't want her going so fast trying to keep up that she would wind up with a broken neck over what was probably a stupid, unannounced drill. But when we stepped out into the lobby, I could already see fire trucks pulling up through the front windows. Something was actually going on after all. I heard anxious murmurs around me as we were ushered by security through the doors and told to cross safely to the other side of the street until they could give us more information.

We did as we were told, and within a couple of minutes, we were clustered on the far sidewalk like penguins, puddled together on a lonely ice flow. There were probably 50 or 60 people out there, and I realized with some surprise that I didn't recognize most of them. I'd worked in the building for over five years, and I hardly knew anyone outside of the guards and people on my floor, and most of the ones I did know was only in passing. It made me feel isolated and unfriendly, and in other circumstances I would have encouraged myself to do better and be more social, but surrounded by so many people in such close quarters,

All I could think was, my phone buzzed. Delivery completed. Checking my phone's clock, I saw that it was exactly 2.45 p.m. I went over to my email to see if there had been any delivery-related messages, but there was nothing. Looking up, I saw a cop approaching. He looked tired and wary as he drew near the crowd. I could tell by his expression that something bad must have happened. All he told us was that there had been a fire and that it had been put out,

but there was an ongoing investigation of the scene. Due to this, the office was going to be closed the rest of the day and possibly tomorrow. And we should call our supervisors in the morning for further updates. You know, they pulled a few people from the crowd a minute ago. I looked around and saw Becky looking at me. What? Those cops. They pulled a few people out a few minutes ago.

You were looking at your phone, but I think they got people from the 10th floor. I bet they're questioning them about something. I shrugged. I don't know. Laughing, I added, better them than me, right? I'm heading out. Notting distractedly, as she looked after the retreating officer, Becky said, Don't forget your box. I stopped still and turned back to her. What box? She pointed behind me. That box. Didn't you bring it down with you? It's got your name on it. You know I didn't have any. She was right. There was a small cardboard box sitting on the sidewalk right behind.

where I'd been standing. Where did that come from? Did you put that there? Becky let out a laugh. Did you see me with a box on the way down? I scowled to her. Did you see me with a one? She frowned and shook her head. No, I guess not. I was paying attention to the stairs mainly, but I don't remember it. I just noticed it a minute ago. It has your name on it, so I figured I must have just overlooked it. Her eyes widened. Think this is your mystery delivery? I, yeah, maybe so. I picked up the box gingerly.

It wasn't heavy, but it definitely had something with weight to it inside. I wanted to open it then and there, but it was taped up, and people were already moving toward the nearby parking deck that our office validated. I went along with the herd, hurrying to the third floor deck where I hopped into my car and cut the tape with my house key. The thought that this was a bomb, maybe some extension of some act of terrorism or vandalism in the building fluttered across my mind, but I pushed it away. Why would someone target me, of all people?

And it wasn't like I wasn't going to open it. I had to know what was in there, right? So I opened it. And it wasn't a bomb. It was a camera. Small and black, the digital camcorders seemed expensive and nice, though I hadn't used anything other than my phone to record video since I was in college, so I was no expert. But nice or not, it was a weird.

gift to send me. I wasn't some big recording guy, and even if I was, I wouldn't lug around a camera to do it. It was then that it struck me that the camera wasn't in a box or package of its own. It was literally just stuck down in a plain cardboard box. So it was a used gift, or was there something on it already? I tilted the box back and forth, making sure that there was nothing else in there before reaching my hand in. The camera felt cold against my palm, and it took me a minute to find the tiny power button on the side of it. It had one of those tiny flip-out screens, and I figured that was the best way to see if it worked, and if there was already video on it.

There was. Just one video. 59 seconds long. It showed a woman going into what looked like a small computer or server room in an office that looked similar to my own. The door was pulled shut behind her by an unseen hand, and when the shot pulled back, It was clear something had been wedged to keep the door from opening again. If she'd had more time, the woman might have beaten on the door and yelled. If she'd had more time, she might have called for help and said that someone was squirting

something under the door because I was watching the tip of some black container being pushed against the bottom of the door and squeezed repeatedly. If she had more time, she might have begged for them to stop when she heard the lighter being triggered or smelled the faint traces of copier paper set aflame before being tossed down into the puddle, trailing out from the bottom of the server room door. But she only had 15 seconds to react to the door being shut and wedged, some accelerant being sprayed into the room, and the room being set alight. After that, she screamed for help for a few more scattered, painful moments of life, but

it was too late for help. Too late for anything. The fire was already eating her flesh, eating her words, eating her life. God, why would anyone do this? And why would they show it to me? My phone buzzed on the seat next to me and I let out a startled yell. I didn't want to pick it up, but I'd need to, anyway. I had to call 911.

I had to try to catch whoever did this. Swallowing, I saw it was another text notification and I forced myself to tap it open. You have a delivery scheduled. One, what's your emergency? I got this thing, this package. There was a fire or something at the building and I was- I need you to slow down for me, okay? Do you feel safe where you are right now? Yes, I don't know. I think so. I'm in my car.

Okay, that's good. So take a breath for me and then try to tell me what's going on. I work at... It's the building on the 12th floor. A little while ago, the alarms went off, and we had to go outside, and then we were told by the cops that the office was closed. There was some kind of investigation going on. Yes, I'm pulling up dispatch logs and seeing the... call went out earlier. Sir, if that's the only reason you're calling, then rest assured that... No, listen, please. Just listen.

I started getting weird texts this morning saying I had a delivery coming. I hadn't ordered anything. They kept getting weirder, kind of creepy. Then we were all outside after the fire alarm. I find a package addressed to me. I open it up and there's a camera in there. There's video on it that looks like someone being trapped in a room and burned alive. It looks like it happened on one of the floors of my...

office building. That sounds very upsetting, sir. You say that you watched this video? Yeah, it was terrible, but yes. And you think this might have happened in your building? I don't know, but possibly. What floor do you think it might have happened on? You know, if it did happen? What? How would I know? Look, I didn't have anything to do with this. I just got this video randomly and... So you think that someone just randomly picked you out to send a video, of them murdering someone? How the hell should I know? Look, I'm just trying to help catch the sick freak that did this.

Sir, I need you to remain calm. No need to be defensive. I'm here to help. Where are you at right now? I'm in my car. The third floor on the parking deck we all use for work. It's the closest one to the building. Got it.

Sending someone to you now. Just stay in your car with the doors locked for me, okay? And stay on the line. Yeah, um, okay. Oh, maybe the 10th floor. What about the 10th floor? My friend Becky said she saw people from the 10th floor being pulled out of the crowd by the cops. So maybe if this video was from today, it happened on the 10th floor.

But I mean, the cops should already know where it happened, right? Sure, but as you can imagine, it's been a busy day for all of us. Yeah, sure. Are they almost here? I'll be happy to give a statement and all, but I'm kind of freaked out and I want to be rid of this thing. Rid of what thing? What are you trying to get rid of? What? The camera. I don't want to be near that disgusting thing. Oh, I thought maybe you meant the bag under your seat. What? What the hell? This isn't mine?

What isn't yours, sir? I need you to talk to me. I... There's a bag under my seat with gloves in it. I opened it up. It smells really bad. What is this? Did you plant this in my car? Sir, you're growing hysterical. Please remain calm. Nah, nah, you're in on this. You're trying to frame me or something. What are you talking about, sir? You said, you asked about the bag under my seat.

How did you know there was a bag under my seat? Sir, I didn't say that. You must have misunderstood me. I know this is hard, but I can assure you, no one is trying to frame you for anything. I don't know what's going on. I understand. I'm here to help.

What was it you said you found again? A bag. There was a sandwich bag with rubber gloves in it. I open it up and it stinks. Does it smell like carbon disulfide? What? How would I know that? Sorry. Does it smell like rotten eggs? Uh, yeah, I guess. Look, I sealed it back up and put it on the seat next to me. I'll have my fingerprints on it, but I swear I didn't put it there. I've never seen it before. I understand. Please remain calm and remain on the line with me.

Someone is almost there. Okay, well, I just... Wait, my phone buzzed. Just a second. It's another message, like the other ones. It says delivery completed. I think I need to go. I can drive to the police station or something.

Sir, please remain where you are. It shouldn't be much. Someone's coming up now. Good. Stay on the line with me, please. Oh, shit, it's not a cop. It's Becky. Can I get out and see what she wants?

Please stay in the car, sir. But it's just my friend. What? What are you doing? What do you? No! What the hell? Sir, what's happening?

Oh, God, no. What the fuck? Sir. You've got to help her. Oh, God. She has to be dead. But you have to come and try to help her, please. Becky, oh, God.

Sir, I need you to talk to me. Please tell me what's happening. Becky, my friend from work, she came up to my car and pulled out This black thing, it looked like the thing the killer used on the video. She squirted something on herself and set herself on fire. She's not moving anymore. So you're saying your friend Becky from work just came up to your car and set herself on fire? Am I hearing you right, sir?

Yeah. Why that? Yes. Yes, she did. I understand. Do you see anyone else around? No, but I need to go somewhere. I can't stay here.

Sir, you're now at an active crime scene. Please do not move. or leave the area. But I... Oh no. What is it? I just got another message. It says you have a delivery scheduled.

God, why is this happening to me? How about now, sir? What? How about now what? Do you feel safe now? Do you often find that you, uh, think that people are plotting against you? I looked across the steel table at the man sent to evaluate me. He had been there less than five minutes, and I can't.

tell he was already anxious to have this over. Not because he was afraid of me, I was handcuffed to the table and I was bolted to the floor. No, he wanted to be gone because this was a waste of time. I had a strong feeling he'd already made up his mind before he came into the room. The problem was, I didn't know what that meant. Was he going to say I was sane and turn me back over to the police? Or was he going to say I was crazy and keep me locked up in this place? Either way was bad, but I wasn't sure they weren't preferable options to being out there in the world. So I was honest. Um, no.

Not until last week when I started getting those weird text messages. The doctor pursed his lips as he glanced over his paperwork. Ah, yes, these delivery messages that you said you received both before and after the incident at your workplace. I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. It wasn't an accident. Some poor woman was murdered on the tenth floor, and no, I didn't know her. I worked on the 12th floor. And no, I didn't kill her.

I was sitting in my office when it happened. The man raised his eyebrows slightly. No need to get angry, Mr. Jacobs. I am not your enemy. I'm merely here to evaluate you based on your behavior and comments to police when they apprehended you. That and, well, a series of events that are not. appear to have unfolded around you. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before responding.

Look, I know how this sounds, okay? A woman dies, gets killed in my building, and then my co-worker has found burned to death outside my car in the parking garage. I told the police what happened when they got there, but they still took me in, checked my car and found the bag with the gloves in them that had whatever chemical was used to burn them, I guess. I don't know.

Carbon disulfide. That's what you told the police was on the gloves at the time of your rest. Swallowing, I nodded. Yeah, yeah, but not because I knew that. It's because that's what the 911 operator told me it was, or, well, at least they implied it. He cut his eyes back up at me from the notes. This 911 operator that wasn't a 911 operator. I don't know if they were a 911 operator or not, but they're in on it. They have to be. The things they were saying, the stuff they knew, they or somebody planted those gloves in my car. Sitting the notes back on his lap, the doctor looked up at the ceiling.

But you say you did call 911. Clenching my fists, I nodded. I did, but like I told the cops earlier, after Becky did what she did, I hung up on them. I was going to call someone else, try to find another number for the police or something, when I noticed that my phone was wrong. Your phone was wrong. I sighed. Look, my phone, I've had it for over two years.

It's a little banged up, but I've taken good care of it. Only thing is, a month ago, it fell out of my pocket when I was getting out of the car. I thought it was broken, but it was okay, except for a little place on the back where the plastic is rough now. It's hard to see, but it would always poke me when I held my phone a certain way. Bug the shit out of me. But when I was searching for another phone number to call, I was also thinking about how I could have gotten that crazy person instead of 911. Had they messed with my phone?

So I checked. That spot on the back was gone. That's when the police came up to my car and ordered me out. I tried to tell them that it wasn't my phone, that it had been swapped out for one they could control, but they wouldn't listen. I had started staring at the table as I spoke, and when I looked up, my stomach sank. The doctor was smiling thinly at me. So, to be clear, according to you, you've been getting strange messages on your phone.

A woman in your office, in your building, is murdered by arson. A few minutes later, you get a video of that murder. A few minutes after that, a woman you've worked with for years comes up to your car, douses herself with something similar to what was seen on the video, and lights herself on fire. And this occurs while you are talking to a mysterious person who is in on it after trying to call 911. When police arrive, you are in a car with gloves potentially used in these crimes

talking about how your phone is not your phone. You are then arrested, and after being interviewed, you become irate. They give you a sedative and send you here. Does that pretty much sum it up? I shook my head. I know how it all sounds, but check my phone. That phone. It should have at least some text messages on it,

and you should be able to see that I was on the line with 911 for several minutes. The doctor frowned at me. The problem is that they have checked. There is no indication that you got any text messages like you described, and there is no record on your phone or otherwise of you making any calls to 911 or any other number that afternoon. In fact, the only evidence we do have are things that point towards you being involved. There's no sign of any conspiracy, no proof that you are being framed,

just you and the people dying around you. Picking at his pant legs, he went on. I'm not here to interrogate you, Mr. Mr. Jacobs, only evaluate your mental stability. The version of events you've described is, frankly, fantastic and unbelievable. What I have to determine is if this is a product of genuine mental health issues or simple malingering. He stood up. To that end, we're going to do a series of tests this morning, assuming that is still necessary after you are shown what has been found. Someone is here to see you.

With that, he knocked on the door and he stepped out. As he left, afraid of A pale-looking older woman stepped in. Her eyes rimmed and shining as she looked at me. Mom? Wally, are they treating you okay? She looked so painfully old and thin as she moved over and sat down across from me. A small brown sack clutched in her left hand. I reached forward as much as I could, and she took my hands with a warm squeeze.

Not being mean and feeding you okay? I nodded and tears filling my eyes. Yeah. My head hurts from where they drugged me, but otherwise. I was, I'm okay. But, Mom, you've got to help me. I didn't. My words died in my throat as she raised her hand. Her face was full of pain and sadness, as she shook her head slightly. No, honey. Don't lie like that, not to me. She lifted the sack from her lap and sat on the table.

I've already seen the video you made. I felt my tongue going numb as I looked between her and the sack. I had no idea what she was talking about, but it was obviously very bad. I... Mom? What video? She looked exhausted as she reached into her bag and pulled out a cell phone. She held out the phone with trembling hands.

