The NoSleep Podcast - S16 Ep25: NoSleep Podcast S16E25

Episode Date: September 26, 2021

It’s Episode 25 of Season 16. Our correspondence releases us through time and dimensions.“Fusion Dreams” written by Olivia White (Story starts around 00:05:50)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Ault“They Have Suffered” written by LP Hernandez (Story starts around 00:28:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Emma – Erin Lillis, Dorothy – Jordan Cobb, Cedric – Eddie Cooper, Tom – Mick Wingert, John – Graham Rowat, Lipless Man – Jeff Clement, Mandy – Mary Murphy, Elizabeth – Jessica McEvoy, Subject 475 – Erika Sanderson, Dr. Kissel – Peter Lewis, Unknown Subject – Danielle McRae, Officer Easter – Atticus Jackson, Mr. Razo – Mike DelGaudio, Narrator – David CummingsThis episode is sponsored by:Bright Cellars – Bright Cellars opens up a whole new world of wine for you. Just fill out a little palate quiz based on things you like and Bright Cellars ships you six bottles of wine based on your answers. No Sleep listeners get 50% off their first six-bottle box by going to Brightcellars.com/NOSLEEP. Bright Cellars, helping you discover wine you’ll love.ShipStation – ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. Let Shipstation make the busy holiday shopping season goes smoothly for you. Go to shipstation.com and click the microphone icon at the top of the page. Enter code NOSLEEP to get a 60-day free trial.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about LP HernandezClick here to learn more about Jordan CobbClick here to learn more about Eddie CooperExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“They Have Suffered” illustration courtesy of Emily CannonAudio program ©2021 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

It's our season 16 finale, and just in time for the start of October. Fall is here, and if you're like me, that means cozy sweaters, pumpkin carving, and enjoying a glass or two of red wine. If you're a seasonal wine drinker or are just looking for a change of pace this fall, you need to try Bright Cellars. Bright Cellars makes it easy to discover wines you love. You just fill out a little palette quiz based on the things you know you like, like your favorite type of chocolate or your, your ideal setting to drink wine. Then Bright Sellers ships you six bottles of wine based on your answers. Finding your new favorite wine has never been easier.

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Full-bodied with a rich smooth flavor, it's a perfect treat on a cool autumn evening. And neither of us are very familiar with Italian wines, so it was exciting to open the bottle of aquaforte Monta Pucciano. It was bursting with flavors of plum and cherry with a nice, spicy finish. A delightful medium-body wine, Moldo ben. And you know, you can always switch up the amount of reds, whites, and rosés if you're a seasonal wine drinker, and you can skip an order whenever you want.

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Bright Sellers, helping you discover wine you will love. And now, brace yourself. The season concludes, but the horror is just beginning. Welcome, sleepless listeners, to the No Sleep Podcast season 16 finale. So, that's it, folks. It's over. The sky is falling, comings. After Joanna said that, I felt a piercing pain in my head.

When I awoke, it was night. Joanna was long gone. Somehow I had managed to get to my bed. I couldn't move. It felt like sleep paralysis, and perhaps it was. Perhaps this next part was a dream, but if so, then it was a dream through which I was contacted. I have no doubt that the man I saw sitting by my bedside was our benefactor, Boston Coleridge. Yohanna was a disciple, he said, a disciple of an evil.

he'd been tracking all his life, an evil that had a hand in many of the terrible things our prophecies worn of, and she'd managed to infiltrate his inner circle, gain his trust, purchase the thickening plot from him, and serve as one of his confidants. All the while, she'd been waiting for him to pass the torch, so she could immediately begin to influence his successor. Fresh blood, apparently. I was that fresh blood. We all were. All the staff, at the podcast and all our listeners. Joanna rigged the bookstore to blow up. She must have been as puzzled as anyone

when we were pulled from the explosion and the damage was undone. That was one of the forces on Boston Coleridge's side, he told me. Apparently there's a war going on, a war between, well, not good and evil, exactly. It's all shades of gray, but creation and destruction, Coleridge's side and Joanna's side.

And somewhere, hidden in the stories we performed this season, there were weapons that allowed Coleridge's side to fight back. But, thanks to Joanna's corruption, the antagonists have been strengthened, too. Coleridge couldn't stay long. He said that reaching through was difficult. I didn't like to ask, but I have a feeling he's dead. But he said we'd meet again, and that this isn't over. But due to how easily Joanna corrupted things,

Coleridge believes that directly influencing and orchestrating things is a bad idea. He's going to be moving the pieces silently behind the scenes for a while, so we won't be receiving any more mysterious packages, and he promised that my time of having my head meddled with is over. For now. As he faded into the ether, and I felt my limbs begin to start moving again, He said one final thing.

I'll try to quote it from memory. The moons rise over the 17th cycle as the goat sleeps the sleep of reason. That which starts upon Sawin shall be the dawning season, the season of the witch. When I was able to rise from my bed, on the seat upon which Coleridge had sat, I found two items. One was a printout of a skeletal formula. I'm researching what it's the formula for. I guess we'll find out next season. The other was a transcript.

It had no author, but a note had been written at the top. Please perform this one final story before we part ways for now. It may be nothing, or it may be the most important story ever told. We'll find out when the next cycle begins. Regards B. Coleridge. Well, we've come this far. What's one final performance before we present you with our season finale? It begins, as it always does, with the dog boy.

In the dream, it's a balmy summer gloaming, the descent of a day that had been sticky hot but is now cooling. I am at the house of my paternal aunt. It's a decrepit ramshackle old building, just remote enough. to count as the countryside. It's intimately familiar to me, and as I stand in the large, overgrown garden, I know I've spent the day exploring every nook and cranny of the crumbling house, as I have many times before. In the dream, none of this strikes me as strange, even though in the waking world I have never seen this house before, nor does my father have a sister. In the dream all of this is real. I do not question it, and yet somehow I'm still acutely aware that I am dreaming.

There is an old doghouse in the wild garden of my aunt's house, and it is this I am looking at. I remember the path I took to get here as if it happened, but I am certain the dream begins at this moment. I stand looking at the kennel planted, crooked in the overgrown grass, near the base of a huge, thick, and curving tree. The doghouse is no more decrepit than the house proper. Paint is peeling to show the wood beneath. It's a little warped but nothing extreme. And yet it feels old, ancient even.

Its opening is an obsidian mouth, intimidating and impenetrable, where it should be an opening from which a beloved pet would emerge. As always, I feel all of these things, But it's the waking world, me, who feels them. The dream, me, seems to expect this, seems to be comfortable with this alien-feeling canine dwelling. It's the waking world, me, not the dream, me, who feels the heart-gripping panic when, as always, the darkness of the doghouse door begins to shift, and the dog emerges. At first, it is a dog.

A common mixed-breed mutt, part collie, maybe part something. else. The dog drags itself out of the kennel on its belly, using its elbows and even its jaw, but very quickly it slithers free and stands. Stans on hind legs, whereupon I see it is not a dog, but a boy. And not a boy, but a dog, the dog boy. The dog boy is the son of my aunt, my father's sister. He is my cousin. I know this. despite my father not having a sister. And despite the fact that none of my cousins are caned like humans with long mottled muzzles and patches of hair all over their bodies. But the dog boy, he is. He has a childlike innocence in his eyes. He is eight years old. I know this too. He has crawled

from his ancient rotting home in the garden of my aunt's house far too big for a woman living alone, even if her dog son lives in the yard, and now he stands in the twilight before me, his cousin. The sun has almost set now, and time passes around us, me and the dog boy. He flexes his limbs, and maybe it's my imagination, but in the dream, I'm sure he's growing before my eyes, fleshing up, filling out, becoming more man than boy. Dog man. It is night now. It's cold, I realize in the dream, so cold I can feel my skin prickling, and it is midnight. I know because we stand beneath a thousand stars, and my cousin, dog boy,

dog man, he raises his head and opens his mouth, and I know what comes out when a dog raises its head and opens its mouth in the moonlight. But nothing comes out. The howl, the Bark dies on dog boy's lips. I follow his gaze to the skies and then I see it. The moon. The moon opens, it opens its eye and I stare at it and it stares at me. And as the cry finally breaks free from my dog boy cousin's throat, the moon sheds a bloody diamond tear. That's when I wake up. Tonight is no exception. My digital clock, Glows green, one-16. The six transforms into a seven as I stretch and throw back the covers.

I must have fallen asleep early. I feel rested. I'm still in my clothes from earlier that evening, an old threadbare t-shirt and gym pants. There's a glass of water on my bedside table. I take a sip, warm, unpleasant. I take another. Somehow it feels cold now. Retrieving my phone, I navigate my music tab and press play.

The song kicks in at first emanating from only my phone's speaker before the Bluetooth sinks up to my sound system and the electro-synthwave sounds gently drift through every room in my apartment. Why hadn't my phone been synced already? Maybe there'd been a power cut. Otherwise, that only happens when I've just returned home. Shrugging, I pad barefoot over my bedroom's soft carpet and slide open the glass door to the balcony with an almost imperceptible hiss. 36 floors up.

My apartment is exactly halfway up my building. It's one of the largest in the city. From here, I look out over the metropolis below. Flickering bulbs and flashing lights. Sirens and muffled shouts, music and laughter, a breeze that cools my skin. drying the sweat I hadn't noticed was there. I had forgotten. It had been a stifling, heavy evening. The atmosphere had been screaming for a storm. I run my hand over the balcony railing, no trace of rain, and the sky is clear. I can see a thousand stars glittering even with all the light pollution

from the city below, and there, sitting proudly among them like a mother watching over her children, The moon hangs clear and bright and full in the sky. It reminds me of my dream. I smile ruefully for a moment as I imagine myself throwing my head back and howling, barking like dog boy. I wonder how the neighbours would react or anyone down on the streets below. The idea makes me chuckle. A laugh catches in my throat. Something is wrong, something gnawing at me, nagging at me,

hugging at me at my chest. My heartbeat feels strange and wrong like it's not beating but rather being massaged. No, not massaged, flowing. My heart feels like it's flowing back and forth in my chest and with each ebb and flow it's as if it comes ever closer to escaping from my body and trickling away, washing away. My heart is the tide. My eyes snap back to the moon and I see it. Not the eye of my dream. The waking world isn't being invaded by nightmares. Except this is nightmareish. As if in agreement a fresh set of sirens begin wailing down below closer to me than I've ever heard them from the balcony. They careen off into the city and I wonder for a moment if it's related. to what I've noticed.

I can't be right, can I? I must be mistaken. My eyes must be blurred from sleep. Or it's a trick of the light. Yes. But no. I look again. There's no mistaking it.

The moon has changed. The familiar craters, the landscape, the formation of moon rock that we see every time we look at the moon from Earth, where only the near side is ever visible. visible, it's gone. Different. The patterns aren't the same. The indentations and surface shadowing is lighter. I'm no expert, but I've studied enough to be relatively confident. I'm looking at the far side of the moon, the side we can't see from Earth. The moon has rotated. The moon

has turned its back on us. The news mentions nothing of it. It's still. Just a long feature story talking about how a group of filmmakers are finally venturing to Gold Meadow to try and solve that decades-old mystery of the town that disappeared. But that's history. Why are they focusing on that when here and now the moon's reversed? Well, maybe it's not the moon, maybe it's us, the globe, Earth, maybe we rotated wrong, but surely we'd know. I walked back out onto the balcony for the eighth time in case anything's changed.

It hasn't. Our satellite looks wholly unfamiliar in the heavens. I feel the first drops of rain moments later. Fat, heavy, cold splashes of water hitting my thin t-shirt. But from where? There's not a cloud in the night sky. The storm breaks moments later, lightning so closely followed by thunder. It's almost above me. Almost striking my apartment building, the ones that towers so tall over the rest of of the city. I can feel the electric crackle in the air, the tingling on my skin, the hairs on my

arms rising. I think about dog boy. Outside in my aunt's garden, alone in his doghouse, he must be so scared in this storm. Why won't that old hag let him in? I don't have an aunt. But no, he won't be dog boy anymore, will he? I last saw him when he was a child, but so was I. I'm a grown man now, therefore he must be too. It was just a dream. Instinctively, I know he's still there, shut outside, chained now even since he has the strength of an adult. There is no dog boy.

And somehow too, instinctively, I know that tonight his chains have been broken and he is free. I look over the balcony. My eyesight has never been poor, but I've never been able to see the street below so clearly before. It's like my senses heightened. And not only can I see and hear the creatures spilling onto my block, I can smell them too.

Wet dog smell and something deeper beneath that iron and blood the smell of the hunt. I feel a stirring in my own body. I wonder which of the creatures is dog boy, my cousin. Not that one who has begun to scale, my apartment building exterior with claws, I can see the outline of breasts beneath her fur, and not that one either, the small, wiry one who's already halfway up the building, nor do I think Dogboy is in the group forcing their way through the double doors.

Then I know. Dogboy isn't there. Something else is in store for him. I don't have an aunt, but I do. She treated me like a son when her own son was such an embarrassment. A disease, they said, underdeveloped bone structure and abnormal hair growth. And he grew, too. He grew and grew and outgrew his doghouse and outgrew his chains and outgrew his mother's control and became rabid. He became a rabid dog boy out of control. And like any animal who's out of control, he had to be put down.

She buried him on the spot his kennel used to stand, an unmarked grave seven years ago. And I can sense he's back somehow. He was chained by his body and his grave, but he has transcended that now. It's not dog boy who's destined to lead the pack tonight. It's me. None of this was reality,

but now it is because the moon has reversed and everything has changed. understand. I am one of the many who remembers how it was before tonight, before I touched the world on the far side, the world you know as yours. Before she killed my cousin, my dog boy, I let him bite me. I begged him to bite me. This is true now, and now the world has pivoted to a reality where gods and monsters are rising. And I remember because it is my job to warn you. Everything is changing.

