Hello Pubtips! I am preparing for the query trenches and would like to see your feedback. I thank everyone who has helped with my query so far. Below is my second attempt.
Dear AGENT,
Nicola Dalton hates idly watching the world burn from his window, but he must humor his family. After all, a war disabled modern technology, so Nicola’s family tries to feign normalcy while waiting to be rescued. Meanwhile, Nicola feels compelled to intervene in the rising violence. His family is soon killed by raiders, so he forgoes inaction and vengefully swears to restore peace to his hometown by any means necessary.
He quickly becomes exhausted from fighting alone, so he recruits others to protect the neighborhood, eventually founding the Protectors. However, he gradually loses his idealistic justice as he is faced with reoffending criminals and must decide between mercy or harsh punition. After his organization restores stability in the city, Nicola grows more convinced of tough, unforgiving solutions to crime. Thus, he leads the organization to mature into a republic that brings peace through well-intended yet overbearing justice.
Nicola slowly notices the atrocities carried out by his soldiers and police, but he is furious any time his benevolence is betrayed. Thus, he deepens the severity of criminal punishment, inadvertently exacting the same injustices he once tried to stop. With the arrival of Lijktbeter, his devilishly scheming older brother hellbent on power, Nicola must fight against his own system as he comes to terms with the injustice that lies within justice.
Complete at 106,000 words, Our Sinister Peace is a standalone speculative fiction novel with series potential. It combines elements of When the English Fall with the morally-driven protagonist of One Second After. It also has influence from real-world events and experiences from my background such as the coups in COUNTRY1 and COUNTRY2 police violence.
(Personalization for why I am querying)
(Optional Bio depending on agent’s instructions) I am an COUNTRY2 who has published 7 scientific non-fiction articles in several university magazines such as MAGAZINE1 and MAGAZINE2. In the former, I served as Writer Chair and in the latter, I am currently Senior Editor. This will be my first work of fiction, but I have drafted 8 other standalone novels to refine my writing.
Thank you for your consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.

(I have included my first page below.)
The knives are curled up, the spoons bent, and the forks twisted into loops. Sparks fly as I drag a stone across them. Dad beckons. Together we pick up and rotate the door. “We can straighten out the nails later.” Mom mops the red stained floor to the sound of rolling metal. A loud thud echoes. We toss away the fridge’s crumpled door. My sister stands a chair up, having tied its legs in place. “It’s getting dark, can you light the candles?” The room glistens orange, with shadows dancing, flickering. Cracked porcelain rings gently. “We can figure it out tomorrow.” We sit in silence, staring at nothing, hesitating.
Finally, I stab. It is cold. The silence is pierced by clinking knives. My sister, Almadi, just twirls her bent three-pronged fork. I can hear the sounds of each bite, each swallow, as every movement pierces the deafening silence. First complete as always, I solemnly announce, “Thanks for dinner.” I begin wiping my dishes clean with a napkin and placing them in the crooked cupboard.
After everyone is finished, we complete our chores and then head to the living room. We sit, with a few half-finished sentences occasionally breaking the silence. Dad leans back on his sofa chair, almost as if he was watching the mangled television through its cracked glass. “Should we do something?” I ask. “Sleep.” Mom replies. We nod and I head upstairs with my sister. She sighs and patters away without a word. I set down my candle on the lopsided nightstand and watch the flames dance on the ceiling. I lie down and puff out the candle, becoming invisible in the darkness.
(I received feedback to change my beginning to in-media-res. Thus, my first few pages have drastically changed. I also stylistically change tense for these 3 paragraphs, returning to past tense afterwards. I repeat this in two other instances in the manuscript. Is tense change considered inappropriate for debut work? The manuscript must be in past-tense since it is narrative history/autobiography, but a few sections are in present tense to give an in the moment feel.)

Red Seas Under Red Skies by Scott Lynch, Reminiscence: By Their Own Rope to Chapter 7
Welcome back to Tal Verrar, where the artifice is real and the pirates are fake. Let's see if we know the Gentlemen Bastards’ business this week.
Summary
Six months since the last Reminiscence, Locke has locked up the mysterious chairs and is with Jean in Vo Samara. Jean brought rope which was secured around a thick tree trunk. They're practicing getting to the vault. They used harnesses and a safety line to rappel down the cliff.
Someone calls down to them from the top. He'd steal their coats and chop the ropes. He was a highwayman always on the lookout for people to rob. He called them heretics and cut one of Locke’s lines. Jean tried to throw a knife at him, but only the hilt hit. Then the thief fell off the cliff onto Locke’s harness. Jean grabbed the bandit by the hair, and Locke held a knife to his throat.
His name was Trav, and he was unemployed. Jean made it up first and hauled them up. Locke berates the incompetent thief. He left a purse of silver for him. He could be helpful to them later if he remembered their kindness. It had been eighteen months since anyone tried to kill them.
In the present day, they eat breakfast at The Gilded Cloister. They discuss the attack last night and who might want them dead. Merrain is dressed as a waitress and hands them a bill and a note to meet where they first met. They are on their guard all the way there. They enter an abandoned shop where four men in gray cloaks and hats wait for them. The four men are decoys. Jean and Locke don their own cloaks and hats and get in a carriage.
Merrain is already in their carriage. They will head to the docks. They hoist themselves into a boat filled with rowers. Merrain is the coxswain. They enter the Sword Marina and the stone walls of the bay. A man meets them there and says it's a fool's mission. He's Caldris the ship's master. He leads them to a dinghy in a “pissing-pond” for practice. Stragos had tricked him with poisoned wine, too, so he “volunteered” his services.
Every ship must have a woman officer and a cat for luck. They have a kitten but don't need the woman yet. Caldris cut their palms with a knife and put a slice of bread over it as part of a ritual to the deity Iono Stormbringer. They practice rowing for hours. He bet them that they would capsize, and he won.
Locke is exhausted, but he has to see Requin and give him the chairs and tell him of the voyage. Merrain almost didn't let him go. After two hours, he and the chairs go to see Requin. He waits at the service entrance and pays a servant to get him Selendri. She used to be an Eye of the Archon before her injury.
Requin loves the chairs. Locke says he won them in a card game. He tells Requin that he'll be away for a while to find a lockpicker named “Calo Callas.” Requin makes him promise to tell him of any more plans right away.
They learn how to use a Verrari/Camorri quadrant (sextant) among other navigational instruments, books, and charts. Stragos and Merrain pay a visit to fit his uniform. He must look the part of a Captain at least for a day.
The ship The Red Messenger is in the harbor one day. It was seized from a man who tried to smuggle in stiletto wasps. The enormity of his task hit Locke as he boarded for the first time. Two weeks of training had prepared him to climb the ropes to the mast and sails. Caldris was feeling his age as they climbed down. Luckily the captain and the master stay on deck.
Jean found Locke in a sailor’s bar trying to get drunk and forget anything nautical for a night. (Wrong place for it.) Six watchmen entered and caused tension. The bar patrons were hostile, so one of the watchmen left some money for a round on him and all left. Locke and Jean give their free dark ale to a dockworker woman. The woman was choking and gagging. One the bar workers had put some poison (and not salt) in the drinks!
A ship leech used Locke’s stiletto to perform a tracheotomy on her so she could breathe. It was too late, though. The barkeeper accused the doctor of killing her. The other sailors demand he apologize. Then he drank some ale to prove it wasn't deadly. Jean asked where the second assistant was. Authorities would be called, so Jean and Locke made their exit. The free ale was a cover, and the watchmen were used by someone trying to kill them. The Priori did it.
Jean catches a man in the alleyway. He's an Eye, but who can be sure anymore? They want him to send a message to Merrain that they need a place to stay and protection.
They check out of the inn, and Locke sends a note to Requin. Caldris is even harder on them in his training. All three devise hand signals for when they can't speak among the crew. Caldris and Merrain are impressed by Locke's acting prowess.
Later on, Locke and Jean knock out a guard with a hood full of a sedative. A tower is their destination. Stragos had brought one of his own ships for them to do a demonstration. They sail to Windward Rock where a prison tower stands. That's where Stragos locked up the other Captain for stealing and treachery. He says that this Captain is Locke.
In the tower, Locke hands his papers to a woman who shows them to the lieutenant behind a desk. His pseudonym is Orrin Ravelle. He and Jean are there to see the prisoners. They both attack the guards. A poison called witfrost will put them asleep for the night.
Stragos tells Locke about Highpoint Citadel Gaol and Windward Rock. He has arranged for Ravelle to have a paper trail. He will find his crew in Windward Rock. The prisoners were in one large cell. Locke tells them that he chose them to be his crew. (Stragos chose 44 and made their lives miserable so they would want to leave and be on his crew. Four were women and got too sick, or so he said.)
Locke promises them equal shares of any plunder and freedom from the hell cell. They clamber to join.
Caldris had a bad feeling about the voyage if there won't be any women on board and no basket of cats.
Prisoner Jabril is made acting mate. Two younger prisoners row a boat out to a bigger boat. They all board and sail to the Red Messenger.
Merrain had hidden nearby, and after they all left, she snuck into the tower and killed the guards except the two on the top floor.
Locke pretends to knock out the guard on the ship. Duties are assigned. The guard is placed in the smaller boat. Some of the men were on the ship before and were assigned topmen. So starts their voyage. Locke was having fun playing the part of rogue Captain.
They sight sails on day three, but it's too early to be pillaging. Locke orders them to practice archery. Caldris estimates that they'll make it to the Ghostwinds in two weeks.
The crew drank and partied, playing knife throwing games. Locke saw bioluminescent ghostly things called flit-wraiths. Caldris had seen unbelievable things out on the sea. Two of the islands’ populations were destroyed: one by fire during a war and one by some kind of monster from the jungle.
The crew notices there are no cats. Locke had forgotten them on shore. (Uh-oh!) He tells them they're shy and hiding. Caldris is tired and gets little sleep. He is pissed off that there's no cats. The crew will mutiny if they find out. They'll have to fight another ship just for the cats. (They better hope it rains cats and dogs.)
A storm is brewing. The crew ready the ship and its supplies. Locke and Jean spend rare time alone in the stern cabin. Caldris feebly knocks at the door, and has a heart attack. He dies just as the storm hits. (Double uh-oh!)
Extras
Marginalia
Parts of a ship
Ship's cats
Ship's cats in hammocks
St Corella’s fire is actually St Elmo's Fire.
Larboard used to mean left.
Navigate back here May 23 for Part 2, Chapters 8-11. Questions are in the comments.

