Fiction

Ben Davis met Susan Hale the way reserved people often meet—through someone louder. Two coworkers in the data department had decided, with the confidence of people meddling from a safe distance, that Ben and Susan belonged together. Both kept neat desks, spoke softly, and seemed more comfortable around books than crowds. One coworker joked that if Ben and Susan arranged their lives into spreadsheet rows, every column would line up. So they introduced them. Ben arrived in a pressed gray button-down, sleeves rolled exactly once at each wrist. Tall and narrow-framed, with parted brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses, he looked like a man still weighing a thought from minutes ago. Susan wore a navy cardigan over a plain white blouse, her dark hair pinned into a low bun. A few loose strands softened her face, and her careful eyes suggested she noticed more than she said. Their first conversation passed with no sparks, which somehow suited them. Ben paused before speaking, as if weighing each word, and Susan asked questions that moved the conversation forward naturally. Neither tried to impress the other. Neither considered it necessary. Within a year, they married. The courthouse clerk stamped their papers without looking up. Ben and Susan exchanged a brief smile, and by afternoon, they were home again, reading in the living room as if nothing had changed except the paperwork. Their life settled into a rhythm so exact it could have passed for design. Each morning, the alarm chimed at 6:45 while pale sunlight slipped between the blinds. They brushed their teeth at adjacent sinks, moved around each other, never bumping elbows, and left the apartment at 7:15. At work, they parked in the company lot’s third row—two spaces from the curb, always the same spot—and entered the building as the shift bell echoed down the hall. The data department felt almost monastic. Ben typed steadily while Susan reviewed entries beside him, their screens glowing with numbers and names as handwritten forms became clean digital records. At noon, they ate beneath the buzz from fluorescent lights: sandwiches, water, sometimes yogurt. At five, they clocked out and walked to the car at an easy pace. Evenings followed the same pattern. Dinner simmered while one read nearby. Sometimes they watched documentaries on arctic expeditions, lost civilizations, or deep-sea trenches—stories where danger unfolded on a screen while they sat safely on the couch. On Thursdays, they went to the movies because Thursday nights drew the smallest crowds. Their favorite place stood three blocks from their apartment: a small bookstore that smelled like paper and dust, where they drifted through the aisles and exchanged glances over titles the other might like. Adventure, conflict, discovery—they read about those things, but they never lived them. Their coworkers noticed. One afternoon, Derek leaned back in his chair and watched them over his lunch tray. Broad-shouldered and naturally loud, he wore a loosened tie, rolled sleeves, and the easy grin of a man who believed silence invited conversation. “You two ever do anything?” he asked. Ben looked up from his sandwich. “We read.” Derek laughed. “I mean anything exciting.” Susan tilted her head, considering the word like a problem at work. “Define exciting.” Derek pointed his fork between them. “You guys are like background characters in your own lives.” The comment didn’t sound cruel, but it followed them back to their desks. When Derek asked if they ever traveled, went somewhere random, or explored something they actually enjoyed, Ben and Susan looked at each other across the table. The idea felt unfamiliar and oddly bright. Finally, Susan said, “That’s… not a bad idea.” It marked the first spontaneous thing either had said in years. They planned a vacation with their usual care. A road map covered the dining table for several evenings as they marked towns calm enough to tolerate—places with diners, antique shops, bookstores, and wooded walking trails. They chose Riverglen, a town near a mountain range, where the online photos showed tidy streets and plain storefronts. Perfect. The drive took most of the afternoon. Ben followed the GPS while Susan read hotel reviews from her phone. “Clean rooms,” she said. “Friendly service. Continental breakfast from six to nine.” Ben nodded as the highway rolled between dark bands of evergreens. Then the GPS changed, and the blue route twisted across the screen. “Turn left,” the voice said. Ben frowned. “That’s not the route we selected.” “Maybe traffic,” Susan said. They followed it. The highway narrowed into a tree-lined road where branches met above the pavement in a loose canopy. The phone signal flickered, vanished for a second, then returned just as a sign appeared beside the road. WELCOME TO HARMONY. Ben slowed. Susan looked from the sign to the phone. “That’s not Riverglen.” The GPS chirped. “Recalculating.” It directed them out of town. Ben followed the road past a hardware store, a barber pole, a white church with a black steeple, and a row of narrow houses with trimmed lawns. Five minutes later, the same sign appeared again. WELCOME TO HARMONY. Ben tightened his grip on the wheel. They tried another road, then another, but each route curved through still streets and returned them to the same intersection, the same diner, the same sign beside the faded white lines. After the third loop, Ben parked near a diner with a flickering neon sign. “Maybe the GPS is malfunctioning.” Susan stepped out. At first, Harmony seemed ordinary, pleasant even. A woman crossed at the corner the moment the pedestrian light changed. A cyclist passed as traffic paused. A delivery truck pulled away from the curb just as another vehicle slowed to take its place. No one rushed, and no one seemed to wait. Then Susan watched a man drop a letter into a mailbox and step away just as a mail truck rolled to the curb. Her brow tightened. “Ben.” He saw it too. The town moved as if every gesture followed instructions. They checked into a roadside motel at

One thousand victories without a single loss. They don’t write it down anymore—not in manuals or official records. The story moves between fighters, passed along when conversations drift away from wins and toward something less certain. Those who stay in that world long enough begin to recognize when someone is nearing it. There’s a change in how those fighters move—an efficiency that replaces effort, as if outcomes settle before exchanges begin. Opponents don’t just lose; they understand, too late, they were never meant to win. There’s another version of the story, told more carefully. It says a fighter who reaches that number becomes something else—a Supersapien. When it happens, a red rock appears, etched with the name of a place that leads to an ancient park where a statue waits. If the victories are real, the stone figure comes to life and the final fight begins. Win, and immortality is granted. Lose, and death is certain. By the time Ryo earned his thousandth victory without a single loss, the arena had already begun to feel different. The noise was there—crowds pressing forward, wagers passing between rows, voices rising over one another—but beneath it sat a tension that hadn’t existed before. People weren’t just watching to see who would win. They were watching to see if anything could reach him. His opponent stood at the center, light on his feet, never fully still. Lean and quick, built