Gods are awakening. Monsters are real. In my world, they used to be fiction. Now they're my reality. They've always been yours. And I understand further. Through the actions of one manipulating another, something has shattered the boundary.

between fact and fiction. One attempted to warn the world, another turned those warnings into an attack. If this hasn't happened yet for you, it will. There's a reason everything's a multiverse now. There are so many of them. The dogboys and girls, the men who are wolves or the wolves who are men, and they're flowing, all flowing up the side of the building, climbing, ascending towards. me. The backwards moon winks in the sky. My own body begins to contort and deform.

I know what this is now. I know what everything is, was and always has been. It was but a dream. Within a dream. The moon was always backwards. Dogboy was always a victim, the progenitor. I am a catalyst, the alpha, the leader of the power. pack and my pack is rising to meet me. My body cracks and shifts and the transformation takes me. I am reborn. I am dog boy now. I am the wolf.

I am the one who howls in the night who barks of the moon. In the city below, I see others begin to be birthed by the darkness. Thirsty, hungry beasts, both hideous, and human dispersing into the night, spectral entities being drawn back to places that have power over them, slithering things that burrow into the ground, demonic goblins that hide between the gaps. A lone, thin figure in a gas mask and a coat strides through the thrumming crowd of beasts. One of my canine brethren snaps at them, but otherwise give the figure a path. And all around, other unique and unknown entities are spilling forth from fractures.

in reality. Flies and serpents and shadow and time, every wicked thing, every tortured soul has been released from Pandora's box because the moon turned its back on us. I am transformed. A huge hulking beast whose weight

makes the iron of the balcony scream in resistance. Below, even though scaling the building, my wolfpacking, house and I throw my head back to respond. But as I do, I see a shadow pass across the moon, slowly like an eclipse. And when it does, the moon no longer faces away. Those familiar craters have returned. The lunar visage I know. And now there is nothing left to prove the world has changed, nothing save for the evil spilled from the cracks. And the source of the shell. And the source of the shadow is clear to me, a group here before who played a role in this shift in the truth of existence.

Weavers of magic have ritual and spells, celebrants of darkness. A name resounds in my head, even as already my mind is becoming more bestial, the wolf taking over from the man. Yo, Hanna! Life is divided in. Life is divided in. into chapters. Reality has a cycle. Perhaps what we know as true changes every time this happens. Perhaps this is the only time I've been aware of. But I am aware and so I can warn you. The terror has become flesh. Fear is blood. A new chapter is about to dawn. The 17th cycle. The season of the witch. I awake gently.

Sunlight filters in through my thin curtains. It's a warm, pleasant day. The world feels full of possibilities for someone like me. We're going to take a short break before our feature presentation, as they say at the movies. I can't wait for October to revive next week.

It's like the horror holidays. Indeed it is, Nicole. And after that comes the other holidays. How are you holding up? What do you mean? Well, the holidays are coming up, and since you sell stuff online like decals, ornamental cat hair cushions,

and of course those Brandon Boone voodoo dolls, I know you're preparing for the busiest time of the year. Oh, you got that right? Between growing my business, managing inventory, and juggling orders, I've got a lot going on this holiday season. That's why I make shipping the easiest part of my day with Ship Station. Ah, yes, wonderful ship station. Tell me, what do you like best?

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You have no idea. Well, you must feel like a Fortune 500 company because ShipStation lets you access the same rates usually reserved for those huge companies, but without the contracts or commitments. You can start calling me Nicole Rockefeller. So listen, folks, it's never too early to start prepping for the holiday rush. So get a head start with Ship Station. Our listeners can use the offer code No Sleep to get a 60-day free trial just in time for the holidays.

That's two months of stress-free holidays. holiday shipping for free. Just go to shipstation.com, click on the microphone at the top, and enter in no sleep. Ship Station. Make ship happen. We should get back to the show, and I have to get back to my business. Say, have you ever considered selling a David Cummings doll? No. No, I have not. I could help you make them and stuff them.

Stuff them? Yeah, that way I could say I'm full of myself. Oh, the puns. The suffering. Speaking of suffering, and well, let's get back to the horror. We conclude our 16th season with our feature presentation, a tale shared with us by author L.P. Hernandez. In this tale, we meet two women, both being forced to confront their past.

One soon to learn of, and the other all too familiar with, the mystical realms that exist beyond time and space. realms which draw us closer and closer. But there is one undeniable truth for these women. The common bond they share which has shaped their existence. Let it be known that they have suffered. My father died at 2.43 a.m. on May 17th. I was informed by a man whose name and title I forgot at once,

the mention of father firing up long dormant synapses that made my brain feel like a bowl of cold soup. Probably happened right after he called you, he added, the sound of wind fragmenting his words. I did not answer the phone when my father called that morning. I hadn't answered any of his attempts to contact me for years. He left a voicemail, which I did not listen to upon recognizing, its association with his death. The voicemail was a bullet in the chamber. I knew this because so much of my relationship with the man was loaded.

There was a surface layer to our family dynamic, defaulted to polite, especially after mom died. I existed without complaint in that space for most of my 36 years. My father was a cryptid of sorts, you know, blurry in the background of family pictures, as if perpetually caught in the act. of running away from his three daughters. His head always tilted the glance at something that's not captured on film.

He was a vacant seat at our school plays, a vase filled with red roses in lieu of a birthday hug. None of us girls were partial to roses of any color, and that never mattered. Of course, he existed. His suits occupied the left side of the master bedroom closet. His SUV with the dead battery was a 5,000-pound boulder on the right side of our garage. a boxy forest green monstrosity with melting tires.

When he was not drifting through the house like a rogue sail torn from the mast, he was busy with work. Work had a different meaning in our family. Work meant my father might be gone for a week or a month. Work was the reason he sometimes had trouble sleeping, looked 10 years older than his age. All of that work just to be middle class. More than the man,

the shape of his face or the style of his hair, I remembered his shoes. They glistened like black puddles reflecting moonlight. After I hung up with the unnamed official, I laid in my bed and stared at the ceiling. I imagined my father in a stiff chair, arms dangling to either side, gun resting on a carpet speckled with his blood.

I could not picture him, his hands, even the size of his body in that chair, I could only picture his shoes. Wet with shine, laces slightly loosened. I knew them better than I knew his face. I waited until mid-morning to inform my sisters, knowing their children would be at school then. Do we have to go there?

Elizabeth's tone suggested she preferred not to. I can't. I had a thing with a little man's wilderness, troupe. I shouted over the sound of the vacuum coming from Mandy's end, as I tossed a stick of deodorant in the travel bag. I didn't say you had to go. I'm just letting you know. You and Liz are both acting like he killed himself to inconvenience you.

The vacuum whined to a stop. Sorry, sis. I've done really well with not thinking about Dad. Now I'm going to have to. I know. But you don't have to go. I'm heading that way to settle the estate. But is there anything of his you want me to set aside?

Any, oh, I don't know, just anything? She sighed into the phone. I pictured her, arms crossed, and left foot propped against the inside of her right knee like a flamingo. I really can't think of anything. All I can see are his suits. His suits and his shoes. I only know the color of his eyes because mom said mine are the same. I did not listen to the voicemail on the way to the airport.

while waiting for the flight or during the drive north from San Antonio. The radio ricocheted between country and faint broken Tejano. Lost loves serenaded in different languages. After an hour, I turned it off and hummed to stop the thoughts in my mind from coalescing. The wide open skies. The air so dry it shriveled my lungs, felt more like home than Oregon ever had. But I wished I was there. wet and cold and disconnected from memories flooding the tributaries of my brain.

It was a little after dusk when I entered my father's neighborhood, a forgettable collection of ranch-style houses, for sale signs flapping in the breeze. It was a neighborhood in decline, cracked sidewalks and lawns inching towards wilderness. Beyond the whir of a distant weed eater, the street was quiet. No children, just grandparents sleeping in front of cable news program. dreaming of grandchildren that no longer visited. The streetlights flickered, confusing clusters of moths. Doors open and don't worry, no one'll think you're robbing the place, the lawyer had said.

I parked, placed the rental agreement in the glove compartment, so I wouldn't forget it, and grabbed my bag. The home was dark. No porch light, no light from within. I held my knuckle up to the door as if to knock, then grabbed the doork and stepped inside my father's home. I flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. Shit. It was warm inside and quite obvious the air conditioning was not operating. It's going to be a long night.

I was so tired from flying, driving, and repelling every thought of my father over the past couple of days. Flickering light filtered through the windows, offering strobe glances of the living room. I set the bag on the floor and strolled toward the bookshel. I couldn't read the titles, but their presence was a sort of comfort, like running into old friends. I was alone in the dark in my estranged dead father's home. It was so quiet, just like our home used to be when he returned from a work trip. We tiptoed on eggshells, sneaking out of our rooms like spies to quickly microwave a meal and dash back before we saw him. It became a game, avoiding my father.

He was a willing participant. rising before the sun to work on the lawn, eating dinner after we went to bed. That old, cold anger filled my belly, and I turned away from the bookshelf to retrieve my bag. Thankfully, the water hadn't been turned off. I brushed my teeth in a dark bathroom and used my cell phone's flashlight to find a bed.

The room was sparsely furnished, just a bed, the nightstand, and a rocking chair in the corner. It smelled of the dust that settled into the blank and carpet, so I cracked the window. I laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling, willing the fan to work. My phone's ringtone, inches from my ear, was the loudest sound I could have imagined in that moment. Hey. Naked okay?

Yeah, yeah, I did. I'm in the house, I was just getting ready for bed. How is it there? It's strange. Weird to be around his things, touching things he'd be. touched, you know? I can't really imagine. Not that I want to.

After mom died, I thought he would be different. Thought he would be around more. Me too. Mandy sighed and for a moment said nothing. The weird thing is, it was like he didn't want to. Like he didn't want to be the person he was. What do you mean? I don't know.

Maybe I'm just trying to paint a rosier picture of him than he deserved. It's just something I felt. Like there was this other person inside of him, just, just trembling, fighting to get out. Hmm. I don't know. Yeah. I don't know either. Just glad you're safe.

Call me if you find anything interesting. I will. Goodnight, sis. Good night. It was a rosier picture than he deserved. The day after our mother's funeral, He left for work. I only knew he was gone because his shoes were missing from the hallway closet.

I fell asleep in my airport clothes, hating my father with an intensity that made me feel like a teenager. I slept with my hands, hard as grenades, clenching the blankets so I wouldn't shake. I never married. Never had a relationship I would call serious. I lived alone for most of my life, housing the occasional dog when a friend needed, and a cat that ruined my opinion of all cats. He refused to shit anywhere other than on my pillow. I was hyper aware of my space and any change to it.

After my handful, less than a handful, really, but more than a pinch of one nightstands, I could never sleep. I listened to them breathe beside me, listen to the rumbling of their stomachs, their dream whispers as they adjusted positions. Now I opened my eyes half, way, forgetting where I was temporarily. The bad springs were unfamiliar to my body, the smells of a Texas

night whistling through the cracked window. I felt the change in the space around me, that sensation of another body near to mine, but I was so tired. I blindly groped the nightstand, searching for my cell phone. I didn't find it there and didn't have the energy to look elsewhere. Beyond my blurred socks, I saw my father's suit draped over the rocking chair. I didn't remember seeing it when I first entered the room, but my weary mind could not process this thought. It moved, probably from the wind. I rolled on my side.

I dreamed my father came into the room while I was sleeping. He wore a suit like the one on the rocking chair. He stood beside the bed, watching me. Is that you? I asked. He did not answer, just lingered there for a moment, his facial features shifting in the low light. Is that you?

He left without answering, and closed the door behind him. I woke all at once, startled but unsure why. The light in the room was the color of cheap whiskey, and the drone of an ambitious neighbor's lawnmower grounded me in the waking world. It wasn't the lawnmower that woke me, though, I realized. As a crash pierced the remaining veil of drowsiness.

The crash was from inside the house. I reached for my cell phone, and again, it was not on the next. nightstand. The house was being robbed, but that didn't make sense. It was daylight and there was a car in the driveway. Who would rob a house at seven or eight in the morning while someone was home? I eased off the bed, cognizant of the squeaky springs, but the racket in the living room was more than loud enough to cover it. There were no weapons in my travel bag more intimidating than a wooden hairbrush, and the bag was in the bathroom. I considered hiding under the bed, waiting for the trespassers to leave,

but I've never been that type of woman. My therapist pinpointed my father as the likely source of that, my animosity towards the man more specifically. A man in a black suit stood in the living room, skin pale and wet like vanilla ice cream. His shadowed eyes surveyed two additional men, similarly dressed, skin bone pale and glistening. The man's left arm crossed his midsection and supported the elbow of his right. He cupped his chin with skeleton fingers as the other men scuttled like beetles, punching drawers free from a desk in the corner of the room. Their suits flopped loosely as their arms flew,

papers sailing like autumn leaves in a sudden storm. At once, I felt as if I stumbled into the men's locker room or some other forbidden place. I took a step backwards, my organs wadding into a ball. The man cleared his throat, locking eyes on me as the other men paused in their efforts, dusting their hands and awaiting direction. My fear warmed into anger.

If this was not a robbery, there was no other good explanation. The man hefted his arm and beckoned the others with a flick of his wrist. His voice tinkled like sand in an hourglass. You. Emma. John is, was my father? The lawyer said the... The man nodded as if he both knew what I was going to say and had already dismissed it. My vigor wilted.

I only wanted to be away from there. What are you doing here? The men assembled into a row, the ransackers standing to either side of the apparent leader, the tallest among them, who tugged his collar and recentered his tie. There was a sense of discomfort in the way he stood, legs like iron rods, arms pinned to his body like balloons he was trying to keep from drifting away. My eyes bounced from one man to the next. They appeared to be variations of the same person as if crafted from a single mold.

Each bald and pale features soft and poorly defined. I imagined a child carving a face into a potato with a plastic spoon. The only obvious difference was height. To form each word as if it was the first time he spoke it. I stepped forward. What could he have left behind? A number of things would know that. The man sniffed with his barely their nose,

surveying the destruction and directing his counterparts with a quick nod of the head. My spine stiffened as he neared, belly filled with rattlesnakes. He stopped before me, and I found it impossible to hold his gaze. A razor-cut smile appeared, though nothing in his eyes changed. I believe we have what we need for now. I don't understand. My father was just an administrator for a university. What could he have...