I recently purchased a Titan Evo, and after assembling it, I noticed a significant issue. The chair doesn't extend as high as it should. I've checked online and found that others with the same model have chairs that extend much higher than mine.
Here are two pictures for comparison:

1. https://imgur.com/a/QqqdJmX (lowest it can go)
2. https://imgur.com/a/UrShPyl (highest it can go)

As you can see, the height difference is quite noticeable, and it's causing discomfort while using the chair. I've double-checked the assembly instructions and made sure all the parts are correctly in place.
I'm wondering if anyone else has encountered this issue with the same model or if there are any troubleshooting tips I could try before reaching out to the manufacturer for assistance.
Any help or advice would be greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance.

I don’t know if it’s just my firm or if I’m already an out-of-touch partner, but the posts in this sub about associates worked to the bone are so different from what I experience in my day-to-day firm life. Most associates are protective of their schedules and regularly turn down work, even if they’re working below or just at their hours expectation. MANY associates don’t bill their required annual hours. The firm only gets involved if it’s shockingly low (like half) or there is a significant shortfall (over 10%) for multiple years. Associates also fight the firm for billable credit for things like business development or mentoring. In my group, partners have higher hours than associates while also balancing all of the truly non-billable stuff that comes with partnership. If a client needs something I don’t have the ability to say no, even if I’m dealing with a hellish travel schedule, presenting a webinar, trying to finish an article for Bloomberg, etc.
Associates also complain if they feel they’re working too much and can get partners in trouble. I had an associate who crapped on me in an exit interview because they didn’t like how much they had to work on a TRIAL where they were third chair and I was second. The comment bugged me and I looked back to see I was billing significantly more time than them; they worked around 200/month at the peak. Recently, another partner was dealing with unfortunately clustered court deadlines and because no associates would agree to help, they had to rely more heavily on the one associate already assigned. They told the associate they were working on staffing and this would be a short-term push, but the associate went over their head to complain about working a weekend and the partner was told to “back off” so the associate wouldn’t quit. This partner was regularly sending 3am emails and barely keeping their head above water.
What’s more troubling is the fundamental lack of ownership. Very few associates actually dive into their work and think proactively. They blow deadlines all the time. It’s like pulling teeth to keep an assignment moving. Some meet their deadlines but give totally half-baked work. They may not read the instructions and answer the wrong question, or their legal analysis begs more questions than it answers, or if I pull up their sources I see they missed something critical to the assignment. Feedback often isn’t implemented. I’ve been burned many times by investing heavily in training someone only to see minimal if any changes to their work product. At this point I usually cut bait. This isn’t all associates—some are rock stars, and the angels sing when they agree to do work because then I can trust them and relax for a moment. But they are the minority, maybe 1 or 2 out of 10. I’m sure I could be a more effective manager and inspire better work from the non-star associates if that was all I did. But I’m exhausted, damnit, and at some point I need to spend time with my kids.
I don’t know what I’m missing here. Am I blind to the associate struggle? To me they feel overcompensated and entitled and frankly a waste of client money. I’d torch the law firm hiring model if I could. But for now I’m too tired.

Here are reporter Judith Moritz's tweets as the hearing is happening:

Lucy Letby: I’m at the first hearing of the Thirlwall Inquiry into the events at the Countess of Chester Hospital. Today’s session is expected to deal with admin issues relating to the substantive hearings which are due to begin later this year.
The Chair of the Inquiry, Lady Justice Thirlwall has said that the substantive hearings will start in September and are expected to last until at least the end of the year.
The Inquiry will be held at the town hall in Liverpool- it has not been possible to find space in Chester. It will start on Tuesday Sept 2nd.
Correction- the hearings will start on Sept 10.
The hearing today is dealing with administrative matters relating to the Inquiry. Currently discussing whether or not the hearings will be streamed publicly or not.
Barristers representing the families of the babies have said that the hearings should be broadcast. They've argued that this would be a counter to online conspiracy theories relating to the Letby case, which have been "grossly offensive and distressing to the families".
Barrister for the Countess of Chester Hospital says the hospital is content for the hearings to be available on a video link to relevant attendees, but does not support the families' arguments for them to be broadcast worldwide.

Additional tweets and summary articles will be added to this post as they become available
Edit: Summary article from Chester Standard
Families say Lucy Letby inquiry should be livestreamed

The inquiry into former Countess of Chester Hospital nurse Lucy Letby will be heard in Liverpool from this September, it has been confirmed.
A preliminary hearing for the inquiry, chaired by Lady Justice Thirlwall and to be known as the Thirlwall Inquiry, was held at Chester Racecourse on Thursday, May 16.
The inquiry will look into how Letby was able to murder babies on the Countess of Chester’s neonatal unit in 2015 and 2016, the conduct of others at the hospital and the culture in the wider NHS.
Letby, of Hereford, was sentenced to 14 whole life orders after she was convicted of murdering seven babies and attempting to murder six others, with two attempts on one of her victims.
Rachel Langdale KC, counsel to the inquiry, gave an update to its progress and outlined procedural details.
It was confirmed the Thirlwall Inquiry will begin in Liverpool Town Hall on Tuesday, September 10, with "substantive evidence" beginning the week after from Monday, September 16.
The inquiry will run from Mondays to Thursdays each week, and take a week off for the October half-term holiday. It will also last until "at least" the end of the year.
Giving representations at the preliminary hearing, lawyers for the families of those impacted by Lucy Letby said the Thirlwall Inquiry should be livestreamed to the public, to prevent the spread of “grossly offensive” conspiracy theories.
Peter Skelton KC, representing families of six babies, said Letby’s crimes continued to be the subject of conspiracy theories online.
He described the theories as “grossly offensive” and “distressing” for the families, who he compared to relatives of school shooting victims in the US.
He added: “One of the most effective antidotes to those theories and the damage they cause will be to see and to hear the people involved in the hospital give a true and comprehensive account of the facts.”
He said a submission by lawyers representing the hospital, which said a livestream might make witnesses less inclined to speak with candour, was “extraordinary”.
He said: “All the staff working at the hospital are public servants, they have a moral obligation to give a true and complete account.”
Richard Baker KC, representing some of the other families, said his clients had suffered “an unimaginable harm in unimaginable circumstances”.
He said: “Their desire in this case is for change and so that others do not experience what they have experienced.”
But, he said, they were “saddened” and “concerned” at the suggestion the lack of transparency might continue.
Andrew Kennedy KC, representing the Countess of Chester Hospital, said the hospital wanted to provide “as much assistance” to the inquiry as it could.
But, he said there was a “high level of anxiety” from staff at the prospect of giving evidence which was livestreamed.
He said: “Our desire, and no doubt the inquiry’s desire, is for witnesses to be able to speak frankly and with candour and anything that can be done to facilitate that should be done.
“If a witness is concerned about livestreaming then if we can remove that concern we can, we would suggest, encourage candour, frankness and openness.”
Ms Langdale said court orders that prevent the identification of a number of people involved, including all of the babies, had to be complied with.
It was suggested by lawyers representing the families there could be a livestream which would be broadcast on a 15-minute delay, to ensure proceedings would be monitored to comply with existing court orders.
Lady Justice Thirlwall said she would give her decision on whether the hearings would be broadcast at a later date.
She started the proceedings, which lasted just over an hour and a half, with a pause for reflection for the “lives lost”, “injuries sustained” and “suffering” of the families.
The hearing was told 188 requests for information had been made to individuals including midwives, nurses, doctors, managers and members of the hospital board.
Ms Langdale said detailed questions had been asked about involvement in the care of particular babies, suspicions and concerns about Letby, mortality rates and other issues.
She added: “Questions are asked about why suspicions were not reported to police sooner.”
Experts had been instructed to look at cultural issues in the NHS, the implementation of recommendations made by previous inquiries and issues around whistleblowing, Ms Langdale said.
The inquiry also heard efforts had been made to secure a Chester venue for the inquiry, as had previously been the aim, but no suitable one could be found, so the decision was made to hold it at Liverpool Town Hall.