They said I could show it to you. I said it might make you see that you're caught, that you can stop lying. I saw my own hands shaking as she passed the phone to me. You take it. I can't watch it again. A video was already queued up, and I could see from the pause still that it was me in my apartment. But I'd never taken a video like that. What the hell was this?

My heart thudding. I hit play and I saw myself confessing. I just got this thing in me. I open it up and I'm sick. I want to see someone being trapped in a room and burned alive. I want to see Becky. That disgusting thing is set on fire. I need to do this.

Listen. Please just listen. There's a bag under my seat, a video in my car. Catch me. Please. None of this made any sense. I don't remember saying any of this, yet it seemed oddly familiar at the same time. I shifted my hands as I held the phone.

Holding it like that was poking me, because on the back, wait, this was my real phone. I looked up to tell my mother when motion drew my eye back to the small screen, my video self moved closer to the camera, and where he had looked tormented before, he was now smiling at me, as he said one last phrase. Delivery completed. I looked back up as my mother raked something across her throat, the wound sending out a stream of blood as she tumbled to the floor. I screamed and pulled at my handcuffs, but they wouldn't budge. And within a handful of seconds, she had grown still. Glittering next to her, I saw what she had used to kill herself, a set of keys. I struggled to free myself to go to her until my arms and legs ached with the effort. And then I sat there,

alone and weeping for what felt like hours. Finally, trying again, I stretched out my leg past its limits and began edging the keys toward me. That's when my phone buzzed on the table. Even without picking it up, I could see the text notification. You have a delivery scheduled. The keys were slippery with my mother's blood, and I almost dropped them as I contorted my fingers to unlock the handcuffs. My brain was largely numb by this point. Too much horror and insanity had flowed over it in the last week, smoothing out the ridges and contours

of order insanity that had been landmarks in my mind. All that was left was a base drive to survive. That and the quiet complaining whisper that it was too late. Everything was ruined, and it was better to just give up now. I ignored that voice. It was my father's voice, the way he sounded the last time I saw him in the hospital. I'd been young, but I'd known it was a little. last time I'd talked to him. In some ways, I'd understood why he was ready to go, but it hadn't

kept me from hating him a little, hating the weakness in him, and me. I stood up from the table on shaky legs and kept my eyes lifted as I stepped past my mother's body. Now wasn't the time to try and figure any of this out. I needed to escape if I could, and the next step was trying the second key. The door opened easily, and when I looked out, I saw that I was in some sort of of trailer. The hall and central rooms were empty, and through a nearby window, I could see lush green trees and tall grass stretching up and over a hill. None of it looked familiar, but my more immediate concerns were the three black cars parked out front. Why were they just sitting and—' I stumbled as pain flared across my head and chest briefly, gone so quickly

that I questioned if I'd felt it at all. Gritting my teeth, I made a decision. I was going to go out and confront them, make them give me answers or go ahead and kill me. Either way, I was done with this crazy bullshit. I flung open the door and caught it as it bounced open, squinting against the sunlight. I braced for yelling or fists or gunshots. Instead, there was only the sound of car engines running and a distant animal cry that I didn't recognize. I jumped past the folding metal steps going down and headed toward the nearest vehicle, only slowing when the tinted window scrolled down and I saw the doctor who'd been questioning me in the driver's seat. You want the car over there, Mr. Jacobs.

I stopped up short. What? What the hell are you talking about? My mother just killed herself in front of me. What is this? What's going on? He took a sip from an aluminum can before waving it in a small circle. Yes, yes, it's all very strange and confusing.

You're the victim of forces. You can't understand or control. Blah, blah, blah. I'm sure this is all very interesting to you. you, but it isn't to me. To go get in that car and drive away. Run while you can. I took a couple of steps forward, as I saw the man's drink had been replaced by a small pistol. Stopping again, I shook my head. Just tell me why. Why me? And how are you able to do all this? Control people. My own mom. The doctor shot me a sour look.

You're making a mistake. You think all this weird shit means you're special, that you're entitled to answers, that you could demand satisfaction. He coughed into his hand and studied it for a moment before looking up at me with fresh anger. They sent me over because they think you are a candidate. He held up his hand and I could see a reddish black stain on his palm. But the way we do it, it's not so easy on the body. And the longer I'm here, the worse it will get. So you need to decide, are you going to get in the car and drive away?

Or am I going to empty this gun into you right fucking now? I felt another flash of pain across my chest and stomach, doubling me down over with a gasp. I held up my hand as the pain passed, forcing the words out as I lurched toward the car he'd pointed out. I'm going, I'm going. The doctor smirked. Good call. You've got a two-minute head start. Better make the most of it.

I froze. Head start. Before what? The man gestured with his gun toward the third car. Before they come to kill you. Buckle up. and drive fast. I was driving less than three minutes when I saw the other car approaching in my rearview mirror.

I had found some kind of dirt access road, and I was driving on it as fast as I could and not wreck. But they were catching up quickly. I looked around again for signs or some other indication of where I was or where I could go for help. So far, there had been nothing, no buildings or other cars or people. But there was a paved road up ahead, and just before it, a small white road sign with an arrow, pointing right. Glancing in the mirror, I saw that they were less than 50 yards back now. I looked again at the approaching sign. What language was that? Russian, maybe? And below that, it said, Pripyet. Five kilometers. What the hell? The steering wheel jumped in my hands as I was struck

from behind. I gripped the wheel tighter and steered into the blow as I pumped the gas and made a wide turn onto the paved road. Turning around to look, I saw that. I shuddered as a way. I shuddered as a A wave of pain flashed through my left arm and both legs. I managed to stay on the road, but just barely, and the loss of speed cost me the little lead I'd gained. They were coming again, and they'd reach me before I got to whatever town this was up ahead. But dim hope stirred in my chest as I saw the first silhouettes of buildings in the distance. Maybe I could make it after all.

I glanced back in time to see them barreling toward me, a man hanging out of the back window with a gun of some kind. What the hell did they take? Turn me loose just to try to kill me? Is this all just some sick joke to them? No, I needed to stay calm. Think slow and act fast. They wanted me angry and scared.

They wanted me to run. I had to stop giving them what they wanted. So I stopped. Slamming down on the brakes while popping the parking brakes sent the car skidding a little, but I held it straight enough that when they slammed into the back, they hit head on. New pain flashed across my chest, but this time it was from the seatbelt cutting into me from impact. It hurt, but looking in my side view mirror, I could see I hadn't gotten the worst of it.

The gunman had been ejected and flung against some nearby tree like a rag doll. And as I opened the door, I heard a wall of pain from somewhere in the car behind me. I had the vague worry that I might be shot or run over as I walked away from the accident, but it was just the small, whispering voice again, telling me that it was over, that it was okay to quit. It was the same breathy, tired voice that had once told me that I was the man of the house now, that I had to take care of Mom and Rocket, that I had to be strong. I had to be strong while he gave up. Wiping at my face with the back of my hand, I limped forward. I kept hoping for a car or some people, but there was no one. It was strange. Things weren't dirty

and didn't look abandoned. Not exactly. But as I entered the town, I could tell that the buildings were old and hadn't been lived in for years. I had two more shivers of ghost pain, but they faded fast, and I found I was growing used to them, strange as that seemed. I considered exploring the buildings, searching for a phone or something, but instead I kept to the main road, followed it through the town and to the woods on the other side. The road was better maintained, and I had already seen signs that let me know where I was headed, Chernobyl Nuclear Plant.

There would be someone there, even if it was just a little. a guard to keep tourists at bay. My stomach lurched as I saw another black car rolling out from between the trees to my left. This would just never end, would it? I had died and gone to hell or something. That was the only thing that made sense. This was all just endless, insane punishment for something that I had done that I couldn't remedy.

My phone, my real phone, buzzed in my left pocket. I had forgotten I even had it until then. Cursing my own stupidity, I dug it out, intent on calling someone or anyone for help before they took me again. I froze when I saw I had a new text notification. Delivery complete. I looked back up to see a young woman approaching me. She met my eyes without smiling and stuck out a small brown envelope.

When I took it, she returned to the car and sat watching me. I wanted to throw it away, refused to open it, but I was so tired and used up, too tired to fight or rebel any longer. I just needed answers or for it to end. So I tore open the envelope and found a small digital recorder inside. When I hit play, a deep voice crackled out from its small speaker. Hello there. I know you've been through a lot, lost a lot, and no doubt you want answers. You want this over.

You want your life back, right? After a pause, as though the recording expected a response, the voice continued. Well, the good news is that if you're hearing this, you are special, and because you are special, I'm willing to give you everything you want. Answers, peace, your happy, normal life back. How does that sound? Another pause, and then? Crazy, right? I know, I know.

But I assure you it's true as well. All you need to do is go with the nice lady in the car. She'll drive you to a place. nearby that's well it's special too you do what they tell you when they tell you to and you'll get sent to me the keys are doing what they say and being willing to do them for our methods to work you have to be willing understand and you may be asking yourself what if i don't want to go with the strange lady what if i want to run or fight i say to you that those are fair and reasonable responsible responses. Unfortunately, unlike the scenarios you've faced in the last few days, this one doesn't have branching paths or built-in chances for your continued survival. There are currently two snipers trained on your position. If you do anything other than go and get into that car, your time in this little experiment and your time on this planet will be

at an end. As with all things, the choice is yours. Hope to see you soon. I had started looking around as I listened to the recording, trying to see if I saw a glint of glass or metal from a nearby shadow. But of course, I saw none. I didn't doubt what the voice said anyway. After all, I had seen, a couple of marksmen ready to kill me seemed almost mundane. Clutching the recorder, I walked to the car and got in. Do you know what the date is?

Uh, not really. July 22nd, maybe? I've been drugged and chased, and they put me in that thing, and, well, I don't know what I know anymore. The woman frowned at me. That's the point of these initial assessment questions. Travel via the bowl can lead to disorientation and confusion, even dementia. We need to see how well you're able to function before starting any orientation. I shrugged.

Okay, July 22nd, maybe? Very well. Mother's name? I felt anger flare in my chest. You know her name. You fucking murdered her. Or caused her to murder herself. I felt tears burning in my eyes.

You know what you did, even if I don't. Sir, I had nothing to do with the death of your mother. Please tell me her name, if you remember. Teresa, okay? Teresa Jacobs. Good. And your father? Freddie Calhoun.

The woman raised her eyebrow. But you go by Jacobs. I know. My stepfather's name. He adopted me when I was 10. My dad was already dead by then. I see. Name the first American president. John Hancock. A pause before nodding and holding up three fingers. Okay. How many fingers? Three. Look, I'm fine. Just tell me what...

Sir, we're almost finished. Count backwards from 10, please. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 1. Hmm. Good. Have you had any strange mental lapses in the last few weeks or months? Mental lapses? Yes. Blackouts, amnesia, an inability to recall how to do a particular task or specific words. Anything like that. I frowned. Um, no. Wait, I thought this was just checking to see if I was okay from whatever that big bull thing was. This is an initial assessment of all relevant matters.

Have you had any strange sensations in the past few weeks or months? Unexplained tingling or hallucinations or phantom pains? Leaning forward in my chair, I resisted the urge to grab her. I was unrestrained for the moment, but the austere and vaguely medical feel of the plain room we were in gave me the impression that restraints were available if I decided to act out. Gripping my hands together tightly, I tried to sound calm. Yes, I've had weird, unexplainable pains. It started yesterday before you people put me in the bowl. She nodded.

I see. What is your name? I clenched my hands tighter. Lady, I'm not fucking crazy. I just want answers or for this to stop. Something, not this bullshit. Her expression didn't change as she waited. My name is Wally.

Wallace, Thomas, Jacob. or Wally Thomas Calhoun. You pick. Making a final note on her chart, the woman stood and headed to the door. It was another hour before the door reopened, and a tall, solemn-looking man entered the room. He brought in a tray with cups and what looked like coffee and a plate piled with donuts. Offering me a small smile, he sat them down on the nearby table. I'm sorry, I know you must be hungry.

This is all I could scrounge up for the moment. We'll have you a proper meal soon, though. I shrugged. That's fine. I'm not hungry. I just want to know what the hell is going on. I keep seeing this parade of people and no one's telling me anything. Then something struck me. Wait, you're the guy on the recording, aren't you? The one that threatened to have my head blown off if I ran? The man's smile widened as he looked at me. Guilty as charged, but please don't hold it against me. I was just giving you a little

push towards making the right choice, which you did. But rest assured, but rest assured, but Third, those theatrics aside, I'm very honest and easy to get along with. I think in time you'll find we have a lot to offer each other. I went to say something sarcastic, but the man had stepped closer and was holding out his hand. But I'm being rude, coming in and running my mouth without even introducing myself. I put out my hand uncertainly, and the man gripped it tightly, his skin cool and faintly greasy to the touch. You can call me Mr. Solomon. Do you watch much TV?

I stared at the man warily. Mr. Solomon had only been in the room for a few moments, but I already felt a growing sense of unease and hatred being in his presence. Maybe it was just because he was the current face of all the madness and death I'd seen in the last few days, but I wasn't sure, because I felt like I had been trapped in a hurricane, a chaotic but mindless force without a will of its own. You could try to hate it, but what's the point? But this man, I wondered if he wasn't the one guiding the storm that destroyed my life.

Glaring, I shrugged in response. I guess. Solomon nodded and smiled, seemingly unfazed by my state. Me too. I love it. All kinds of shows, really. But my favorites are the ones that have a bit of the fantastic to them. Dramas with surprise twists, science fiction asking big questions, heroes and villains, life and death.

You know what I mean. Yeah, smirking slightly, the man went on. I understand your surliness, and I'm going to ignore it for now. Back to my point. The big problem with so many of these stories is that the heroes, and sometimes even the popular villains, aren't in any real danger. Oh, they pretend that they are, and the viewers go along with the joke. But in truth, there's an unspoken pact between the creator and the audience that the people they read, really like, just won't die."

When I didn't respond, he went on. In your world, they used the term plot armor. I raised an eyebrow. What the hell was he talking about? Was he in here to talk about TV shows? No, I don't think so. So the bull did bring me into another world. Solomon chuckled.

Well, yes, of course. I'm not going through that thing to talk to you. We don't even know how it really works, you see. We can stimulate it and direct where you can stimulate it and direct it leads, but from what we do know, there shouldn't be any side effects to travel if it's done right. And well, we aren't doing it quite right yet. He rolled his eyes. And believe me, I'll hear bitching from Jeffries.

I'm sorry, the man that questioned you yesterday in your world, that he had to go over and help collect you, assuming he makes it, of course. I felt a new fear running up my back. So he's sick from going through the bowl? Am I going to get sick to? Solomon grinned. Most likely not. And that's a good segue back to what I wanted to talk about.