The man scoff as he passed. Is that what John told you? The walls of my vision narrowed and my voice was muffled when I spoke. He was just an administrator. Traveled a lot, but he was... Traveled along? Certainly.

I shook my head. I don't... He was... Emma, did your father ever call you by... Blinked, snapping out of my stupor. Another name? He nodded. When he spoke, his mouth was a black hole.

This close to him, I noticed there was no structure to his lips. It was just a bit of color where his lips should have been, as if he'd applied makeup to create the illusion. No, he... We weren't close. He didn't... No. No nickname. Interesting. He tossed my cell phone to me.

The books were piled in the center of the living room as if in preparation for burning. The pillaged desk was bare save for a sprout of wires once connected to a computer, I assumed. Though I had not seen the men take it away. I slammed the front door and locked the deadbolt, then took in the room without the distraction. of strange men in black suits rummaging through my father's belongings. Knowing little about my father, I gained no new knowledge from the scant furniture and unadorned walls. A brown couch with pitted cushions was aimed at an ancient television topped with crooked rabbit ears. There was no art, just books, a coffee table, placed a sit, and a single floor lamp

one I recognized for my childhood. I looked behind me at the closed door. It was so incredible. incredibly still now, so quiet. The chaos of a few moments ago already losing clarity. The lump in my throat tasted faintly of the airport gin and tonic. He had my cell phone. That meant he was in my room. I would have vomited if my stomach hadn't been empty. I walked toward the coffee table and the pizza box-sized album at its center. The couch looked like a subtle form of torture, but I sat, wondering when my father last occupied the same space. How had he died? I recalled the image of a gun,

but was uncertain the word had not been used when the lawyer called. The lawyer, maybe he would know. Mr. Razzo? Yes, this is Frank. Who's this? He cleared his throat and sniffed, attempting to mask the fact that he'd been sleeping. It's Emma, John's daughter. I'm at the house.

now, and I could not think of a polite way to ask it. How had my father in his life? Where was his body? The silence persisted, and I wondered if Mr. Razzo fell back asleep. I'm at the house, and, well, I guess, I need clarification on how he died. Maybe you mentioned it before, and if so, I apologize. Emma, was it? Yes, John's daughter.

I think I owe you an apology. I'm not quite sure what this is about. John who? Dawson, he committed suicide. You're his lawyer, right? I'm here, I'm his daughter, and I'm here to settle the estate. My hands trembled with nervous energy. I flipped to the first page of the photo album.

My parents sat in a park bench, smiling, foreheads touching. By the length of their hair and fuzziness of the picture itself, I guessed it was the late 70s, predating me and their marriage by a few years. I'm sorry, ma'am. I just don't know what you're talking about. I don't know at John Dawson. I'm sorry for your loss, though.

If there's anything I can do to help. No, thank you. I must have mixed things up. Sorry to bother you. I hung up before he could reply and then immediately checked my cell phone, the ball in my stomach stretching to the back of my throat. The number I dialed was the same

that called and told me to let myself in. I coughed at a whiff of the departed strangers, something both sweet and loamy and fought the urge to dial again. The tall man practically laughed when I said my father was an administrator. If he wasn't, then what was he? What sort of work kept him away for most of my childhood? I flipped through the album. There were no other pictures of him, just mom, me, and the girls, growing up one milestone at a time. A carebear birthday cake for me, Little Mermaid for Liz. About two-thirds of the way through the album, Mom traded her decade out of fashion teased due for colorful scarves.

Page by page, she shrank. Teenage daughters towering over her. Every smile forced. And then she was gone. I found one of her scarves mixed in with my laundry after I moved away and cried until my bones hurt. Had my father sat here with tears in his eyes, a final ritual prior to taking his own life? The phone felt like a brick.

I placed it on the coffee table and accessed the voicemail folder. My father's message was no longer bold, as if someone had already listened to it. A minute and a half long, I pressed play. It began with several seconds of heavy breathing. He cleared his throat, and the next friend, Few lines were spoken with more confidence. I loved you and the girls. I tried to show you in my own way.

Remember how I tried? You don't have to believe how the reason something happened why your mother died so young. Why I wasn't there for you and your sisters. You can spend your whole life looking for the reason behind these things. But they're just fireflies. Little lights much further away than they seem. When you finally catch them, well, you might find yourself far from home.

That's what Martha used to say anyway. He sighed, like a man counting his final breaths. A lot of history. I'm having my Sam with me. I wish I had a Sam with me. I wish it was you. I love you. Please tell them for me. A few seconds of silence passed before he spoke again. His voice coated with remorse. A tear spilled onto the phone screen.

I snatched it off the table and slipped it inside my pocket. It was hot in the room, both tears and sweat soaking into the collar of my shirt. I closed the photo album and stalked around the hill of books to adjust the thermostat, before remembering it wouldn't work. They have suffered. His voice was like a feather tickling my brain. I could not think of a more chilling, more disturbing combination of words. I reached inside my pocket, wanting to call the lawyer again to be done with whatever this was.

I did not call. There was only a confused man on the other end of the line. There were dozens, hundreds of pixels in my mind, each holding a fragment of the picture I could not see. But there was the slightest sense of order to them. Is I considered this? I saw it on the bookshelf. The only book not ripped from the shelf and tossed onto the burn pile and I knew it at once. It was a deluxe edition, meant to be displayed and not read, left like so many of his tributes on the dining room table.

My favorite series. The gift offered in place of himself. He did not attend my high school graduation ceremony and mom had passed by. then. I drove home from that ceremony alone. The book was an expensive apology, and I treated it the same as the other apologies. I ignored it. I had wanted it, though, more than the tube of paper fastened by red twine summarizing the last 11 years of my educational life, more than the dozens of roses destined to die in dry vases unwanted. I pulled it free of its slip case, unprepared, prepared for the weight. The tome passed between my fingers and crashed on the carpet,

opening to a map I knew as well as my own city. I carried it to the couch and angled it toward the lamplight. What is... It was the map I knew, but slightly different. Altered. Mixed with the fanciful script labeling fantasy towns and features was my father's bunched calligraphy, disguised to blend in but recognizable from the notes in the margins of the books he left around the house. Next to the Shire, he added in parentheses, Home, and geographic coordinates I assumed corresponded to our old address. I scanned the map, finding additions here and there, his writing a fair imitation of the fantasy cartographer's style.

There was a small box drawn to the left of the map legend. It read, Sam's Journey in Order 1 through 3. I scanned the map and found the number one. More coordinates in the old forest east of the Brandywine River. Tom Bombatel? Number two was Eisengard and three was the dead marshes. I closed the book and walked away from it.

I was not myself, not in control of my limbs or my thoughts. Logger-colored light beckoned me from the kitchen, and I drifted that way. My fingers tingled with the knowledge they touched what a dead man had not too long ago. Maybe. None of this made sense. The pixels free-wheeled in my mind,

a thousand chaotic butterflies afraid to alight. There was one chair at the dining room table, the other three sides vacant, the understanding of why draped across my shoulders like a lead robe. No guests, no friends. certainly no daughters visiting. The kitchen was tidy and tiny, faux everything, and no attempt to disguise it. My phone was in my hand, and I entered the pin without realizing it.

I did not want to be alone creeping through this mausoleum with its depressing artifacts, the memory of the pale man's painted skin. His unspoken suggestion my father was something different than the man I knew, which meant I knew less about him than I'd guessed. It was too much. Like so many times in my life, I wished I did not have a father. Fuck you for not being there. Fuck you for dying and making me do this.

I spoke these words to the refrigerator, the closest thing to me resembling a man. My cell phone chimed, knifing through the silence following my outburst. It was the lawyer's number, the man I confused with my phone call to him only minutes ago. Maybe he had mixed things up. I hope so. Hello? The voice was different, older. Wind disrupted his words.

Sam's journey. The Lord of the... Yeah, yes, I found the book. Who is this? They'll follow you, Emma. They? You know who I mean. You might want to just take out the parts you need.

Don't want to draw attention to it. What do you... Got to go. I'll see you soon. See me? Who are you? Why, it's Tom Bumbadill. Colorado, the room of Dorothy Roosevelt.

Her brown lips bunched and unfurled like earthworms fleeing a hot sidewalk. The rain that summoned them from their earthen beds long departed. Occasionally, the flickering fluorescent light overhead revealed a stray by cuspid or molar floating in mottled purple gums, both ornamental and unpleasant to live. look at. Around Halloween last year, a nurse accused Dorothy of sneaking candy corn, but that was just her teeth. The static was louder, a sound no one else heard, and neither could she, in the traditional sense. It was in her head, but that was where she spent most of her time anyway. It was time to go. She pressed the call button and counted heartbeats while waiting for the subtle vibration of the nurse

who responded. Sixteen heartbeats passed, and she smiled, the earthworms arching in unison, as Cedric crossed the threshold into her room. He was the only male nurse on the floor, taller than his female co-workers by half a foot, with the most distinctive stride, distinctive to Dorothy, at least.

Hello, Cedric. Her tongue tripped over consonants and mixed up vowels more often than not, but he understood. He grasped. the hand she offered, and he turned her palm up. H-E-L-L-O-B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L, he traced. Hello, beautiful.

She giggled and turned her face away, but the smile faded quickly, and her thunderstorm-gray eyes aimed where she thought his face might be. It's time, Cedric. Today? He whispered, then shook his head, and scribbled the word on her. palm.

Now. Dorothy clarified. His writing finger twitched as he struggled to think of a reply. This was fast. He never knew if the day would come. He always thought it would be tomorrow or the day after that. An unending train of tomorrow's carrying Dorothy to whatever lay beyond this world. N-O-W?

Now? She nodded. Thought I was making up story. He squeezed her hand once, which meant yes in their private language. H-O-W-M-U-C-H-T. How much time? She interrupted, smiling broadly so he did not take offense. Maybe five minutes?

Jesus. Then he scrawled, OK, on her palm. He helped her sit up and peeled off the blanket. Whoa, you weren't kidding. She wore the outfit he picked out for her months ago, the least conspicuous clothing in her eclectic closet, brown slacks, and a black blouse. Dorothy judged clothing by the way it felt against her skin, which often led to unusual combinations. Notes on the bedside. Clears you of everything, Cedric. My bills paid anyway, so they shouldn't

give you trouble. Lord, I hope you're right. He glanced at the open door as Mrs. Ivy squeaked past. She didn't see him. Good. Mrs. Ivy talked like each syllable was worth a nickel, and she was determined to put her grandchildren through college. Dorothy hefted a duffel bag that seemed too big for her small body. Her head cocked to the side, filtered sunlight speckling her cheek. Now, Miss Dorothy, this is too heavy. Three minutes, Cedric. Maybe less. She spoke as if she had heard him. Her cheek. Her cheek. Shinn protruded and retreated as she rubbed her gums together. Through the boughs of the bristlecone pine outside the window,

three shadows weaved around sedans in the parking lot. Cedric squinted and ducked to touch his forehead to the window. Past the tree was 50 feet of lawn still wet with dew and a strip of sidewalk, calcite sparking with sunlight. No, not shadows. Men dressed for a funeral. Dorothy groaned without realizing it. Her bony fingers, thick with knots, twisted the strap of the duffel bag.

Cedric seized one of her hands. T-H-E-M. Them? She nodded. It felt like someone dropped a bag of hammers down his throat. He was stuck in place, insides turning to stone. The men made him feel sick, the way they moved, like eels adapting to land. Maybe that was just because of Dorothy's stories, but seeing them now, how could he doubt her?

R-E-A-D-Y. Ready. He wasn't. His non-stick shoes were glued to the tiles, tree-trunk legs just as immobile, but Dorothy hooked her elbow inside his and yanked him an inch toward the door. They split up. As if she had only pretended to be deaf, Dorothy turned. Turned, cloudy eyes directed at the window. Two men approached the front door of the facility,

arm swaying in unison, Gate like a foal finding its legs. The third man followed the sidewalk path toward the building's rear exit. Dorothy tugged Cedric's smock top. Gonna have to hide me, Cedric. Don't have time to spell out a plan. Gotta move.

Gotta convince them I'm not here. They know where I was, but don't know where I am. The men disappeared from view, and Cedric shook his head as if waking from a dream. Feather-light hands warm as bathwater caressed his face. They'll kill me, Cedric. But that's not their goal, not what they want.

They want something buried so deep inside of me they'd carve out the marrow in my bones to find it. Death would be a mercy. He wrenched one of his tree trunks free, and then the other. His eyes focused above Dorothy's head. He grasped her small hands, squeezing them once. They're coming.

In a facility filled with rubber soles, the rapid tap of the approaching men was like machine gun fire. Shit. Oh, shit. What do I do now? The Lazy Inn. The hotel room felt like a cold sauna. The carpet like soft mud beneath my feet. Smelled of 10,000 low. only souls who passed more expensive options to settle on this one, tobacco and cheap vodka,

sweat and something like salt water that probably wasn't. I stripped the bed and placed a towel on the mattress, an old t-shirt serving as a buffer pillowcase. I had left the Lord of the Rings book, as suggested, and drove out of my father's neighborhood with one eye on the road and one on the rearview. The map was now a photo on my phone, the man who claimed to be Tom Bombadil, the ageless, colorfully dressed character from the fellowship of the ring? Had not contacted me again, though I checked my cell every few minutes. The air conditioner rattled a life, sounding as if a dying opossum was trapped within. I hovered over it, the air blissfully cool, but reeking of mildew, and held the phone up searching

for a signal. Thirty seconds passed before the results came back. The coordinates to the place east of the Brandywine River corresponded to a location in Arizona, south and west of Sawaro National Park in Tucson. I zoomed the map until amid a sea of utter nothingness, I noticed a slight glint of silver, like a fish dead on the land. Faint tracks led from the glint to a road miles to the east. It was not at all how I pictured Tom Bombadil's home,

or any place in Middle Earth outside of Mordor. It typed in the second set of coordinates, the ones found beneath Eisengard in the book. and waited. The screaming air conditioning blowing alternately hot and cool on my face. Another minute passed. Didn't people use cell phones out here? Rainwick Village, New York, began to scroll. It was a care facility for mentally ill. Shuddered in 1995 with little information as to why.