I've been seeing a lot of UNICEF /UNESCO people on roads, pvr, malls literally everywhere trying to sign you up.
The money they collect all go into their salaries and their management. Very sure most of the money you donate isnt reaching the needy.
These people are hired by a few small organization One such is Focus organization which I've seen in coimbatore.
Here is my experience. They once sent me an email for a walk in interview as a business associate in coimbatore.
When i arrived, it was a run down building and on the third floor there was a small room and a dirty, office chair where I saw many of the people working there was taking photos wearing a suit that was passed around.
After the interview they were boasting that they were working with American express, Mercedes etc and you can choose whatever they want.
Then they made us learn a script in Tamil by heart and practice it. Before that they played loud music and made people dance to bring them to ease.
After the script you have to repeat it back to the leaders and they correct you in how to adjust the tone to manipulate and get the sympathy of the people.
Then they make these new hires go with one of their guys into the streets and then started going into shops malls, even colleges and reiterate the script.
Most funny thing was that they were showing a list of names with performers and there was a guy with the last name Bajaj. The owner of this place Dandu Dinesh said that this guy is from the Bajaj family and has a ton of money, but wanted to do his own business so he came to work with their begging scam.
They still lie and hire people with fancy names like business associate and that after 2 years they'll help you start your own business and all.
At the time they were collecting money for SOS organization. But I'm sure a large chunks of the money collected is going into their own pockets as I contacted SOS directly and they confirmed that these guys are taking out huge commissions.
Focus management was the name of this scam organization.
Person acting as HR was Divya
Owner was some Dandu Dinesh.
I quit in the same day and was pissed off. This Dandu even had the nerve to tell me if I'm looking for other jobs, he had contacts with AMEX and all and that he can refer me.
They are scammers. They make money in the name of charity. Nothing less that frauds.
Oh and one more thing. Majority of the staff I saw there were females. I think they're using females to manipulate guys into paying as I myself signed up for this subscription an year later in kerala without knowing it was them. A girl called me and sounded genuine. Said that she was working and is volunteering for the NGO.
I heard that they were looking to expand this thing to every city and later heard that they moved to kerala as well.
From another post in Bengaluru sub, i got to know that it was again Focus organization that is behind this as well.
If you see more two or more approaching you as a group, it means there is a leader in that pack who's training the noobs with him. That's how it goes. They sent out these people under the supervision of an experienced person to make sure that they don't message up their script.
SO BEWARE. AVOID THESE SCAMSTERS. DONATE TO A CHARITY YOU KNOW VERY WELL AND NOT VIA THESE AGENTS.
Edit: as another user shared here, the name name of Focus organization in kochi is Naval incorporation. There's another one called mettle minds as well.
https://www.google.com/search?kgmid=/g/11gmw2y0kh&hl=en-IN&q=Naval+Incorporation&kgs=af3d115266ef3bab&shndl=30&shem=lrnole&source=sh/x/loc/osrp/m5/2
This is the company actually sending these people out to collect the money.
But all of them are instructed to not show the I'd card from their organization They'll claim they workdirecy with UNICEF OR UNESCO, but they're working with these agency leeches.
Next time you can ask them who they ACTUALLY work for.
And apparently, this DANDU DINESH I talked about, is now in kochi in the company called Naval incorporation
Check out their kochi branch insta page https://www.instagram.com/p/C6f2-poiio7/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link
All this money is coming out of your pockets, the money you are donating to charity.
They in kochi, conduct interviews weekly and are hiring more people. Thanks u/slattmallu for sharing the insights. They're also planning to expand to kannur. So if anybody can share this to your friends, we can stop these SCAMSTERS.
As you can see in their insta and FB pages, all the money you donate are going into their parties, their salaries and management as commission
Even though you are paying directly on UNESCOs websites, they are receiving the commission for each signup.
They have tens of thousands of people working for them in South India atleast
Also they told u/hotintroduction2858 that the so. Of a huge textile chain owner, who also owns rolls Royce, works with them.
They told me that the son of Bajaj works with them in that delapitated building.

This batch from Tokyo Jon's is another aggravating, "Then why did you put up with this?" venture.

British Education Korea (BEK) Apr 16. 2024

...unprofessional and incompetent staff, unqualified bilingual teachers and toxic atmosphere. Worst experience of my life. Waste of time and energy. Extremely low pay and imposed additional (unpaid) roles.

--That's really the key elements that never seem to go away:

1. Unprofessional.
2. Unorganized.
3. Incompetent.
4. Catty, petty, gossipy, abusive.

Homepage
Google Earth

JESSICA ENGLISH - ILSAN Apr 16. 2024

Last year they fired 6 people and claimed financial reasons. On top of this they continued to hire foreign workers from overseas despite claiming financial troubles. Because management was so poor the place is leaking students and so the ones that stay get away with anything.

--The first mistake is to trust anything that comes out of their mouths. If they tell me it's raining, I head for a window, open it, stick my hand out before I believe anything from these buffoons and their constant lies, misdirection, and propaganda. Find 5 things that you already know the answers to and that anyone in management / education ought to know, ask in a meeting, see what they say. It's fun, they know nothing about anything.
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Naver Map

iGarten Seocho Banpo Apr 23. 2024

From the moment I signed with this school, warning signs were glaringly evident, but I was optimistic and brushed them off. However, in hindsight, those warning signals were clear indicators of what was to come. 2. Lack of leadership. 3. Lack of Communication breakdowns 4. Incoherent curriculum 7. Dishonesty and manipulation

--Yup! That sounds like a Hagwon alright.

2. Lack of Leadership ...with those in charge either physically absent or lacking the awareness needed to foster accountability, communication, and organization.
Many times, Korean teachers are found either sitting in a corner of the room on their phones, taking selfies, or shopping, or they're outside the classroom engaging in gossip with the front desk or lunch staff.

--This happens everywhere. The laziness is profound. Search bar: Hagwon Life:The Day They Refused to Pay Me. Floor manager playing games on computer, university students playing on their phones in the break room instead of working, and everything else wrong, broken, incomplete, wrong levels, bratty / undisciplined children, no one cares. Let the foreigners pull their hair out and deal with all the issues, the rest will sit back and do like the prisoners say, "Get over, get by." The answer is, follow them right out the door no matter what the reason is, stay with them until they come back. They leave, you leave.

3. Lack of communication (School Events) Even when management does inform us of an event, it's usually with minimal notice, often just a week or two in advance... (Science Fair) It's frustrating that management only takes action when faced with the threat of embarrassment, leaving teachers to pick up the slack with little support or guidance. (Report cards) The lack of communication extends to the crucial task of writing end-of-year report card comments. Shockingly, this important information was only relayed in the last week of school, not by management, but through hearsay from a veteran teacher.* This last-minute notification left teachers with minimal time to prepare thoughtful and personalized comments for each student.

--The answer is, THEN DON'T DO IT! Why do the foreigners care more than the people who own the place? All you are teaching them when you put in double-overtime, scramble around like crazy, frantically quick-time it to get things done, don't get enough sleep or proper exercise/nutrition, do it for free at home, is that they learn to expect it from you again and again without consequences. They are as bad at education than anyone you will ever encounter on the planet. They have no idea about anything, ESPECIALLY how long it takes to plan and put together a good result. You can ask any one of them, "How long do you THINK it takes to add a worksheet or construct a lesson plan from scratch? And when do you think I will have time to finish it?" As the OP said, they don't do anything until there is a threat of embarrassment. Well then? Embarrass them and keep giving them the same talking points right from the beginning, "I don't have enough time, I don't work at home for free, everyone ignored my request for resources etc." In many cases, they do this out of disrespect to the foreigners, also they don't want to hear foreigners complain or adjust the instructions so they purposely try to run out the clock on them to keep them busy and quiet. A part of it is to see the foreigners stressed and fail. Yeah, really. They want it to fail. Give them what they want and let it collapse. Of course they blame it all on the foreigners, but just repeat your talking points and keep on repeating them. You get off topic, they'll keep jabbering in your face, you stay on topic they'll get frustrated and give up.....eventually.
iGarten Creverse, April, CDI, are all basically the Chungdahm umbrella, I don't know why anyone hasn't figured out not to work for any of these places.
Search bar: iGarten Seocho Branch DO NOT DO IT!
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You wanted to be a teacher? Well then TEACH. Students and everyone else learn a lot from failure. You can talk / complain all day long--ears closed. As soon as there are consequences for failure, leaving the classroom with a room full of naughty children, deadlines are not reached, parents are put off by poor results, management is caught with their pants down--ears open.
Now, do you have the spine inside you to reject punishment? Are you going to reject it and walk out the door, fight back, keep on with your talking points? To SAVE FACE, management will undoubtedly:
a) have a meeting in which they emote all over you, blame you for everything.
b) demand you come to work early/stay late to get said work done, without pay of course.
c) demand you go home and come back with the work completed, without sleep or pay of course.
d) threaten to withhold salary until objective is completed?
e) stink-eyes, sneers, passive-aggressive pouty behavior?
You don't need to throw chairs and getting into a big donnybrook about it (thank you Thesaurus.com). Stick to your talking points, "I'm not doing that, you didn't give us proper notice, there is no time in the day to do it, you aren't paying us overtime or actually anything at all" etc etc.. and if you really need to "Cross the Rubicon" (Thank you Wikipedia), you may have to go full Willy Wonka on their ass:
Wrong, sir! Wrong! Under section 37B of the contract signed by him, it states quite clearly that all offers shall become null and void if - and you can read it for yourself in this photostatic copy:
I, the undersigned, shall forfeit all rights, privileges, and licenses herein and herein contained, et cetera, et cetera... Fax mentis incendium gloria cultum, et cetera, et cetera... Memo bis punitor delicatum!
It's all there, black and white, clear as crystal! You stole fizzy lifting drinks! You bumped into the ceiling which now has to be washed and sterilized, so you get nothing! You lose! Good day, sir!