for movement, with a faint scar across the bridge of his nose. His hands stayed active, opening and closing as he adjusted his stance, eyes fixed on the entrance, studying before the fight had even begun. Ryo stepped into the arena without acknowledgment. He moved to his mark, stopped, and raised a strip of cloth to his face. With a simple motion, he tied it across his eyes, the knot settling clean behind his head. The reaction rippled outward. Some laughed. Others leaned forward. The opponent smiled, though a trace of uncertainty lingered. “You might need your eyes for this one?” the opponent said, with a cunning smile. Ryo didn’t answer. The signal sounded. The opponent circled immediately, testing distance, carving careful angles while watching for any sign of instinct. He changed pace without warning, stepping in, then out, measuring space. Ryo remained still. The opponent’s first attack came fast—a feint high, then a strike toward the ribs. Ryo angled just enough to let it pass. The opponent reset and came again, faster this time. A low kick snapped toward the thigh, followed by a hand rising toward the jaw. Ryo turned through the space the attacks occupied, letting both pass without contact. The pace increased. The opponent pressed harder, circling tighter, then widening again, layering attacks with growing urgency. His strikes came sharper now, more direct, each one meant to force a mistake. Nothing landed. The misses grew closer. A fist passed near Ryo’s temple. A kick swept through where his leg had been moments before. The opponent adjusted again, quicker now, his movements tightening as effort replaced control. Around them, the crowd began to quiet. Ryo had barely moved. The opponent stopped briefly, drawing in a breath. Then he drove forward with everything, abandoning caution for force. Ryo stepped back once. The distance opened. The opponent crossed the center quickly, pushing harder to close the gap— but Ryo was already near the edge. The timing broke. Ryo glided across the space in a smooth, controlled burst. For a brief moment he seemed to hang in the air longer than expected. Then the kick came. It landed clean against the opponent’s head, sharp and decisive cutting through his momentum completely. The man dropped where he stood, collapsing without resistance. Ryo touched down without sound. The cloth remained over his eyes. For a moment, the arena held in silence, the outcome settling before anyone reacted. The opponent lay motionless, his speed undone in a single exchange. Ryo reached up and untied the cloth, lowering it into his hand as he looked out across the crowd. One thousand victories.No losses.Not a single touch. Ryo didn’t stay for the aftermath. The noise returned slowly behind him as he left the arena, rising from silence into something louder, less certain than celebration. He moved through it without acknowledgment, passing through the outer gates and into open ground before anyone could reach him. The air outside felt different. Cooler. Cleaner. He broke into a jog. At first, it was controlled and steady—his breathing even, his stride measured. The path stretched ahead, pulling away from the arena as the sound of the crowd faded with each step. Dust lifted beneath his feet, then settled back into stillness. He didn’t look back. His stride lengthened as the distance grew. By the time the terrain began to rise, he was already running at full speed. The hill stood ahead—steep, uneven, carved by narrow paths that cut sharply upward through stone and packed earth. It wasn’t a climb meant for ease. The incline demanded effort, pressing upward against every step. Ryo met it without hesitation. His foot struck the base and carried forward, the ground changing beneath him as gravel gave way to packed stone. He leaned slightly into the climb, maintaining balance as his pace held. The monastery came into view near the top. Stone walls set into the mountain. Prayer poles lining the outer path, their cloth worn thin by years of wind. The narrow entrance, unchanged. Ryo pushed through the final stretch and reached the crest. He slowed, then came to a stop on the flat stone just beyond the incline. The wind moved lightly across the open space, brushing past him as he stood there, steady and composed. Then he reached down. The restraints were secured along his limbs—iron bands wrapped in layered cloth, fastened with worn leather straps shaped by years of use. He loosened them one by one, the tension releasing with quiet snaps. First the ankles. The weight came free and dropped into his

Out of nowhere, a small shop appears. It arrives as randomly as the shifting hours of the day itself. There’s dust on the western edge of town, somewhere between Arizona and Nevada—a place nobody has any business wandering into. A place where you bring water, a compass, and extra clothes in case you end up stranded in the middle of nowhere. Helen, an aspiring young actress on a road trip to Hollywood, adjusts herself in the driver’s seat. Golden light cuts across her lean jaw through the car window. She sits upright like a ballerina—someone accustomed to endless repetitions of stretches, flips, and cardio. The complete embodiment of discipline. But these days, most of her energy is devoted to rehearsing movie scripts line by line, chasing the perfect delivery. She rubs her thighs together, the blue denim becoming unbearable after eighteen hours on the road. Eventually, she pulls into a barren desert town—maybe five thousand people if the estimate includes the drifters who overstay their welcome. Dark rings stain the skin beneath her eyes. Her body’s way of demanding rest. Inside the local hotel, the scent of old carpet and cigarette smoke lingers in the air. As she checks in, heavy footsteps rumble across the maroon floor. An elderly man approaches her. Suspenders hang from his shoulders. His boots are cracked with age and layered in desert dust. “I reckon you ain’t from around here.” “What gave it away?” Helen laughs, setting down her luggage. “You’re every bit a journeyman,” the old man mutters. “better be careful around these parts.” “Careful?” she asks, his tone immediately catching her attention. The man leans closer. “Legend says there’s a Heckler out in the desert,” he says “a man who sells folks their dreams. Folks just like you.” He pauses. “Us locals want him gone.” “You’re joking, right?” she says with a nervous grin. The old man doesn’t smile. Instead, he stares directly into her eyes without blinking once. “Do as I say, ma’am. Get yourself some rest, then move along come morning.” Then, just as abruptly as he appeared, he walks away. Helen watches him disappear across the lobby, unsettled by the seriousness in his voice. Nobody could sound that convincing unless they were either telling the truth… or trying desperately to scare her away. Still, the words cling to her thoughts. A man who grants dreams. Maybe not literally, she assumes. Maybe the man has connections. Hollywood contacts. Directors. Casting agents. Exactly the kind of opportunity she’s been searching for. It sounds ridiculous. But so does driving across the desert with no guaranteed future waiting for her. Helen pushes through the turnstile and steps outside, hoping to catch the old man before he disappears. Somehow, despite his age, he moves fast. Too fast. The parking lot sits nearly empty. Seven sedans. No engines running. No movement inside any of them. Gone. She turns back toward the hotel and