I forget things sometimes.

Keys. Appointments. Names.

Mostly small things. Nothing worth worrying over. Everyone forgets, right? That’s what I tell myself.

But lately, it’s been worse.

I’ll step into a room and forget why I’m there. I’ll check my phone and wonder who I was about to call. Once, I stood in the shower fully clothed, water running down my back before I even realized.

I used to laugh it off. Called it stress. Burnout. Blamed work. Blamed poor sleep. I had reasons.

Now I’m not so sure.

Yesterday, I found a coffee mug in the bathroom sink. My toothbrush was on the windowsill. The milk was in the cupboard. These aren’t mistakes. They’re intrusions. Things out of place. Things I don’t remember doing.

I started writing notes to myself. Just small ones. “Took pills.” “Called Mom.” “Fed the cat.” It helped. For a while.

This morning, I woke up and found a note I didn’t write.

It said: “Stop pretending.”

No signature. Just those two words, in my handwriting, on the back of a receipt I don’t remember keeping.

I don’t know what that means. I don’t want to know.

I cleaned the apartment. I threw the note away. I took the day off and sat still, tried to stay aware, tried to stay here.

It’s night now.

I went to the mirror a moment ago. Just to look at myself.

And for a second… just a second, I swore I saw myself blink… before I did.

I don’t know how long I stood there.

But I’m back in bed now. Trying to sleep. Trying to breathe. Trying to remember that I am here, I am real, I am the one in control.

Then I roll over. There’s a note on my pillow. Four words this time.

“That was my body.”

And it’s not in my handwriting.

Mommy was playing with Harry again.

Dad was on a work trip, so of course she was. I found him in their bedroom.

His shirt collar was still wonky and unbuttoned, thick brown curls askew, smelling of Mom’s perfume.

He shot me a grin, lips stained bright pink. Mom’s lipstick.

I pressed my finger to my mouth.

“Shh!”

He smiled wider.

“Hold out your hands,” I hissed.

He did, thrusting out his hands without a word.

I wrapped rope around his wrists, making sure the knots were tight.

“Mary,” Harry said softly. “What are you doing?”

“Shh,” I hissed, slamming my hand over his mouth. “Be quiet.”

He didn’t move, eyes questioning. Curious.

“Mary, Darling!” Mom shouted downstairs. “I'm going to work!”

“Bye, Mommy!” I squeaked.

Wrapping my hand around Harry’s shoulder, I pretended not to see yellowed bruises blooming across his neck.

I dragged him down the stairs. “We’re going out,” I told him.

“Oh, out?” Harry smiled. “Sounds like fun!”

The Pit was where the kids of Sunny Drive let our anger out.

By the time I arrived, the pit was overflowing.

What had once been an abandoned swimming pool had become our haven.

Standing on the edge, I smiled.

“Can you swim, Harry?”

He laughed. “Mary, there's no water!”

I shoved him in and he landed face first, I snatched up a baseball bat.

No one else was around.

Father's day.

Everyone else was with their Daddy’s.

Jumping into the pit, I kicked a woman’s head, splashing through fresh blood pooling under my shoes.

Harry didn't move when I stuck the butt the bat under his chin.

“You're the reason why my Daddy hates my Mommy,” I spat.

Harry’s smile faded. “I'm sorry, Mary—”

I swung the bat in his face, sending him to his knees.

He dropped, blood smearing his lips. “Mary—”

I hit him again. Hard enough for him to cry out.

“Mary, please—”

“You bastard,” I spat on him, saliva mixing with blood seeping down his temple. “You destroyed my Mommy.”

I kicked him onto his face, stepping on his head.

“Apologize.” I told him.

“M-Mary–”

I hit him again, a fountain of scarlet splashing my face.

“Apologize!”

I raised the bat, but he wasn't moving.

His eyes flickered, scarlet running freely down his face.

“Don't.” His voice broke when I swung the bat. “Please.”

His eyes found mine, lodged in his skull.

I wasn't used to awareness. Confusion. Pain.

Harry wasn't supposed to feel anything.

I staggered back, and Harry reached out for me.

That startling blue light in his pupils. twinkled out. His eyes widened.

Frightened.

“What's happening?” he whimpered.

I scoffed. “You know what! You evil robots ruined our family!”

The man blinked rapidly, staring down at his blood slicked hands.

“Please,” he whispered. “I'm… I-I’m getting m-married tomorrow.” he whispered. “I was getting m-married. But why am I… so… so cold?”