There were a few links to urban exploration websites, but the campus did not appear dilapidated enough to garner much attention in that community. In addition, there was nothing left behind, no rat-eaten dolls or busted televisions. Though nature was making inroads, it appeared less abandoned than temporarily forgotten. I swallowed an egg-sized lump in my throat at the recollection of overheard conversations through my childhood. New York was rarely mentioned directly. Eventually, it was just north. Heading north, my father would say, how long, mama asked.

Don't know, or long as it takes, he would reply. I entered the next coordinates and set the phone on the window sill. I parted the curtains, which were blood red and felt more plastic than cloth, and surveyed the darkened parking lot. There were half a dozen cars resurrected from a junkyard and a couple of rigs parked at the far end. Wax yellow cones from headlights on the highway assured me the world still existed beyond the window, but there was little else. What am I doing?

I said to the room, snapping the curtain closed. Just go home. This, whatever this was, continued because I allowed it to continue. I had planned to spend a couple of days at my father's place. Figure the books alone demanded that much of my time. Why not leave early? Leave behind the mystery of the book, the man claiming to be a character from the book,

and delete my father's message. The strange men would not be so good. quickly forgotten, I knew, but entertaining this fantasy would not expunge them from my thoughts any faster. I returned to the bed, phone in hand. The search result revealed the coordinates matched a lake in New York's Adirondack region. It was about 10 miles long, half a mile wide, big, but not extraordinary. A lake and the dead marshes, it's a pit on the nose, Dad. Then I plugged the charger in and set the phone on the nightstand. The world. The world Short, short as it was, did not fit comfortably in my mouth.

Dad. I avoided using the term for so long I was out of practice. He'd always been my father, not dad. That was something you earned. You earned that by being there, not by leaving trinkets in your place. The lamp on the nightstand buzzed like a hornet trapped in a plastic cup. My jaw ached from gritting my teeth.

The buzz, the unrecognized source of my annoyance. I turned off the lamp and nodded my hands over my belly. In the darkness, my eyes realized how tired they were. Oregon's air, which smelled of either pine or the ocean, depending on the direction of the wind, felt like someone else's memory. I told myself I wished I was there instead of a hotel advertising color TVs in every room as an enticement,

but my restless mind disagreed. I was thinking about dad's shoes, the gentle taps they made on the tiled floor, floor. In my childhood bedroom, I mapped his journey through the house, tapping through the kitchen and dining room, silent through the carpeted living room, tapping once again in the bathroom he shared with Mom. I never considered it his bathroom. Mom just let him keep his stuff there. Sometimes I saw the shadow of his shoes breaking up the light beneath my door. They lingered there like every loving word trapped on the tip of his tongue. The border between thoughts and dreams.

fuzzed, memories morphing into the nonsensical, shoes and books, maps and lipless men, all of it swirling into a fog of shapes and textures. I woke up choking, feeling as if in my sleep I attempted to swallow my own tongue. I gagged, sputtered, spitting vomit on my chest. No, not vomit. What the fuck! It toppled off my chest as I scrambled across. the bed and stood shaking in the corner of the room. Movement by the door, the chain lock swinging

freely, a band of dusky neon light visible through the crack. Someone had been in the room. I darted to the door and slammed it, then peered through the peephole. The glass was dirty and scored, nothing visible beyond the vague shape of my rental car. I moved to the window and watched two silhouettes, supporting something between them, scuttle across the parking lot, a stream of bioluminescent blue light trailed behind, the same color as the jellyfish-like thing on my bed. I cracked the door open. The blue light followed behind the figures like a long tail. One of the figures stopped and turned, but not to face me. It knelt to the ground and, like a deer at a waterhole, consumed the blue light flowing like a river toward it.

Between my feet, the globule of blue light I had vomited upon waking. scampered on blunted tentacles. It raced across the parking lot like a newborn crab, desperate for the sea until it reached the still-nealing figure. Then it collapsed into a puddle and was consumed. I retreated into the room, locked the door, and sank to the floor. It wasn't gone, that sense of another person invading my space. I checked the bathroom and found a cockroach in the rust-ring tub,

but nothing else. I stood next to the bed. bed, chewing on the inside of my cheek. There was something near. It was like walking into a room someone just departed. The energy was there, but not the person. My heartbeat steadied and sat on the bed. There was a tooth on the carpet, gray and ancient looking. It could have been there previously. It was that type of motel, but I didn't think so. I examined it in the lamplight and could not believe it came from a living person. What could I tell the police?

What story would they believe? I didn't call them. Called someone else instead. This time I had the right number. Tom? Yes. Sorry, it's so late. I'm coming to see you.

Looking forward to it. Dorothy and Cedric, Interstate 70, headed east. They drove into darkness, sunlight flaring in the rearview, mirror each time Sedrick glanced at it. He could not purge the recent memory of the gray man back at the care facility, could not escape the thought the men were right behind, that the headlights catching up to him were not just travelers eager to forget Kansas. Sedrick adjusted the rear view to check on Dorothy, who could not have been less troubled. She slept in the backseat,

curled up like a child with a wadded t-shirt serving as a pillow. Is Dorothy the things I do? for you, I wouldn't do for anyone else. She didn't have to see the gray man. Luckily, she was small enough to fit inside a laundry bag, and he was strong enough to make it seem like the bulging sack over his shoulder was what it appeared to be. His voice. His voice.

Cedric shuddered and reached for the radio dial. Mostly country stations, but that was okay. Anything was better than the memory of the gray man's voice. and Miss Dorothy had strong opinions about music with bass, said it messed with her equilibrium. Cedric no longer questioned such statements, and as I-70 stretched out in front of him, flat and black as a skillet,

he recalled there many chats, the stories she told him. How much of it was true. After the men showed up right as predicted, how could he doubt her? He swallowed hard, turned the radio up some and began to hum along with the song he did not know. Her stories were always fascinating, like something out of a science fiction novel, but there was a danger lurking in the periphery.

Cedric was unsure how willing a participant Dorothy was in these experiences. He danced around the topic, asking general questions. She batted away without much effort. Cedric's only directive, for the moment, was to drive. He obeyed, only stopping for gas, never letting the slumbering Dorothy out of his sight. A little after one in the morning, she smacked her lips and mumbled. That's all I can give for now, Emma. Cedric freed her hand from her lap and traced a question mark on her palm.

Hmm? Oh, just... Just thinking about an old friend. He squeezed her hand once. H-O-W-A-R-E. How-R, he began. Oh, fine, Cedric. I guess we made it out okay, huh?

He squeezed her hand. He had so many questions that felt impossible to fit on her small palm. I'd give anything just to walk with you for five minutes, Miss Dorothy. A real conversation. Then he wrote on her palm again. T-H-E-M-A-N-L-O-O-K-E-D. The man looked. He could not think of how to finish the sentence, bit his lip at the memory inspiring it.

He saw the gray man reflected in the windshield. He sensed him in the passenger seat. He was everywhere. Dead? Cedric squeezed her hand. Dead or dying. They are, Cedric. This journey whereon isn't for the faint of heart.

I told you that before. I know you love me. But I also know you thought I was half crazy, huh? He squeezed her hand. When you get a chance, pull over and let's talk about it. Some place out of the way. He squeezed her hand. The rest stop 15 miles down the road was closed.

There were no cars in the lot, just a couple of vending machines filled with candy bars puddled in their wrappers. The tires crunched over gravel as Cedric navigated the car to the far end. The engine hissed, steel guitar teardrops relinquishing the night to crickets chirping in dewy grass. What's around us? Cedric peered through the windows. A bench next to... Take me to it?

Okay, Miss Dorothy. Cedric smiled. They sat on the bench, Dorothy tilting her chin toward the night sky. What do you see, Cedric? There were stars, constellations he recognized, and some he didn't. The brighter lights might have been planets. He wrote on her palm, describing colors, the craters on the moon. Dorothy nodded along, and eventually he ran out of words.

Your eyes are drawn to the light, Cedric. The stars and planets, the moon. That's what you see. But what's between them? Nothing? Dark? That's where I live. You see how much more darkness there is than light? Don't feel bad for me because I've never seen the...

What was it? The big dipper? I've got all of that. She gestured at the sky. And you've got your little lights. You know, you don't need eyes to see. I can see right inside your chest, Cedric. You're just a shell around that pearl.

Did you know that? You can't see it, but you can feel it. That little tug on your chest when you miss your mama. That nudge from behind pushing you towards. the great mysteries of life. Do you feel it? I don't know. Cedric reached for her palm, but before he could write, Dorothy spoke again. It's okay not to know. You've got your own gravity. It's just for you. The universe knows your path.

Now, you might hop off now and again, but the path has only one destination. A tree, no matter how big it grows, is destined to fall. It's not an ending, mind you. Nothing ever really ends. It just changes. When a tree falls, it becomes a million new things. Think about that. Cedric sucked in air that tasted of grass and diesel fumes.

I'm scared. He left little behind in Colorado. His co-workers would notice his absence first. He hoped Dorothy's letter convinced his bosses to keep him on staff when he returned. But it also mattered less now, for reasons he did not understand. Good. Take me back to the car. I need to get us headed in the right direction. We've been going in the wrong direction? Dorothy sat with her hands in her lap, feet crossed on the floorboards like a kid in church.

She turned her head this way and that, unkempt hair like the pop. ball tale of a wild rabbit. The static was fainter than it had been in Colorado. They were traveling away from it. Where we headed? East. Dorothy shook her head. South.

Head south and be quick about it. Cedric sighed and turned the key. Jontie Fiddles staking a claim to the night. Oh, Miss Dorothy, I could just imagine the headlines. Nurse kidnaps, disabled woman drives nowhere. He drove out of the parking lot, merged on I-70, and took the first road south. The universe knew Dorothy's path. It knew Cedric's path. For now, the two were the same. The destination was different. Dorothy felt that. And although she knew nothing ever really ends, only changes, a tear rolled silently down her cheek.

She took Cedric's hand and held it in silence. Gonna rest now, Cedric. Keep me safe. At about the same time, 100 miles away, a black sedan headed east screeched to a stop. A few minutes later, it too was headed south. Emma, west of Tucson, Arizona. When she cooked, my mother rarely referred to a written recipe, especially when it came to spices. How do you know how much, I would ask.

memories of meatloaf so salty it might as well have been beef jerky in forming my concern. I'm listening to my ancestors, mom would respond. I would swallow a dozen sarcastic responses and hope for the best. As I drove through the Arizona desert, cell phone reception evaporating 20 miles west of Tucson, I wished an ancestor would whisper in my ear. Up and down the county road in a rented SUV, the black leather molding to expose skin. There was no proper turn to Tom's place. The road leading to his shack or whatever it was

had likely been created by the man himself, driving over the same terrain for supplies or, I didn't know exactly. From the satellite image, it wasn't even a road, just faint tire tracks in the desert, something an afternoon storm could wash away. This is crazy, Emma, you're crazy. My chin hovered just above the steering wheel. No.

No. Crazy was the possibility I was attacked in the night. A glowing blue octopus creature forced down my throat. Or was it a dream? No ancestors in my ear, just the creek of overworked struts as the SUV's tires dipped in and out of potholes. But I saw it, a gap in the barbed wire fence on my right. For miles, I wasn't sure how many. It was the same fencing, the bleak Arizona desert in the background.

I stopped, reversed, and rolled down the embankment leading to the gap. There was just enough space to allow the SUV through. What am I doing? What am I doing? Desert plants clawed at the SUV's undercarriage. I followed the faint set of tracks, which avoided most obstacles, but not all of them. I half expected to see him in colorful garb over the next rise. A blue jacket with yellow boots, nursing a pipe, or singing to the foliage. Instead, there was a sudden flash of light blinding to behold.

I shielded my eyes, my nerves electric, and prepared for anything. It was an airstream trailer bright as molten steel. A canopy jetted from its side and beneath it two lawn chairs. One occupied by a man who wore not boots and a hat, but shorts in an open Hawaiian shirt. There was a square patch of green turf, the same dimensions as the canopy, which I guess substituted for a lawn. He looked neither like a wizard nor a man-god older than the mountains, sporting a mustache rather than a pillowed beard. I parked the SUV and sat for a moment.

There was still time to turn around, to catch a plane to Oregon and block every call on my phone from a Texas area code. I opened the door. It was what the tall man said in my father's house. Where did my father go when he traveled? I didn't know. North, mostly, from snippets of conversations, I recalled. The tall man knew, though I hoped never to be close enough to him to ask about it. Tom?

Hello, Emma. He waved from his chair. The pistol on the TV tray to the right of Tom stopped me in my tracks. The SUV was already too far away. He could empty the clip before I reached the door. Oh, don't worry about that. That's not for you. When I didn't take a step closer, he reached for the pistol.

No! He tossed the gun. gun into a thorny bush, then smiled. If it makes you feel better. The man was about my father's age, though judging ages has never been a skill of mine. His skin was the color of an old leather wallet, and much of it was visible, along with frosted belly hair like the spines of a hedgehog. I don't know why he chose Tom Bombadil.

I'm only a year older than him. Tension in my muscles released. I stepped under the canopy. You don't remember the first eggorn? I asked, hoping he would get the reference. No, not at all. I'm much better at forgetting things to be truthful. He gestured at the second lawn chair.

Beer? I sat, allowed my body to sink into the chair. Sure. He popped open a cooler to his left, hardly bigger than a lunchbox, and passed a bottle to me. You looked like him. If it was intended to break the ice, it failed.