approaches the front desk, where a middle-aged clerk stands stiffly behind the counter. Fine wrinkles line his face—old enough to know the town’s history, young enough to avoid talking about it. “Can I help you, ma’am?” His palms flatten neatly against the desk. His red blazer is perfectly pressed down to the sleeves. “I heard someone mention a local story,” Helen says casually. “Something about a man called the Heckler?” The clerk’s lips flatten. “They go northwest of here. Into the desert.” “You know the exact location?” He looks up at her with visible irritation. Or maybe fear. “Sir?” she presses. The man exhales heavily before reaching for a pen. “If you really want to know, I’ll write it down for you.” He hesitates. “Just… be careful.” He scribbles the address onto a slip of paper. Undertones Antique. Forty miles away. Before he can even cap the pen, the turnstile spins again. Helen is already halfway across the parking lot meeting the sun before it sets. The GPS leads her down a narrow road branching off the main highway. Asphalt gives way to gravel, then dirt. Eventually, she spots an abandoned ranger station sitting beside the trail—an old checkpoint once used by hikers and travelers. Its windows are blank with dust. The structure looks as though the desert has been slowly swallowing it whole. She parks nearby. The GPS insists the rest of the journey must be done on foot. So she walks. Further into the wasteland. No trees. No birds. No vegetation. Only endless miles of pale sand stretching beneath a dying sun. Then, in the distance— A wooden shop emerges from the heatwaves. Helen slows. At first, it almost looks like a mirage. But the closer she gets, the more solid it becomes. A faded sign hangs above the entrance. UNDERTONES ANTIQUE Helen reaches for the door. The hanging bell chimes softly as she steps inside. The inside of the shop feels strangely cold compared to the desert outside, as though the building exists beneath a different sky entirely. Helen pauses after stepping through the doorway, her fingers still resting against the handle while the hanging bell settles into silence behind her. The place smells of cedar wood, old paper, and something faintly sweet underneath it all, a scent she can’t identify but instantly dislikes. Shelves crowd the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with antiques that appear too strange and specific to belong together. Rusted pocket watches. Cracked porcelain dolls. Animal skulls polished smooth with age. Photographs trapped inside silver frames where the faces have faded almost completely away. Yet none of those things hold her attention for long. Behind the counter sits row after row of glass containers filled with colored liquid. Some are no larger than medicine bottles while others resemble oversized jars used for preserving food. Crimson liquid swirls inside one. Another glows emerald beneath the lantern light. Gold. Violet. Deep blue. The substances move slowly on their own as though stirred by invisible currents. Each container carries a handwritten label. Love. Power. Recognition. Longevity. Fame.

Mr. Riley was the sort of man people assumed had already won the game. At twenty-seven he stood six feet tall with the posture of someone who understood the advantage of appearance. His suits were always tailored, the fabric pressed sharply enough to catch the light when he moved, and the quiet confidence he carried through every room often made people mistake him for someone older than he actually was. Fitness magazines would have called his build ideal. The stock market called him something else. Profitable. Riley spent his mornings studying charts that pulsed across the monitors of his home office, the opening bell and closing bell shaping the rhythm of his day the way tides shape a shoreline. Candlesticks rose and fell across the screens like tiny battles between optimism and fear, each green line promising opportunity while every red one hinted at the moment to strike. He enjoyed the game. Timing was everything. A fraction of a second too soon and the opportunity vanished. A fraction too late and someone else collected the profit meant for you. Riley leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed comfortably over the other, watching the final candlestick of the afternoon stretch across the screen. Then he noticed the envelope. It rested on the desk where his assistant must have placed it earlier, though he had no memory of hearing the door open. The paper looked thicker than normal mail, almost parchment-like, its surface slightly yellowed as though it had aged longer than the rest of the letters that usually arrived each week. His name was written across the front. Not in ink. In something darker. The lettering carried a deep crimson tone that looked almost like dried blood beneath the soft light of the desk lamp. Beneath the name, pressed firmly into the envelope’s surface, sat a small seal of red wax stamped with a curious symbol. A crescent-shaped face. Smiling. The shape resembled the jester printed on old playing cards, the curved grin stretching wider than seemed appropriate for something meant to be friendly. Riley picked it up. The envelope felt heavier than he expected. For a moment he simply turned it between his fingers, studying the wax seal and the unusual handwriting before reaching into the desk drawer for a small letter opener. The blade slid neatly beneath the fold, slicing through the wax with a quiet crack that echoed softly through the room. Inside was a single sheet of paper. Riley unfolded it slowly. The handwriting matched the envelope. And the first line made him smile. Riley, my friend! It’s been eons since we’ve last crossed paths, but I trust this letter finds you in good health and even better spirits. I write to you not merely as an old friend, but as someone who knows you possess an unparalleled sense of courage and curiosity. I have a unique proposition for you: an invitation to partake in what I call The Jester Game. It’s a simple challenge—one that rewards not strength or wit, but a willingness to embrace the unknown. Riley leaned back slightly as he read. The handwriting alone told him who had sent it. Smiley. The name pulled memories from somewhere deeper than Riley expected, the kind of memories that carried the quiet electricity of old rivalries. Smiley had always enjoyed turning ordinary situations into bets, pushing people toward challenges that seemed harmless until the moment they realized how easily they could lose. And Riley had rarely refused. School had been a series of wagers between them. Some small. Some expensive. There had been a race across the football field during a thunderstorm. A bet about who could climb the old water tower behind the gym without getting caught by the janitor. Even a ridiculous challenge involving a jar of pickled peppers and fifty dollars neither of them could afford at the time. But the biggest bet had involved a girl with luscious red hair. They had both liked her.And she had liked both of them. Smiley suggested a deal. Riley would ask her out first and take her on a date. If Smiley managed to convince her to go out with him afterward, Riley would owe him three hundred dollars. The plan sounded fair. Smiley accepted. Smiley lost. Riley got the girl. And eventually, he married her. He looked down at the letter again. The challenge continued. You will enter a room shrouded in darkness. You will sit there for one hour, and only one