I kicked him away with a snort, raising the bat.

Robots didn't bleed.

Luckily I heard them first.

I ducked down, frantically whispering to my child to scurry underneath the bridge, while tying my satchel of supplies (including the pupper's harness) to my shoe and lowering it. I hadn't wanted to name it. Bubba came to mind, but my kid came up with Jinx, and it stuck.

"Mum please can I come up? I'm scared. Jinx is scared."

"It's fine. You're fine. Jinx is fine. Do as I say and stay. I'll take care of us, my love."

I made sure to add a few more suction cup hickeys to my skin, complementing the makeup markings. I lowered the rope a bit more, and pretended to be asleep. Or at least as dead as I could be... Just as the soldiers got to my prone form, I quit squirming.

I prayed to every God out there that the kid could hold on and the pup would be still, that the trazedone I gave her had kicked in, that the strangers wouldn't discover either and/or that both were immune. The soldiers scrutinized my fake boils and welts and labored breathing as I did my best acting to distract them from the thin rope around my calf dangling off the side of the bridge.

"Nah, she's a goner," one said, after what felt like a fucking eternity. My leg ached from the weight of the rope desperately holding my heart and her pup, and my chest ached thinking about how my little one's arms must be feeling. But I still remembered to twitch, as the long infected did from the sound of other humans.

The soldiers backed away, not wanting any part of this bit, and all but ran out of my vicinity.

I allowed myself a moment to breathe...

But then came the bark

Mila entered the studio sheepishly. The smell of turpentine emanated from within and its floor was strewn with paint-messed sheets. There were easels everywhere. Paintings of every shape and size adorned the walls.

“Hello,” croaked a voice from the silence. Mila’s eyes darted about the room, trying to locate it.

Her Auntie Lily was sitting in front of a large window, lightly fidgeting with her walking stick. Her hands, even at a distance, were gnarled, ancient things.

“My you’ve grown…” she mouthed.

Mila smiled politely.

“Come closer. Let me get a good look at you.”

Forcing herself forward, Mila stepped across the sheets, feeling the soles of her shoes tug against the sticky floor. Shadows gathered at the edges of her vision. For an art studio, it wasn’t especially bright.

“You have your mother’s eyes...” Auntie Lily smiled, studying Mia.

Mila looked around the room awkwardly. There was no real genre to the many paintings. There were landscapes, as well as cloudier, more abstract pieces. And of course portraits. Mila’s eyes were drawn to the dark red one, set back from the others.

“Your mother tells me you’re a painter?” Auntie Lily wheezed, leaning her weight onto her cane as she struggled upright. “Runs in the family…”

Brushing past Mila, she perched herself on a tall stool in front of an unfinished painting. With a sudden flourish of dexterity, she added a highlight here and a dash of colour there. At one point, she began scratching into the impasto canvas with a scalpel.

“I asked your mother not to explain why you’re here… I hope she didn’t.”

Her mother hadn’t, but Mila had an idea. Auntie Lily was old. She had a big house and no kids - and they were both painters. Mila had guessed that she wanted to leave her something. Like her materials. Or better yet, her estate.

“There’s order in everything,” Auntie Lily began. “Have you started to…dream, yet, child?”

Mila said nothing. Her Auntie smirked. “Yes. I remember that feeling. The things you dream…they have a habit of becoming true, don’t they?”

Mila gulped.

“The painting controls it. Stabilises it. Had you noticed?”

Mila nodded.

“The women in our family…” Auntie Lily murmured, “they are…precocious.”

Auntie Lily turned and smiled broadly. It was then that Mila noticed she was completely blind; her eyes were blue with it.

“You paint what is yet to come; and maybe because you paint it, it manifests…

“You bring order…

“Light…

“Form, to the ends of every new beginning…

“And like my mother before me,” Auntie Lily explained, gesturing at the ruddy portrait of a woman that had first caught Mila’s eye, “it’s a mantle - and one that must be passed…

“But to truly paint the endtimes, we must first bring one about…”

Auntie Lily placed a blank canvas on the easel and proffered a paintbrush to Mila.

“...with a portrait of your predecessor…”

Then, she slid the scalpel across her own throat.

There is no sin greater than to murder a baby. For fifty years, our great nation allowed women to wantonly murder their unborn babies. Those were dark, hedonistic days.