The house was ours December 29th but we literally didn’t finish moving in completely until about two weeks ago. It’s a long story. But we now own a condo in one of the most expensive areas in the country. Everyone we know and have known is still renting but we did it! We put everything in our life on hold to save for this moment. It’s not much but it’s a great starter place for us that literally has already gained $30,000 in value in just a few months due to the place and area surrounding us. The place even has a good size patio and we just recently put in a hammock something I’ve always wanted to have growing up. I can now finally spend the summer reading on the hammock with a mai tai in my hand. We are excited to start growing some veggies in the next month. I love the patio and I’m so excited to use it more as the days grow warmer. We put in a swing and a big table with chairs so there is plenty of room to entertain guests. We had our first friends over a few weeks ago and it was lovely. This wasn’t what we wanted but we compromised so we could finally start our family. The more we stay here, the more we make it our own, the more I absolutely love it and positive we made the right decision.

What's Up Edmonton! Once a week I go through most events happening in and around our beautiful city over the coming weekend, as well as the live bands playing all week - and then send a large list out to my friends. I thought I should share it here.
Get this as a weekly email update:
https://whatsupedmonton.beehiiv.com/subscribe
Note: The linked publication is ad free & non-monetized (and always will be). Use it as a directory of things to do as we reconnect in our communities. I send it out every Thursday morning.
Admins: Please message me if this isn't allowed & I'll pull it asap. I do this as a hobby only.
5 cool events this weekend:

• Maydaze Carnival & Artisan Collective Market
• Golf Gals
• Hit The Decks: Pub DJ Championship
• Celebration of Dance @ Ukrainian Cultural Heritage Village
• Build & Decorate a Birdhouse (Kids Age 5-12)

Maydaze Carnival & Artisan Collective Market

Popcorn, Cotton Candy, Games, Rides & More. Running May 17-20 at Millwoods Town Center. Tickets start at $1 and can be purchased on site. Don't forget to check out the artisan market!

Golf Gals

This is a two day event (May 18 and June 1) for women and is free for those under the age of 18, held at the Victoria Golf Course in partnership with PGA of Alberta Instructors. Day one is instructional, held on the driving range. Day 2 includes a round of golf. There are limited bags of clubs available to be borrowed. Registration closes tonight! It doesn't outright say it, but this event does appear to be geared towards those under the age of 18. Event info here.

Hit The Decks: Pub DJ Championship

Put on at Hudsons and presented by Parks Distillery, Expect a DJ showdown as decksters duke it out for positioning at the grand finale (which takes place in September), where they'll compete for cash prizes. The first round (of 3 rounds) is May 19 & I imagine it's 18+.

Celebration of Dance @ Ukrainian Cultural Heritage Village

Situated just outside Elk Island Park, the Ukrainian Heritage Village is a place where we (of all nationalities) can come together to celebrate Ukrainian heritage. On May 20 there'll be a host of dance performances to take in, commencing at 10 AM. In addition to this, the village will also be be open for exploration. Step back in time to life on the farm, enjoy traditional food and learn about cultural ways from periodically costumed interpreters. Bring a lawn chair.

Build and Decorate a Birdhouse (Kids Age 5-12)

And by kids, I'm referring to (your) children. Leave the goats at home please. Anyway, bring 'em down from 10 am to 1 PM on May 18 (to certain Rona locations) and leave with a beautiful birdhouse constructed by them. Drinks and snacks are provided. This event is FCFS until supplies run out.
Have a great weekend everyone.

I'm an Assistant Professor (TT) in the first year at a CC.
I have had an ongoing problem with students watching YouTube or TikTok via earbuds throughout my classes. I had several students who, although present for a lecture, ask me to repeat things we went over many times -- because they were listening to their devices.
I instituted a no phone policy, a student complained, and I was told I could not ask the students to put their phones away, because a family member might be in trouble and have no way to contact them.
I have one student in particular who has been working on his Associate's Degree for almost a decade. He is almost 30. Since this person has been a student for so long, he is very close to the staff, and even has a part-time job in our office.
This person is the worst offender for not paying attention in class, completing assignments, or staying on task. During a lab, he will not do any work in class at all. Like, not even a little bit. This person sits at a desk with no computer (while others are at theirs) and watches videos on his phone for hours (they're 3 hour labs). He encourages others to do the same. His behavior is rubbing off on his peers, and they are carrying it into other classes in the major. He's turning in work, but I have speculated someone else might be helping him (his girlfriend recently graduated from our program), or he may be using AI.
One day, I asked him to put his phone away repeatedly (they are required to work in their classes), he refused, left the room and immediately told the Chair and Program Coordinator (with whom he is friendly) that I was bullying him. I saw him mock crying to the Program Coordinator, who looked at me like I was a murderer. When he came back to the classroom, he smirked and said, "I hope you don't get in trouble."
At the end of the semester, the student got a B and sent everyone in the department multiple emails about how he was graded unfairly, because the rubric I used was on a scale which does not correspond to our internal system (Canvas). Obviously, I should change this, but I didn't realize the discrepancy, and I can't do it retroactively. And, obviously, points were deducted because he missed assignments and didn't follow instructions (i.e. working in class). He could not only see the percentage in Canvas, but also had access to the final grade I had just entered that day (because of his job) -- well before the other students.
Meanwhile, this person has been surreptitiously garnering sympathy about this situation by complaining to everyone in the Department. I even heard from other people in different Departments about how I was treating him unfairly. For the record, a Professor in another discipline told him to listen to me.
Long story short, the Chair and the Program Coordinator privately met with the student, encouraged him to dispute his grade, and helped him to file a "grade complaint" with the Dean. They had multiple in-person meetings to coordinate this. However, no one said a word to me about any of this nor did they help me to navigate the situation. When I requested a meeting on this subject, I was forced to jump through increasingly bizarre hoops. The meeting is tomorrow.
I don't feel supported. This student is not going anywhere anytime soon. He will probably be a student in my classes for another 10 years, and the staff is supporting and encouraging his behavior. He's going to continue to prove in my classes that no-one has to do anything that I say. Apparently, I can't even give these students bad grades.
I seriously just want to quit, but I'm a disabled single parent, and it was an ordeal to get the school to agree to accommodate those situations. I'm not sure I could do it again. I had to arrange for competing offers from two different institutions in order to get them to agree to my terms. I'm well respected in my field (I just left the industry to care for my child), but it still seems impossible.
If anyone has ANY advice, please let me know.