Plot Armor. He settled back in his chair. Plot Armor is a pop culture term in this world that applies to the story phenomena I was just describing. If you're the main character, you're safe. Not just because you're especially strong or smart or skilled. You understand. You're just arbitrarily protected because you have to live for the story. story to continue. Whether it makes sense for the plot or the reality of the story is a secondary

concern. What the hell is the point of any of this? His eyes narrowed. Don't be rude. I'm trying to give you an explanation you might understand to help you. So don't be rude and don't interrupt, or don't they have manners where you come from? Clenching my teeth, I quietly nodded. Good. Now, as I was saying, plot armor can be a powerful thing in a story, and, Fortunately for you, you apparently have some yourself. What do you mean? This isn't some stupid story. This is you people ruining my fucking life.

Killing people I care about. Solomon waited until I finished and then went on. This is only partially true for several reasons. I mean, no, it's not a story, but the principle is the same. He stood up and walked over to a small table with a computer monitor on it. When he turned it on, the image that flared to life on the screen was of me sleeping in the room. Except I was wearing different clothes, and I hadn't slept since I'd been there. What is this? More tricks? Like the confession video on my phone?

The man laughed dryly. No, no, no. The video confession was a simple deep fake. We actually pulled all the words you say in that video from your 911 call last week. Recut and modulated, of course, but simple enough. This, he gestured back to the monitor. This is something much more interesting. The image started moving, and I noticed that the same monitor was present in the video, playing some other movie while the man that looked like me slept.

It was hard to tell from far away, but it seemed like that movie was of a woman in a bedroom. You are now aware of the fact that there are multiple worlds. What you may or may not have guessed is that there are infinite versions of this reality, or close enough to infinite as to make the distinction meaningless. This video was taken a few months ago, and the man in the video is named Tom. I looked back from the video to Solomon. Thomas, like my middle name? He left the monitor playing and sat back down.

No, Thomas says in you, or an alternate version of you, this world's version of you, a version that is very valuable to us. Sying, he folded his hands on his cross knee. Shortly after this video was taken, Thomas left us. Well, let's call it what it was. He escaped. We tried to find him. but his trail died in a small town in Nevada.

He swallowed, looking like he tasted something unpleasant. That made our benefactors... Well, they weren't happy. They left us to our own devices for a short time, but seeing our failure recovering him, they... Well, they imparted new knowledge on some of our team in a very unpleasant fashion,

a way of finding him and regaining what was lost. You see, there are alternate realities. but there are not infinite versions of everything in those realities. And with some things, and even some people, there are only ever a few versions. We call these things and people primes. There are benefits to being a prime. They tend to be luckier than average and live long lives, but nothing that remarkable. Well, there are a few notable exceptions.

But the point is that the universe just seems to protect them a bit better. Give them a bit of extra cushion, plot armor, if you will. And that plot armor gets stronger, the fewer versions of a particular prime that are left. That being said, there is a threshold. Don't ask me what it is, because it apparently involves so many variables that even our math guys can't really predict it. Where if there are a few of a particular person or thing, a particular prime, the balance shifts back the other way. Instead of the universe just protecting the versions of that prime,

it starts simultaneously attacking them too, thinning them out, trying, as best we understand, to reach a singularity. He pointed at me. You and Thomas are alternate versions of a prime, and based on what we've been told recently, you are likely the last two. So far, your luck and his have held out, but it's only a matter of time.

It's coming down to a tug of war between the two of you, and it's a contest you'll lose. I didn't believe any of this shit, but I couldn't help but ask the question. Why? Why are you so sure I'd lose instead of this supposed alternate version who escaped? Solomon smiled thinly. Two reasons. The first is that, apparently, as things grow closer to their being only one prime, the remaining version begins to suffer symptoms.

The version that is most likely to be the survivor, the singularity prime tends to get blackouts or memory gaps. They often have trouble with certain ideas or words. All the rest, the losers, they begin feeling the echoes of each other dying as the universe eats them one at a time. Those phantom pains you've been having more and more frequently, those are the times that another version of you died. I felt a ball of ice beginning to form in my stomach.

Okay? What's the second reason? The man looked more serious now. Thomas has something inside him, something that is protecting him. He was already showing signs of being on track to be a singular prime before it was implanted. Memory loss, a special connection with another past valuable asset. But we were ignorant of what these symptoms actually meant until our recent education. But with his implanted ally, he has something making sure that he stays safe.

and as I hope I've made clear, his safety means your doom. I stood up and began pacing. When I glanced back, I saw that Solomon had produced a small gun, but he only watched as I went back to walking. So what is all this? Why am I here? What do you want from me? We believe that you can find your alternate self where we cannot, that the safeguards that hide him won't apply to you.

So we want you to find him and bring him back here. This may sound like a daunting task, but we have it on good authority and that you have a significant likelihood of success. I stopped walking again and stared at him. So what? You want me to go find this alternate Wally or Thomas or whatever and kidnap him? Bring him back to you, assholes? Solomon's face darkened slightly as he nodded. Precisely.

If you do that, you'll be free. More than that, we can aid you in selecting one of the better versions of your life to set up shop in. They're all up for grabs. except for yours and Thomas's. He chuckled darkly. And trust me, you don't want his. I frowned, because you're going to kill him, right? Or you're going to leave me alive and let the universe eat me anyway?

Because from what you've said, there can only be one of us left before it stops. Solomon regarded me for a moment as he raised a finger and pointed it at me. That's a good point, and one you'll have to trust us on a bit. But I assure you, once we have extracted what we need from Thomas, You will find yourself safe and sound in a new and better life, and you'll never hear from us again. Um, no, the man frowned. I understand this is a lot to wrap your head. No, I understand it fine.

If I believe what you're saying, you destroyed my life, or at least gave the universe a helping hand, all to see if I was the best candidate to send after this guy, Thomas, who is, again, according to you, an alternate version of me, who you had locked up for some god-awful reason, I'm sure. Now you're trying to manipulate me into going and hunting him down based on a promise that you will give me a new life that used to belong to yet another version of me that you probably also had a hand in murdering. That about sum it up? Solomon shrugged.

Well, that's largely accurate, but... Fuck you. That's my answer. Fuck you. I'm not hurting anybody, and I'm sure as hell I'm not helping you. You want him? Go and get him yourself. Solomon's face went pale with what looked like a combination of fear and anger.

As I've already said, we've tried, we failed. If we fail again, well, we can't fail again. I shrugged. I was brimming with anger, and I knew that I was likely about to die or get tortured, but I didn't care. Sounds like your bosses are just like you, giant assholes. The man stood up, his lips thin and stretched tight. I can see my attempts of being honest and civil are pointless. He looked up at the camera in the corner of the room.

Take him. A moment later, the door opened, several large men in scrubs came in and took me to the floor, and while I struggled, it was no use. Within a matter of seconds, they had injected me with something, and I felt my body growing heavy and numb. I saw the room shift as I was put on what I guessed was a gurney of some kind and moved to the hallway. We traveled down several halls before coming to another room. When they wheeled me in, I saw it was already occupied. There was a monster inside.

The thing was chained down and had wires and various prods covering the enormous worm-like length of its pale red flesh. And as we entered, I saw it turn what I suppose was its head towards me. It moved tentacles studded with black rocks and oozing a gray liquid in a gesture that might be a threat but seemed more like a plea for help. I had a feeling that whatever it was, it was a prisoner here too. I found myself overwhelmed with terror and despair and my inability. ability to move more than my head or even scream made it all worse somehow. Not that I thought I could

escape or convince them to let me go. Any hope of that had already died. I just wanted to cry out at how wrong and unfair it all was. One final protest before the end. As if reading my mind, Solomon appeared over me again. Oh, never fear, Wally. You're not about to die. Nothing so fortunate for you. My hope had been that you would be reasonable. Willing participants are always preferred in our line of work, but since you won't listen to common sense, we'll have to change your mind for you. He gestured in the direction of the monster, filling the far half of the room. This big fellow is from Iceland.

Well, not originally, I suppose. But that's where we got him. He looks pretty terrible, but even in his diminished condition, he still has a very special gift. The man smiled at me coldly. He can destroy and create memories. It's not my preferred method for gaining your cooperation, but desperate times and all that. I saw rather than felt him pat my shoulder.

You just lay back and relax. Trust me. A few days with him, and you'll feel like a new man. A two version of Written Nemetic Summary Narrative by Subject Wally. At the time of the summary, the Wally Project is progressing within predicted parameters. This narrative is classified and is not to be accessed by anyone other than members of the Thomas Project, its temporary Wally Project sub-ranch, and living members of the kin. Man, you need to press the green button or the red button.

I jumped slightly as I brought my eyes up. The guy was younger than me, and I felt some sympathy at his expression of tired boredom. Sorry, I guess I spaced out. He shrugged and gave a small laugh. No problem, man. Reality is overrated. nodding, I poked the green accept button on the debit card machine. Definitely some are.

I felt a slight thrill of nervousness as I heard the register start printing the receipt. This was my first time using a card, or anything with my name on it, in almost a year. And even though the last name was made up and unconnected to my past life, it made me feel exposed. I'd been using cash for months now, and when Rachel first brought up the idea of getting me a driver's license and a bank account, I resisted. The people that I'd run from, the people that had imprisoned and killed that other version of her, they were worlds away.

That gave me some comfort, but only some. I didn't know what they were capable of, not really. I couldn't rule out their ability to track me down, even here. But that wasn't even my biggest fear. It was that I wasn't supposed to be here. This wasn't my world, though in most ways it was nearly identical. And while every day with Rachel felt like a gift, It also felt like a wonderful dream that I'd eventually have to wake from.

The day would come when Solomon would find me, or if not him, some version of what he worked for that might exist in this world. And if not that, it'd be something else. Because despite the time that had passed without any problems, at my core, I never lost the feeling that I was still being stalked, hunted. I was like a deer that had the smell of danger, but didn't know from what or where, never sure whether it was best to stay still or run. And the idea of running, it terrified me, because if I ran, it would be to leave Rachel behind

to keep the danger that was coming from finding her. There wasn't a day that passed that I didn't worry I was being selfish, that I was letting my love for her, for having her in my life blind me to the danger I might be putting her in, especially if my gut feeling was... I was suddenly wracked by a spasm of coughing as I took the rest of the rest of the seat. It was getting worse again. The pain and the weakness, the aching and coughing, would come and go every few weeks. And at first, I'd tried to chalk it up to colds or allergies from being in a new place. And when Rachel started looking more concerned, I tried to get better at hiding how bad I

felt when it was at its worst. But the worst was worse now. And for the last few months, I'd admitted to myself what I'd always known. This wasn't some passing sickness. It was the thing Solomon had put inside me, a small part of the tree that had saved me and helped me find Rachel again. And just like it had her, it was killing me. Rachel had wanted me to get it out for months, though I couldn't say for sure if it was because she didn't like the idea of something we didn't understand being inside of me, or because I wasn't doing a good enough job of fooling her when it hit me the hardest.

At first, I tried to just postpone making a decision about it, but a few weeks ago she brought it up again, and I could tell that she wasn't going to let it go this time. We had our first real fight, and in the end, I had to be honest with her, and myself. As much as I wanted to get rid of the thing inside me, I didn't think I could. I had a feeling that trying to take it out would kill me, and even if it didn't, it would rob us of any help we might have if trouble ever came, because I could still feel it in there, and through it I could see and feel more of everything. I wasn't like what the other Rachel had.

I wasn't gifted like her, and I didn't get visions. But I was sensitive to certain things. And even if I didn't understand it and couldn't control it, it made it harder to deny the growing feeling that something bad was coming. Wiping my mouth, I waved off the kid's concerned look. I'll be okay. I just have a bad case of— I frowned. What was the word?

Blushing, I offered him a smile. Sorry, guess I'm still—I—I—I—I—I—I—I—I—I. I couldn't think of what came next. Or I could, but I couldn't get it out somehow. Having trouble with words sometimes wasn't anything new for me, but it was getting worse. It could be caused by the clipping inside of me, but I didn't think so. There was something else wrong, and... I dropped the bags I was carrying, looking around in the entryway of the grocery store

for who had whispered the words to me. No one was there, though. I wasn't really surprised, because I recognized. the voice that spoke to me. The musical words that weren't words shot through with images and emotions and ideas I didn't fully understand. But I understood enough. Coughing again, I dug into my pocket for my phone. I needed to call Rachel and warn her. Tell her to run before it was too late. My fear woke up before I did. Its arms wrapped around me, pulling me close as it whispered that nothing would be all right. It made the last moments of sleep troubled,

and rather than stay in the constricting drows that lay between dream and nightmare and wakeful worry, I forced myself awake. Everything was fine, or if not fine, it was okay. We were safe for the moment and... Thomas was gone. Blinking, I patted the empty bed beside me again as I looked up and around the room. No sign of him. And I couldn't hear any sounds of movement or life from the kitchen or living room either.

It wasn't a large place. And while Thomas was always acutely aware about noise if I was asleep, it was rare that you didn't quickly know when someone was awake in the house. I didn't get a sense of him now, though. I felt cold and alone. And being awake wasn't the cure-all for my fears that I'd been hoping for. That momentary panic wasn't a new thing, of course. Ever since Thomas had come from the tunnel and helped me escape the basement,

I'd had times where a sense of unreality would wash over me, a needle in my heart whispering that this couldn't be real, that it was too good to be true, that it wouldn't last. Over the last year, I'd learned to ignore those whispers most of the time. It was real, and being with Thomas was wonderful, but it also felt like the truest thing I'd ever known. As for it lasting, there was always a clock running in my head. A clock that counted every day, every hour, sometimes every minute. It ticked with my heartbeat and spoke to me with that same nasty needle voice,

reminding me that every moment I had out with him, I'd have to pay back fivefold to the tree. At first I tried to ignore it. I was so happy to be out. And to get to know him, it wasn't hard to do. but as I got used to being free and started realizing how I felt about him, a panic began to set in, an uncertainty of what to do and when, and how much I should tell him before it was too late. Thomas knew the basics, how I'd moved into the house with Phil slash Justin, discovered the room and the journal, and how I traveled those same tunnels that he'd come through to find me after months of being walled

into that prison by Justin. Initially, I wasn't going to mention my ongoing connection to the tree, but then Thomas had told me his own story. By the end, he had been red-eyed when he looked at me. His voice, just above a whisper, that still filled the motel room we'd rented two towns away from the house I'd shared with Justin. He was crying for her, a woman that he'd never met, but he clearly loved. A woman that, well, he believed, was another version of me.