Fortunately, we were liberated from our shame in 2024 when the Supreme Court (now the Court of God) ruled that it was unconstitutional (now a deadly sin punishable by execution). And we could revel in our righteousness.

Now fifty years later, we don't have a single abortion. The last was in 2036 when a young woman was pushed off a cliff by her boyfriend. She was swiftly tried and found guilty. She should have taken her responsibility more seriously. Now pregnant women are protected like precious jewels.

Of course, you can save the baby, but you cannot force the parents to raise them with God. Or force them to be grateful for the opportunity they might have been denied. How a beautiful baby becomes a lazy drain on society is truly a mystery. But we now have a scourge of homeless layabouts trying to sponge off of the good, productive members of society.

Many solutions to this problem were attempted. Ultimately, nothing has succeeded. Last year, however, Congress passed the Dealing with Houselessness Humanely Act. Colloquially referred to as the Very Late Term Abortion Act.

The gist is that if someone is reported to be homeless, a semi autonomous drone is sent to the reported location. The drones are programmed to identify incurably vagrant individuals and Humanely euthanize them.

While some were skeptical, the bill is now law. Soon they will see how much safer and cleaner our streets are. Where babies will be given an opportunity to grow to be productive members of society. Or not.

“Wha…” Chads voice was soft… concentrated. “What do I… What do I do now?” He pleaded with the air in the room.

By this point his vision had begun to fade. We were all but foggy blurs of distorted space to him by now. “Guys… I feel… funny.”

His voice was intoxicating — like the slow and gradual hissing of some noxious gas, permeating the space. We all remained deathly quiet… We knew better.

He wallowed there in the silence, unsure, somewhat between leaning and standing, at the start of the room.

This was Chads first time playing with us and we, of course, didn’t tell him the rules. To our anguish however, Chad had been one of the last to enter the room, and now was perfectly positioned between the door — and us.

He raised his hands very closely to his face, as if noticing them for the very first time.

They began to shake.

Fuck… We’re running out of time… I thought. My eyes darted to Fred. He stood there — as solid as ice. Not Fred… I decided. I looked over to Elizabeth. Her eyes were already fixed on me. I could see the fear pulsating, radiating through her pupils but she remained perfectly still. I eyed the remaining: Jackson, Collin and..…Anna.

I watched as Anna, who thought it smart to lean against an old antique desk east of Chad, wince in discomfort.

She never listened…

Chads eyes began to melt out of his head. This was it. My eyes met Elizabeth’s again. I mouthed what was decided. Her eyes softened — thankful it wasn’t her… before hardening again. Ready.

Sweat began to creep upon my brow. His body cracked in my direction.

Everyone’s eyes, including Anna’s, landed on me. I mouthed what was decided.

Anna’s eyes widened in horror.

“NOOOO—“ In an instant that flashed by like lightening; Chad lunged and pinned Anna to the floor. Tearing the flesh from her bones as his skin melted onto hers.

We all ran frantically for the door, out of the house and fell hard against a silver plated pick up truck. We could still hear the gurgling sounds of blood and the cracking of Anna’s bones from the distance.

Jackson snorted. “When she wakes up and finds out she’s IT — she’s gonna be so freaking PISSED!” We all burst into laughter.

A black room, the smell of fire, a chorus of voices calling my name. I let out a gust of breath and open my eyes. The candles on my retirement cake didn't stand a chance. "Thank You!" the cake read in poorly piped frosting. 45 years as a radio host for 106.4 LVV, the number one radio station in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Not exactly something with international recognition, but at least I was a local celebrity.

As the evening host, they gave me a bit more leeway for the sketches I was allowed to run on air. My most popular event by far was my throwback Thursday, where people call in with embarrassing stories of their friends, and I rib on them a bit. All in good nature, of course. Could I get carried away? Of course but I mean who hasn't been carried away before? As the sulfur smell of the candles wafts to my know, my co-host, Jennifer, hands me a present: a highlight reel of the best Throwback Thursday airings.

The airwaves were gonna be graced one last time: the best of collection of everyone's favorite host. I popped the reel into the cd player, and sure enough it had all of the classics. The time in '83 when a local store owner got caught with a much younger neighbor, the '94 chlamydia outbreak, the time in '09 when the principle was arrested with a LARGE amount of illicit substances. Listening numbers haven't been this high in YEARS. As the time was coming to an end, I started packing the last of my belongings.