The Communist captain gave me a disgusted look, but then I realized it wasn't me that caused him such disgust, but my bride behind me. I closed the comms channel. xenophobic dickhead.
The tractor beam interrupted the functioning of the gravity plates that had been installed in our brand new two hundred year old ship. They were supposed to work without power for at least twenty minutes. I had paid some attention to the briefing on the ship's systems, just not... really good attention, which was regretting Nyany let out yelp of surprise. She hadn't spent months in zero g training. I grabbed her hand and since I was still bolted to the pilot's seat I easily helped her into her seat where she strapped in.
"Thanks," She smiled at me and blinked slowly. "It's been a couple centuries since my zero-g training. Felidians do not do well in zero gravity."
We sat there for a moment holding hands, getting pulled toward the big grey communist warship, watching in silent horror. I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.
And then from every speaker in the cockpit, an alarm started to blare.
Torpedo Alert
A high speed flash of red, I'm guessing the torpedo, smashed into the great grey slab. It came from behind and above us, and very very close. The torpedo lodged right in the protruding tractor beam emitter, disabling it before it exploded.
The explosion rocked us backward and shook our relatively small craft.
Another torpedo seemed to come from our ship and hit the communist ship in the open hole the first one made before it too detonated. Then a visible energy shield appeared around the great warship.
We received a hail from... I hoped whoever was shooting torpedoes at the commies, the computer couldn't identify the source.
Much to my surprise when the viewscreen turned on it was Terriphany, she had clearly aged, but it was very much obviously her. I thought only tortoises lived to extreme ages, but what do I know about xenobiology.
"Terriphany, I assume you're the one who turned off that tractor beam for us?" I never expected to be so genuinely glad to see a woman I had been such as ass in front of.
"No time to explain, standby for coupling." There was a clang on our outer hull and her ship coupled to mine on the docking port.
"Captain Davis, Nyany, whoever is flying up there? Those communist humans are only gonna be disabled for so long. Be a dear and start flying us the hell away from here!" She sounded older too, but determined in a way the young woman from the hot tub hadn't.
Nyany grabbed the yoke in the co-pilot's seat and took control, she punched the throttle full forward and we dove away from our attacker. She aimed us toward the Earth, we had dropped out of the RarDrive at the L1 point between the Earth and Moon. My god, the Earth. It was a covered in a thick grey cloud from pole to pole. What happened? It wasn't this bad two hundred years ago.
As I sat there bewildered at the state of my homeworld, the hatch opened and a handful of slightly-more-human-looking-than Terriphany turtle people dropped in. I was at once reminded of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles...
"Hi Dad, Nice to meet you." The first one said. He had a thick bundle of cables in his very human looking hand as he leaned over the seat I was in, and popped open the console to quickly plugged it in. "We're good Mom!"
"Standby..." Terriphany talked past Nyany and me to, I guess our son? While she pressed a few commands on her console. "Alright, Nyany, could you aim us where that navicom is suggesting, and then push that big red button for us."
She aimed the ship up from my now grey world, and over the horizon. Nyany looked at me, and I nodded. She hit the button and a Rainbow assaulted us.
"Owww Fuck!" Said the adult turtle-man standing behind me.
"Leonardo, Language!" His mother chided over the intercom. "Now, come help your old mother down into that ship. I want to explain myself to your father."
Nyany and I got out of our seats. When I was on my feet the need to slap myself in the face with both hands. Nope. Awake.
"Are you okay?" Nyany's tail said she was no edge. I could hardly blame her. That was a very wild few seconds, and now we were off again, but with a bunch of turtle-people we'd never met before calling me Dad. I'm on edge too.
"No... who would be okay right now? I'm pretty far from okay." I am honest. "But I think maybe, eventually I'll be okay. It's just... a lot to process. We almost died."
"Well... lets go see what Terriphany has to say." She took my hand and squeezed it, I squeezed back.
And we walked into the back of the ship where Terriphany, my three children with her, and two of my adult grandchildren and one of their spouses were waiting, along with a clutch of eggs that I assume contain my great grand children.
"First things first, we installed a cloak so that no one will be able to find us, at least hopefully. I put all the money I made from Disney paying me to having your children from stored DNA samples into stealth tech research. I took the pinnacle of our designs and destroyed all the research and the entire company a week before we came here to join you. This is your eldest son Leonardo, the second to hatch was Rembrandt, and your only Daughter Sofonisba hatched third. Her children with a human man, Frank, deceased, are Artemisia and Donatello. Artemisia has laid a clutch that she made with her mate, Chelon. Donatello has yet to find a mate, we all hope he can do so in whatever future we find ourselves in."
Everyone waved one at a time and when she was done speaking, I nearly lost my legs. Nyany helped me find a chair. "Get him some water, please."
Sofonisba brought a glass to me. She looks a lot like me, how can a turtle person look so much like me. What the fuck Disney-corp, Captain Tanner, whichever of them was responsible for this... I actually needed to thank. My surprise family had really pulled my ass out of the fire. I splash myself in the face with the glass of water more than I drink it, but I did swallow a little in the process.
"Okay, so that's a lot. I have questions."
Terriphany gestured for me to go ahead. And all the kids found places to sit down themselves too. Nyany stayed standing behind and beside me, her hand on my shoulder.
"So what now? How much did Disney pay you for this? Was there some sort of reality show associated with raising them too? Is Disney even still around? Why are they all named after Earth's renaissance artists?" They came tumbling out faster than they could answer.
"Disney paid Mom plenty." Rembrandt said.
"Turtin' along with Terriphany, yes." Sofonisba said. "It put us all through college. Phd's the lot of us."
"Disney named the first three of us, and we just..." Leonardo sorta trailed off.
"...carried on the tradition afterward, I guess." Sofonisba took responsibility for naming her own children in the same fashion."
Terriphany's tone took a dire note when she answered his only remaining unanswered question. "As for old Disney corp... well, they fully captured the galactic government when they went properly interspecies in their executive level. It's the Disney Way now, not the Milky Way. Humanity on Earth rebelled against Disney rule and after it was deemed the citizens had too much hope to be properly profitable for the company, the planet was bombarded from space. Most of humanity retreated violently from capitalism after the blanketing of earth in that grey fog."
Nyany was smarter than me, she asked a very good question, "So why did they try to take us alive, and not just blast us out of existence while we crawled around the solar system at near light speed?
"Oh, because the RarDrive is a bomb that will wipe out half the solar system in a single massive explosion if it's disengaged early. Old Disney was smart and vicious. This is all in your contract Captain Davis, did you not read any of it?"
"People from my time don't really fully read contracts. Just press accept or sign and assume its fine."
"That explains why the kids are such a surprise to you. I wasn't the only one you know..." She hook her head in disbelief. "The other reason to not explode you, is that you are the richest single person in the galaxy. Captain Tanner invested a small portion of your funds into buying a rather intelligent investment AI to manage your resources, and it smartly paid to upgrade itself. As a result, It the we left your AI and Disney Corp were engaged in galaxy wide commercial and financial warfare, as well as some actual warfare in terms of proxy wards. Half the galaxy thinks of you as a hero, an the other half a villain."
Nyany gave me a little shake and whispered in my ear. "Earlier when I said It was hundreds of years since my Zero-g training, I meant... from my point of view. I'm four hundred and twelve earth years old." I think she realized I hadn't properly read her bio before starting the show, but I had, it said she was twenty seven, which I now realize must have been her planet's years.
"So... now what?" I asked again.
Terriphany smiled in her turtle way, "Well If the rumors are true, then only the living Relic, Captain Davis, In other words, You, my dear baby-daddy, can take command of the AI and give it new instructions. Its current objective is to "maximize profit for Captain Davis" and the main hub will hopefully still be at the star system about two hundred light years away that we're headed to at a turtle's pace. Feel free to take some time to think about what you want to do with that information, but I'll tell you what I think you should do if you want."
"Hit me, Terri."
She smiled, and I could almost see that twenty four year old turtle girl in the hot tub again. God I was such as ass. "I think you should tell it make the star trek future actually happen."
"Yea, I think I will."
A pretty good day later, we smashed through the rainbow above a beautiful blue-green orb.