Before the house and the tree and the tunnels, I would have thought that was insane. But sitting in that room with him, I barely batted an eye at the thought of alternate realities and magic tree clippings. I learned enough to not be surprised by such things. But at the moment, he was telling me all of this. It also all seemed very unimportant. All that mattered was him, sitting on the edge of that bed, struggling not to cry as he talked about finding out that she was dead.

I was ashamed of the irrational twinge of jealousy I felt in that moment. I barely knew him at all, and I certainly had no right to feel possessive. But the shame and jealousy fell away as I saw his massive shoulders began to shudder as the tears finally came. I moved over to the bed he was on and put my arm around him. rubbing his back as he described waking up and escaping the place where they'd implanted something inside him, following that other Rachel's paintings and the things singing from within to another version of the ghost tree and that other world, following the path until it brought him to me.

He'd been through so much, and as terrible as my last few months had been. None of it seemed to matter much anymore. Holding him close as he trailed off with an embarrassed laugh, I found myself angry at what had been done to him and sad that I couldn't do more to make him feel better. I wanted him to be safe and feel happy. And I wanted to be the one that made him that way. And when I touched his face and he looked up at me, I could see that the thing between us wasn't just adrenaline or past traumas,

not just pining after ghosts or doppelgangers. It was real. And I knew the light I saw in his eyes was reflected in. my own. So I kissed him. It wasn't until two days later when we were checking out and moving on that I told him about my being bound to the tree, that I needed to figure out a way to break the connection for good, or I'd have to go back into those tunnels from time to time whether I wanted to or not. He'd asked questions, but I tried to stay vague, acting as though it would be a long time before it would really be an issue. At the time, it hadn't felt like a lot.

but a year had already passed in what felt like a blink, and I only had Justin's honesty and the tree's consistency to rely on, that I had another year before it pulled me back inside, listening again for any sign of Thomas in the house. I had the terrible thought, that maybe I was already back in the tree, that it had somehow pulled me and the house into its roots so I'd be more comfortable. That was impossible, was it? I couldn't say for sure, but I saw a yellow post-it note stuck to my nightstand. Thomas's messy scrawl making me smile even before I read the words. If you wake up, went to the grocery, stare, stone, store.

Be back soon. My smile faltered a little as I read. He'd written stare and then stone before marking them out and writing store. It wasn't uncommon for him to lose words at times, but it was getting worse, and he was getting worse at hiding it from me. Just a few weeks ago, he never would have left a note that was evidence of the lapse. But then again, a few weeks ago, I wouldn't have caught him looking pale and shaken from some fresh pain or sensation, but I feel sure is caused by the thing buried inside him. I'd finally confronted him, telling him that he had no idea what that thing was,

or what it was doing to him. For all he knew, the people he worried about finding us might be able to use that very thing to track us down. When I saw the pain and fear in his face, I hated myself a little for pushing so hard. But I was scared, and my earlier pushes to make him talk to me more about it or figure out how to get rid of it had always been met with nods and smiles and promises that it'll be all right.

The closer we became, The more protective of him I became, even if it meant giving him tough love to make him see reason and stop the thing that was making him sick. For all you know, that thing is controlling you, manipulating you so you don't want to get rid of it. But I'm telling you, I can see how it's affecting you. You look pale and dark under your eyes. Most nights, you're pouring sweat in your sleep. And I know you're not eating like you used to.

He was shaking his head. His eyes lowered. That's bullshit, Thomas. You're getting worse. That thing you do? Where you can't think of words sometimes? It's happening way more now. You know...

His eyes snapped up to mine, anger flashing briefly across his face. I'm not stupid. I know it's worse. The anger passed, replaced with a lost look that made my chest ache. I'm... I'm dealing with it. Trying to figure it out, but I don't think it's controlling me. It doesn't even sing to me very often.

I frowned. But listen to what you're saying. you're saying, some implanted thing is singing to you? That's not normal. Thomas's face hardened slightly. None of this is normal. Hell, I got here isn't normal. I'm not, it's... He paused, his eyes distant as he struggled for the word before looking down with embarrassment. It's not controlling me. It helped me. It helped both of us. I crossed the kitchen and put my hands lightly on his arms as I spoke again. This time more softly, Maybe so.

I think you're right about that. But it's not helping you now. It's making you sick. All I'm saying is get someone to look at it. I know you don't want a doctor seeing what's in there, but he's stiffened under my hands. No, I don't. I don't know how they'll react or who we can trust. I can't risk calling attention to myself.

It could lead them right to... I gripped his arms tighter in frustration. Fuck. You don't even know that there is of them here. Maybe there is, but what's the odds they would ever hear about you getting an X-ray or MRI in this podunk town? He just stared at me. You don't know them like I do. And maybe I'm wrong, but I don't feel like we're out of danger yet.

And maybe this thing in me can help us when the danger comes. I think I'm still meant to have it for now. Swallowing, he went on. Maybe it's to help you out of your connection to the truth. somehow, he never really told me when you have to go back or for how long. It was my turn to feel my cheeks flush. I hated lying to him, even by a mission. And I knew there was some hypocrisy in me pushing him to deal with this problem while I kept

stalling on dealing with my own. Maybe if I talked to him about it, we could work together to figure out what. I stepped back from him. No. He had enough to worry about without me adding to it. And if I told him how short the timer was on my time away from the tree, and what it would mean once I got pulled back, he would focus all his energy on trying to get me out of it, putting himself at even more risk.

I didn't know what him going back around the tree or inside its tunnels might do to him, when it might awaken inside him, and I didn't want to find out. Thomas read my expression and gave a short nod. Yeah, that's what I thought. I know my brain doesn't work right sometimes, but I'm not dumb, and I know you're hiding the worst of that from me. So unless you want to tell me what's really going on with you, how about you just... He stopped, a pained look in his eyes.

I don't want to fight with you. And I know you want to help, but we need to help each other. I just... He shook his head. I don't have the right words. I don't know what they are. I stepped forward again, hugging him silently. There was no point in point.

pushing anymore. Not right now. I'd have to give it time, try to figure out a way to fix my problem, if there was a fix. But that was the problem. I hadn't completely ignored my connection to the tree in the last few months. I'd spent hours looking for answers in my memories and trying unsuccessfully to find out more about the tree through the internet. I'd even called the woman at the museum, the one that had sent me the picture of Justin, but she'd never heard. heard anything about a weird tree in the front yard and it became clear after a few minutes of conversation that she thought I was either playing a prank on her or a nut job I tried to think of clever plans to sever my ties to the tree but the best thing I could come up with was

going back and trying to destroy it I knew from Justin's attempt just how well that would work I considered going to the tree and begging it to let me go but the idea of being near it before I had to terrified me. Who was to say that it wouldn't just keep me then? And how could I guarantee that once it got me back, that it would ever let me go again, like it did Justin? No, the best thing I could do was try to help Thomas be well and safe. Treasure the time I had with him now.

If he would just listen, I just wanted to make sure he was okay before, before I went away. Thomas's note was still in my hand as I saw. stopped on my way to the kitchen. There was something moving on the front porch. It was gone, and then it was there. Gone and then there. Thomas's shoulder in the edge of the rocking chair he was sitting in. He was back. My chest fluttered slightly as I changed course and went out the front door to see him. He was looking out at the yard, apparently in deep thought. But as I

approached, he shifted his gaze to me and offered his smile. Hey there. I grinned. Hey, just saw your note. I didn't hear you come back, or have you gone yet. I saw a brief flicker of something across his face, and then he nodded. No, I'm back. How are you? My stomach was beginning to twist in on itself. Something was wrong. Had something happened? Was he feeling sick?

I... Yeah, I'm okay. Just still sleepy. Find everything you are looking for at the store? He stared at me for. a second before nodding. Yeah, yeah, I did. His gaze, which normally made me feel warm and excited and happy, felt hot and uncomfortable

on my skin now. It was almost as if he continued as he began to stand up. Yeah, let me show you what I- You are not, Thomas. The man in front of me froze halfway out of the rocking chair, and when he looked up at me, his smile had become hard and brittle. Well, shit, that didn't last long. Open up, damn you!

I stared at the brick wall, as though my concentrated gaze could bore past the barrier through sheer will alone. I'd run my hand over the dark outline of the man a dozen times now, feeling for a questing root or a yielding bit of stone, something that would allow me to push back into those strange tunnels once again. But no. For a while, I'd felt certain that the tree wasn't done with me. Why else was I compelled to return again and again?

But it had no use for me at the moment either. And I had moved on, with my help, even, and I knew enough to know that it was a fruitless exercise to make demands upon it now. And why did I want to enter the tunnels again? To try and kill it? To reason with it? To threaten and cajole it until it gave me what I wanted? Or perhaps there was another reason,

the guilt that nestled in my belly like a restless seed, rolling my insides and making my new life, a life free of all the terrible things that had come before, tainted, bitter instead of sweet, a cold, hollow life plagued by fear and self-loathing and an inexplicable need to come back to this damn place again and again. I sat down on the bed, clasping my hands to stop them from shaking. It helped, but on the outside. Inside, my stomach twisted hard enough to make me wince. My constant passenger was stirring again, reminding me that I didn't belong out here, that I bought my supposed liberty with a coin that wasn't mine to give, that I would never truly

be free. When I slid the last brick home into the wall of Rachel's prison, I'd done it without hesitation. I was full of restless, hungry anger that was driven by righteous indignation and pain. In that rage, it was easy to ignore her relative innocence and everything. She was only there because of me, after all, and hadn't I been planning on tricking her into taking my place since I first met her in this world? The hypocritical aspect of my feelings of betrayal wasn't lost on me, but it seemed very small and unimportant at the time.

The anger didn't care about the fairness or morality, you see, only the acquisition and distribution of pain, the brokerage of suffering. The first time I'd known that kind of anger was when I returned to this world and murdered my parents and my brother John. I didn't considerate murder at the time, of course. At worst, it was a kind of delayed self-defense against my years of abuse and abandonment. In the moment, it hadn't felt wrong at all. To the contrary, it felt like I was the moving hand of God, meting out due punishment for

the sins of my family. I was no longer powerless and hated. I was strong and righteous and in control, and... But what was I in control of, really? By the time I came back and snuffed out my family while they slept, my own flame was guttering low. I had seen so much horror since I first escaped my own cell and began visiting others of similar design and function. Visiting other versions of myself, many of them dead and more than a handful insane. By the time I came back home, I had already seen close to 50 versions of the evil my family.

had visited upon me. Out of those worlds, four contained versions of me that were still alive and imprisoned in their basement cell. The first was racked with infection and fever. I tried to move him, but he would begin to howl in pain, his ghastly pale, paper-thin-skin tearing at the slightest provocation. I believed he was beyond reason or sanity, but I still held out hope that I could get him into the tunnel, and the tree might heal him or open a path to a kinder world where he might

still be saved. Gently as I could, I swaddled him in his rotting linens and tried to lift him again. That was when he pressed his hot, cracked lips to my ears with strength I'd thought beyond his ability. His voice was a painful whisper, but I felt every syllable resonate in my head and in my heart. The linens were already growing wet with new wounds. There might be versions of me that would be disgusted at that, or horrified at the thought of taking a life, even in mercy.

But they had not seen the life I'd been given, or worse yet, this pitiful thing that was begging me for release. It was a simple thing to do, a few moments of pressure, and he was gone. The next four, two lost to infection, and two more to insanity proved even easier. I took no joy or pleasure in killing them, but it did bring me a kind of satisfaction nonetheless, as though I was writing wrongs or saving some small portion of myself, providing new memories of my family's atrocities in other worlds and stoking the flames of that anger that ultimately ended their time in this one.

But when it was done and the anger was gone, all I was left with was pain and loneliness and sadness. I was untethered from anywhere or anyone, and for a time I feared I might drift on forever, sustained by the tree but never allowed to find a home or peace or love. When I did find love a few years later, it felt like being truly free for the first time. The joy of it made me foolish. I'd been testing the boundaries of my tether for years and had been growing more sure that the time I was forced to spend within the tunnels corresponded multiplicatively to the time

I spent without. But I lied to myself that it wasn't so, or if it had been, that this time would be different, that my love would make it different. I learned otherwise, and with the loss. of that love, I felt the last bit of hope and mercy being taken from me as well, leaving a man who could spend years trapped alone without breaking, and hurt others as he had been hurt, without feeling the insistent sour pain of guilt at his core, a man who could trap a woman, a very good woman, in his place without a backwards glance.

Except as I ascended the steps of the basement for what I felt sure was the last time, I felt my anger already cooling again. I could hear Rachel calling to me from behind the wall, and all I could think about was my first night in that cell, hands bloody and face raw from crying as I begged my mother to come let me out. I hesitated at the top step, looked back down to the open doorway that led to the bifurcated room beyond. It was too late to take it back, I told myself.

Too late to help her escape. The tree had her now. She could serve her time like I did, and then someday, if she was as clever, she was. as I thought, she'd find a replacement as I had. A weight settled on me like the pressure of a gathering storm. In my belly, the first stirrings of that acid guilt began to form. Swallowing hard, I tried to ignore them both as I made the final step upstairs, made it out of the house, out of the town, and even the state. Two weeks later, I returned. My long life had given me plenty of time for introspection, but I don't know how well I've used it, for I now.

realized that it was only after I condemned Rachel that I saw myself clearly, finally recognized that I've wholly defined the shapes and contours of my life by its negative spaces, its losses, the betrayal of my family, the various imprisonments from the basement cell to the tunnels of the tree, to the constant and limitless expanses of my interior wasteland, a desert of self-loathing, anger, and regret in which nothing good could ever grow. The theft of my only real love and the life I thought I might have with her before the tree taught me the cruelest of its lessons. I had hated the ghost tree for so long. It had no face or voice, and wherever I went, it was there. It was easy to see it as the chief devil of my hell. There were times I even

blamed it for my family's sins, for my own. It was easy to ignore that it had kept me young and strong, had freed me from my cell, and given me the chance to see hundreds of other worlds, had sustained me even when I didn't want to be sustained. I frequently rebelled at what I felt was a violation, a usurpion of my free will, but it didn't change the fact that the tree hadn't actually done anything to harm me other than bring me back to it from time to time. And that was significant, particularly when it kept me from the life I wanted, but that was also viewing it solely from the lens of my own wants and desires, when clearly I was

dealing with an entity whose very nature seemed to imply that it was very well. greater and more important than the happiness of just one man. Perhaps it took some measure of perceived freedom for me to see that clearly, like a starving animal. At first I would do whatever it took to satisfy my sadness, my anger, my hunger, to be freed from the tree. However, once that hunger was sated, I found what I had dined on far less palatable, my family's lives, Rachel's freedom, the best part of my own soul.