I chewed on my lip and looked away, dust devils spinning in and out of life in the distance. I guess I wouldn't know. He nodded, sip from his beer in the uncomfortable silence. You're here for answers. I have some. You still have places to go after me, but I hope you might entertain the idea that John was not a bad man when we're done talking. He was a very good man

And would have been a good father The path that was presented to him I wanted to cut right to the heart of the matter But that was an elusive target Where to begin? The lipless men? The assault in the night? The altered map that led me to an airstream trailer

In the middle of the Arizona Desert? Did my father commit suicide? I surprised myself with the question But continued Inside his house, it didn't I don't know, it didn't feel like someone had just died there. He nodded along.

I'll answer your question in a way that will probably confuse you more than you already are. John is no longer in this world. I'm fairly certain of that. I wouldn't call it a suicide, no. But the lawyer, he laughed at that, lurching forward in his chair and slapping his knee. Oh, that was me. Was my Texas accent convincing? How did you...

After we're done talking, you're going to believe a lot more than the possibility I can fake a phone number. That's easy stuff, and not particularly interesting. The beer felt room temperature already. A million questions, each impossible. It's interesting to watch the dominoes fall.

What do you mean? One decision, 50 or 100 years ago, causes these ripple effects through time. Just think about it. All the suffering in the world always began as an idea in one man's mind. Well, not all of it, but most of it. Certainly what I was exposed to. How did you know him?

An easy question, I hoped, and one that might help me understand more about the man who still had not introduced himself to me properly. He took a long drink and held the bottle by its neck, swirling the final few drops. I said John was a good man. I don't know if I could say the same about myself. But for whatever bad I've done, my penance began long ago. You know, I've been waiting to meet you for 20 years.

You were just a kid back then, a teenager. But the dominoes were already falling. Still, I'll have to go further back than my first meeting with John, though, to give you the proper context. Are you familiar with Operation Paperclip? I nodded but felt dazed by the question. It was a government initiative to claim German talent before it fell into the hands of communists. Crimes and histories were whitewashed for science. Good. That saved some time.

Oppenheimer was probably the biggest prize. but there were others, hundreds of German scientists, some dedicated Nazis and some just playing the part. I opened my mouth to interject, but he held up his hands. Bear with me. I can't claim it'll make sense in the end, but at least you'll have all the available information. Okay, I downed half the bottle.

There were other projects, ones you won't find on the Internet. Military supremacy, defeating the race, That was our primary goal, but not the only one. There were human experiments, horrific experiments. You can find stuff online about that easy, though. Even pictures. Limbs purposely frozen and thawed with hot water. Wounds infected with dirt and ground up glass.

There was no oversight. There was no ramifications. He was getting excited, speaking with his hands as much as his mouth. I followed the path of a dust devil dancing out its meaningless life. This was beginning to feel like a waste of time. A nightmare. Brought on by exhaustion, led me to the trailer of a babbling stranger in a Hawaiian shirt. I reached into my pocket and retrieved the gray tooth.

Only half aware I was doing it. Tom paused his diatribe for a moment and leaned forward. One of theirs? I don't know. I found it after... After... He squeezed my shoulder once. Paid you a visit?

Care to share? I'm not sure. Sure. I found this after. Tom took it from my palm, walrus mustache twitching as he examined it. By the way he squinted, I guess he normally wore glasses. Well, they're always dying. You should know that. They can hold it together for a bit, you know, keep the body moving. It's not living, really, but it's as close as they can get to it.

He flicked the tooth onto the turf. The blue things? The, uh... Octopus things? You saw him. He leaned away from me as if one might crawl out of my throat. If it wasn't a dream. Do they get inside? I shook my head.

Almost. I woke and I coughed it out. I think something happened because they'd already left. Something interrupted them. I rubbed my hands together, heart beginning to flutter. During the drive to the airport in Texas, and for the duration, of the flight, I dismissed every memory of the night's events as they surfaced. Recalling it then, I felt the obstruction in my throat, suffocating, but weightless.

Hey, hey, it's okay. I can't promise it'll be okay, but it's okay right now. How about you just listen, we can talk about the next steps after. Okay. He squeezed my hand. It was, a fatherly gesture, which felt both foreign and needed. Suffice to say, the German influence wasn't restricted to rocketry. It took years to go through the records that survived the war. I bet there's a box in a corner of some D.C. building labeled Nazi stuff even today. We learned about the experiments, and some of that came out during Nuremberg. But it was probably 15 years or more before words started to get out in certain circles about more esoteric endeavors.

He rummaged through the cooler. Another? Sure. I downed the final swallow of the first. Now, a lot has been made about Nazis dabbling in the occult. Good fodder for cable TV and conspiracy books. It's a bit overblown, though. It's like when your boss suddenly starts taking an interest in bicycles. He's riding to work every day, gets excited talking about the equipment.

Next thing you know, there's 15 bicycles in front of the office, and people are asking advice about trails and gear. They were definitely Nazis interested in the occult. There were people who played the part. People who went along with the bulls. boss. Combine that with the liberties the CIA was taking in the 50s and 60s. M.K. Ultra. I'll tell you, the real bad stuff didn't have names. Bad stuff. Not as bad as Nazi Germany, but forcing someone to take a hundred a day LSD trip against their will, infecting people with diseases and saying it's

the cure, it's only not as bad because the subjects weren't pulled out of the concentration camps. He swirled his beer, contemplated the bubbles rising to the surface. Dr. Kissel didn't talk about his background. I didn't ask. By his age and the thickness of his accent, I didn't need to. I was his research assistant, one of them. He had several. I don't think he had enough time in Germany to make the sort of progress that would have left him at the end of a rope like the others. There was an element of ethnic superiority in his old research, but that was just to appease his bosses, I imagine. What was the research? He abruptly stood and stretched. Care to go inside?

Is there an inside portion to the story? Kind of. This isn't the part where you murder me, is it? He nodded at the pistol in the bushes. Could have done that the second you got here. Tom shuffled past and placed both hands on his knees to brace himself as he scaled the drop-down steps. What else could I do but follow him? He lured me with talk of Nazis and the CIA, both somehow related to my recently departed father.

I left my half a beer outside and followed. Tom sat at what must have been his dinner table, a slab of plastic-coated wood jutting from the trailer wall. It was cramped, but orderly inside. Because of its small size, I expected more hoarding, but the opposite was true. There were a few kitchy needle points hanging on the wall, tea kettle on the stove, and a pair of moccasins on the floor. He noticed my interest in his wall art. It gets boring. Been out here for a long time.

On the table between us was a cassette player slash recorder, a relic from the 80s, very similar to a model my sisters and I had in that decade. We used it to play audio versions of Disney movies at night. Tom did not address the cassette player or the stack of tapes beside it. He continued where he left off. In Dr. Kissel's mind, progress, evolution was always the result of these hinge moments, mutations, obviously. One mistake, one mutation could drive the progress of an entire species. He believed we could fabricate it. If we introduced enough variables, we could create a hinge moment,

a moment of connectivity that would drive the progress of our species. Connectivity? That was the unknown. He glanced at the door, which I had not fully closed. I wondered if he was considering running away rather than, than share what was weighing on him. Dr. Kessel believed people could access heightened abilities if properly prepared for it. Prepared how?

Tom played with his mustache, twirling the ends around his finger. Sensory deprivation initially. That predated my association with him. Despite some promising results, there was nothing particularly useful in what he achieved. So with money running out, he changed tactics. There was a deep sadness in his hazel eyes. He tried to smile through it, which only made him seem more desperate. That's where I came in, and your father a little while after.

We did two years in school together and stayed in touch. I moved north after college to continue my education. John went to work for a couple of years before finding his way back to the university, eventually worked his way up to administrator. Tom wiped a tear from his cheek, attention returning to the door. I'm the reason John wasn't there for you. I brought him into this world. My face was pinched.

Confusion, mixing with anger. What world? He pressed play on the cassette player. Subject 475 is in a catatonic state. Her eyes are wide open and staring at the ceiling. However, her recent... Modification eliminates the possibility she is actually seeing anything. Her mouth is open as well.

The tongue, like the eyes, is dry. Where are you, 475? What do you see there? I'm going to find eyedrops for the subject, though she no longer has sight. I imagine her eyes can still feel pain. Dorothy and Cedric, south of Enid, Oklahoma. Cedric circled the parked car, mopping sweat from his forehead. Cell phone held above his head in search of a signal.

The trunk was open, spare tire ready to be swapped for the flat one. He didn't know how to change a tire and was afraid to admit as much to Miss Dorothy. Though so much time passed since he parked without a clang of metal on metal, she likely suspected. Each time his phone picked up a signal, it dropped as he was dialing. He climbed back inside the car to get out of the heat. You okay? She nodded. Just tired, Cedric.

I'm getting old for one. Where's on my mind to search? He pressed a finger to her palm, thinking of a way to shorten the question. They spoke long and often about her journeys, what she saw and felt. But the tapestry was incomplete. If it were a book, he started past the. the halfway mark. Search for what?

Is that what you're wondering? He squeezed her hand. Cedric, there wasn't a lot of support for a girl like me when I was little. I've always been blind, but being deaf happened later. My mama told me she was taking me to a special place for kids like me, a place where every kid was different in their own way. Sounded like heaven. I could tell she was crying by how her voice shook,

even as she painted this beautiful picture. Hard for a black woman, light-skinned or not, to make it in the world back then. I didn't hate her when she dropped me off. She thought she was doing right by me. I didn't hate her when it wasn't quite like she said. Different didn't mean special, and just because there were more of us didn't mean the world viewed us any different. She placed another hand atop Cedric's, turning her stormy eyes to face him.

I didn't hate her the first time the janitor snuck into my room at night and locked the door behind. This was my path. I can see that just as plain as you can see that flat tire out there. I grew up in that place, started a career there even, just some overnight stuff answering phones and the like. Wasn't a life most people would sign up for, but it was enough for me. I still remember the first time I heard him walk down the hole, quick little steps like he was in a race with his colon and on the verge of losing. He stood in front of me, not saying anything for a minute. Maybe thought I didn't know he was there, but I could hear just fine, could hear his breath whistling through his nose.

Finally, he spoke. You have extraordinary eyes. From that night onward, I knew the doctor to be two different people. There was the man who spoke for hours about worlds and realities beyond our own, of the shape of the universe and what we're not. was outside of it. Then there was the man the children told me about. That man was... Cedric had many questions, but Miss Dorothy had never revealed this much about her past. She had shared her experiences without offering the background of how she was led to them. Dorothy shuddered.

Cedric, check behind us right quick. He first checked the rearview mirror and saw only asphalt and the mirage like. haze of heat rising from it. Seeing nothing, he squeezed her hand once before exiting the vehicle. It was flat, brown land in all directions. No cars coming or going. Only the distant rumble of farm equipment kicking up a cloud of dust miles away. Cedric lifted the tire iron off the spare,

almost too hot to hold after baking in the trunk for the past half hour. The puff of dust blended into a cloudless sky. Brown giving way to blue. There was a person out there living a life he would never understand. Their paths in life nearly overlapped for this brief moment in time, but only Cedric knew that. To the unnamed farmer, Cedric was just a ghost peering through the window. In the end, I knew him as a third person.

Cedric re-entered the car. He was a monster. West of Tucson. Was that him? Was that my father? Tom nodded. That was John. The experiments were becoming difficult to manage.

I knew him to be a very orderly person, the kind of person who finds joy in maintaining records. The doctor had three, four, sometimes half a dozen subjects going at once. We needed someone to make sense of it. I reached out to John. There wasn't even any money in it for him at the time. Soon, he was an indispensable part of the team and a buffer between the doctor and his worst inclinations.

What was his goal? What was the doctor trying to achieve? Tom slid the tape player a few inches to his left, as if afraid the source of the scream might emerge from it. There was once a belief mankind could speak to the gods, A belief modern culture abandoned not that long ago. Often it was a spiritual leader in an altered state of consciousness. The CIA drug experiments were fascinating,

but the results revealed more about the subject's individual nature. Basically, we didn't gain any new knowledge. The doctor believed the power to communicate with gods, whatever they were, was obscured by our senses. Senses? He nodded. The input from the eyes and ears primarily. The brain using all of its power to process it. Try to imagine a 20-minute scenario of you running through a forest chased by wolves.

The forest becomes a mountain. And at the summit is your childhood best friend, and together you must, I don't know, milk the world's driest cow. impossible to do on command, right? To string together 20 consecutive minutes in your mind. But we dream every night when our ears are mostly turned off and when we're watching the insides of our eyelids. Eliminate the senses.

Eliminate, as in forcibly remove? He sniffed. And Tom took a long time. breath. He shifted in his chair, eyes darting from the window to the door. Sensory deprivation wasn't enough. That wasn't eliminating the senses. It was putting a bubble around them. Drug experiments were never more than interesting. He experimented with overloading the senses. How? Pain. He blinked tears out of his eyes. With forced deprivation, sensory elimination,

that changed everything. There was more he wanted to say. He rubbed his hands together as if within them was a secret he was afraid of exposing. But we didn't know what we were doing. The doctor didn't. The children didn't. The children started... Children?

He nodded and appeared to have aged a decade since I first pulled up. Yes, mostly children. That's what we had available. As subjects, they were useful. They did not have many of the same biases as adults. Tell a child to imagine she's floating among the stars. Tell her to find God and ask him questions. A child to know the difference between a God and a devil,

especially after what was done to them. He moved the tape player in front of him. He was all so dangerous. Give a child a phone and tell her to dial numbers at random. You do that, and you don't have a say in who answers. We were broadcasting into the void. What is it? What do you see? 475, what do you see?

She can't hear you, doctor. Don't you think I know that? God damn it. Note the subject's vitals. 475 appears to enter the catatonic state. She is presently on her back, spine curved and off the table. Body weight supported by her head. Her mouth and ice are open. The latter are not responding to the introduction of light.

Subjectives both blind and deaf, but has been taught to communicate with us. 475, what do you see? Sir, there's no need for that. She can't feel anything right now. She's... What is it? What do you see? Her lips are moving.