Here's the situation. The first assignment in this class was a 15% short essay. Siobhan O'Flynn gave me a passing score, saying my grade was significantly reduced because one paraphrase wasn't the original author's viewpoint.
Of course, I believed the original author expressed the viewpoint, so I sent a Quercus inbox message explaining this (she said she would respond much slower compared to email, very old-school). I didn't include one word of a regrading in the message at all, just clarification. In the message, I quoted the original text and provided more detailed reasoning. However, after reading the message, the professor lowered my grade to 40%.
This in itself is outrageous: without any changes to the assignment, simply because a student tried to explain, the professor lowered the grade from passing to failing.
But it doesn't end there; within 40 minutes, my grade was further reduced to 30%, and during that time, I did nothing, and the original submission didn't change at all.
I believe that if a professor has such power, simply shutting students' mouths and giving them 0 would be better. I believe students have the right to explain their motivation in their work without fearing their marks being taken away.
Furthermore, the grading scheme and project instructions are unclear, even though she can talk about them for more than 2 hours each class(rambling); also, she asks students to sign an academic integrity statement at the beginning of the term and once for every subsequent assignment, which is unnecessarily stupid. I can't believe someone is still doing this in 2024, requiring a total of 5 academic integrity checklists for one class.
In summary, avoid this professor.
Lastly, the course itself seems decent; it has no tests or exams and will cover data visualization and practical chart tools later on.
Update as of May 16, 2024, 12:34 AM EDT:
Originally, I just wanted to share my story and help other people who want to select CDN355 in the future, since I didn't find much information about the professor and the course, and I'm not responsible for providing evidence. But now there are requests for posting copies. I can still take screeshots since there is a delay before the course content becomes invisible for me on Quercus. I believe that providing more necessary content would help, so I'll do this. I removed parts where it would be inappropriate to post here.
I also posted those redundant academic integrity checklists. However, posting the essay, rubric, and syllabus would violate school policy, so I won't do it.
https://preview.redd.it/hf9makr5up0d1.png?width=574&format=png&auto=webp&s=877107f2d58b9e509b7d4f1e66728a5be1caa1ca
The original grade
https://preview.redd.it/l3jdpdwzpp0d1.png?width=1565&format=png&auto=webp&s=fbfb95c9c6d058a5444ed73a26da292437cefefe
Inbox message explaining
https://preview.redd.it/h23iiewzpp0d1.png?width=1554&format=png&auto=webp&s=c6ae3f40455fb90dbbaa24250ff1d3c602f622c0
The reply
https://preview.redd.it/flue7i04up0d1.png?width=574&format=png&auto=webp&s=aad3dcbb8409ffc046df3f1816daf7aef14f39b1
The score after the second regrade without me requesting. I didn't screenshot the first regrade of 40% because I didn't expect this second one, and it happened within 40 minutes.
https://preview.redd.it/40wqr3xrrp0d1.jpg?width=1179&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=7dd92f7a3f2e5aeb50d8d97c3d6804985ee86304
But I have emails reflecting 2 changes were made.
https://preview.redd.it/4inc7pwzpp0d1.png?width=1280&format=png&auto=webp&s=024d03056fb31b743d0dd40384098d2e21368dc7
https://preview.redd.it/i7rwkdwzpp0d1.png?width=1732&format=png&auto=webp&s=d10d51ce963a47ab5b22a157a45ff5029ff1451a
Academic integrity checklists
The way she insists on her holy highest academic standards may be a better fit for an essay lawyer than a teacher. I believe that even someone who wrote a 3-page essay with random opinions, citing only 1 sentence from each source she provided, would receive a grade higher than 30%. She should reduce the distance between herself and her students, not just in the news (what she tried to do. I saw pictures of her standing alongside students in several news articles).
Aside from this point, some comments mentioned that Rate My Professor website is unreliable and provided a link to prove it (with a low-score professor's research). RMP scores would be another debate, but it's just a simple mention here. While I think its anonymity may introduce bias, much like the internet, it's a platform for students to provide opinions, and it's understandable that a bad professor would not be happy with it (who has a very low score). I just want to ask: would any of you, as a genuine student, prefer a professor rated 2.1/5.0, 2.8/5.0, or even as high as 3.5/5.0 over those higher than 4? Would you choose a professor with low ratings, not drop the course, and not use CNCR, believe in your extraordinary strength to earn a fair grade from any grader and to have a pleasant class experience?
Update as of May 16, 2024, 2:25 PM EDT:
There are so many comments going on now; I read them and couldn’t get back to each one of them, but I appreciate your concerns and advice. I have received updates from at least four other students who are currently enrolled in the class and are experiencing difficulties with her.
Here’s the quote from one of the classmates:
“When I asked her to clarify the assignment requirements, she scolded me. But when some classmates asked her anonymously, she pretended to be very patient in her responses. When I asked her a question via email, she didn't answer it. But when someone else asked the same question in class, she said, ’Oh, I just noticed this, thank you.’
For the assignment, there was no problem with my citations, and she didn't give any constructive feedback on what I did wrong; she just insisted that my ideas were problematic. She always runs over time in class, claiming it's office hours, but during office hours, she talks about techniques needed for the final. She shouldn't be in academia; she should be an actress.”
Another student received low marks on the essay and unconstructive feedback such as only “vague statements.” There have already been 14 people dropping out in just a few days, the full capacity of this class is 36.
Since it’s not only my problem here, I feel bearing a responsibility to push this thing further. I sent an email to the Woodsworth Registrar, and they replied that they can issue a full refund for the course, but I don’t care about that now. I already saw someone suggest going to the department chair and even the dean’s office, and I am doing this. This thing had filled my mind; I was very awake and couldn't sleep well last night. I'm doing something that I have never done before.
If someone sees this and is currently enrolled in this class, just email the department or registrar; it will help.

RCGP is listed as endorsing a course on pornography https://courses.rewardfoundation.org/courses/sexual-dysfunctions-and-pornography
Several colleagues have emailed the RCGP that this is a religious group (the CEO and chair of The Reward Foundation are preachers for Karezza) paid to lobby against the pornography industry. https://www.scribd.com/document/713626008/The-Reward-Foundation-s-Annual-Trustee-Reports-To-the-Scottish-Charity-Regulator-2015-to-2023
The recommended "treatment", abstinence-based NoFap, is well documented to harm patients, including causing suicidal ideation. They also instruct GPs to use other ICD codes than what the patient actually report, which is high risk for losing the license. They recommend two books in their training from which they receive all the profits, without disclosing this is the case. Sufficed to say, it should not be endorsed.
Is there a better method for getting the course reviewed by actual experts? It seems clear to all the actual experts that this should never have been certified. At least one of the "teachers" was not aware he was even listed in the course!