These thoughts were always at the forefront of my mind, as I'd go back to visit my family's home. I found myself wondering if it had all been worth it, if the life I had won was worth living if I had such a hard time living with myself. What if the tree really was important? What if it needed me? If I could help it? Was there anything I could do in this life more vital than be part of something so wondrous? Every visit, I was tempted to go and visit Rachel in the basement.

I wasn't ready to free her. and offering false hope would be cruel. But I remembered that loneliness, the crushing black of that place. In the beginning, you would turn inward, filling your existence with the landscapes and colors of your interior world. But the gravity of the cell was always pressing inward, compressing the outer limits of your imagination, your heart, your soul, driving your interior toward a singularity, a black hole of self. A place of void and inconsistent logic from which no light could ever receive.

I didn't want that for her, for anyone else. I told myself that she had escaped into the tunnels and the infinite worlds it provided, or that she had broken through the wall and freed herself weeks or months earlier, but somehow I knew different. Despite my best efforts, I was still tied to that tree, and through that, I had some dim sense of her down there, living and dying as I had, one terribly long moment at a time. I reached the point that I was visiting nearly every day for an hour or so. There was a long dirt-access road that ran behind the house, and while it was some distance

from the house, its elevation gave a good view of the house and the mass of red and green tree that stood in its front yard. The branches of that tree would sway on some unfelt breeze when I drove up, almost as if it was a greeting to an old friend. Maybe it was. As time went on, I found myself spending more and more of my time staring at those waving branches, almost hypnotized by the rhythmic rolling of its green leaves, constantly ebbing and flowing like tides of some strange and distant sea.

To my surprise, seeing that tree didn't make me angry or fearful anymore. In a way, I think I missed it. Whether that was a symptom of my growing awareness of myself and what I had done, or some magic of the tree itself, I couldn't say or no. What I did know is that I was growing ever closer to the idea of tearing down the the wall I'd put up, of freeing Rachel physically at the very least, and perhaps, just perhaps, asking the tree to take me back instead. I was sitting in my car, wondering at the insanity of these impulses, when sudden motion

drug my attention from the tree to the house's porch. The front door had opened, and now Rachel and a large man I didn't recognize were coming out. I felt the barest twinge of jealousy as they made their way off the porch. More than that, I felt a pang of loss. A part of me that had seen freeing Rachel as a path towards some kind of redemption, and now had missed my chance. I watched them forlornly, as they headed for the road and began walking toward town.

My mind abuzz with questions. Where had that man come from? Who was he? Was Rachel safe with him? The irony of that last question wasn't lost on me, and I felt I could judge the answer, even from a distance. There was a comfortable ease to the pair as they walked. Whoever they might be to each other, it made me think of that past life I had so briefly,

the easy joy of that love. I lowered my head to the steering wheel. What was I to do now? Would this be enough for me to stop hating myself? Stop coming back to the grave of my past? Could I finally be free? I didn't look up at the tree as I pulled away. The next day I was back.

I was doing this for me. not Rachel. And besides, I suspected very little had really changed. The tree wouldn't just release her, and that meant that whatever freedom or life she might have, it was temporary. Even with what I'd told her, she would inevitably lie to herself, tell her that the rules of the tree wouldn't apply to her, that she could run from it or beat it somehow. As with myself, it would take time for that hope to be crushed from her. On one hand, that meant she was still doomed to the fate I'd led her to. On the other, it meant that there was still hope that I could save her from it, and in turn save some piece of myself. My leg shook as I went back down into the

basement for the first time. The air down there seemed thick and stale, and I could hardly think over the pounding of my own heart. Each step was trembling and slow as I crossed to the back room and stared at the hole left behind by Rachel's escape. The idea of stepping past the threshold into my old cell was terrifying, but I also did. ultimately sucked in breath and dove forward, as though diving deep into hostile waters. Perhaps the analogy wasn't inept. Even after all this time, I could feel the strange and alien subterranean world that lay on the other side of that far wall, the inherent anxiety and danger of the worlds that lay

beyond. Could I really do it? Even if it would listen to me, even if it would take me back and free Rachel, could I really make myself a prisoner again? I glanced behind to reassure myself that the wall was still broken, that the path out was still clear. It was. The cold fluorescent light of the outer space giving the floor a dull but welcome glow. Despite myself and my best intentions, I stepped back toward that light.

I couldn't do this. Of course I couldn't. It was madness. I'd have to learn to live with the guilt, except that I had the right to be happy. Move on and trust that Rachel could eventually figure a way out of the mess I'd brought her in. to. I was dripping sweat by the time I made it outside again. As I left the porch, I vowed to myself that it was for the last time. I couldn't blame the tree any longer. I needed to take responsibility for myself. Stop being so weak. Leave the past behind. The words sounded hollow

as I thought them. And three days later, I was back in my spot, staring at the house again. Within a week, I started talking to the tree in the yard, though it never seemed to notice. It took time, but before the year was done, I was making trips back down into the basement like I had today, begging for Rachel's freedom some days and other days just my own. I often wondered if I was just insane, if the idea was to comfort me, better that than all the horrors I knew in my heart of hearts to be true. Through all these months, the tree never responded to me. And there were many times where I left the house with some paltry sense of satisfaction.

I had tried, after all. Tried to fix things, tried to atone. And it wouldn't answer me. I should take it as a sign that I was truly free of its bindings, and that I should similarly free myself from the cold iron grip of my guilt. Enough was enough, I'd tell myself. Time to stop this for good. And then I'd go back, just like I did today,

begging for it to open the wall, to talk to me, to give me a sign, even making an offering of sorts in the form of my dearest possession. The pen John gave me so long ago, as though returning it to that terrible place which showed the tree I was truly ready to make amends, but it all amounted to nothing. And as before, I left angry and discouraged and disgusted with myself. I slammed the doors I got back into my car. I still parked far away, but the walk back had done little to do. cool my temper. I was just wasting my time with this. Nothing was ever going to... A car was coming

up the driveway fast. It was a small brown sedan with the left side severely dented and scraped, perhaps recently given the precarious nature of some of the trim. As the car skidded to a breaking halt, I felt my confusion turned to alarm as I saw who was leaving the vehicle. If I wasn't mistaken, it was the same man I'd seen leave with Rachel nearly a year before. And yes, there she was too, though she had been pulled out through the driver's seat and didn't look at all like a willing passenger. What was this? Was this man carrying her back to the tree?

Had she tried to trick him into taking her place, and he somehow figured it out? None of this made sense. The man was much larger than her, and it took little effort for him to pull her up and onto the front porch despite her resistance. And she was resisting, but only a little. Did she have a plan? Or was this somehow different than I thought? Maybe I was misreading everything, and even if I wasn't, did I really want to get involved?

They were apparently arguing on the porch about something. Perhaps it was her copy of the key, for he suddenly turned and kicked the door open with one hard blow before dragging her out of view. No, something was very wrong. I should help, shouldn't I? Or should I leave it to the tree to sort out? Surely it would protect her. Or if not, wouldn't that bring a resolution on its own? I grimaced at my train of thought.

I needed to decide what to do, because if I didn't, I had a feeling it was going to be decided without me. Maybe I could just... Another car came roaring down the driveway. This one, a small SUV with damage on both sides and a broken headlight and grill. It slowed as it drew near the house. and a man jumped out. It looked like the same man that had just drugged Rachel inside the house. He looked around the first vehicle before seeming to notice the open front door on the porch.

I was fascinated as I watched him. Maybe the distance and my own imagination was playing tricks on me, but it was the same man, wasn't it? What did it all mean? I suddenly noticed movement in my vision's periphery and cut my eyes to the giant towering over the overgrown lawn. The ghost tree's branches weren't lazily drifting in some phantom breeze any longer. Now its arms waved and whipped frantically, as if its frothing leaves heaved and tossed like waves meant more for sinking than sailing. Something new was happening.

Something new and dangerous. And I could feel the weight and electricity of it in the air. The storm wasn't coming any longer. It was here. I called Rachel's number for the tenth time as I rounded the hill and our place came into view. I just got the voicemail again, and the sound of that past version of her speaking made my guts clench as I pulled into the driveway and braked hard enough to make the tires squeal slightly as they came to rest.

That voice, her but not her, there but not there, like the voice from a memory, a piece of something lost, a ghost. Gritting my teeth, I jumped out of the car and started looking for signs of anything out of place as I ran toward the house. Inside, everything looked fine. I tried to tell myself that I was overreacting, or maybe I had gotten so sick that it had warped my thinking, made me paranoid. Inside was chaos.

Furniture was tipped over. Several things lay broken on the floor, and a general path of destruction led from the front of the house to the side door I just entered. There had been a fight, or at least a hard struggle. I didn't see any blood, thank God, but part of me knew that meant very little. I'd never seen the other Rachel bleed, and they'd killed her just the same. I searched the house, and then the yard before going back inside. I tried her phone again, and this time I could hear it, ringing from the nightstand

where she charged it the night before. Oh, God, what should I do? I could call the police, but would it help? Given our situation, the odds of the attack not being related to either Solomon or the man who had trapped her in the basement seemed very slim. Still, maybe they could find her before it was too late, before I failed her again. Shaking my head, I stepped back outside. No, now wasn't the time for panic or self-pity.

I had to calm down, think about it slowly. Okay, so assuming it wasn't some random attack or kidnapping, it was probably either Solomon or Parrish. Paring? If it was pairing, why would he take her? Because he wants her to stay trapped with the tree. Where would he take her? Back to the house seemed the obvious choice. Back to her prison.

Swallowing, I forced myself to go on. If it was Solomon, he might not know about the house at all. And he could have taken her anywhere, but he would have had to find some way to come over to this world. And I didn't know any other way than the tunnels of the ghost tree. I also didn't know why he'd still want me if he'd found the tree, but maybe he didn't. Maybe he'd found out about my Rachel somehow and thought he could do to her what he had done to the version of her in my old world.

Rage and terror swept through me hard, and I leaned against the wall for support as I sucked in big breaths and tried to steady myself. Either way, the house was a good option, whether to trap Rachel there or to get back to the tunnels. I needed to go and try and catch them, stop whoever had her and get her back before it was too late. Running to the car, I felt a song reverberating from somewhere deep inside. It was a fragile melody full of fear and excitement, and something strong. stronger than both underneath.

Pulling back out onto the road, I stomped the gas and shot forward, my eyes constantly scanning for any sign of Rachel or those who might have taken her. The other thing I had heard in the song grew stronger as I turned toward the house. It was a song of a promise or some kind of fulfillment, though I couldn't tell if it was good or bad yet. That's when I thought of a story my mom had told me once, about how she'd been in a twister one time when she lived in Oklahoma. lived through it, but she said it was a near thing, tore the roof and half of a room off the

end of the house, just a few feet over, and it would have gotten them too. Funny thing was, they'd had time to get away. Flat as the land was there, they'd seen the tornado from miles away, but it seemed so distant that it was more of a frightening curiosity than anything else. Until it turned their way, they heard a sound like a freight train bearing down on them. That had been her point. She told me to always watch out for the storm. to watch out and if I see it, get away fast.

Because by the time you can hear it, well, by then it's already too late. My hands were slick with sweat and blood as I gripped the wheel. I had to catch back up. I knew they were headed to the house now, or at least had been before I caught up the first time, but I'd lost at least ten minutes slamming into the tree and getting back onto the road. Even though I hadn't recognized the car, I knew it was them as soon as I saw a vehicle ahead. Rachel seemed to sense me too, turning to stare back at me, her face ghostly in the shadow of the car's interior.

I had to make them stop, but how? And what if it caused whoever had her to do something to her? Gritting my teeth, I pushed what ifs and fears out of my crowded head. There was no time to think slow now. All I was doing was giving them time to react or outsmart me. I had to stop them while I could, because I might not get another chance. I shifted to the oncoming lane as the front of my car edged up further. The driver had sped up too, but I was still catching up.

I thought about hitting their back wheel, trying to make them spin out, but both sides of the road were lined with trees and we were going over 90. I had a horrible image of Rachel's side of the car slamming into a trunk, killing her. But up ahead there was a curve, and if a car didn't make the turn, they'd shoot out into an overgrown field instead of the woods. She could still get hurt, but I didn't see anything big for them to hit, and it should slow the car down enough for it to stop safely. I just had to get up closer and force the car to stay straight at the curve, taking us both

out into the weeds that lay beyond. Pressing the gas pedal as far as it would go, the engine whined as I crept up further. I could see now that a large man was driving the other car and—oh God, he looked like me. How? The other car suddenly pumped their brakes with a squeal, dropping. back even as the driver swerved the front of his car into the back of mine. The effect was immediate. I began to spin out, pinwheeling past the front of the car as the momentum slung me into the trees. There was a moment of tremendous noise and a flash of pain as my head slammed into the

side window during the flight off the road. This was followed by an even louder bang as I struck the tree, sighed in front airbags hammering my head as I slipped into darkness. My first thought on waking up was that I could feel my heart beat in my head. I was in the car, deflated airbag straped across my shoulder and lap. There had been an accident. Rachel, he still had her. Some other me, someone made to look like it, had taken her, and now I'd lost them. I went to get out of a car, but the door wouldn't budge. Looking past the airbag, I saw why. The car had slammed into a large pine tree right where the door was. It was a miracle I wasn't hurt worse. but it wouldn't matter if I couldn't get the car back on the road and going again.

My left eye burned as something dripped into it. Reaching up, I felt a ragged cut at the edge of my forehead, pulsing out a thin trickle of blood as I wiped at it. It didn't matter. Reaching for the key in the ignition, I turned it to off and put the car in park. I waited a moment, said a silent prayer, and tried cranking the car again. It started immediately, heart hammering, I threw the SUV into drive and hit the gas. There was a groaning squeal next to me as the metal of the door tried to free itself from the tree, followed by a lower scraping sound as I ground the side of the car along the bark.

Everything lurched to a stop. I looked out the intact driver's side mirror and saw the tree had made its way to the bumper, where it had snagged the edge. Holding the wheel tightly, I stomped the gas harder and heard a banging screech as the edge bumper buckled enough for me to shoot forward. I slowed down only a little as I steered toward the embankment and the endangment. road's edge. Glancing at the dash clock, I gauged I'd been out for almost ten minutes. Too long. Too fucking long. The tires squealed as they bit the asphalt and I shot forward.