hour. What lies in the room? Ah, that’s the fun of it! But I swear nothing within the room will harm you. A signed contract will guarantee your safety. Should you endure this hour of the unknown, you will leave with a handsome reward: $10,000   No tricks. No jest in this promise. If intrigued—as I hope you are—simply reply to this invitation by contacting the number provided in this letter. Yours in anticipation, Smiley Riley folded the letter slowly. A quiet grin spread across his face. Ten thousand dollars meant very little to someone who spent his days moving far larger numbers across digital markets, but the money had never been the point of any wager between him and Smiley. The point had always been pride. Riley looked again at the jester seal on the envelope. He remembered the look on Smiley’s face years ago when he had lost the bet about the girl. The calm expression that hid something deeper beneath it—something Riley had never fully understood. He leaned back in his chair. Old games had a way of resurfacing. And Riley had never been able to refuse a bet. The address led Riley to the far edge of the city. By the time he arrived, the buildings had thinned into long stretches of empty lots and abandoned loading docks where rusted trailers sat like forgotten relics. The streetlights grew farther apart, their pale glow barely reaching the cracked pavement between them. The warehouse stood alone at the

Dr. Leonard Park adjusted his tie as he stepped out of the research facility, exhaling into the crisp night air. The world beyond the high-security fence was quiet—except for the erratic pacing of a man just outside the perimeter. His gait was uneven, his movements restless. Leonard nearly dismissed him as a vagrant, but something about the figure tugged at his memory. It wasn’t until the man turned and locked eyes with him that the realization struck. “Dr. Alistair Finch?” Leonard’s voice wavered in disbelief. The man froze. His beard was wild, streaked with gray. His clothes hung from his frame like remnants of a forgotten life. But it was his eyes—hollow yet alert—that confirmed his identity. “Well, well,” Finch murmured. “A man of science who remembers me.” His chuckle was dry, humorless. “You vanished ten years ago,” Leonard said, stepping closer. “Your work on multidimensional theories was—” “Monumental?” Finch interjected. “Yes, I suppose it was.” His lips curled in something between a smirk and a grimace. “And yet, here I am. A relic. A cautionary tale.” Leonard studied him. Finch didn’t just look exhausted—he looked haunted. His posture was rigid, as if bracing for an unseen blow. “What happened to you?” Finch inhaled sharply, his gaze flicking toward the stars. “I need a man of science to witness something before I die.” Leonard frowned. “You don’t look like you’re dying.” Finch huffed a breathy laugh. “That’s the thing about certain kinds of death. They don’t announce themselves. They creep.” He reached into his tattered satchel and withdrew a small wooden box. It was unmarked, smooth—almost pristine against his grime-covered fingers. “I want to give you this,” he said, extending it. “But I must ask you—beg you—not to open it.” Leonard hesitated. “What’s inside?” Finch’s grip tightened around the box. “Not an object. An idea.” Leonard raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’ve been reading too much Lovecraft.” Finch’s face darkened. “The difference between fiction and reality is that reality doesn’t care whether you believe in it.” Despite himself, Leonard reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the wood, a strange sensation coiled through his arm—wrong, like a cold whisper creeping beneath his skin. “Open it if you must,” Finch murmured. “But once the idea takes root, you’ll never see the world the same way again.” Leonard forced a smirk. “You’re being cryptic.” Finch’s gaze bore into him, unblinking, intense. The weight of his stare felt like a physical force, pressing against Leonard’s chest. His fingers twitched slightly, as if resisting the urge to grab the box back. “Have you ever wondered about the people who disappear without a trace? The ones we never find?” His voice was low, almost reverent, carrying the weight of something he had witnessed firsthand. Leonard sighed. “Crime, trafficking, accidents. There are logical explanations.” Finch shook his head. “Not all of them. Some of them slip.” Leonard’s fingers tightened around the box. “Slip?” “Through the cracks.” Finch’s voice lowered. “We hear about the lucky ones—the ones who step into a parallel world for a moment and return. They walk down a familiar street, find things slightly… off. But what about those who don’t come back?” Leonard’s throat tightened. “Dimensional fractures,” Finch said. “I opened the box, Leonard. I accepted the idea. And ever since then, I’ve been slipping.” A gust of wind rattled the fence, sending a chill down Leonard’s spine. Finch wrapped his arms around himself as if warding off an unseen force, his breath hitching. “One moment, I was in my apartment,” he continued, his voice unsteady, his fingers digging into the fabric of his worn-out coat. “The next, I was somewhere hot.” He swallowed hard, his gaze unfocused, lost in the memory. “I smelled blood before I even opened my eyes.” He shuddered. “And when I did—I was kneeling on dry, cracked earth.” His hands flexed involuntarily, as though feeling the rough, lifeless ground beneath them. He trembled. “And they were right there.” Leonard felt his pulse quicken. “There were five of them—lions, their golden eyes glowing in the dim light. One of them lifted its head, nostrils flaring. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.” Finch’s fingers twitched. “They smelled me first. The biggest male—a scarred beast with black streaks in his mane—took a step forward. He knew I wasn’t supposed to be there.” “I flinched. And the moment I did, his lips curled back and a growl rumbled through his throat.” Finch’s eyes got bigger. “The last thing I saw was his muscles tensing before I snapped back—before I found myself gasping on my apartment floor, the scent of lion still clinging to my skin.” “The plane was worse,” Finch muttered, bracing himself. His fingers twitched, clenching as if trying to grip onto something invisible, breaths coming in faster, more shallow. His pulse hammered against his ribs. “I was flying to Geneva. Middle seat. Half-asleep. Then—boom—I was outside.” Leonard’s stomach turned. Finch’s hands twitched as he gestured, as if still feeling the icy air slicing against his skin. “The wind was insane. A deafening roar, drowning out every thought in my head. It tore at my clothes, at my body—like it wanted to rip me apart. I was spinning. Tumbling through blackness. And then—instinct. Survival. I reached for something that was metal, freezing. Turned out I’d been clanging onto the landing gear.” He exhaled sharply, his knuckles going white as if he were gripping it now. “I was thousands of feet in the air.” Leonard shuddered and looked away as the story turned darker. “The pressure—it felt like my skull was caving in. My ears exploded. My lungs seized up, burning, screaming for air. I tried to cry out, but the wind devoured my voice. My fingers—” He glanced down at his hands as if seeing them fail him all over again. “Frozen. Stiff. Slipping.” His breath hitched. “I knew I was about to die.” A silence stretched between them, heavy and raw. “And then—I let go.” Finch’s voice cracked.