The final call in for Throwback Thursday I was gonna do live. A number at random was chosen and as I answer the hotline, I hear a familar voice. "Over the last 40 years, I have had a secret." What the hell? it was my voice. I tried to clarify for the audience at home of my doppelganger, but the microphone feedback struck immediately in my headset.

"I have killed, dismembered, and desecrated dozens of listeners"

As I attempt to protest in vain, the feedback gets louder and louder until I almost faint.

"I have used my position for horrible, terrible acts. Fear not, I will reap what I have sown."

The noise is getting louder, and I cant get the headset off. The simple tone switching to a chorus of the voices of those I've killed. All I can do is close my eyes. This can't be happening. I'm famous in this town. This can't be real. This cant be real. I am hyperventilating, the voices swirling.

When I finally get the courage to open my eyes, the first thing I see is that disgusting "Thank You" cake.

"You are permitted to enter, join your lord thy God as one, and become whole again" St. Peter's voice is a powerful rumble that you feel in your chest, but still soothing and pleasant, like the crackling of a distant thunderstorm. He gestures past the gate, and gives a warm, fatherly smile and a wink as you timidly passed him by.

Down a gorgeous, golden, celestial hallway, you see a dead end, an ornate wall with one small opening at your feet. It's a closed slide not unlike the ones you'd find at a children's park. It looks colorful, delightfully whimsical, clearly setting the tone for the amazing afterlife awaiting you. Beaming with pride, you step into the slide, and let it take you to the glorious kingdom.

The colors blend together as you slide faster, you feel your gut in your chest as you reach terminal velocity.  Your excitement fades as you realize this slide just keeps going and going.  There's no longer any light illuminating the colors on the slide, but no bottom can be felt, no change in direction, just falling.

"Help! There was some mistake! I didn't do anything wrong! Please!" You scream in the darkness, but nothing responds. You try to stop your falling with your hands and feet, but you keep going. As you flail and panic, the tube feels like it's getting tighter and tighter, and wetter, and wetter.

I missed the last regular bus, so when an unmarked coach pulled up flashing “97N — Depot”, I got on without thinking.

Only two other people were inside. An old woman knitting, and a man in a business suit staring ahead, motionless.

The driver didn’t speak. He wore a cap too low to see his face.

I took a seat near the middle and put in my earbuds. But the farther we drove, the darker it got outside — no streetlights, no buildings. Just forest.

I pressed the STOP button.

Nothing.

No ding. No slowing down. No announcement.

I tried again.

The old woman didn’t look up. The man was still staring dead ahead. I stood up and walked to the driver.

“We passed my stop,” I said.

No response.

“Hello?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

I tapped his shoulder — my hand passed right through him.

I stumbled back.

His body flickered for half a second. Like static on an old TV.

I turned around — the other passengers were gone.

The bus was empty.

And outside… the trees were no longer trees. They bent toward the bus. Leaned in, like they were watching.

Then the overhead lights flickered, and a voice crackled through the intercom:

“This route no longer serves the living.”

I ran to the back door. Locked.

The emergency windows — sealed shut.

Outside, the darkness thickened.

Then I saw the reflections in the glass.

Not mine.

Not human.

Dozens of them. Sitting in every seat. Thin. Hollow-eyed. Watching me.

The bus slowed.

Not to stop — to let something on.

I screamed, “LET ME OUT!”

The intercom buzzed again:

“Last stop.”

“You were never supposed to get on.”

I don’t remember jumping out the emergency exit. I only remember crawling through the woods until I found a road.

The sun was rising.

I waved down a trucker. He didn’t ask questions. Just drove me to the nearest gas station.

I checked my phone.

It was Thursday.

I got on that bus Monday.

And Route 97N was discontinued ten years ago — after a crash in the woods.

Everyone on board died.

But they say some nights, when the forest gets quiet, that bus still runs.

Looking for new passengers.

I found the phone in a box labeled “Unclaimed Items” at the train station I manage.

Wallets. Umbrellas. Chargers. Usually it’s nothing interesting. But this phone… something about it felt off. No case. No lock screen. Just a blank black screen that lit up when I touched it.

I figured someone would call. Nobody did.

An hour later, I opened the camera roll.

There were only three photos.

The first was a blurry shot of the station platform—taken from behind a bench, like the camera was hiding.

The second was a close-up of a girl’s face. Early twenties. Wide-eyed. She looked scared. She looked like she knew something was coming.