There was no sign of the other car, but I knew where they were headed. At least I hoped I did. But what if they weren't at the house? What if you've lost her again? I shook my head against the voice, my own voice, trying to focus instead on the soft music echoing from my core. This This was still the right path, and I would find her and get her back wherever they took her. And God help me if they tried to stop me. I took the steps into the house in a single bound, only forcing myself to slow as I went to step inside. I knew they were here, and the car was here, and they couldn't have gotten far on foot.

Besides, it was clear now they were here for either the tree or the tunnel, and there had been no sign of them in the yard. Still, I had to be careful of an ambush. pushing the door open quickly, I glanced around inside before heading in. I didn't know the layout of the house, but that was all right. I was pretty sure where they were headed, if they were still here at all. That was my biggest fear at this point, that they'd made it to the tunnels, and despite the thing inside me, I wouldn't be able to find them again.

I'd lose them among all the paths and worlds that lay beyond them. My chest tightened with fear at the thought. I had to hurry. I found the door to the basement and opened it quiet. The lights were on down there. I couldn't say for sure, but I think Rachel had turned those off when we left last time. Someone else could have been inside, of course, but no. I heard something.

They were down there. A surge of nervous relief twisted my stomach and knots as I started down the stairs. I should have brought a weapon. I'd thought about it in the car when it did me no good. And I hadn't wanted to take the time to search for one upstairs when he could be down here killing her or carrying her through the wall. I flexed my hands as I reached the bottom of the stairs. It was okay. I would stop them either way. I glanced around the room. There was no sign of anything out of place. The door to the second room, the room with the hidden prison cell, was open,

cool glow of fluorescent light pouring from the opening. That's where they'd been. Swallowing, I stepped to the doorway and looked inside. My plan had to be cautious, to go slow and try to spot them before charging in. But then I saw her. She was propped up next to the broken brick wall. Her face bloody and her eyes closed. A memory suddenly gripped me, the twin of this beautiful face, long dead and drifting in that hidden, evil place where they'd kept her prisoner until they killed her.

No, no, no, don't. I let out a wish of air as I felt the knife slamming into my stomach. I started to reach for it, but a hand was already pulling it. free, only to slam it in again. Looking up, I found a hard but familiar face smiling back at me. I could already feel my head beginning to swim as fire spread across my belly. They told me you'd be harder to get than this. He smirked as he yanked the knife free, shoving me against the door frame as my legs began to buckle. But then again, they told me to bring you back, to bring the thing you've gotten you back. He looked at the knife in his hand thoughtfully before pointing its tip at me.

The thing is, I think they'll be satisfied with the woman. She's the same as the one they had, right? And if I kill you, he stepped forward, a cold smile in his face. Then I'll be the last man standing. I hear the voice as though in a dream, familiar and yet not, comforting and terrifying at the same time. Why? It's Thomas, talking about something I don't understand. My head is killing me.

And if only he could stop sounding so wrong, and I had a flicker of a memory. Not Thomas. Someone that looked like him. Taking me back to the house. To the tree and me arguing with him, trying to convince him that he shouldn't do this while looking for an opening to attack or escape. But he either sensed my growing rebellion or decided it was time to shut me up for whatever he had planned.

And as soon as we reached the bottom of the base, meant stairs. He'd been on me, holding a cloth to my face while wrapping his other arm tightly around my waist. I tried to break free, but it was no use. Thomas or not, he was big and strong enough to keep the cloth in place until the world slipped away. I opened my eyes, recoiling slightly against the brutal onslaught of the light, as the room burns itself into view. I was next to the hole leading to the prison room. And there was not Thomas. And there.

Oh, no. I knew my Thomas right away, and seeing both of them together just made their differences all the more obvious. The man standing above Thomas has attention to him. A coil of anger stretched tight across some chasm where his heart should be. His back is to me,

but I can tell by his posture that he's readying himself to attack, even as Thomas tries to get up. He's going to kill him. I feel something lurch in my chest as I capture glimpse of scarlet on Thomas's stomach between the other man's legs. He's already hurt. I've got to help him.

If I wasn't so fucking out of it and weak feeling, but I have to do something. I can try to distract him. But what if that isn't enough? I need a weapon, maybe the leg from the bed I was using. But what if I can't hit him? hit him hard enough, or can I even stand? I have to hurry, or it's going to be. I see an unfamiliar glint of metal shining out from on top of the chest in the prison room. What is that? Where did it

come from? I pull myself closer. Thomas was talking to the man now, but I couldn't focus on what was being said. I had to make my limbs work quickly and quietly, try to reach that glinting bit of silver before it was too late. I searched my doubles face, looking for some sign of doubt or remorse, some kind of, what was the word? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore if I couldn't find a way to stop him, or at least make him leave Rachel alone.

Just take me. I won't fight you. They sent you from me, not her, right? I was guessing at this based on what he said, but I could tell by his eyes that I'd struck a nerve. He may be working with Solomon or whoever else, but he was still afraid of them. I had a moment of hope that I'd start to change his mind, but then his expression hardened again. Sorry, but no, Gratiss. You'd be unconscious or dead in the first few minutes, and I'd much rather carry her than you. His face brightened. Besides, they really just want what's in your gut. He pointed

the bloody knife at my stomach, and I can just cut that out of you, can't I? This wasn't going to work? I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Rachel, maybe if I kept him focused on me, it would give her time to escape into the tunnel. The tree might protect her there, keep him from getting in at all. I just had to keep his attention on me and not look in her direction. Talk to him, get him close maybe. I could feel my strength fading as icy cold slowly spread out from my stomach. I wasn't as weak as I was acting, not yet at least.

You don't have to do this. You're me, right? Another me. Think about that. It's like killing a brother or killing yourself. We're the same. He snorted. You think they didn't prepare me for your begging? We're not the same. They trained me, changed. The man glanced away, and for a moment, he looked different, uncertain, and haunted. They changed me, I think. He shook his head, dispelling the brief doubt that had clouded his eyes. It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is surviving, taking what's mine. What you've stolen from me just by existing, his smile widened.

You see, killing you will solve pretty much all of my problem. I looked down to see Rachel, teeth gritted as she pulled a piece of metal free from his leg and slammed it against his ankle. Howling, he turned toward her, kicking Rachel in the shoulder as he pinwheeled backward toward the wall next to me. I didn't hesitate, reaching out as far as I could. I grabbed his good ankle and yanked hard, sending him to the concrete floor with a grunting wish of air. I couldn't waste any time now. My limbs felt loose and spongy. The world was swimming as I pushed myself up the wall to a shaky standing position.

I looked at Rachel. She was in pain, but seemed okay. No time to check on her now. Forcing myself forward, I cradled my oozing stomach with one hand as I held out the other for balance. No time to go slow. I had to get it before it was too late. The sledgehammer was where we left it, propped against the inner wall of the secret bedroom. It barely moved when I tried to pick it up.

It was almost impossibly heavy. But no, I could move it. I would. I had to. Taking the other hand away from my stomach, I gripped the handle with both hands. It was slick with my blood now, but I could at least drag it out of the hole and towards the other version of me. He was already rolling over, trying to get to his feet again.

Once he did, even with a hurt leg, I didn't know if I could stop him. In the moments between moments, I saw what I had to do. thought slow so I could act fast. Gripping the handle tighter, I yanked the sledgehammer forward and up, using my whole body's momentum even as my limbs began to go numb, and my stomach felt like it was ripping wide. There was no time to think about aiming or worry about failing. I was just doing what needed to be done. What would be done? It could be no other way. The iron head of the hammer swung through its arc, and even when it struck the back of the other Thomas' head, it barely slowed. Instead, it drove him back to the ground with a sickeningly wet crunch that changed to a pulpier sound as his skull broke open on the floor.

The vibration from the impact shook the hammer from my grip, but it didn't matter. He was dead, and Rachel was okay, and I gasped as I hit the ground. What was? Rachel was over me now, her eyes filled with tears. You're going to be okay. I'm going to find something to put on your stomach and find a phone, and... I reached up and touched her face. No, no time.

Her eyes widened. No, there is? I'll be right back, just... She trailed off as she started to stand. I grabbed her arm with a hand that felt strangely disconnected. Everything was so odd now. I didn't feel like I had a body, or if I did, it seemed far away. But in my mind, I felt like I saw everything clearer,

like I could think more clearly than I ever had. I distantly felt that stranger's hand give her arm away. weak squeeze. The tunnel. Get us to the tunnel. I felt numb as I helped Thomas into the tunnel. I'd never worried the wall wouldn't open for us. And my fears of traveling down those never-ending, glowing paths seemed a small thing now, because everything was eclipsed by the stark terror that had seized my heart. It had begun when I saw the thickening stain at Thomas's stomach, but it had taken firmer hold when I looked up into his face. He was dying, and he knew. He knew. it. I didn't have to question the logic of going into the tunnel. I already knew the tree had some

ability to stave off hunger and aging, so the idea that it could choose to sustain or even heal someone wasn't that big of a leap. Beyond that, Thomas had his intuitions. And whether it was from the thing those bastards had put in him or something else, I knew they couldn't be discounted. So we went into the tunnel, Thomas helping me as best he could. He pushed him, along the ground as I pulled him. And once we were inside, I lifted his shirt to look at his wounds. God, that fucker, it almost gutted him. Taking off my jacket, I pressed it gently, but firmly against the wounds, trying to slow the flow of blood until the tree could perform its miracle. If it would or could, Thomas seemed to pass out for a minute, his breathing growing

first rougher and then more even, before he suddenly opened his eyes again, giving me a a weak smile. He nodded. It still hurts a lot, but it feels a bit better. See how it looks. Wensing, I peeled back the soaked jacket to look at his stomach. There wasn't much fresh blood, but the wounds weren't healing, and I could see the spots were bits of torn, insides were visible. Swallowing, I met his eyes. It's better, but not healed. I don't know if it's going to. I glanced back toward the brick wall that had reformed after we'd entered the tunnel.

I think I should go get help. Maybe the tunnel can keep you going until I bring someone back. Thomas was already shaking his head, and I frowned at him, my voice growing sharp. Well, I'm not going to fucking let you die. You're not going to fucking die! The anger was gone as soon as it had come, taking my breath and composure with it. Tearing up, I shook my head. We have to fix this.

Thomas put a cool hand on my arm. We will. We need to go deeper in. The thing in me is pulling me deeper in, and I trust it. Whatever its reasons, it doesn't want me to die either. I took his hand and squeezed it. Sweetie, I don't think you can go any further. You're going to tear open worse than you already are.

He smiled again and returned the squeeze. It'll be okay. The tree can't fix me on its own, I don't think. But it's trying to get us to where I'm. I can be helped. Puffing out a trembling breath. I glanced at his stomach before meeting his gaze again. Are you sure? He nodded. I think so, yeah. Thomas was stronger now, but still and steady on his feet. And I could tell that every breath and step was growing more painful. We walked slowly, and I let him set the pace and path as we went. He never slowed or seemed

unsure of which turns and branches to take, but I could tell that it was taking a toll on him. I'd periodically ask if he wanted to stop and rest, but he'd always just shake his head. I understand. We never said it, but we both knew he was running out of time. When we turned a corner and saw a brick wall, I felt him relax a little. Glancing up at him, my chest tightened. He looked pale and waxy. His skin slick with sweat from our journey. through the tunnels. Despite trying to sound calm, I could hear the tremble in my voice when I asked if this was it. He nodded. Yeah, I think it is. The wall dissolved as we walk forward into the darkness. As soon as we crossed the threshold into what I assumed was another basement,

Thomas began collapsing against me, the weight of him pulling us both down. I managed to slow his descent to the floor, easing him down onto the concrete floor. I didn't have to be it. I didn't have to my phone, but after a moment of feeling in his pockets, I found Thomas's and turned on its flashlight. He was alive, but unconscious, and I could already see fresh blood welling from his stomach wounds again. God damn it! I should have had him wait in the tunnel. He wasn't thinking straight, and now I had to drag him back in and hope it was enough,

and then... No, I needed to calm down. I needed to trust in him and trust myself to help him. There was still time. Sucking in a shaking breath. I pan the light around the room. It was a version of the basement, though it was empty. No prison room or furniture or anything else.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Near where Thomas lay, I could see something scratched into the floor. A number. 71. Oh no. Fuck no. I felt a new wave of fear roll through me. I knew what this place was, a glowing cave with a rotting version of the tree, and something terrible lurking in the dark, something that had spoken to me, asked me something. What was it? Suddenly everything snapped into place. It was offering a trade, and if it was still up there, maybe it was what could save Thomas.

Whatever it took, whatever it wanted, I'd give it gladly if it would save. him. I leaned over and kissed him in the dark, whispering how much I loved him, before standing and heading to the other room and the stairs. I could see the cold, blue light as I took the steps quickly, and by the time I stepped out the front door, I was already shuddering from both the chill air and my own fear, but it was all right. I could do this. For him, I could. My throat burned with the cold as I called out. I'm here. I, um, I went to offer tribute for my need.

For several moments there was nothing. I looked around. The house was as I remembered it, though this version of the tree looked even worse than before, as though the corruption at its roots had worked its poison through the trunk and was now spreading out to the branches beyond. On the far side of this massive cavern, I could see tunnels trailing off and,

Wait, there. I thought I saw twin blue embers glowing in the distant black. I took a nervous step forward and was about to call again. When a hand fell on my shoulder, letting out a scream I spun around even as I stumbled back. It was a man, a man a bit bigger than Thomas, though leaner and much older, holding up his hands placatingly.

He offered me a tentative smile, set in a hard, unreadable face. Didn't mean to startle you, but you need to listen to me. You don't want to deal with that thing out there. I frowned at him. I don't have a choice. My... Thomas is dying. I have to get him help.

His face softened slightly. What's wrong with him? I swallowed. He's been stabbed. A lot. I heard the fresh tremor in my voice. as I pointed toward the house. And he's going to die in there if I don't get him help.

I was thinking maybe the thing that lives here could do it. His expression darkened for a moment, and I felt a new thrill of fear. This, this wasn't a normal man. I didn't know if he was bad or not, but he had an aura of dangerousness that set me on edge. Studying me for a moment, he seemed to make a decision.

Perhaps it could help. But you wouldn't like the cost. He hooked a thumb at the strap of the backpack he wore. I have medical supplies in here. They were men for someone else, but I don't mind using some of them on your friend if you'll let me. I glanced back out across the tunnel. The blue lights were brighter now, maybe a bit closer. I'd like that, but I'm telling you, a first aid kit isn't going to cut it.