Okay, I’m gonna level with you. Focusing on current events is just getting a little too fucking heavy. I’m no closer to answers than I was a month ago, none of us can sleep through a full night without waking up shaking and drenched in sweat, and there are some new downright bizarre phenomena cropping up that I just don’t have it in me to allot my energy to at the moment.
So, for today’s installment (and then also for the next one) I’m gonna tell you another good ol’ fun-for-the-whole-family pool story. Yep, you heard that right—welcome to our first bonafide two-parter.
This was quite a while ago. My measure of time is all off by a year now, but I feel fairly confident in chalking it up to post-first pool story, pre-ouija board fiasco—so however long ago that’s been now.
It was a weird, rare night, in that Matt was out. Not an unheard of occurrence, but it’s fairly anomalous, and it certainly puts the rest of us on slightly higher alert.
Obviously, he always tells us to call him at the first sign of some shit going down and to use our best judgment to determine whether it’s serious enough to lock up and head out. Better safe than sorry and all that. The night in question was no exception to the rule.
Overall, though, things were mostly quiet. Alice was in, as was I, as was Wiley. We do a lot of congregating, but we do a lot of work, too, and this night, we were all in our respective areas, doing our respective jobs.
I was in my not-office mending a finicky Shakespeare anthology, Alice was watching the desk while working on cataloging a truckload of new donations, and Wiley was replacing several lightbulbs that had all decided to call it quits after our most recent power outage (this one due to a flash-flood).
It was calm to an almost uncharacteristic degree. There was a relatively steady flow of patrons in and out of the building—I could hear Alice greeting them and wishing them a good evening—but as far as anomalous activity, there was none.
It does happen, on rare occasion, that we make it through a full night without any goings on, but there’s almost always at least the odd disembodied voice or two.
We should’ve known better than to trust a meteor shower.
See, there’s just something about natural anomalies. Not just the ones that knock our power out, either, although those are clearly included. Blizzards, thunderstorms, hail and tornados and earthquakes and all your run-of-the-mill destructive shit, sure. But the things of beauty, too. Rainbows. Eclipses, lunar or solar. And you think full moons hit emergency rooms hard? Try this fucking place.
It was just that a meteor shower wasn’t one we’d dealt with before. Does that mean we shouldn’t have known better? Fuck no. Obviously not. But perhaps our collective greatest fault is that we still have some semblance of hope.
Wiley wanted to look at it from the roof. Kid never fucking wants to do anything, and they were set to climb up and camp out alone. I couldn’t not entertain such an innocent, youthful whim.
Our roof access doesn’t have stairs—just a ladder—so Alice couldn’t accompany us, which I felt shitty about, but she assured me it was perfectly fine with her.
“The world decided I didn’t need functional legs so I could never be peer pressured into leaving the ground,” she quipped. “I’m not into heights. But y’all have fun up there. Somebody needs to be here for the patrons anyway.”
Fair and fair. So Wiley and I gathered up an armful of blankets and one of Matt’s trusty camping lanterns and headed out to scale the building.
Wiley went up ahead of me. That was my first mistake.
Really, they aren’t that much younger than I am. Maybe four or five years, and I’m too close to thirty for comfort now. But there’s something about them, even as far as they’ve come, that makes it impossible for me not to do everything in my power to protect them. I think Matt feels the same way. Maybe most of us do.
Anyway, that’s why I immediately started cursing myself when they reached the top of the ladder, pulled their way up and over the ledge of the roof, and said, “...Whoa.”
My second mistake was not immediately telling them to turn around and start climbing right the fuck back down.
I knew exactly what that tone of voice meant. But something in me just kicked into hyperdrive and I…had to see it. Whatever it was, I had to see it for myself.
“Don’t move,” I said, and then, “What is it?”
But by that point, I was at the top, too. I hoisted myself over the ledge and was met with…
…Water.
It was everywhere. Extending in every direction. There was no edge in sight—not even a horizon line. Just vast, dark water as far as the eye could see.
“Okay. This is not—let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Wiley agreed, a little breathless.
I’m sure you’ll be downright shocked to learn that, when we turned around, the ladder was gone.
The edge of the rooftop was, too.
The thing that surprised me, really, was that it wasn’t as though we were standing on some sort of island. We were somehow in the water all of a sudden, up to our waists, neither of us having taken a single step.
“Fucking…shit. Jesus. Adam?”
“We’re fine,” was my default response, because my anxiety override kicks in like a motherfucker as soon as someone else is more openly afraid than I am. “It’s okay, let’s just—let’s think for a second. Maybe it’s just, like, an illusion or something.”
“Okay,” Wiley said. “Maybe we should…try moving?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll bump the ledge and then we can just feel for the ladder. Good idea.”
Wiley and I shared a look, wordlessly nodding to one another, and stepped forward in unison.
Maybe I misspoke before, when I said we weren’t on a platform. It was just that our platform wasn’t above the water. Now, though, there was nothing.
It felt, almost, like the stomach-turning sensation of missing a step walking up a staircase. The only difference was that there was no moment-too-late connection.
We plummeted.
There wasn’t any difference in temperature beneath the surface, which was, in a way, more disorienting than the water itself. The mental recalibration that typically comes with plunging into a cool lake or, adversely, a heated pool wasn’t allotted an opportunity to take place. It felt, for most intents and purposes, the same as being in the air, just that I couldn’t breathe.
It was heavy, too. The weightlessness water tends to embody was null; I immediately abandoned everything I’d been carrying, clawing my way upward frantically enough that it would’ve been mortifying, I’m sure, had anyone witnessed it.
Wiley resurfaced at the same moment I did—empty handed as well, I noted—coughing a little but not to the extent that I was worried they were choking. “Next idea?” they asked, pushing their wet hair back from their face, dark, damp lashes obscuring their eyes.
“Let’s get back on the…” I started, but trailed off when I raised my head.
A couple hundred yards out from us, there was a ship. It was a dark, hulking thing, with tattered sails and something indistinguishable affixed to the bow, glittering and glinting in the moonlight.
Wiley spun around to face it, drifting back slightly when their gaze landed parallel to mine. “What the fuck is that?” they demanded, legs kicking haphazardly beneath the water to keep them in place.
“Maybe it’s…good,” I said. I knew better than that and I knew Wiley did, too, but I said it anyway. “Maybe someone will help.”
They didn’t even humor me with a response to that bullshit.
Now, at this point in the story, maybe you’re thinking being suddenly surrounded by water and watching as an ominous ship approached us with absolutely nowhere to go and no way to escape doesn’t feel quite enough like imminent condemnation. To which I say to you: not to worry. Because the next realization we came to was that the platform we’d been standing on previously had suddenly ceased to exist.
“Shit,” Wiley said. “Shit, shit, shit. Adam.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s fine. We’re fine. We just—we’re gonna—follow me.”
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to swim toward the Obvious Death Ship. I guess just that there wasn’t anything else save for open water anywhere so it essentially felt like our options were paddle around until we were exhausted and drown or face a quicker, simpler demise.
“You better have a fucking plan, bro,” Wiley intoned from behind me, which I chivalrously pretended not to hear, because I did not, in fact, have a fucking plan.
The closer we drew to the vessel, the more unbelievably monstrous it appeared to become. It loomed above us, casting a shadow over everything in its direct path, and the sinking in my stomach almost convinced me to turn around. Almost.
But then something curled around my ankle. It was slick and strong, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that whatever it was could’ve pulled me under and eaten me alive in a fraction of a second.
Luckily for me, it wasn’t interested. It let go as quickly as it had latched on, almost as though it was simply using me as a handrail to move itself along. Still, though, the knowledge that it was there was all the motivation I needed to push forward ever faster. I didn’t say anything—didn’t want to add more fuel to Wiley’s panicked fire—just picked up my pace and swam up to their side.
“There’s a ladder,” they informed me, raising a hand and pointing toward the back half of the ship.
Indeed, there was a ladder. It was a tattered, worn thing, comprised of old, fraying rope and rotting, untreated wooden boards, but it looked composed enough that I figured we could likely make it up if we were swift.
“Bet,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We went.
Up close, the ladder appeared even shoddier than it had when we’d first seen it. I reached out of the water and wrapped my fingers around the rope at the bottom, giving it a hearty tug. To my slight surprise, it held fast.
“I think we’re good,” I told Wiley. “I’ll go up first and tell you what I see.”
“Be careful,” they said, but didn’t protest, just backed up enough for me to get the leverage I needed to hoist myself onto the bottom board.
I climbed warily, overly conscious of every creak of the wood bowing beneath my weight, every groan of the fibers of rope under my hands, but made it without incident to the top.
Once there, I grabbed onto the ship’s edge, lifting my gaze to take in whatever lie before me.
It was…nothing. I mean, it was a ship, obviously. But there wasn’t anything on board. No apparent crew nor cargo nor even a captain manning the helm. Granted, I couldn’t see perfectly, but the moon shone brightly enough that I was fairly confident in my observation that the deck was devoid of anything but its own shiplap floor.
“Hello?” I called, because I wasn’t about to beckon Wiley up if some fucked shit was going to pop out of nowhere the second we made a sound.
Nothing responded. Nothing moved. The ship rocked gently on the impossible water, as silent and vacant as it had been a moment before.
“Good?” Wiley questioned nervously from below me.
“Yeah,” I told them, easing myself off the ladder and down into the confines of the vessel. “Come on.”
They did so tenuously but still more swiftly than I had, climbing aboard and landing next to me with a dampened thunk.
We allowed ourselves the briefest of moments to catch our breath, silently rejoicing in the small win that was having found solace from the pool itself. Not that we had any idea what to do or where to go from here, but at the very least, we weren’t drowning.
“Okay,” I said, clearing the unease from my throat. “I don’t know what good trying to steer this thing would do us—there’s nothing but water no matter where we go. But maybe there’s something here somewhere that’ll help us figure out how to get back. So I think we just…start looking around?”
Wiley nodded. “Cool. Split halves, front and back?”
Nooo, Adam, don’t split up! Never split up! I know. I can literally hear you screaming it at me. And actually, for once in my life, I considered that something might be a horrible fucking idea before acting on it.
But then I saw something.
As I turned back to respond, Wiley’s eyes shimmered, dancing in the moonlight.
They were silver and mercurial, with no pupils or whites in sight.
Whatever had come back up from underwater, it was not my coworker.
I swallowed, forcing my expression to remain as neutral as I was able and praying whatever was standing in front of me didn’t notice I’d caught on. My entire body was instantaneously covered in chills, in a way that I understood to have the same purpose as a dog’s hackles rising. “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll take the front.”
I headed in the opposite direction of the thing wearing Wiley’s face (at a pace that I hoped didn’t appear hurried but one that would remove me in a timely manner from the vicinity) and didn’t stop until I’d reached the front of the ship, breathing heavily and attempting to slow my reeling mind.
I didn’t know what to tackle first. I didn’t know where Wiley was, or if they were anywhere—if they were even still alive. I didn’t know what my next move should be. I didn’t know what I was looking for or where I might find it.
It’s rare that I feel utterly hopeless, to the degree that I genuinely contemplate just sitting down and giving up, but in this instance, I thought long and hard about how easy it would be to succumb. I’d let the unthinkable happen. Wiley was gone. No one else had been here with them—there was no one else to blame. Just me. Only me.
…You’ll be glad to know that the self-pity didn’t last long. Embarrassing, honestly.
If I was the only one here, it meant I was the only shot they had at making it out alive. Our version of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ had always been ‘alive until proven dead’ and I wasn’t about to turn my back on the insane streak of luck we’d had up until this point. Not a single one of our lives had been lost, and we’d been in the midst of some absolute shitstorms. There was no reason to believe that right now, tonight, was an outlier. I couldn’t lie down like a sick dog and wonder if Wiley was still out there somewhere, suffering until the bitter, bloody end. I had to find them. By whatever means necessary, as long as it took, I had to find them.
I pushed off the railing before me and spun on my heel, eyes flitting back and forth to assess my options as efficiently as possible, and after a moment, I registered that fitted flush against the large front mast, there was a door.
It was only a sliver, thin and not particularly extraordinary in height, but there was a handle carved roughly into its right side and a set of rust-riddled hinges on its left.
I took about half a second to weigh my options and then reached for it, curling my fingers around the handle and giving it a generous tug.
The hinges, unsurprisingly, complained, but not loudly and not for long. The door gave way with little resistance, and opened up to my worst fucking nightmare.
A set of stairs, descending into blackness.
I mean, I guess if I’m being fair, my first pool encounter had featured a staircase leading to the pool rather than away from it, but I didn’t feel like there could possibly be good news awaiting me below deck of a ship where I’d just encountered a fucking mimic.
Still, though, there was a niggling insistence in my brain (not that kind, come on) that it was my only lead on finding Wiley if they were, in fact, somewhere on board. So I cast one last glance over my shoulder and stepped into the dark, letting the door fall closed behind me.
It smelled different, instantly, from the open air above. Mustier, which was to be expected, but also almost sweet somehow. I tried, unsuccessfully, to shove my true-crime-podcast-addled brain’s helpful reminder that the scent of human death is said to be sweet into a mental lockbox and put my hand to the wall, easing tentatively down to the second step.
The visibility wasn’t just low—it was practically zero. If you’ve ever been on a cave tour and had a guide cut the lights and instruct you to lift your hand to your face to demonstrate the complete absence of light, it was nearly that intense. The placing of both feet on each concurrent stair was an arduous, calculated process, but finally, after approximately one (1) century, I reached flat ground. I still couldn’t see, and there was no definitive way to tell whether I was standing on the floor or just a landing without thoroughly feeling out the space around me, so I reluctantly departed from the wall, scooting my feet in small, tentative motions and keeping both arms partially outstretched before me.
After a (l o n g) moment, I determined that either this was the world’s largest landing or I’d made it all the way down. I had no idea whether I was in a singular, enormous room, or if there were individual cabins, or if I was about to run face-first into the grim fucking reaper.
And then I turned to my left.
There was a light.
It was so, so faint. Flickering. Barely discernible, its warm, gentle glow ever so shyly illuminating the cracks around what appeared to be another closed door.
Being the only visible thing in my line of sight, in any direction, it emitted the aura of both a beacon and an omen.
I headed towards it.
I was about half afraid I was stuck in a horror movie situation where no matter how long I walked it would never grow any closer, but fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. I actually gained on it more quickly than I felt I should have for the speed I was moving, but I wasn’t going to complain about reaching the end of the nothingness in commendable time.
I ran my fingertips along the edge of the door and, sure enough, there was a carved-in handle, just like the last.
It opened just as effortlessly, and yellow candlelight rolled dimly out to greet me, lapping at my waterlogged clothes.
“Please,” came a quiet, terrified voice from inside the room. “Please don’t. I don’t know what you want, or–or what you are, but please don’t—”
“...Wiley?”
Rather than calming, the voice’s state of alarm rose to a level bordering on full-blown panic as I took a step into the space. “Please,” the voice begged. There wasn’t anyone visible from my current vantage point, but I could hear it clearly enough to feel fairly confident that the person attached to it—the person who either had to be Wiley or yet another duplicate of them—was close. “Why are you doing this?”
This was a cabin, I thought, or perhaps a study of some sort, with a rotting wooden desk and a decaying leather chair both covered in a flurry of loose, browned book pages and a thick layer of dust. There were candles littering several surfaces, placed in what appeared not to be any intentional manner. Directly to my right, there was a shelf; its back faced me and the odd placement led me to imagine that it may have been employed to block the door at some time.
It was also, I would have just about bet, the source of the voice.
I nudged a couple of planks and a broken amber bottle out of the way with the toe of my shoe, rounding the shelf to find a crumpled, bloodied Wiley, restrained to the floor by a thick, coarse rope fixed expertly to a bolted tie and holding their bound hands up to shield their face.
“Jesus fuck,” I said. “What happened to you?”
Slowly, they lifted their head. “...Adam?”
Realization dawned on me, and I felt my stomach sink. “Look at me,” I told them. “Look at my eyes.”
They did, their own bloodshot and watery and inherently human, and I watched their shoulders deflate, the defense and terror draining from their form. “There’s someone…something…down here. Or, I guess it still is, anyway. I don’t know where it went, but I don’t wanna be here when it comes back.”
I nodded. “It look like me?”
Wiley nodded back.
“Yeah, there’s one of you upstairs. Not real sure what we’re supposed to do about them, but one thing at a time. Let’s get you up from there.”
It was a struggle, disentangling Wiley from the heavy, abrasive leads coccooning their body, but we got there eventually, and throughout the entirety of the arduous process they gave me the rundown on how, when we’d parted from the solace of the platform, something had instantaneously latched onto them, dragging them down deeper and deeper until their ears popped and their head felt like it was going to explode. They said they’d been knocked out by the pressure, and that when they’d come to, already tied in place and coughing up lungfuls of water, “I” had been standing over them, wielding a large net hook and no mercy.
“I knew it wasn’t you, obviously,” they said, “but I didn’t know where you actually were or if something had, like. Hijacked your body? I don’t know. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We grabbed a couple of candles (the majority had simply been melted into place atop whatever surface they’d adorned, but there was a small collection fitted into slightly-too-small brass holders) and got the fuck out.
Being able to see so little in the space around us was almost more disorienting than the pitch darkness I’d been feeling my way through before. It felt as though we were in a fragile, wavering bubble of reality and nothing existed outside of it.
“Wish I’d been awake coming down here,” Wiley remarked. “Guess I still wouldn’t have seen shit, though.”
“I could…maybe get us back upstairs?” I considered, with little to no confidence. “But I don’t really know what good it would do us. Nowhere to go. Maybe we just…look around down here for a bit? See if we can find anything useful?”
“Yeah, okay,” Wiley assented. “But we’ve gotta be quiet. I don’t want that thing to hear us.”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that.
We wandered hesitantly through the dark, shielding the flames of our candles with cupped palms and praying we wouldn’t misstep. We made it some unsubstantiated quantity of time without incident, but softly, after seconds or minutes or hours, we heard a light rustling from the shadow veiled corridor to our right, and Wiley pulled me into the nearest open room in the opposite direction.
Flattening our backs to the wall, we listened intently as footsteps echoed faintly behind us, cyclically growing closer and then further away again for several moments before disappearing altogether.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and uncovered my candle, easing the door of the room to a gentle, silent close. The contents of this one were different from that of the last in that there practically weren’t any. It wasn’t just that it was tidier; there was a chest shoved against the wall nearest us and a leatherbound book of some sort lying in the center of the floor, but otherwise the space was vacant.
Wiley moved first, crouching next to the journal and lifting it from the ground, a cloud of dust rising in the wake of their breath. I knelt down beside them, offering my candlelight so they could discard theirs and open the cover.
Beneath which there was a box.
It was a plain, unadorned wooden rectangle, nestled into the carved-out central pages of the book, and we learned upon extracting it that there was no lock or latch, just a seam indicating the lid’s separation from the body.
I don’t need to spell the whole situation out for you. There was a key in the box. The key opened, you guessed it: the chest. Inside the chest, there were piles of gold and jewels beyond your wildest imagination. We’re rich now. The end.
Nah, JK. But the key in the box did open the chest, in which there was, A) a pair of peeling, pleather driving gloves, and B)...
I felt my heart skip.
A bicycle chain.
I’m not going to get into the nuances of that right now, or maybe ever. But for the purposes of dramatic flair, just know that it was incredibly, pointedly relevant to me, on a level so personal it sucker punched the air straight out of my lungs.
“No,” Wiley said, staggering back a step. “Uh-uh. Nope.”
I put together, then, that the gloves must have been their ticket item. “It’s okay,” I said, on autopilot, because it was not. “There’s something—something’s carved into the bottom of this thing.” Pushing past the reaction every fiber of my being had to the sensation of the frigid metal against my skin, I shoved both the chain and the gloves to the side and could scarcely make out a host of crudely scrawled letters in the wavering light of my half-gone candle.
“What is it?” Wiley asked, making no move to come nearer again.
“Though your…hand…? Heart. Though your heart does pound and knees grow…weak,” I deciphered slowly, “Rid yourself by your… That doesn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t it be of? It says ‘rid yourself by your fear’ and…something. Drain the…clin… No. Drink. Drain the drink.”
“Rid yourself by your fear and drain the drink,” Wiley repeated analytically. “The hell does that mean? Is this shit telling us to kill ourselves with the—oh. Oh. Fuck.”
I was not following. “...I’m not following,” I said.
“It is.” Wiley returned to my side, squatting down and nudging me out of the way with their shoulder to peer warily into the trunk. “It’s telling us to kill ourselves, but not these selves. We’re supposed to use…those…to kill our fuckin’ doppelgangers, or whatever they are. That’s how we get rid of the water.”
“Oh,” I echoed. “Fuck.”
We marinated for a moment in silence before Wiley sighed, resigned, and lifted the gloves from the chest, closing their eyes and pulling the fabric snugly over their hands. “Let’s get to work.”