What is it? John. It's... wants to come through. It, what is it? Where is it from? It wants to come through. It wants to come through. John, grab her arms, Dean, hold her down.

475 is clawing at her chest. She seems to drive. There are the straps, God damn it. Jesus, man, hold her down. Can't strap her down. She's stuck like this. Oh, she's pissing herself. You're going to kill her. We have to pull her back. I'm God. What is that?

Tom stopped the tape. What the fuck was that, Tom? It's Dean. I always liked Tom Bombadil, though. Your dad and I had long debates about who he was. To answer your question, something came through. It was like a slice of night. sky, no stars, if the night was made of smoke. It poured from her mouth. Almost looked like you could grab it. Then it disappeared. Now Emma, I don't mean to be rude, but I do have to cross

another item off my list today. We could spend hours, days even, talking and it wouldn't begin to scratch the surface. I owe you a lot more than answers. but it's all I can offer right now. Ask the couple of questions you need answered before you move on. I'll do my best. Who? What are they, the men following me? Dean, no longer Tom, crossed his arms and propped them on his belly. At an atomic level, I'm afraid I do not know.

I mean, I'm not sure of their composition. Elemental was a word the doctor used without really explaining it. In some cultures, elementals are tied to nature, forest spirits. I think the doctor meant that they were primitive in nature, like what existed on Earth before life, came through one of the vessels like you heard on the table. Aliens? Something like that? Dean frowned. That word feels too small, you know, alien.

Yes, everything from outside of Earth is alien, but that's still too small. Think about dimensions, about planes of existence. That's a nod in the right direction. He sighed and scratched behind his ear. It's tricky explaining something that took me years to comprehend in five minutes. Those things, aliens if it helps, have never lived. But not a life as we understand it.

To borrow a word from the doctor, they were elemental stuff, a primordial possibility until we interfered. He leaned forward, once again moving the tapes further away. This elemental stuff, it's not alive. It can't live, not yet anyway. It attaches itself to life, infects a host, like a barnacle, latching onto a blue whale. It doesn't become the whale, but is an extension.

Now, this stuff can interact with life, understand it to an extent. It infects, gets inside, begins to control the functions of the body, begins to imitate life. And it fails every time. The host dies, but the elemental stuff keeps moving forward, manipulating the stiffening limbs, speaking through the dried out mouth until the body falls apart.

They take over a living person? I think invade is a better term, for it. Imagine those blue jellyfish latched onto a dead heart, squeezing, forcing it to pump black blood through the body, pumping flashes of life into dormant neurons. Why the suits? Why the similar-looking men? He shrugged. That's what it encountered when it first came through. A man in a black suit. Ted, a research assistant, I think. think. It was their first interaction with life, and that's what life is for it. I think they look similar because of the decomposition. Why the secrecy? Why did Dad John create this mystery?

Because they, and others like them, would have access to it as well. If you knew exactly when and where to go, so would they. You're unpredictable. And that keeps she safe. Safe from what? Dean glanced at the door as the wind rattled it, scooting forward as if we were in a crowded restaurant instead of an airstream in the middle of the desert. It's like a little leaguer getting called up to the majors.

The way it happened with the elemental stuff. Skipped a million rungs on the evolutionary ladder. Not successfully, though. Not yet. But here's the thing. We're climbing the same ladder, and it goes way beyond us. They think your father knows how to do it, how to skip ahead. Dean stood and twisted his torso, spine popping like distant fireworks. If you've got no other questions, like I said, we could talk for days, but you won't find your answers here.

Only pieces of them. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to check the time. He mentioned Martha in his voicemail. I guess I didn't really think about it at the time. A lot more going through my mind. Did you work with a Martha? Martha, huh? I can't say I knew a Martha.

Not properly. Might have met a Martha on my way through Texas once. He gave a wink, then stroked the stone. double on his chin, eyes glassy and directed at the door. Tapes are in a sort of order. Save the last one for the next part of your journey. But he took a step toward the door and then pivoted, leaned, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. That's from John. Probably doesn't mean much to hear it from me, but he loved you, truly. Dean pulled away, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

He knew too much. At a certain point, he knew too much. We were dabbling in things we don't understand, things we still don't understand. He had to protect you from him. He had to put a wall up. I began to follow him outside, but he held up a hand to stop me. I do, too. I know too much.

gravel crunched as he walked away with plotting steps. Dean? He appeared beyond the open door. The pistol was in his hand. But it's more than that, though. I've said I've been waiting for you, and I have. I don't sleep. I kind of drift a bit.

But they're always waiting on the other side of sleep. The children, I couldn't stop it. The doctor made sure of that. He spoke without looking at me, eyes fixed on some point on the horizon. Gonna take a walk. Walk until I get tired of it. Dean, you don't have to do... I do, Emma.

He turned and smiled. I'm off to see the wizard. Got a couple of questions to ask him. I scrambled to the airstream's window, pressed my nose to the glass. The gun was aimed at the ground, Dean's eyes looking straight forward. I smacked the glass. Dean, Tom! Whoever! He did not flinch, did not turn.

He kept walking. The terrain was rugged, but level. Even two minutes later, I could still make out his form amid the stunted cacti and gray tufts of grass. But this part wasn't for me. This was for Dean. Dorothy and Cedric, south of Enid, O'Clauma.

Cedric thought about what it might might look like to someone passing by or a state trooper. A large black man in scrubs holding a tire iron walking down a county road in the middle of nowhere. The scrubs were navy blue with little green clovers, a St. Patrick's Day set that worked its way into the normal rotation. He thought about the number of times he was asked if he was lost by a smiling person who already knew the answer. He left the tire iron with Dorothy, who fell asleep after time.

telling him what God looked like. Not a man on a throne made of clouds, he learned. But Cedric still couldn't quite picture it. The dust cloud was gone and there was no other indication of human life. How far was Enid? Ten miles? Maybe he would pick up a signal before then. At least I didn't wear crocs today.

The scrubs were bad. Crocs would have been unforgivable. He looked at his shoes as he walked because, Staring at a horizon that never seemed to come closer, sapped his will. Miss Dorothy filled in a lot of the blanks regarding her past. He was angry for her, but she wasn't. What if I had stopped it? For others, if not for myself.

Who would I be then, Cedric? A blind woman getting on in years, working for whatever pity money they tossed at me. The doctor was a monster, and he walked to me. his own path. But maybe that tug on his chest wasn't so strong. Maybe there was too much noise for him to feel it. I guess in that way, I feel sorry for him. Had Cedric not been lost in his own thoughts, he would have heard the car's engine, a subtle drone weaving around the sound of wind carving through stiffened grass. It was distinct among the other sounds Oklahoma offered,

twittering and buzzing, the scitch of a tumbleweed rolling over asphalt. Had he never felt the tug, as Miss Dorothy described it? He wasn't sure. He missed his mother, and thoughts of her felt like a little ball of empty right in the center of his chest. Cedric looked up, not because he heard the approaching engine, but because he wanted to check his progress. He caught the glint of sunlight reflecting off a windshield. Though the vehicle was maybe a half mile off, he moved to the narrow shoulder and raised his arm. His embarrassment at not knowing how to change a tire flared again.

Maybe it was the tug. Maybe it was something else. As the car approached, Cedric dropped his hand and bawled it into a fist. His body knew, even as his mind practiced the words he would say. It was a boxy, gray sedan, something an old woman was. would drive, but only to church and back. Cedric swallowed hard. The sedan stopped 20 feet from him, the glare on the windshield obscuring his view.

The driver's door opened, and the gray man emerged. Fuck. Cedric looked over his shoulder. The car and the tire iron was maybe a mile and a half behind. The gray man spoke. Two more doors opened, and the other men appeared. beard, both pale and sickly looking. The gray man was the worst, skin like a bleached dolphin, eyes milky moon puddles.

His voice was just above a whisper, shrivelled lips and shoe-leather tongue blunting the shape of his words. Dead or dying, Cedric. What else had Miss Dorothy said about them? If there was a tug, his heart was beating too fast to feel it. Cedric stepped forward as the men assembled into a row. We... The man on the left, squat compared to the others, with thin wisps of black hair like insect antennae trembling from the top of his skull,

brandished a knife. Dead or dying, Cedric. He could smell them, the rot hidden within a husk of moth-wing flesh, the hot metal stench of withered organs and old blood. He had led a normal life, tragedy and triumph sprinkled throughout. It was average, unremarkable, a good, ordinary life. This was a moment, he knew, like holding his mama's hand and watching her lips part to take a breath that never came. In a good and ordinary life, there are few moments.

The gray man stared with foggy eyes, leaking milky tears. He sneered, mottled gums and two long teeth. Cedric felt it then, ghost fingers reaching inside his chest, seizing something hidden there and nudging it ever so slightly. There was a faint glow in the gray man's mouth, like the light from a television spilling beneath a door. I'll tell you. The squat man lowered his knife.

I'll tell you what Miss Dorothy said when I asked if she needed a boyfriend the first day we made. The gray man opened his mouth wider, blue light swelling. No. Cedric rushed forward. Dorothy walked along the side of the road, Burr's hitchhiking on her shoelaces, worldly possessions resting on her back. She knew the men, the elemental force piloting the men, were near.

Her head was full of static again, but a bright light shone through it. Her path. At Rainwick, she learned how to escape the prison of her body, traveling beyond the earth, the stars, and beyond time. What took years to master, lashed to a metal slab in silent darkness, became as easy as flipping pages in a book, easy but not without risk. When she was flipping pages, they could hear the things they met in the darkness.

Twenty years with a new name, far away from Rainwick, and its ghosts. The specters that escaped through cracks in the walls, hitchhiked on the souls of unsuspecting men and into our world, and only Cedric stood in their way. The tug was unmistakable. She didn't need to go inside of herself, to travel, to find it. She simply needed to get there. Every step she took in her life led her to that moment, to that clarity. The tug was so strong she thought she might fly if she jumped, sail south and west to the place where her path ended. The road thrumbed, tires rolling over asphalt, like walking on a guitar string. There were no places to hide, only flat earth around and not a bush taller than her knees.

She did not see this, of course, but her path did not waver, did not offer any alternate roots. The vehicle drove slower than the speed limit. Not Cedric's car, she knew. Exhaust tickled her nostrils. It mingled with other odors, the hot metal tinge of blood, the sour yeast smell of festering gums. The engine idled next to Cedric's car for a moment, and then the guitar string was plucked and Dorothy braced herself.

She pinned her arms to her torso as if compressing her body into the smallest shape. possible. The car parked behind her, and Dorothy stopped as well. Chin raised and nostrils flaring. The path before her was bright neon, cutting through darkness like strips of sunlight, but she turned away from it to face what was coming. She did not hear these crunching sounds, but felt their vibration in her bones. Hello, Cedric. She lifted a hand to touch his face. He took the hand and redirected it, opening her palm. Cedric wrote the letters slick with black blood. H-U-R-T.

Emma, West of Tucson. A single gunshot. I could not help, but picture him. Dean. His Hawaiian shirt splattered with blood and bone. In an instant, he transformed from a guilt-riddled man into a carrion. A feast for coyotes yapping at the scent of blood in the air. I sat in the SUV in the shadows of his unfinished life.

The airstream's door ricocheted off its frame, nudged by fingers of desert wind. The little cooler next to his chair was open. The ice within turned to slurry. A lawn flamingo, bleached a pastel, leaned to the left. The beak arrowed at the parched ground. No one would come for him. Perhaps an overdue bill would catch up with him.

But until then, his life existed only as that sad snapshot. The accoutrements turned to relics, the door flapping in the wind, welcoming ghosts before ushering them out. I drove in silence, slow due to the foliage blocking the route, but I didn't really think about it. My eyes burned. My head pounded. And according to Sam's journey,

I was destined for New York. It was no longer a question of unraveling the mystery my father left behind, but what would be left of me at the end of it. In the passenger seat was the cassette player and a collection of tapes. Each labeled, save for the one already within. I passed through the gap in the fence and onto the county road leading me to civilization. Still no signal on my phone, though. I needed to hear my sister's voices.

Without that option, I pressed play. Ten minutes later, I was parked on the side of the road, the puddle of hot beer and tears between my shoes. The voices, the suffering, the screams, mostly children. Those poor, unwanted, unloved souls plucked from clinical indifference and confronted with the impossible, the eternal. They were butchered and tossed. into the void with no pretense of scientific progress.

One unscrupulous man, corrupted by curiosity, was all it took. On that tape, I heard pleas for mercy, for death, but most often cries for a mother who knew nothing of the suffering who thought a care facility was the best option for their difficult child. It was the final recording that forced me to the side of the road. Subject is not responding to our attempts to communicate through him. He claims to be in contact with something very old from before time in his words. We may need to introduce stimulus to recapture subject's attention.

Prepare the instrument and don't overload the outlet like last time. The subject is speaking, but the voice is too faint. Dean, see if you can understand. It is inside me. It is inside. What is, God damn it, Dean, grab the subject's hand and reestablish communication. Is the device plugged in? Yes, doctor.

Ask the subject. Wait, wait. Is that you, Dean, are you doing that? It hurts. The subject. That is floating above the table. My God. Subject claims to be in contact with an ancient.

I'm not quite... No, John, don't help it. John! The subject is terminated. John? You! John, this will end poorly for you and for them if anything happens to me. Feeling did not accompany the vomit expelled from my stomach.

I was ragged, like a scarecrow in a fallow field. I drove on autopilot, navigating toward the airport, though I had no flight booked. Only half aware I was doing it, I called Mandy. Hey, sis. Hey. What's up? Find anything interesting at his place? I am not sure. Hey, what's wrong?

You sound off. Her voice was an invitation to sanity to a world free of monsters. If not for the cassette player and tape rattling in the passenger seat, I could have believed it had been a dream up until that moment. Just, you know, dealing with stuff. Do you remember anything else from our childhood? I'm having a hard time believing we lived the lives I remember. With him gone all the time?