He's dying. His expression didn't change as his eyes. bored into mine. I understand. I still think I can help him. Taking a step forward, he put out his hand. My name's Patrick, and I'm a surgeon. Thomas didn't stir as we approached, and I felt my stomach lurch at the growing pool of blood

on and around his stomach. He was still breathing, but in the harsh glow of the phone's light, he looked faded and pale. The man named Patrick stepped past me, using his own flashlight to hide. flashlight to highlight Thomas as he checked him with the calm efficiency that was both comforting and maddening. He had to hurry, had to help him, had to... Get your light over here. Shine it on his stomach. I jumped slightly and stepped around to get a better angle with the light. I could barely breathe as I pushed out the question I'd been wanting to ask since the man started checking him.

How is he? Patrick didn't pause in his examination of the stab wounds in Thomas's stomach. Not good. His pulses off and he's losing too much blood. He's not in hemorrhgic shock yet, but he's heading that way. I need to work on him now, but not down here. He paused and looked up at me. We need to carry him upstairs, outside to where that light is. I have to perform a laparotomy, and the lights we have down here are insufficient. Standing up, he gestured to Thomas' feet. need to be gentle moving him.

Try not to bend or compress his abdomen more than we can help. So grab his feet and help me get him up there. I took a step forward, but then stopped. Wait, maybe we can do it in the tunnel. Patrick gave me a confused frown. There's a... We got here through a tunnel that appears in this back wall. I walked to the wall, but nothing happened.

I felt panic surging through me as I turned back to him. It's not... The tree. It has to let us in. But the tunnel stops the bleeding and can help him. The fear I felt boiled into anger as I turned back to the wall and slapped my hand against it. Let us fucking in, you piece of shit! He's going to die because of you!

You fucking let us! I trilled off as I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned back to see Patrick looking at me somberly. His gaze sharp, but not unkind in the ambient glow of my light. I believe you. but it's not working right now, and we don't have time to wait, to get his feet. I tinsed at every bump and jostle as we carried him upstairs, but it went much smoother and quicker than I'd expected. Despite his apparent age, Patrick was very strong and sure-footed,

and in a couple of minutes Thomas was laid out on the front porch as the doctor handed me his flashlight. He immediately started digging in the bag he carried, laying out a strip of paper and then spreading out a lot of. line of medical supplies. The stuff I have is limited. I brought enough for first aid, simple emergency, surgery, and initial treatment of burns or infection. But my space was at a premium, as I had to make room for food, water, and other supplies as well.

He paused and looked up at me. Pay attention to this. He glanced back at a row of tools and began pointing at them. Scalpel, foreseps, hemostats, syringe, retractors, needle, peaches. PGA suture, PDS suture. He began rolling up his sleeves as he met my eyes again. You keep the lights where I tell you. Hemmy thinks as I ask for them.

I'm about to open up these wounds more so I can see the degree of damage and try to repair them. I'll likely need you to hold open some of these wounds with a retractor at times. Got it? I puffed out a shaky breath and nodded. I'll do whatever you need. He offered me a smile.

Good. Let's get started. Time slipped to and fro as he worked, crawling and rushing at the same time. I was still terrified that Thomas might not make it, but that fear was in the background now. Part of that was due to seeing Patrick work. He moved with a quick grace and self-assuredness. That told me he knew what he was doing, even if I didn't know myself. But a lot of it was my focus on making sure I did my part. Lit what he needed, lit, handed him what he asked for, pulled back an opening when it was required.

Despite the cold air in the cavern, I could feel sweat running down my back as Patrick suddenly paused and looked at me. There's something in here. Not at the wound sights, but close by. It could be a surgical implant, but it feels irregular. You're sure it was a knife he was stabbed with, right? I swallowed and nodded. And no signs of it breaking or looking like it left something in him? When I shook my head, he frowned slightly. Any idea what it could be? I glanced past him to the corrupted version of the tree sitting some distance away.

Yeah, the tree. The tree over there is part of a tree on a lot of different worlds. Maybe all of them. A year ago, some bad people had Thomas, and they put a piece of the tree in him. That might be what you feel. He studied me for a moment before giving a slight nod. I see. I still don't think I should.

He broke off as Thomas lifted his arm weakly. Take it. Take it out, please. It's time for it to... His arm slipped back down as his eyes closed with a flutter. Patrick looked at him and then back to me. I can try, but given his other injuries, it may be better to leave well enough alone if it's been in him this long without...

It's killing him. I was staring at Thomas now. My word sounding more calm. and sure than I felt. I think we've both known it for a while. But I also think he knew he needed to keep it for some reason. Maybe for now, I don't know. Either way, it needs to come out.

I met Patrick's eyes. Please, if you can get it out without hurting him worse, do it. He seemed to consider it for a moment, and then nodded. He's stable now. He had four peritoneal penetrations, one of which punctured his liver and two more in his colon. But the sutures should hold well enough for the time being. My main concern is putting his body through more than is necessary.

But it sounds like this is necessary. Patrick turned back to Thomas. Hold up the light. Let's see if we can get this thing out. Not trying to be nosy, but why are you in here? We were sitting on the steps of the back porch, looking out at the shadowy cavern that served as the yard. of the house in this place. Being there made my skin crawl, and not just because of the corrupted

tree off to one side, or just the overall strangeness of being in this cold and glowing cave. It was the constant feeling of being watched. That itch in the back of my brain that said unseen eyes were on us, maybe even the eyes of the thing that had spoke to me when I was here before. Either way, I had the impression that Patrick had come here willingly and prepared sitting in the chilling dark with him as we waited for Thomas to wake. I couldn't help but wonder who he really was and what could bring him here. I'm... Odd as it may sound.

Just passing through. He glanced at me with a small smile. There's a cave. It looks much like any other cave from the outside, but it's not. It leads here, and from here it leads on to another place. A place where I believe my grandson is trapped. My eyes had widened slightly at the mention of a cave entrance. Do you think we'd be better off trying to get Thomas out through the cave?

I know the tunnels seem to help him, but if it's close, I trailed off as he began shaking his head. It's hard to say in here, but if I had to guess, that entrance is ten miles or more back. He pointed a thumb behind us to where Thomas lay. Those sutures will last for a while, but the less movement the better, and he'll be weak from losing all that blood, that and the pain. If your tunnels work as well as you say, that's probably your best bet. He puffed out of breath as he turned to meet my eyes. And I want to be clear with you, Rachel.

I was very happy to help. Given the odds of us meeting at all in this place, I tend to think I was meant to help in some way. And I'll stay until we know he's awake and still stable. But beyond that, you're on your own. I... There have already been too many sacrifices to get me here. To put me on a path to where I can possibly help Jason, my grandson.

I can't squander all of that now. Rubbing his mouth, he let out a small sigh. I hope you understand. Reaching over, I gave his arm a squeeze. I do. I do just about anything to save the man laying back there. And he already has done just about everything to save me. So I get it.

And thank you. I don't know. know if it's fate or the tree or what else that brought us into this fucking cave at the same time, but I'll never be able to repay what tribute. I froze mid-sentence, and I felt Patrick tense under my hand, though the word had been in my head. He had heard it too. Heart pounding, I looked out at the cavern, hoping to see nothing, or, at most, those strange glowing flames in the distance. Instead, I saw a horror moving toward us across the cave floor. Its head was like a skull, stretched long and wrong, with pointed cheeks holding twin

indigo flames above a criss-cross mouth, full of glass needles, pale, almost translucent skin that seemed to swim with spots of darker color, glowed with the blue shimmer in the light of the cavern, stretching down from its head to a torso that was thin. but muscled, in long-fingered hands that seemed to have bits of black rot or bone jutting from their tips. It was an impossible monster, and it made even less sense as my gaze went lower. The torso ended in ragged strips of torn flesh, and from that ruined mound, four razor-sharp sickles of bone curved down, flashing and digging into the stone floor as it worked its way toward us. I started to stand up, wanting to grab Thomas and drag him toward the basement.

But Patrick grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. When I looked at him, he shook his head slightly, never taking his gaze off the creature that had come to stop a few feet in front of us. Its blazing eyes were hard to read. But I got the distinct impression it was focused on me. Not Patrick. I didn't know how to respond, or if I should even try. when it spoke again, its voice, which was already icy and hard, was almost painfully cold. I had to think.

It had mentioned safe passage. If I had to offer it something to get us out of here, safe, I would. And if that wasn't good enough, I'd offer more just to get Thomas back into the tunnel. If that didn't work, then I thought Patrick's scalpel was still back there behind us. The thing towering over us had to be at least ten feet. tall, and I knew I had a little chance of actually killing whatever it was. If nothing else, maybe I could distract it long enough for Patrick to get Thomas and get away. But first, I'd try to talk to it.

What, um, what do you want for safe passage for us? For all of us, its eyes flickered lower for a moment before brightening again. What is your offering for passage? Damn it. over at Patrick when he spoke, surprised to see both anger and sadness in his expression, as he stood up slowly. The passage that was brought for me included safe passage for friends of my choosing. He turned and gestured to me and then to Thomas on the porch.

These two are those friends. He met my eyes briefly before turning back to the monster. Part of our bargain, I extend my safe passage to them. The creature's eyes flared as if focused on the old man. When it spoke again, its voice was threaded with poison. Very well traveled. It just regretted, and our bargain is complete. With that, it turned and moved back across the cavern,

disappearing into one of the dark openings at the far end. I puffed out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding as I turned and gave Patrick a hug. Thank you so much. I don't know what it wanted, but I was ready to give it. it whatever just to get you two out of here. Letting out a shaky laugh, I pulled back. Patrick was smiling at me, but his eyes were troubled. I frowned.

That, that was meant for him, wasn't it? Jason, he nodded slightly. It was, or I thought it was. Now I see what's meant for you to instead. Rubbing his face, he gave a slight shrug. No need to worry. If I find him, when I find him.

We'll figure out another way back. Patrick glanced toward the dark where the monster had gone. For now, we need to hurry. I think it may keep to the letter of its bargain, but I don't trust it any further. I'll help you get Thomas backed into the tunnels if it'll open this time. And then I'll be on my way. First things first, let's see if we can wake. I'm up.

I jumped at the sound of Thomas' voice. It was soft and hoarse, and one of the best sounds I'd ever heard. Turning to look, I saw he was not only awake, but was already sitting up with a wince. Careful, go slow. I moved to his side and put my arm around him, kissing the side of his head as I supported him. Looking up at Patrick, I raised an eyebrow. Should he be moving like this? He nodded.

He should be okay to walk if he's careful, didn't you help him? Just don't waste time getting back home and getting him into a high. hospital. Magic tunnel or not, he needs more help than he's gotten. Patrick held out his hand to Thomas. Let's see if you can keep your feet. The wall fell away before we even reached the cell room this time. As though the tree was as anxious as I was for Thomas to be back inside. Or maybe it just cared about what we carried. Thomas had insisted that we used the remains of his bloody shirt to wrap up the thing Patrick had removed from him and bring it along. I felt its weight inside. of my jacket, a small piece of red wood covered in bits of new green growth, and shuddered at the

dread coiled in my stomach. The cutting was just another reminder that we weren't done with the tree yet, and it wasn't done with us. Still, for the moment I was grateful, while I was worried with every step Thomas took that he might collapse or start bleeding again. So far, he seemed alert, and, If not strong, at least not so weak he couldn't walk. When we reached the threshold of the tunnel, Patrick let him go and stepped back. He was looking past us at the soft, golden light coming from the tunnel that had appeared. That's really something. Do you know how to get back home?

I frowned slightly. Not exactly, but between the two of us, we'll figure it out. I use the light on Thomas' phone to highlight the number etched into the concrete behind Patrick. The tunnels go to different worlds, different versions of this house. Some of them have numbers. This one's 71. We'll keep looking until we find number one again. Patrick raised his eyebrows.

I see. Well, I don't know if your home is even the same as mine then. But if it is, and if we all make it back there, feel free to contact me sometime and let me know how you are. He handed me a wrinkled card that said, Yeager's Solutions. thin black lettering. The number isn't good anymore, but the email address still works.

He started to step away. But you two get going, and I'll do the... Thomas suddenly stepped forward and embraced Patrick. At first I thought he was giving the man a hug for saving him. But then I realized Thomas was speaking in his ear. I couldn't make out most of it. But I thought I heard a number. 26.

Patrick nodded to Thomas as they stepped apart. and then gave me a last smile before turning and heading away in the direction of the stairs. His expression had been troubled at the end, but I could ask Thomas what he told him later. For the time being, getting out of this place and into the tunnel was more important. Within moments of crossing into that golden light, I could feel Thomas growing stronger. He still leaned on me for support, but more for balance than anything. And more than once I had to tell him to slow down and take it easy as he picked up the page. Do you know where you're going?

I tried to keep the hope out of my voice. I had managed to get back to our world from 71 before, and I could do it again. But I had no illusions that it would be a quick or error-free process. Do you still have your feelings about things? Without the cutting inside you, I mean. He stopped and smiled down at me. Even with the improvement, his face was slick with sweat after a few minutes of pain and exertion. No, I don't think so, but I do have something.

I don't know. It's like I'm guessing, but I know I'm guessing right. Thomas frowned. That sounds dumb, but I think it's right. I nodded. Well, let's just take it slow and see. The main thing is you don't overdo it and we get you to a hospital as soon as we can. Squeezing me with the arm I was supporting, he nodded.

I'm okay. I think I know where we need to go. We kept walking and every day. Every time we came to a turn or branching path, Thomas paused only a moment before picking one and continuing on. As time passed, I could feel the weight of him increasing again. He was wearing himself out, and I didn't know that he couldn't do more harm than the tunnel and Patrick's work could mitigate it.

I was about to make him stop for a bit and rest when I saw an opening in the distance. I glanced at him. Is that it? He grinned at me and nodded. Yes, this is where we need to go. Thomas picked up his speed again, and this time I let him. We'd have to be careful when we crossed the threshold. I didn't want him to collapse again.

But we'd get out, get to the car, and I'd drive us into town to the husp. This wasn't the basement. It wasn't a basement at all. I'd been here before. A large chamber of roots with a burned pedestal of branches in the middle. What, Phil, or just? Justin had called the heart room. I stopped and looked at Thomas.

He didn't look surprised or disappointed, and his eyes were clear as he looked around the room. I could hear the fear in my voice when I spoke. This isn't the way out? This is the wrong place. A chill of recognition shot up my spine as a voice sounded from behind us. Phil's voice, Justin's voice. On the contrary, Rachel, you're exactly where you need to be. I could see fear and anger in Rachel's face as she stepped in front of me.

Her body tensed as she brought her hand up. Something flashed there. A scalpel, golden in the glowing air, and still smudged with my blood from the doctor's surgery. I gently put my hand on her shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. Rachel, it's okay. Everything's okay. She turned slightly, giving me a frowning side glance as she kept her. her eyes on the man she'd once known as Phil and then as Justin.