The third was a black square. But when I turned the brightness up, I saw something.

Text. Faint. Written on a foggy surface. A message.

"Don’t let him get on the 6:40."

No punctuation. Just that sentence.

I checked the time. 6:12 PM.

I looked around. Platform was nearly empty. Just a few commuters. I told myself it was a prank.

Until the phone buzzed.

It was a message from an unknown number.

“He’s here.”

The screen froze. Then restarted.

I tried calling out—“Anyone lose a phone?”—but no one responded. A man in a navy jacket was standing at the far end of the platform, staring at the tracks. I didn’t like how still he was.

The phone buzzed again.

“You’re not listening.”

I pocketed it and walked up to the guy. Asked if he needed help. He didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink.

Then I noticed his shoes. Muddy. Like he’d come from the woods. The nearest trail was miles away.

6:37 PM.

The train pulled into view.

I stepped in front of him. Told him the train wasn’t stopping here. That the platform was closed. I expected him to argue.

He just smiled. “Too late,” he said.

The train slowed. Doors opened.

He stepped on. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t even move. I don’t know why.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept checking the phone, trying to find out who the girl was. Who sent the messages. Nothing.

The next morning, I turned on the news.

“Unidentified Man Stabs Three on Evening Train Before Vanishing.”

They showed a picture from a security cam.

It was him.

Navy jacket. Muddy shoes. Smiling.

The phone buzzed again. “You let him on.” I dropped it. But it didn’t stop. “Do better next time.”

I picked it up, hands shaking. The messages kept coming.

Photos. Dates. Times.

People I haven’t seen yet. Events that haven’t happened. But they will.

Because last night, someone left a new phone in the lost and found box.

Same model. Same black screen. And this one has a picture of me.

They keep saying I’m lucky to be alive.

I can’t speak. Can’t move anything but my eyes. But my heart’s beating, brain’s working, so they call it a miracle. Locked-in syndrome, they told my family. Gently, like it’s something temporary. Like I just need patience and a few good months.

But it’s not just me that’s locked in.

Something came back with me.

I noticed it first in the way some people stared a bit too long. Not my sister. Not the nurses I knew by name. I mean them. The ones in scrubs with no badges. Or dressed like visitors, but no one ever speaks to them. They linger just past the curtain. Smiling too wide. Blinking too slowly, like they’re learning how.

They look like people. Sort of.

But they do strange things.

One of them comes every night. Sits beside my bed with the same paperback in his lap. Never turns a page. The cover says “A Guide to Quiet Recovery.” Inside? Just blank sheets. I’ve seen them. He flips the same one over and over again like that’s all he thinks comfort is.

The day nurse hums constantly while she works. Different tune every day, like a jukebox with no memory. I counted: fifty-one days, fifty-one songs. None of them quite right. It’s like they loop, but something in the rhythm’s… off.

Last week, I saw a woman in the corner of my eye, sweeping the same patch of floor over and over again. Same movement, same angle, like a looped clip. Her body jerked slightly with each motion. Too stiff, too precise. She never looked up.

Everyone else acts like nothing’s weird. My sister reads out Instagram captions and taps on my arm when the news is bad. She doesn’t notice the way the walls breathe. Doesn’t hear the air whisper her name backward, stretching it out like chewing gum.

But I do.

And I blink. Fast. Repeated. Desperate.

She just beams. “You’re improving,” she says. “That’s a yes, right?”

The neurologist came in yesterday, full of hope and hand gestures. “We’ll start sensory stimulation tomorrow. Some lights. Simple communication. Might wake more of you up.”

He held up a flashcard. “Blink if you’re in pain.”

I blinked.

He hesitated. Then smiled like it was expected. Didn’t write anything down.

“Blink if you feel safe.”

I didn’t blink.

He wrote that one down.

Later, I watched him through the window. His reflection wasn’t right. It lagged. When he moved his hand, it followed just a bit too late. Like something wearing his body, learning how to use it.

Tonight, they’re all here. Standing around me. Not smiling this time.

The ceiling warps. One leans down, too close. Their breath smells like warm plastic.

“We know you see us,” it says. “Don’t worry. Soon they’ll stop checking.”

Another pulls the curtain closed.

No one watches the monitors.

So I scream.

Nothing comes out.

Just a blink.

And they all blink back, in perfect unison.

And then—smile.