Why was Mom okay with it? With him being gone even when he was there. Asked Mom about that toward the end. We knew he would be this whole parent sooner than later. It didn't matter that he was gone a lot. Lots of parents do that, especially fathers. It was that he was gone, like you said, when he was home. Mentally.

It broke her a little, that question. There were so many things she wanted to say but didn't. She eventually settled on He Loves You Through Me. I didn't catch the next few words. In the dusky, bruised light, I noticed a sedan behind and to the right of me. The driver's face was a pale smudge in my mirrors. Emma? Don't you think?

I accelerated, and the sedan followed, merging into my lane to weave around a pickup. Emma? I merged to the right, leaving little space, between the SUV and the truck I just passed. The sedan hung back before slowly creeping up alongside me. Emma, I can hear you breathing. Are you okay? I swallowed the lump in my throat.

There's a man in a black suit, and he's following me, and I... What do you mean a man in a black suit? Where are you? The sedan inched closer. I gripped the steering wheel as if it might otherwise fly away. Emma, what is going on? The sedan's bumper crossed into my peripheral vision.

Emma! The man smiled into his rearview mirror. Chubby arms flailed in the car seat behind him. He didn't look in my direction. He wasn't even wearing a suit. I'm here. I'm just tired. Dorothy and Cedric, southwest Oklahoma.

They attempted to see. stop the bleeding in his stomach, securing one of Dorothy's novelty t-shirts above the wound with a belt. She plucked fragments of teeth from his knuckles and flicked them out the window. Cedric could not bring himself to look at his stomach, but he knew it was bad. For the amount of blood gurgling from the gash, it didn't hurt all that much. It just felt hot and wet. They drove south and west in the new car. He wondered what the authorities would make of the scene he left behind. The ruined bodies freshly dead yet rotten, the blue sludge seeping through cracks in the asphalt. Now I know we can't have a proper conversation right now, Cedric. I just want you to drive

and listen as I talk. You asked if I needed a boyfriend when we first met. I know you were throwing a bone to an old blind and deaf lady. But did you know it wasn't the the first time we met? He squeezed her hand twice, barely noticed the sign welcoming him to Texas. I have met you thousands of times, Cedric. And I mean that. You can see it going straight forward from where you sit, but that isn't the truth of it.

Time is all around you going in every direction. You probably weren't born the first time I met you. She tapped her temple. and then gestured toward the sky. In here and out there. He yawned and squeezed her hand. How long had he been driving? Halfway through Colorado,

halfway through Texas, and all the way through Oklahoma, north to south. And honey, there wasn't a time we met that did not end up with us on this road. I am sorry for that. I won't shed a tear now, said, Cedric, I've been mourning you when you were just a name your mama kind of liked. I wept oceans for you.

Cedric smiled at the thought of his mother. The world is about to be a much different place because of what we did, because of what was done to us. I'm not talking about those things from back there. We poked a sleeping giant, Cedric, more than one. There's lots of doors for them to walk through. matter of time before they find one of ours. Miss Dorothy's voice was far away, in another room of the care facility. No, wait, he was in a car, not at work.

Cedric shook his head. And I'm just an old woman, blind and deaf. What can I do against a giant? Cedric looked at her, the same cloudy, resolute eyes he felt he knew his whole life. Guess I'll have to become something else. Just keep driving. Emma, Rainwick Village, New York. I slept in the airport, clothes stiff with sweat, hair of rats' nest,

clutching the tape player as if it was a child I feared would be taken from me. I slept on the plane, spider silk drool dangling from my chin. I staggered through the airport, unaware of the time of day, showing my teeth to any man in a suit who looked my way. I slept in the taxi, seconds after confirming my destination with the driver for the third time. I woke to his shouts. It was obvious he'd been unsuccessful in rousing me for some time.

I grasped the iron bars of the front gate, peering beyond the signs threatening to prosecute me for trespassing. Heavy chains secured the gate, a bright silver lock free of rust suggesting it was recent. recently added. What am I supposed to do here, Dad? I placed my backpack on the ground and rifled through the front pouch. Where is it?

One of the tapes was labeled Rainwick, and there was a number scrawled beside it. Ah, 2325. I parted the ivy dangling between the iron bars. Where to begin? There were so many buildings, large and small. in various states of disrepair, crumbling bricks, stone turned to soft sand. My brief research in the hotel two days prior painted a different picture. Facing the full brunt of snowy winters, wet springs, and hot summers, the campus was already half-wild again.

Grass grew past hip height and the air was filled with the back-and-forth chatter of insects. Slightly to the left of the gate, I found a plastic crate propped against. the weathered wall of mortared stones topped with cement. It was just tall enough. I could have spent days there if I had the time. It was the combination of decay and human interactions with it, the graffiti and detritus. But I saw him, them, around every dilapidated corner,

the lipless mouth grinning behind the fractured glass of a thousand windows. The shadow of a sapling was the tall man's shadow. He was always just behind me, a feather-light tickle on the back of my neck. Building 2325 was one of a row of buildings far removed from the busy middle of campus. Caretakers' row read a sign broken in half, swallowed by a sea of grass. These structures suffered less damage, maybe because there was nothing particularly interesting about them. They were in good shape, clustered together, partially shielded from the elements by a tall wall to the west. There was a lock on the hasp, unsecured.

I removed it and dropped it on the grass. The hinges screamed as the door swiveled open. A wave of musty air issuing forth. Insect chatter in the vicinity ceased for a moment, and the hinge continued to shriek with every inch the door opened. If there were lipless elemental beings nearby, I would know soon. The hallway was short, with two doors to either side, all closed save for one.

Attempting to reach it, I kicked a chair I hadn't seen. The shock of the clattering stealing a breath from my lungs. My fingertips grazed velvety, peeling paint. I searched the space in front of me and encountered no other obstacles before reaching the door, which thankfully opened on silent hinges. Vandals had not bothered with this room other than upending a desk in the corner. There was a metal bed frame, but no mattress. even the glass of the window was still intact,

though in the shadow of the outside wall, little light passed through it. Where did this puzzle piece belong in the mystery? Why had my father sent me here? I reached into my pocket, grabbed my cell phone, for a moment forgetting Dean couldn't give me the answers to my questions. This room was obviously not where the experiments were conducted. I passed dozens of buildings on my way to it,

as well as bunker-like doors in the ground. Perfect place to torture a child. But thanks to Dean and the tapes, I knew that part of the story. I had not played all of them, though. I rided the desk and swapped tapes, inserting the cassette labeled with the corresponding building number. John, take my hand.

We need two. Slow down, John. I can't read that fast. Need, too. Isn't this recorded? Everything is recorded, right? Aye. How do we end it? As plan, must accidental, snake, all.

How? Cabin, north. Not many, no. Been there a couple times. saves worst for there. Need to convince him you. Me? Make it look like you.

Both disappear. They follow you. They want you. How do I? What do I do? Need to bring. Then? Disappear. New name. Know when time is right.

What about you? Your family, won't they come after you? Want you, not me. Don't know I can do it. Haven't since. You can't use it, John. Not until the time is right. They'll find you. I know a quiet life for me. With Doc gone, all ends. Don't they deserve justice? Yes. They used to play movies here.

Back when I was a patient, I loved to listen to them. Felt like I was somewhere else when I did. Different kind of traveling back then. Yes. Well, the Wizard of Oz was my favorite. Dorothy and Cedric. Highway 67, southwest of Fort Stockton, Texas. It felt like his eyes were lubricated with glue.

Each time he blinked, it was more difficult to open them. Miss Dorothy's voice blended with the drone of the highway. She spoke of wonderful things, worlds and times of unending beauty. He could almost picture it. To Cedric, it looked like his mother. When her voice grew fuzzier than normal, and the light in the center of his vision became brighter than the sun, Cedric pulled off the highway and parked under a bridge.

She opened her palm for him, but Cedric couldn't lift a finger. I'm sorry, miss. Of course, she didn't hear him, not with her ears, but she still reached for his face. rushed his cheek with her knuckles. It always happened this way, Cedric. If there had been a path we walked together, I would have taken it. Nothing ever ends, my friend.

It just changes. She closed his eyes, rested her head against his shoulder. You're a good man, Cedric. But this... She squeezed his shoulder. This isn't you. What you are. is a bright, joyful star, and now you're free to shine.

Stay with me these last few miles. She stepped out into a desert night, giving way to mourning. Almost forgot. She said as she returned to the car. Dorothy peeled off her sneakers and slipped on the shoes she'd saved for this day. Emma, New York. The waitress probably thought I was homeless, maybe a little crazy. Crazy. After catching sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, I agreed with the latter. I couldn't remember the last meal I ate that I didn't eventually vomit. I'd left Rainwick after the tape ended, wandered into a town, and made a bee line for the first cafe I saw. Though there were more enticing questions, the one I got stuck on was why my father led me there. I devoured the double order of fries the waitress gifted me, son parched lips burning with every day.

salty bite, though I guess the fries were cooked in the same grease as the fish. They were perfect. As I ate, I answered my own question. If not for the events of the past couple of days, I would not have believed the story. If Dean had simply mailed the tapes along with an explanation of what they were, how my father was involved, I would not have listened to a single one. I would have thrown everything away at the first mention of his name. I was attacked in the night by something I did not understand. I watched the guilt settle into Dean's face as he recounted his story, then watched him walk into the desert with a gun in his hand, and it all started at Rainwick, the place that changed the course of my father's life. Each step established the need

to take the next. The waitress was personally offended if my mug was not full of coffee. After topping me off, She made her way down the row of tables offering a libel refill with a voice as sweet as the key lime pie revolving in the display case next to the register. There were two tapes left. One labeled the cabin. The other for Martha. Couldn't think of a Martha. Couldn't recall one from popular culture even. Dean had a wink in his eye when he mentioned a Martha in Texas. With fingers slick with grease, I typed Martha Texas into a search engine, which offered, did you mean Marfa, Texas? I scrolled through articles about the town, the strange ghost lights first documented in the 1880s. Scientists tried to explain them away as headlight reflections from the highway,

but that didn't account for reports predating the automobile. The town latched onto the mystery and built a culture around it. Did I mean Marfa? I guess I did. But there was one place to visit before I returned to Texas for the second time. time, the dead marshes, also known as Long Lake. Dorothy, Alpine, Texas. Her feet hurt, a small price for fashion, which never really mattered before that moment.

Dorothy kept her head down, aware her cloudy eyes might be concerning for anyone who saw her walking through town. She hoped they might not notice they would be distracted by her shoes. The road glowed beneath her feet, like she was. She was walking on the sun. Emma, Long Lake, New York. The coordinates led me to a barrier as the road turned from asphalt to dirt. Most of the yellow paint had flaked off, exposing the metal beneath.

The barrier was unsecured, a lock and pile of chains beside one of its posts. I drove through, the trail barely distinguishable from the surrounding foliage. Couldn't remember if I opted for additional coverage for the rental car. The shriek of thorny branches digging into the paint resonated in my teeth. Driving slower didn't help. It just lowered the shriek's pitch. I broke through the foliage and slammed on the brake, stopping inches shy of the lake. Oh my God! The adrenaline spike sent my heart racing.

The cabin sat on an island, maybe a quarter mile from the shore. It wasn't a proper island, connected to the shore by an isthmus overgrown with blackberry bushes and bramble. The sun dipped behind the tallest trees, casting long, jagged shadows on the water. I parked the car and left all but the cassette player behind. The edges of the Isthmus were sandy, free of thorny vines that would have shredded my calves. My shoes dipped into the cool water every few steps, but it was still the quickest path. Cabin was a misnomer. It was larger than a cabin, with architectural flourishes hidden behind two-by-fours nailed across

every door and window. In the early evening light, the paint was dulled to a tombstone gray. Was I even supposed to go inside? Or was I supposed to listen to the tape while slapping the bumblebee-sized mosquitoes feasting on the back of my neck? To take the cliff's notes for this part, Dad, I reached the island. Catclaw vines lanced my ankles and wet grass constricted my calves like a thousand ribbon-flat snakes. I looked toward the shore, seeking comfort in the side of the SUV, barely visible through a veil of fog rising off the lake.

Every frog with an earshot chose that moment to serenade the setting sun. The same two-by-fours nailed across the doors and windows had been removed from the front door. My fingers tingled and thunder rumbled like a far-off avalanche. The door opened with an owl screech, and I walked inside. Dorothy, Alpine, Texas

She did her best not to appear lost or in need of help. She walked confidently, chin still tucked to her chest. The path was so bright it was a wonder no one else saw it. Though it mapped out exactly where she needed to go, it did not account for a sidewalk emerging from the asphalt. She stumbled a bit, nearly fell a few times. She felt eyes on her. Passers by slowing their cars as she dusted off her hands.

Head down, keep walking. How many miles left? 30 or 40? Can't be early. Can't be late. Head down. Keep walking. The engine growled behind her.

She felt that in her bones. Then she felt the door slam. Emma. Long Lake, New York. There was an 80s-style flashlight on a table in the the kind that resembled a thermos and chased shadows with a candle yellow beam. Next to the flashlight was a skeleton key the size of a small handweight. As with Rainwick, I was tempted to explore.

Black and white pictures in ovular frames crowded the walls. These photographs made no effort to hide the doctor's previous affiliation. If I had something better than a flashlight, I might have indulged my curiosity, but I didn't. I only had the cassette. The living room had a locker room smell of hidden mildew and a thick down of dust coated all flat surfaces. I pressed play and walked around the room, accompanied by my father's voice. Emma, I'm not sure how to begin this.

There are a lot of things I want to tell you, and most of them have nothing to do with what you've learned or why you're in upstate New York. I want to tell you, I'm proud of you and always have been. I just couldn't lead two lives, Sam. What happened at Rainwick and in the room beneath your feet is far bigger than me. I was afraid.