How is this okay? We need to get you out to a hospital. She cut her eyes back to Justin to punctuate her words with a stab at the air. And now this fucker is hiding out to ambush us in this fucking place. She turned towards the other man. And to be clear, you aren't the first motherfucker we've had to kill today. If you try anything, I have no problem with leaving you here to rot. Or become fertilizer or whatever. Rachel glanced around the heart room.

Looking tree. It must have some influence over you still. Made you think you knew the way out when you were really being led back here? I let out a sigh as I gave her shoulder another squeeze. No, sweetie. When I was out of it, before you removed the cutting, I talked to it more. To the tree, too, I guess. I don't understand everything, but I figured out enough to know what needs to be done.

I brought us here on impulse. I wasn't sure I could find the way, but I'm glad I did. Rachel pulled back as she stared at me, her eyes blazing. You're glad? You're fucking glad? I don't know what the tree did to you, but we don't have time for this bullshit. We're leaving, getting you help. She shot a dark look at Justin, who was just quietly watching as it all played out. And God help anybody that tries to get in our way.

She reached out and grabbed my arm. Let's go and... When I grabbed her hand, she broke off and met my eyes. Really looked at me. I think she could see that I wasn't confused or controlled. I was beat up, yeah, and despite the tree's efforts, my guts still felt like they were on fire, but I was also clearer and more me than I—well, maybe than I'd ever been. Despite everything that had happened and everything that I was afraid might be about to happen,

I couldn't help but feel a strange excitement and happy pride in that moment. Ever since I was little, I felt like a little bug in a river, holding on to whatever leaf or stick passed by, trying to get a grasp to get my bearings. Never being sure where I was headed or why. Instead, the only sure thing was that I wasn't in control of any of it. When I was younger, it wasn't so bad. I wasn't so fuzzy headed back then, and my mom and dad were my leaf and stick. They guided me as best they could and tried to prepare me for the world, and they did a good

job. But by the time they were gone, I was living on my own and working at the music store. First as a clerk, then on up. I had my apartment and my job. They were my leaf and my stick. And while I was lonely at times, it was enough. But that wasn't all I had. In the back of my head and my heart, I had this feeling that I was slipping away.

Whatever my problem, whether it was my brain or not, it went beyond just being a little slow or having a bad memory for certain words. It was like I was standing in weak acid and I couldn't get out. I just had to wait as it ate me up bit by bit. That feeling scared me a lot. I'd always gotten flustered when I couldn't think right, had to force myself to calm down and think slow. Remember that just because I wasn't as quick as some people, it didn't mean I wasn't

as good as them. But this, this was something different. It was slowly getting worse, and as it did, I felt my life getting smaller, felt me getting smaller. The few friends I had, I pushed away. I went to work and home, home and work, and most of my free time was spent reading, trying to pack in all the things I wanted to learn, but was too nervous to try to take classes for, trying to stuff more into my head so that the slow acid couldn't eat it all, couldn't take all of me. But it was a losing battle. Not just because of the hungry fog that hid words and made it hard to think sometimes. I was hiding away from the world, not taking risks, afraid of living as much as I was losing my own life. Now I could remember a poem I read years ago, though if you'd ask me yesterday, I don't think

I'd have known what you were talking about. It was about a man who regretted how he'd lived his life, how small and unfulfilled he felt. I remember he said he'd measured his life out in coffee spoons, and the first thing that had struck me, as I sat reading it on my break at the music store, was that he was describing me. So when I saw that ad for a new job, I took a chance. A chance to make more money, sure, but also a chance to do something that mattered, to force myself out into a new corner of the world, a new leaf or stick outside of what was comfortable

or safe, a chance to push back on that terrible gravity, always trying to crush me down to one tiny point of near nothingness. And then I found her. That changed everything, though I didn't realize it at first. It was more than having a job or a crush on the mysterious woman on the monitor. It was about caring about something more than I worried about what I was risking or what was slowly slipping away, loving it more than I feared it or my own flaws. And through that care, through that love, finding my way back through the fog to who I really am.

Rachel, the tree has to have someone. You know it, and I do too. For years it was Justin. Then it was you. Now, I think it's my turn. I want you. tears were already rolling down her face. No.

Fucking no. You are not sacrificing yourself to this thing. Not for me or for anything. I'll do my time here and when I'm able to be out, I'll be with you. If that's what you want, and you can come see me maybe. She wiped her tears. Fuck, I don't know. I've been trying to avoid thinking about it, hoping it would go away.

Which is stupid, but I was just so fucking happy. And, but no, you're not taking my place. You're going to get medical attention and be healthy and happy, whether it's with me or not. And she trailed off as I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around her. It's okay, it's okay. I love you more than anything. You make me so happy. And doing this, getting you free of it while helping the tree, I'm proud to be able to do it.

She glanced up. Her face confused and angry, and I nodded. I know. You think I'm being controlled by the tree. I'm not, I promise, but I understand it more now. It's important, very important, and it needs help. I nodded toward the tunnel we'd come from. That cave place? The rotting version of the tree there? It's getting attacked in more places than just that. I glanced past her to Justin, and since the heart room got burned, it's not able to fend all that off. I smiled at her, at least until now. Reaching into her jacket, I slid out the cutting.

This fresh cutting has survived because of me and that other version of you. It's grown strong, strong enough to heal the damage that has been done. I took a step back from her. The tree will still need a person, but it will be better. Maybe I won't have to stay here as often. And even if I do, at least I'll know you're safe, that everything is safer. I'm telling you, the tree is that important. She stepped back to me, grabbing my shirt.

Fuck the tree! I want you, and I want you out of all of this bullshit, not deeper in it. She tried to snatch the cutting from me, and I pulled it away. Just fucking give it to me. If it will help, let me do it. I shook my head. No, this is my choice. You've already sacrificed so much in this world and the other for all of this.

I'm not going to. My father gave me a book of book. poems once. I turned to look at Justin, confused. I didn't trust him. I couldn't. Not after all he'd done, but I did trust the tree at least partways, and if he was there, I had a feeling there was a good reason for it. Still... What the fuck are you talking about? Justin gave Rachel a quick smile and nodded. Fair enough. I know what that sounded like. I know I have a lot to answer for and explain, and speaking what appears to be nonsense isn't helping matters. The smile felt. fell away as he looked at me, and then at the root pedestal in the middle of the room.

I don't necessarily have a lot of answers or explanations. Whoever this man is, he seems to understand the tree better than I ever have. He shrugged. For what it's worth, I had a small-formed idea of trying to help you when the other man—well, I suppose it's the other one? Justin raised an eyebrow and glanced between us. I nodded. My name's Thomas, and yeah, the other guy, the other version of me, is dead.

and glanced for confirmation from Rachel. Glaring at him, she gave a brief nod as well. Okay, well, I assumed that from the body in the basement, and your conversation here comported with that assumption as well, but it's always polite to ask and make sure what is what and who is who. But anyway, I'm rambling. Sorry. My point was, when I saw you being taken into the house,

I had the sense that you were in trouble. I debated trying to help, but then this one comes, and I decided he was likely help enough. So I waited outside for a while. When no one came out, I finally came in to see what was going on. I didn't find you, obviously, but I did find the tunnel open for me again. I went in, initially, with the idea of, I'm not sure what, if I'm honest, helping you, apologizing?

I don't know. But I wasn't sure where you had gone. And after a bit of looking, I headed here instead. He let out a sigh. The tree, it still won't talk to me. Or maybe it can't, not the way it has to him, just in gesture to me. But sitting here, I've had time to think, or more time, I suppose. I've been thinking a lot these last few months.

Listening to you two, it makes me see things more clearly, see myself more clearly, and it reminded me of my father giving me a book of poetry once. It wasn't like my father to give gifts, much less books. He always wanted me to be more like my brother. more like him. I've never known what prompted him to give me that book, but it always meant a great deal to me, even when I was imprisoned two years later without it. It was the selection of poems by William Blake, songs of innocence and experience, among others.

I loved that book, read it over and over until I knew most of it by heart. One of my favorites, and the one I've been reminded of today, is, funny enough, about a tree, A poison tree. It goes, I was angry with my friend, I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe, I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears, night and morning with my tears. And I sunned it with smiles and with soft, deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night till it bore an apple bright. And my foe beheld it shine, and he, He knew that it was mine, and into my garden stole when the night had veiled the pole. In the morning, glad I see my foe outstretched beneath the tree. I've spent so long hating, hating the tree, hating my family, hating you, hating everything for all the wrongs I've endured. I've done terrible, terrible things out of some misguided sense of entitlement, some warped, cancerous idea that just because I'd had evil inflicted upon me, I'd somehow earned the right

to do my own evil in return, to lie, to despise, to even kill. For some time, much of my hatred had been turned toward myself. As meaningless as it is, I'm sorry for what I did to you, Rachel. I'm sorry for most of what I've done. I'm not a good man. I've tried to be at times, lied to myself that I was, or if not, that my failings weren't my fault. The world had inflicted such cruelties on me that I had everyone to blame but myself. But seeing the two of you, I don't know all of what you've been through, and I don't presume

to know what you think or feel, but your willingness to love each other, to sacrifice for each other, to give up everything for that love and to protect, well, whatever this damn tree may be, it makes me even more ashamed of myself than I already was. Not just because of all I've done, but because of what I've taken for granted. Because this damn tree, this magical miracle that spans untold worlds, perhaps even binds them together, has always been there for me. It was my joy when I discovered it, my escape when I was imprisoned, my constant companion in all the years that followed.

And yes, it took from me as well. It took my time and liberty. But I think now, only in those measures that it was. required to sustain itself in its struggles and maintain its role in creation. In exchange, it gave me long life and health, as well as countless worlds to explore when it could manage without me. I repaid it by trying to burn out its heart. And yet, even now, it lets me back in, my one true and constant friend, showing me a path

toward, if not redemption, at least some kind of peace and understanding. I've spent so long resenting what has been taken from me. me. I've lived so long not grasping something but the tree, and I think you two, understand very well. It's not about what you're given or what you take, not about what you want or think you need, some person or thing you want to control. It isn't even about what you want to love you. It's about what you give, what you love.

Justin blinked at me in a surprise as I spoke. Yeah, that's it. That's it exactly. A look at what might have been sadness or shame passed across his face as he glanced between me and Rachel, and his gaze lowered as he turned toward the pedestal. I don't know if the tree is good, or if such terms can even be applied to whatever it truly is. Such a line of thought may be akin to calling gravity evil or ascribing jealousy to a passing rain

cloud. He shrugged as he let out a small sigh. But I've always known it is very special, very necessary. I spent a long time lying to myself about that last part, but it really is important, isn't it? His eyes went to Rachel now. She nodded. She looked up at me as she slipped her hand back into mine. Yeah.

Yeah, I think it is. I gave it a squeeze. Yeah, it is. When I could hear the thing inside me, I was hearing the tree, I think, hearing how afraid it was. It wants to live, to get well and survive, but more. More than that, I think it's scared of what will happen if it's gone. It's weird. It wasn't talking to me in words exactly, but it didn't matter.

I could still understand some, and toward the end it told me more, and I believe it. It's part of why I'm willing to stay with it. I glanced up at Justin, but unless I'm wrong, I think Justin may be asking to take the job back. In the corner of my eye, I saw Rachel frown as she shook her head. No. Maybe he's had a change of heart, or maybe he's full of shit. But this fucker walled me up. He murdered his own family. If this tree thing is so important, it can't be left with him. Tears sprang back into her eyes. I'll stay if someone has to. We'll figure it out, but he can't be trusted.

Turning to her, I touched her face with the hands not holding the cutting, using my thumb to wipe away the tears from her cheeks. She was so good and so strong, and I knew the fear and anger she was feeling was because of all that she had been through. That and being afraid of losing me, I was afraid too. But even though I couldn't hear the tree anymore, I still thought I could feel music in my chest, a melody that connected me and Rachel and both of us to everything else. Despite my pain and my worry, my doubts and my ignorance, in that place, in that moment, It all seemed very clear and simple and beautiful, like the lines of a painting I saw once long ago.

You don't have to trust him. Trust me. Rachel studied my face for a moment and then nodded. I kissed her briefly and then turned to Justin. Am I right? Do you want to fix what you did? Are you willing to stay? Justin's face lit up as he smiled.

I do. I held out the cutting to him. Then do it. but do it right. This is your chance. Be smart enough to see it. I shook my head slightly as I held his gaze. I don't want to have to hurt anyone else, but I will.

He swallowed as a smile faltered a moment. I understand. Thank you. Both of you. He paused and looked around the room. All of you for giving me another chance. Eyes shining, he took the cutting in both hands, gently unwrapping it and letting out a small sigh as he touched the twisted

bark before looking up at us with wide eyes. It really is part of it. I can feel it. I can tell. He was crying freely now. I can almost hear it again. I've missed it so much. Turning, he stepped to the pedestal and carefully sat the cutting in the middle.

The roots from the table immediately began winding together with the bark of the cutting, pulling it in until, after just a few moments, it was gone. Immediately I could see the color of the heart room deepening. And in places that were black from past flames, new green growth was already pushing through. Rachel hugged my side. It worked, didn't it? I nodded as I looked around. Yeah, it worked.

My eyes went to hers. Do you feel different? She pondered for a moment and then nodded. I think so, yeah. I can tell something has changed. It's hard to describe the feeling, but I don't feel bound to it anymore. She glanced at Justin. How about you?

He smiled. Yeah, it's back with me. For good this time. Justin's gaze went to me and back to her. You're both connected to the tree. You always will be. With everything you've seen and done, but you're no longer bound to it. Rachel nodded.

Good. Turning to me, she raised an eyebrow. We done here? Because you still need a hospital. I grinned. Yeah. We made it back, and I spent the next three days in the hospital. Though the doctors finally admitted it was more due to the nature of my injuries than

my actual condition. I was strangely free of infection, and whoever had done the emergency surgery had clearly known what they were doing. When Rachel rolled me out to the car on the fourth day, it felt like I was finally coming out into the sun after a lifetime trapped in the darkness, or, well, a fog. My new clarity was part of it, but just part. I was also less worried, less afraid. The world was infinitely stranger and more dangerous than I'd known just a few years ago,

but it was also so much more wonderful and beautiful than I'd ever thought it could be. I knew we'd still face obstacles and dangers in the future. Not just things like Solomon, but the more normal stuff that comes with living too. But that was okay. I stood up from the wheelchair and smiled at Rachel before sweeping her up in a big hug. We'd face what came and beat it. Do our best to help others when we could, and whatever happened, whatever world we were in, so long as we're together, we're home.