The afternoon sun was hidden behind a thick veil of clouds, casting a dull light over the quiet neighborhood. Sarah Monroe pulled her old Honda Civic into the cracked driveway of a modest, abandoned house she was set to sell. The tires crunched over the loose gravel as she put the car in park and sighed, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. It wasn’t an ideal property—peeling paint, an overgrown lawn, and an eerie silence that seemed to seep from the foundation itself. But in this game, she took what she could get. Real estate was a brutal field, and as a young agent trying to make a name for herself, she couldn’t afford to be picky. She adjusted her blazer, swept her dark hair off her face, then brushed over a small tear near the sleeve. Another reminder of how hard she was grinding—long days, countless showings, and deals that often fell through at the last minute. She stepped out of the car, her worn-out heels clicking against the uneven pavement. A gust of wind carried the scent of damp earth and pine, whispering through the trees that loomed over the street. The house stood silent, waiting. She checked her phone—no messages from the seller yet. Then, from the corner of her eye, she noticed movement. A sleek black sedan rolled smoothly into the driveway of the grand, alpine bricked mansion next door. The car was pristine, the kind that whispered money without screaming it. The driver’s door opened, and a man with long tangled hair stepped out. Mid-to-late thirties, fit but not overly muscular, dressed in a compression shirt and running shorts. He had a casual confidence about him, the kind of presence that suggested he was used to being in control. He caught her looking and waved. Sarah hesitated before offering a polite nod in return. The man strolled toward the mansion’s entrance, moving with an ease that didn’t quite match the neighborhood’s usual stiff professionalism. Was he the owner? Someone wealthy enough to afford such a house but unbothered by the usual status symbols? She didn’t have time to dwell on it. Her phone buzzed in her hand. A message flashed on the screen. CLIENT: Reschedule. Something came up. Sarah exhaled sharply, annoyance curling in her chest. Another wasted afternoon. She typed out a quick response, forcing herself to stay professional, though a string of unprofessional thoughts ran through her mind. “Bad news?” She looked up. The man was still outside, this time holding a leash. A large, sleek Doberman sat patiently by his feet, its ears perked as if listening to their conversation. “My client just bailed on me,” she admitted, unable to hide her frustration. “Sorry to hear that.” He glanced at her blazer, eyes narrowing slightly before flicking down to her shoes. “Looks like you’ve been putting in the work.” Sarah followed his gaze, suddenly self-conscious of the scuff marks on her heels. “Yeah, well, I’m new to the game,” she said, shrugging. He nodded thoughtfully. “And single? If you don’t mind me asking.” She blinked at the sudden shift in the conversation. “I have a partner,” she replied, her voice carrying a note of exasperation. “He’s trying to break into the business as a broker. First big break hasn’t come yet, though.” The man smirked as if he had expected that answer. The dog pulled slightly at the leash, but he kept a firm grip, barely glancing down. “Well,” he said, tilting his head, “maybe I have something that could help with that.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Help with what?” “Your partner’s big break.” He gestured toward the sidewalk. “Walk with me. I’ll tell you a little secret.” A flicker of caution sparked in Sarah’s mind, but curiosity outweighed it. There was something about the way he spoke—calm, measured, yet carrying an undertone of significance. She glanced at the mansion behind him, then at the house she was supposed to sell, now irrelevant for the day. Screw it. She nodded. “Alright. Let’s walk.” As they started down the quiet street, she glanced at him again. “So, what do you do? Besides, you know… walking dogs?” His lips curved into a smirk, as if he had been waiting for the question. “I’ve been walking the Governor’s dogs since I was sixteen,” he said. “Only got a three-dollar raise since.” Sarah let out a soft chuckle. “Sounds like a terrible career move.” He tilted his head. “Or the best one I ever made.” She frowned slightly. Something about the way he said it—casual, yet firm—made her uneasy. “How so?” The man stopped walking for a moment, looking up at the sky as if considering his answer. Then, he turned to her. “I’m retired,” he said simply. Sarah’s footsteps faltered. “Retired? You can’t be older than thirty-five.” “Thirty-seven,” he corrected. “And yes. Retired.” She stared at him, trying to gauge if he was joking. He didn’t look like a man who had hit the lottery. He had no flashy jewelry, no expensive watch, no air of inherited wealth. And yet, something about him was different. Settled. As if he had unlocked a piece of life the rest of the world was still struggling to find. “And yet,” he continued, starting to walk again, “I still work.” Sarah caught up, feeling her pulse quicken. “Why?” He looked at her, his eyes sharp yet unreadable. “Because I want to.” Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine. She let the silence stretch between them, her mind racing. He was an enigma, and she hated not having him figured out. Finally, she asked, “How did you do it? Retire so young?” His smirk widened. “I didn’t do anything. They did it for me.” Sarah’s stomach tightened. “Who’s ‘they’?” Before he answered, the Doberman suddenly snapped forward, tugging at the leash. The man pulled back effortlessly, keeping the dog in check. But in that brief moment, she swore she saw something in

The bright summer day had faded into an unsettling twilight. A crimson sky stretched ominously above the sprawling suburban neighborhood of Elmridge Hollow. It looked like the American dream—a winding maze of identical homes, manicured lawns, and white picket fences—but something about it never sat quite right with Jamal Lewis. A tall man in his late 30s with a calm but commanding presence, Jamal carried himself with quiet strength. His short fade was neat, his jaw sharp, but his eyes—deep brown and expressive—always softened his features. He was a man of conviction and compassion, with a sense of loyalty that ran deeper than blood. He and his wife, Lisa, had moved into the cul-de-sac just three months ago—right in time for their son Jaden’s fifth birthday. Balloons from that day still floated gently in the corners of the living room, their once-bright colors now faded, swaying like silent ghosts. There had been laughter, gifts, neighbors bringing over pies and firm handshakes. But behind every smile was something hidden. Whispers. Jamal had first heard them at the local coffee shop. Lisa had caught them too—rumors from the hairstylist down the street. Everyone in Elmridge Hollow knew the legend: a being named Aether, said to dwell just beyond reality’s veil. An ancient, cruel demigod who pulled families into a shadow realm—a place not bound by time or reason. There, it posed impossible choices. And once summoned, Aether never left empty-handed. Urban legend, they thought. Stories meant to keep kids indoors after dark. Still, on windless nights, Jamal sometimes heard a low, strange hum behind the walls—like something watching. Waiting. Then came the night that changed everything. They had just finished dinner.  *** Jamal stood at the sink, rinsing dishes. He watched Jaden dart through the dining room, giggling in a paper crown from his birthday party. The boy was a bundle of joy and motion—short, slender, with big brown eyes full of wonder and curly hair that defied combs and gravity alike. He had Lisa’s expressive face and Jamal’s dimpled smile, and his laughter filled the room like sunlight. Lisa leaned against the doorway, wine glass in hand, her petite frame glowing in the kitchen light. Her long box braids were pulled back loosely, and her eyes—hazel and perceptive— watched Jaden with pride. A former trauma nurse turned doula, Lisa had always been a steady soul. She radiated the calm of someone who had seen death and chosen life every time. For a moment, Jamal felt the weight of gratitude. His family was whole. His life was simple. It was perfect. The lights flickered. “Did you pay the bill?” Lisa teased with a raised brow. Jamal chuckled. “Of course. I even set it to autopay.” The bulbs flickered again—then went out. Darkness fell like a curtain. “Okay, not funny anymore,” Lisa murmured, her voice low, unsure. Jamal turned from the sink. “Stay with Jaden. I’ll check the breaker.” Then came the hum. Low. Primal. Not from the walls—but inside them. The air grew heavy and thick, like trying to breathe through honey. Lisa’s wine glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor. Jaden froze mid-run, his crown toppling off his head. “Daddy…” he whispered. “There’s someone in the walls.” Jamal blinked—and the world shattered. He stood on cracked stone at the edge of a towering cliff. Beneath his feet, the earth was scorched and lifeless. A crimson sky churned above, thick with swirling clouds and an unnatural light that burned the eyes. There was no wind. No birds. No sound—except a distant whisper. And a scream.“Jamal!” Lisa’s voice tore across the abyss. He turned and saw her—clinging to the edge of the cliff. Her fingernails dug into the dirt as her legs kicked above nothingness. Wind whipped her braids around her face. Her eyes—wide with terror—locked on his. “Help me!” she sobbed. “Jamal, please!” Then— “Daddy!” Jamal spun. On the opposite side of the cliff, Jaden clung to a crumbling ledge. His small hands were bloodied, his face streaked with tears. “Daddy, I’m slipping!” Jamal’s heart stopped. He stood frozen between them—Lisa on one side, Jaden on the other. Both slipping. Both begging. Then came the voice. Not human. Not even alive. It rumbled from deep within the stone, vibrating in his bones. “Choose. Only one returns with you.” Jamal dropped to his knees. “No,” he whispered. “No, please—please don’t do this.” Lisa’s voice broke with desperation. “Jamal! Grab me! We can have another baby—we can try again! Don’t let me die!” His eyes flooded with tears. They had spent seven painful years trying to conceive. Endless fertility treatments. Miscarriages. Grief. Lisa had always kept faith—they both had—until, finally, Jaden was born. Their miracle. But Lisa had been there from the start. She was his partner, his anchor, the woman God had given him to walk through life with. Her belief had kept him grounded. Could he really let her fall?Then he looked to Jaden—his son, his legacy. The boy who called him “superdad.” Who danced in paper crowns and believed his father could fix anything. “God,” Jamal whispered, sobbing. “Help me. Help me see.” The voice rumbled again. “Only one.” “Choose now—or lose both.” Lisa’s eyes were wild. “Jamal! You promised me forever. You can’t let me die here.” Jaden’s voice cracked through the air. “I don’t wanna go, Daddy. I don’t wanna fall!” Jamal’s body trembled. His lungs burned. His soul screamed. “Take me instead,” he pleaded to the sky. “Please. Take me.” Silence. That wasn’t an option. He looked at Lisa, then Jaden. “You’re my wife,” Jamal said softly, stepping toward her. “God gave me you.” “But he’s our son!” she cried. “We can have another—” “Not him,” Jamal snapped. “There will never be another him.” Lisa’s eyes widened. Her grip slipped. “JAMAL!” Then Jaden’s scream tore through him. “Daddy—I’m slipping!” Jamal turned. Blood ran down Jaden’s arms. One hand lost its grip. “No!” he screamed, running toward him. He dove to the cliff’s edge, his

The mirror reflects the damage. My copper hair frames a swollen, purple eye as I dab foundation over the bruise. Hot water streams from the faucet, filling the bathroom with steam, but nothing can mask the tremble in my hands. Kel, I know you love me. I love you too. But why does love have to hurt like this? Why do you blame me for everything, lose control, and lash out? My thoughts churn. Am I not enough? Is it my pale skin? My body? Am I too much, or too little? A tear splashes onto the sink. No, stop. What am I thinking? I shouldn’t doubt Kel. This is my fault. I deserve this. I’m thirty years old, and my body bears the scars of a lifetime of battles. Not the kind waged in war, but the ones fought behind closed doors. My ribs ache from the last encounter, a dull reminder of my place. I need clarity. I need Sondra. Still, I lurk in the bathroom where I reach into my silk pajama pocket for my cellphone. Nothing. My gaze darts toward the floor, the dim light catching empty tiles. I groan. “Shit! It’s in the den. Right next to Kel.” A shudder ripples through my bones. If Kel hears me… I press an ear against the door, my breath shallow. The house is silent, but silence can be deceptive. Steeling myself, I exhale, twist the knob, and creep into the hallway. Our wedding portraits loom on the wall, reminders of promises long since shattered. Kel’s face in those photos was different—softer, loving. Now, the weight of those memories feels like chains. Beyond the den, the microwave hums. My phone blinks from the centerpiece table—blue light flashing like a beacon. My teeth clench. The phone’s volume has been muted. I hadn’t done that. I tiptoe, fingers brushing the cold glass surface as I snatch the phone. My pulse pounds. Just as I turn— “Come here!” I bolt, slamming the bathroom door behind me. Boom! Kel’s fist strikes the wood, the doorframe rattling under the assault. My hands shake as I lock it. Then—silence. A deadly, temporary peace. Scrolling through my contacts, I press Sondra’s name. The phone rings. “Hello?” “Sondra,” I whisper, my voice trembling. A pause. Then, “DD? Oh my God, it’s been forever!”  