Always afraid. Afraid they would find out about me and you and the girls would suffer as a result. They didn't show me the bad stuff they were doing right away, but I tried to stop it. I walked into his office and had a picture. of you girls on his desk, walking home from school. Still, I tried. That was the night your mother was visited. She got sick soon after. I knew I could be next, or even worse, you or your sisters could be. I withdrew even further. I became unlovable. It was a lie. The kids told him what he wanted to

hear. They made up stories. They thought he was a friend. This must be a man. This must be a lot of A man who blinded them, maimed them, drugged them. They lied to make him happy. Not all of them, though. Some of it was very real. Once he told a boy to send his consciousness into a black hole just to see what would happen. I-I... He never came back.

Inwick didn't end when the experiment stopped. We opened doors that were never closed. What was unleashed on the world didn't evaporate because the doctor was gone and the facility shut down. It's still out there. It didn't matter what he brought through. He only wanted answers to his own questions. When an elemental infected Ted and he walked away, pulsing with blue light, the doctor said,

make a note of it. I don't know who funded him. Only that he fudged most of the data, and they never came by to check. They didn't care about those kids. On the tape before this, you heard me speaking with a woman. She goes by Dorothy now, but I knew her as Caroline. She helped me. She helped me realize I hadn't been dreaming of fantastic times and places my whole life.

I'd been traveling there. And she helped end it. He thought he was going to meet God's. Well, not quite. Help her get where she's going and tell her I said hello. There's a keyhole in the floor under the couch. If you didn't grab the key, it's on the table in the foyer. Don't walk down. Just shine your light.

Don't worry, he can't see you. I have to get ready. Going to take these tapes to an old friend and then call you. I know you won't answer, and that's okay. If that message didn't make sense when you listen to it, I hope it does now. The early evening cacophony of squelching frogs filled the void left after he spoke his funny. final word. Little light penetrated the gaps between the two-by-fours. It was almost night. I nudged the couch with my hip, and it slid easily over the floorboards. The keyhole looked like

a natural aspect of the wood. I'm certain that was intentional. The skeleton key entered smoothly, and I used the key itself to wrench open the door. Damn, fatted air issued from below. At one sniff, the French fries swimming in my belly rose in rebellion. Make it nasty. Make it forever. I stood above the stairs, one hand pressed to my stomach, the other clutching the flashlight.

I raised the beam, illuminating half a dozen steps terminating in twisted, splintered wood well short of the basement floor, as if they buckled under a tremendous weight. Sounds of movement. of shifting, like an alligator dragging its belly over wet sand. I didn't trust the steps, even the intact ones.

I kneeled, pressed my cheek to the floor, and aimed the beam at the area of the disturbance. How do I describe the indescribable? It wandered into the beam, which gave a yellow tinge to its pale flesh. My first thought was a hippopotamine. And though that was a ridiculous thought, the reality of what lurked in the basement was far stranger. It was unaware of the light, lurching its body snake-like. As it turned, I glimpsed a blunted tail bracketed by two human legs hanging limp and useless.

It returned to the darkness beyond the reach of the flashlight, bleeding like a sheep lost from its flock. What the f-nod? Not a hippopotamus. It more closely resembled an elephant seal, but with frail human appendages. A smaller version of the creature about the size of a bulldog, passed in and out of the light, bleeding in response. I crawled onto the first step, equally disgusted and fascinated. There was a rushing sound. The small creature wriggling past, followed by the monstrosity which heaved itself into full view.

Oh, fuck. It was as if the skin of a man's face was pulled over a pumpkin, leaving craters of exposed bone. The eyes were misaligned, the right drooping over the taut flesh of its cheek. The nose split down the middle and it sucked in air through a single glistening hole. Below that, its mouth was a ruin of blood and teeth like broken rocks. Make it nasty. Two pendulous breasts swayed as it swiveled, cocking its earhole toward the sound of scuttling. Pulpy milk, like spoiled cottage cheese, leaked from the nipples.

It slunk into darkness. Human arms outstretched. The creature's face? The human mask with two little skin stretched over too much bone did not resemble the man in the photographs on the wall, but it was him, a version of him combined with something else, something nasty. The calls, lamb to mother, volleied back and forth,

infected with a rising panic in the former. Several smaller versions of the chimera passed into the light again, one trailing a ribbon of blood, the ragged stump of its arm flailing. They weren't searching for their mother. They were fleeing. That was enough. I stood, closed the door, and began to nudge the couch

when I heard the owl screech of old hinges. Dorothy. Alpine, Texas. Ma'am. Ma'am, are you okay? Dorothy stopped, not because she heard him, but to focus her energy on the vibration. of her footsteps.

I'm Officer Easter. We got a call about a person. Might be needing help, and you match the description. Ma'am? Dorothy turned, allowed the officer to take in her cloudy eyes. She pointed to her ears and then shook her head.

Pointed to her eyes and then shook her head. He retreated a step as she approached, hands raised in a placating manner. Ma'am? His voice was far smaller than, his robust physique. She touched his chest, fingers dancing over the fabric. She found his name tag and felt the shape of the letters.

Easter? He opened his mouth to say yes and hesitated. Squeeze my hand once, if that's your name. He looked to the left and right. No passers by for the moment. He squeezed her hand. And squeezed twice for no. Officer Easter, am I under a room?

rest? He squeezed twice. No law against an old woman taking a walk? He squeezed twice. Okay, bear with me. She reached inside the pocket of her slacks. Been wanting to use this for a long time. She handed him a card, wrinkled with age. He read, I'm blind in death, not stupid.

Turn over. Have a nice day. Emma, Long Lake, New York. The floorboard squealed and popped, the sound growing louder and closer. I swallowed, directed the light toward the hall. Thunder drowned the noise of its entry into the living room. Once again, I was confronted with something my mind could not understand. It was a hulking figure, like Frankenstein's monster, clothes torn where flesh bulged.

through, and it glowed, not everywhere but in places, blue light traversing beneath the skin, busting the seams of its stretched thin shirt. I knew the light but did not recognize the man. What do you want? How did you find me? My stomach seized. I collapsed to my knees and vomited. Within the hillock of fries, a little blue light emerged. It flowed like water across the the floorboards and stopped before the monster, which knelt and inhaled it. Where are the others? I glanced toward the kitchen, a room I had not explored, but I only saw it in flashes. The monstrosity touched his chest, a muffled bleat from the basement. What am I supposed to do? I can't travel. I don't even remember my dreams. I swallowed.

I'd the door in the floor, hid the key behind me. Would it recognize the deception? Could it? The fading human mind might. I don't know her. I don't know where she is. I stood above the door, rocked on my heels. It lumbered forward, blue light bubbling through the skin of its neck.

You... I shook my head. She's not here. She's far away. The key clattered to the floor. You can't go down there. She isn't down there. I think it tried to smile. A bloated, faintly glowing hand brushed me aside and then reached for the key. Emma, Marfa, Texas.

I drove east from El Paso, reliving the sound from the basement. First, the crashing of the monster as the stairs collapsed. Then the chorus of bleats that followed. When I left, I nailed the two-by-fours over the front door. I hoped it would be enough. Marfa emerged out of the Texas desert like a wild and alien flower in a dirt field. I passed hipsters driving pickup trucks, a steak vending machine, and a functioning telephone booth in the middle of a sidewalk.

It was a hodgepodge of cowboys and artists, ranchers and runaways. My stomach, free of its parasite, was soon filled with food truck Thai curry as I researched my next step. Only one place made sense, and it was a few miles east of the town, the Marfa Lights viewing area. I loaded the next tape as I drove down Highway 90. The wind whipping through my hair was the closest to cleaning it I'd done in days. The air smelled of desert blossoms, and it felt hot and wonderful in my lungs. There was no parking lot at the viewing area, an adobe structure with an attached, covered space, nor were there any cars parked along the access road.

It was early in the afternoon. If there were any ghost lights that night, they would not be visible for several hours. I parked, grabbed the cassette player, and walked beneath the canopy. Mountains, remnants of volcanic activity shortly after the demise of the dinosaurs, were visible all the way to Mexico. It was greener than I might have guessed, though little desert foliage grew above hip height. I heard the crunch of approaching footsteps and turned to the left. She hummed as she neared.

Ruby Red Shoes sparkling in the sunlight before she passed into the shadow of the overhang. Red shoes. Ruby Red Shoes. She stopped, turned her face in my direction, though it was obvious she didn't see me. I closed the distance between us. John's daughter? I had not expected that. Dorothy?

Are you Dorothy? You walk like him. I knew that walk a mile off. Of course, she didn't hear my response. Well, we made it, most of the way. He said you would be here. Take my hand. Got a bit more to go.

If you have a question, give it a squeeze. If not, just keep walking, and I'll tell you what I can. I had questions, but since she did not have time as she pulled me toward the fence. The universe is a great, big place, bigger than you could ever. ever imagine. I've never seen the edge of it, and I tried for a long time. John told you about me, right? Yes, I said, then cheeks burning, I squeezed her hand. You might think I'm talking about space, stars, and planets. That's all good and fun stuff to explore, but what I'm talking about is time. You are experiencing this moment.

You can feel my skin, the gravel beneath your shoes. That's all you're capable of feeling the now. Stop me if I get too out there and I'll try to explain it different. We reached the fence which came up to her collarbone. She began climbing like a toddler let loose on a playground. I followed behind her and took her outstretched hand on the other side. She extended her foot, toe of her slipper touching a mesquite bush. like that plant.

Look at it. It exists right now, but it also exists in the past. Did it exist five minutes ago? Before we came here? Yes, it did. And it'll exist five minutes from now, unless someone interferes with it. That's time.

All time is happening all the time. You're just tuned into a tiny slice of it. She avoided cacti and spiny plants as if she could see them. I followed behind. The cassette player tucked under my arm. Me and people like me can access more time, more possibilities of time. Couldn't do it before the doctor did what he did. I'm not grateful, but I also don't hate him.

He got what he deserved, didn't he? That was fun. Saved something real nasty. for him, real special. What you might call the soul, I see as a pearl, a little light glowing inside of you. I can see it, touch it if I want, when I'm traveling in my mind.

Well, I just put his pearl next to another I found out in the muck and closed the lid. It was beginning to lose her train of thought, but I could not think of a question to ask. Don't feel bad for the other pearl. That basement was a step up from where she was. Now, time and possibilities, yes? Time is infinite, as far as I know.

Like the universe couldn't find the edge of it, just kept going. In infinite time, there are infinite possibilities, infinite opportunities for the mechanisms of the universe to erode or break down. These mistakes, mutations. The doc saw them as opportunities. He wanted to control it. But they're already here, and that's where we're going. I squeezed her hand a couple of times.

Write it. She held out her palm and mimed with the index finger of her other hand. I, D-O-N... You don't understand? She looked at the ground, turned. and walked away, holding your hand behind until I grabbed it. You can't. Not yet. What's inside of you existed in some form before you were alive,

and it'll keep existing in some form after you die. Do you see? You're the driver and your body is the car. Eventually, you're going to leave the car behind. Probably find another car and drive that one for a while. Me? I'm done with cars. She was nearly jogging then. I have to be because of what's coming.

I squeezed her hand. Some things haven't learned how to drive. Those are already here. Some things, well, they want to melt the car and the driver inside of it. We left the door open for them at Rainwick. I'm just an old woman, blind and deaf, but I'm not stupid. I'm no good in this body, not for what's coming. I need to become something new.

She stopped and gasped, eyes following something on the ground I couldn't see to a point on the horizon. It's beautiful. What is? I followed the direction of her eyes. I didn't see what she was looking at, but I saw something else. They flared with sunlight. Black and glossy like an eel plucked from the mire. My father's shoes.

They were hot to the touch, the laces loosened, socks folded and set to the side. There was a piece of paper tucked inside one of the shoes. The journey doesn't end here. The gray rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it. "'See what?' I said. Dorothy walked forward, lifted her hands and motioned as if parting a curtain. She turned and smiled.

"'He was a good man without a lot of good choices. Took him a while to see it, but he did, and he always thought of you.' The light was white and blinding. It consumed her form. The last I saw of her were the ruby red slippers. blazing like little suns. Hello again, she said. And then she was gone.

For Marfa, this isn't the end of your journey, Emma. It's just a beginning. It had to happen this way, and it had to be you. I accepted that, but it didn't hurt any less. There are places in this reality that rub against other realities, and in that friction, there is possibility. We have to close the doors we opened and contend with what is coming. You're my anchor to this world, my lighthouse.

You needed to know the story. To believe it, I will see you again. And if you see me, it won't be in a form you recognize. I might be a wisp of fog on a clear night, a little light much further than it seems, or a tug on your heart, pulling you toward something. you don't understand, but need to. I love you, Emma. Remember, home is behind the world ahead. And there are many paths to tread. Thank you for joining us for the No Sleep podcast Season 16 finale.

The season 16 overarching plot, the tales we told, was written by Olivia White and David Cummings, based on a story created by Jessica McAvoy and Olivia White. The opening story of this episode, Fusion Dreams, was written by Olivia White and performed by David Alt. This episode's feature presentation, They Have Suffered, was written by L.P. Hernandez, produced for the No Sleep podcast by Phil Mikulski, musical score composed by Brandon Boone.

Starring Aaron Lillis as Emma, Jordan Cobb as Dorothy Eddie Cooper as Cedric Mick Wingert as Tom Graham Rowett as John Jeff Clement as the lipless man Mary Murphy as Mandy

Jessica McAvoy as Elizabeth Erica Sanderson as subject 475 Peter Lewis as Dr. Kisell Danielle McCray as the test subject Atticus Jackson as Officer Easter Mike Delgadoo as Mr. Rastell

and David Cummings as the narrator. The story has been told, but it's far from done. Joanna and her people are still out there. Coleridge and his people are still out there. Not good and bad, not light and dark, but two moons, satellites in the night sky, looking down at us like two unseeing eyes, watching, waiting until the time is right.

When the bell shall toll and the goat shall wake To usher in the season of the witch The 17th cycle begins October 31st, 2021. Brace yourself. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy.

I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. Please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com for show notes, our massive archive of past episodes, and more details about the people who bring you this show. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for being ever curious. This audio production is copyright 2021. by Creative Reason Media, Inc.

All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.