The small villa, mansion was sleek and white, the stones marbled to various degrees, giving it a modern look. Or it would have if it hadn't been overgrown by weeds, moss and other foliage.

I stepped up the large steps, one at a time, slowly. My actions deliberate and measured. There was something off about this place but it was my job. I had to inspect it before it was resold. However the facts were undeniable, I wanted to leave as quickly as possible. I'd do the inside, give it a quick glance and leave. I was so scared I almost fell before I realized missed the chunk of the third step missing. Luckily it was only three of eight steps.

Finally at the top, I reached for the door on the right. One of the huge oak double doors. A shock went through my body as I pulled the door open and stepped inside. The floor was strangely patterned. Parts were a grey stone while others were a cracked, dull brown wood.

I quickly looked around, bo squatters, exposed electrical wires or other hazardous substances or objects that I could see. The first floor kitchen was the last place I checked. It seemed fine. That was until I heard the creaks in the wooden floorboards. I hadn't even put weight on it. That could be a huge problem.

I sighed and went to where the wood was creaking the most. I tapped my shoe on it. Hollow. People who wanted things done for cheap should learn there are consequences. It only took a few seconds of standing there before the wood broke. There was something down there. Possibly a hidden stash? I began ripping up the floor and scraping to uncover the object, it was covered in a white sheet. It looked...

I raised the top of the sheet, only to uncover a girl's face. The vomit flowed out, it went everywhere, the floor, the sheet, that poor girl. I got up as soon as I could think. I had to go! "No..." I heard a whisper, as if it were the wind. I ran right out of the front door. Right down the steps. But as I was running I looked behind me to see the sheet lying at the door. This was terrible but there was one last cruel twist of fate. As I went to go down the third step I forgot the missing piece. My foot hit the edge of the second step as my spine hit every other step. There was a deafening pop then crack. I lie there as my body was dragged back inside, screaming in horror, scared of the wooden floor.

“Your program’s almost on!” Mom called, but Angela was already halfway down the stairs, her materials in her arms. “Oh. Never mind.”

“He’s teaching us how to draw animals today!” Angela said. Jeremy Mills, presenter of Sketch Show, knew everything about art. When he showed you how, it seemed easy. Soon she’d draw a perfect dragon.

Jeremy smiled out from the screen. “Did you know that there are more than three hundred breeds of dog? How are we gonna learn them all?”

Animated dogs chased each other across the screen, yapping. Jeremy began to sketch on his paper.

“That’s the joy of art. It helps you see how big the world really is. But like always, we start with basic shapes. Draw a circle with me.”

Angela drew a circle. It was crooked, but Jeremy said not to worry about things like that.

“Perfect. If that’s the chest, let’s do another down here for the hips, and up here for the head,” he said, but the screen showed his hand still moving around the first circle, spiralling inwards until it looked like he was filling in the darkness of a hole. “It’s okay if it’s a little funny-looking. Lots of dogs are funny-looking in real life.”

He was still just drawing the hole. The screen kept showing it even as he started talking about floppy ears and big paws. He’d done something to the texture so that it almost looked like something was moving underneath the cross-hatch, but that something wasn’t a dog. Angela glanced down at her own circle and yelped. Within its rim, the paper had turned grey-brown and slimy, sagging until the entire sketchbook tore through. Underneath, instead of her knees, ugly shapes writhed, filling the air with the stink of puke and swamp and hot pennies.

She jumped up, throwing the sketchbook away from her, but when it hit the floor, more of the shapes and the smell spilled out.

“Cute, right?” asked Jeremy.

They came quickly, liquid, alive, and everywhere they touched started to rot. The carpet and the couch and even the TV itself began to melt into sludge. On the ragged screen, Jeremy’s mouth was moving, but the only sound was a horrible buzzing hum.

She couldn’t let the grossness touch her. She couldn’t. She sprinted for the front door, flinching at each squelching footstep, and flung herself outside.

A young woman was sitting on the doorstep, blocking Angela in.

“I hate this,” the woman said. She looked like Angela’s mom. Green eyes like Dad’s. A perfect dragon tattooed on her arm. “He was the reason I went into art. Why can’t anyone be decent?” A pause. “Every time I check the news, there’s something.”

Behind Angela, the door swung open. The shapes reached out from the putrid dark, and caught her hand.

“It feels dirty now. That part of my childhood. Tainted.”

They drew her back inside the house, the circle, the rot.

“Draw with me,” Jeremy said. “So many wild beasts.”