Tears spill over “Yeah… I—I needed to talk.” Sondra’s warmth wraps around me through the phone. I tell her everything—the bruises, the fear, the makeup covering my truth. The dodging, the lying, the threats. Kel had warned me: If I ever told anyone, there would be consequences. “For starters, you need to leave,” Sondra says, her voice firm. “This is out of control.” I swallow, stunned. Leave? How could she suggest that? A Christian woman, telling me to abandon my vows? “Sondra… divorce? You mean spiritually, right? Like, seek God’s guidance to fix this?” “No,” she says bluntly. “You know what I mean.” I stare at the blue shower curtain. “I can’t.” Kel had been my salvation once. At Club Mesmerize, eleven years ago, I had been invisible— pale, awkward, desperate for love. Kel had been different, so captivating. That first kiss had rewritten my world. The way Kel had touched my hair, whispered my name—I had never felt wanted before. But love had soured into something else, something I had never expected, something I never dared name. “I love Kel,” I murmur. “Even when things are bad, I remember the good.” Sondra sighs. “Love shouldn’t feel like this.” The call ends. I lean against the door, breath shaky. No matter what Sondra says, I have made my choice. I have to fix this. We have to fix this. I unlock the knob, inhale deeply, and step out. Kel is there, waiting. “Who were you talking to?” The voice is low, dangerous. I meet those piercing brown eyes. “Sondra.” Kel’s fingers curl, then relax. “Redial it,” she says suddenly. My stomach twists. “What?” Kel steps closer. “Redial the number. I want to talk to her.” I hesitate, but I have no choice. I press redial. The call rings once before a cold, robotic voice answers.“The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” Kel’s heaves in frustration. Her beautiful little fingers tremble slightly. “Who were you talking to, David?” I don’t answer. The silence between us is thick, suffocating. Kel takes a slow step back. “And your eye,” she whispers. “That bruise. When did you get it?” I say nothing. She shakes her head. “Because I was on the couch all night.” She swallows, and I can see it in her eyes—the realization settling in. She knew this day would come. She had hoped she was different, that maybe I had changed. Kel had found my diary weeks ago. I had caught her reading it late one night, the lamp casting shadows over her tanned face. She had flipped through the pages, past the notes about her, past the moments of rage and regret, and landed on the entries about the others. Sondra was the last one. The last woman I had to silence, the last one who had “abused” me.  Before Sondra, there had been more—each woman believing they were different, that they could love me into change. Kel trembles as she turns toward the door, hesitating. She knows running won’t save her. Not after what I did to the others. I smile. “Kel, we have to fix this. You’ve been beating me up for some time now.” I slide out a knife tucked in the linings of my pocket. “And divorce isn’t an option as long as both of us are living.” Kel gasps, stepping back as I advance. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispers, voice breaking. I tilt my head, considering her words. “But I do,” I say, my grip tightening around the handle. “Because love—real love—means never letting go.” The house is silent, save for the hum of the microwave, the steady ticking of the

Phoenix descends the stairs and heads for the side door leading to the garage. Nearing his car, he spots something peculiar on the passenger seat. He grips the door handle, bracing for the usual scent of aged leather, but instead, an acrid stench of eroded oil fills his lungs. His pulse spikes as his gaze falls onto a mid-grade canvas, propped upright.   The painting depicts Model C Art Museum, bathed in warm sunlight over a steep hillside. At the top of the stairs, a tall figure in a tuxedo stands as if posing for a photograph.The blue skin, the long hat—this is no man.This is the Omniscient. In the corner of the canvas, a signature stands out: Him.   Phoenix clenches the painting, rage building in his chest. His grip tightens as though he might smash it against the dashboard, but he freezes. Destroying the painting feels like provoking the very entity haunting him. If The Omniscient is aware of his anger, it might sever the tenuous thread linking Phoenix to the answers he desperately seeks. He refocuses. Find Him. Whether it’s the artist, the seller, or both, someone is toying with him, and he’ll kill to know.   *** Highway 55 carries Phoenix to Thomas County, a town buried beneath an overpass. Smooth asphalt gives way to cracked cement, and the buildings lining the strip seem frozen in time, their facades dusty and worn. An eerie familiarity settles over him as he spots a barbershop with a candy-cane pole embedded in brickwork—just like the one from his dream, a precursor to Model C in the imagined Hapesville.   Further down, near a sunken curb, he finds the store: Utopia. Its purple sign hangs crooked, letters fading like a forgotten memory. He parks, debating his approach. A surgical mask and Ray-Bans conceal his identity—harmless enough for gathering information. Beneath his belt, a pistol rests snugly, its weight grounding him.   Inside, the shop defies its worn exterior. Polished granite floors glint under the flickering light of an old bulb. Golden-framed paintings line the walls, their style reminiscent of Da Vinci but steeped in dark religious undertones. At the center, a desk sits like an altar, flanked by three easels displaying Him’s works. The middle painting seizes Phoenix’s attention: the Omniscient, staring back as if alive.   A voice breaks the silence. “Can I help you?”   Phoenix turns. The seller—a short, husky man with a receding hairline—wears a tropical Hawaiian shirt that clashes with the shop’s solemn decor.   With his speech still absent, Phoenix pulls out a sticky note and writes: Why did you break into my house?   The seller squints. “What? I didn’t—”   Phoenix slams his pistol onto the counter. The man’s face drains of color.   “Please! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”   Another note lands in front of him: Who broke in?   The seller stammers, hands trembling. “I swear, I don’t know! Please, man!”   Phoenix shoves him toward the Omniscient’s painting, jabbing a finger at it before slamming another note down: Who is the artist? Where does he live?   The man collapses against the counter, sobbing. “His name is Him! I don’t know his real name! He drops shipments from 303 Cherry Brick Road!”   Phoenix stiffens. That’s the vacant property across the street from my house.   The seller pleads. “I swear, that’s all I know!”    Releasing him, Phoenix storms out, his mind racing. He heads back to Pine Hill, to the house on Cherry Brick that has haunted his waking and dreaming life. *** 303 Cherry Brick Road looms in quiet defiance, its brick façade weathered but untouched by time, spanning roughly 2,000 square feet. Darkened windows reflect the last light of dusk. Overgrown shrubs claw at the air like skeletal hands, framing the pathway to the door. The house pulls at him, alive in its silence. He should walk away. He can’t.   Pulling into the cracked driveway, his headlights skim the exterior. For a moment, movement flickers behind an upstairs window—gone as quickly as it appeared. He shakes it off. Just a glare. Then, a faint glow from a first-floor lamp cuts through the dimness.   Phoenix moves to the porch. The door stands solid, its chipped paint revealing raw wood beneath, as if the house is shedding its skin.   His hand hovers over the doorbell. A chime echoes back.   He wants to leave. But something holds him there.   The door rattles. It creaks open just enough to reveal a sliver of darkness.  As if nudged by an unseen hand.

Resentment plays a chaotic melody in Tia’s mind. At 33 years old, the foul tune begins after her lone shift as a bank teller in Gulfport, Mississippi. Over the years, her mother preached the importance of table etiquette to impress a good man, emphasizing how to prepare multiple dishes—whether plucked fresh from the backyard or processed and crammed in cans. Tia bites her bottom lip to shield her emotions: one day, she’ll cook for the right man, ending a miserable drought akin to her repeated failure to attract that high-value gentleman.  Swoosh! Her car nearly skids against the yellow curb. The boring white Honda Electra, purposed to save her cash, sputters along the worn road. She steadies the wheel, her knuckles whitening with the effort. Trees blur past her in brown and green streaks, disappearing into the distance. In Gulfport, the plantations seem to stretch into infinity. The late skies bear heavy clouds, stealing the blue away and leaving behind an ashen gray that suppresses light before it rains. Yet, for now, the rain holds off. The asphalt changes from smooth to grainy as Tia enters her subdivision. The homes are pale, their paint chipped from floods and hurricanes that have battered the area over the last three decades. For most of these houses, no improvements have been made since then. Porch screens remain torn, flapping in the corners. Grass in certain yards rises to knee-length, barely contained by cracked walkways leading to the front doors. Tia often wonders if people still live in them until she sees several grannies and their cats scurrying out to check the mail. She gulps at the sight. These women were once young, filled with fine goals and dreams, finding solace in the belief they’d one day be happily married in a fortress of a palace. Tia climbs a hill in the road. Her car levels out before descending. From the crest, she spots her home—white with blue trim around the windowsills. A shadow moves on her porch. Squinting, she makes out a silhouette—a man. She pulls into the driveway and notices the man sitting on her wooden rocker. He’s a handsome Black man with a dazzling smile, his white teeth beaming even amidst the shadows of the porch. As she steps out of her car, he rises, towering at an astonishing 6’4”, with a groomed, symmetrical beard that complements the thickness of his brows. He stands still, comfortable, as though he’s been sitting there every day, as if that porch were his throne. Tia steps out, her heart hammering, back pressed against the car. Finally, he moves, holding out a single rose wrapped in plastic.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, finally,” he says, his voice smooth and deliberate, slicing through the mist. Tia hesitates but steps onto the porch, her shoes slipping slightly on the moist boards. “Do I know you?” Up close, the man is even more striking. An elegant fragrance wafts from him—Twilight Woods by Bath & Body Works. She recognizes it because she wears the discontinued matching fragrance. He’s the man of her dreams, yet she knows such perfection can’t be real. “Here… my love.” He hands her the rose. “I’ve seen you on certain days, always alone. Looking lovely, but never with a lucky man by your side.” She blushes, her gaze dropping to the ground. “It’s just me. Been that way for some time now, but I can hold my own.” “My name is Theo Irvin Anderson.” Her eyes sparkle. “I’m Tia.”  “Yes, I asked about you already.” His grin widens. “Funny, isn’t it, how the initials of my name spell yours?”  He lets out a wicked laugh that reverberates from his chest. His persistence sends a shiver down her spine, an eerie feeling creeping in like silence before a battle. “So, Theo,” she asks cautiously, “why are you really here?” “For no reason other than to enjoy your company and get to know you.” The rain begins suddenly, clattering against the pavement like hollow-point bullets. Tia turns, her hand reaching for the door lock. It’s already unlocked—a common occurrence she ought to break, as it happens when her hands are full and she’s distracted on the phone. “It’s pouring,” Tia says. “Where’s your ride?” “I needed some exercise earlier,” he replies. “My hike here helped me catch up on my steps.” As the rain pours harder, unease settles in Tia’s chest. She clutches the rose tighter, willing herself to believe his honesty. Theo pulls a business card from his pocket. “I own a construction company, in case you need renovations. The second number is my personal line. Call me if you’re interested in coffee and bagels at Ronny’s.” “O…kay, thanks. I like bagels.” She smiles, relieved. “I’ll call to check if you made it home safely.” She retreats inside and secures the chain latch to the door behind her, then proceeds to inspect her house insuring her items aren’t tampered with or stolen. She starts with the living room that looks exactly as she left it—tidy but worn. The beige couch sits unblemished, and the glass coffee table is clear except for a small stack of mail. The LED TV remains mounted on the wall, its console beneath still lined with her knick-knacks. In the kitchen, the counters are waxed spotless, the air fryer unused, and the fridge hums quietly with its contents undisturbed. Her bedroom is in order, the bed neatly made with its faded quilt. The vanity is polished, the bottles of perfume and jewelry neatly sorted. The closet reveals her shoes stacked and nightgowns draped on their respective hanger.  Satisfied, Tia peeks through the peephole. Theo is gone. Forty minutes tick by, and she calls his number, salivating for her potential mate. “Hey, this is Tia. Just checking to see if you made it home safely.” Heavy breathing fills the line, mixed with faint wind and movement. “Thanks for checking,” he says, his voice strained. “I’m not home yet.” Her stomach tightens.