Okay, I’m gonna level with you. Focusing on current events is just getting a little too fucking heavy. I’m no closer to answers than I was a month ago, none of us can sleep through a full night without waking up shaking and drenched in sweat, and there are some new downright bizarre phenomena cropping up that I just don’t have it in me to allot my energy to at the moment.
So, for today’s installment (and then also for the next one) I’m gonna tell you another good ol’ fun-for-the-whole-family pool story. Yep, you heard that right—welcome to our first bonafide two-parter.
This was quite a while ago. My measure of time is all off by a year now, but I feel fairly confident in chalking it up to post-first pool story, pre-ouija board fiasco—so however long ago that’s been now.
It was a weird, rare night, in that Matt was out. Not an unheard of occurrence, but it’s fairly anomalous, and it certainly puts the rest of us on slightly higher alert.
Obviously, he always tells us to call him at the first sign of some shit going down and to use our best judgment to determine whether it’s serious enough to lock up and head out. Better safe than sorry and all that. The night in question was no exception to the rule.
Overall, though, things were mostly quiet. Alice was in, as was I, as was Wiley. We do a lot of congregating, but we do a lot of work, too, and this night, we were all in our respective areas, doing our respective jobs.
I was in my not-office mending a finicky Shakespeare anthology, Alice was watching the desk while working on cataloging a truckload of new donations, and Wiley was replacing several lightbulbs that had all decided to call it quits after our most recent power outage (this one due to a flash-flood).
It was calm to an almost uncharacteristic degree. There was a relatively steady flow of patrons in and out of the building—I could hear Alice greeting them and wishing them a good evening—but as far as anomalous activity, there was none.
It does happen, on rare occasion, that we make it through a full night without any goings on, but there’s almost always at least the odd disembodied voice or two.
We should’ve known better than to trust a meteor shower.
See, there’s just something about natural anomalies. Not just the ones that knock our power out, either, although those are clearly included. Blizzards, thunderstorms, hail and tornados and earthquakes and all your run-of-the-mill destructive shit, sure. But the things of beauty, too. Rainbows. Eclipses, lunar or solar. And you think full moons hit emergency rooms hard? Try this fucking place.
It was just that a meteor shower wasn’t one we’d dealt with before. Does that mean we shouldn’t have known better? Fuck no. Obviously not. But perhaps our collective greatest fault is that we still have some semblance of hope.
Wiley wanted to look at it from the roof. Kid never fucking wants to do anything, and they were set to climb up and camp out alone. I couldn’t not entertain such an innocent, youthful whim.
Our roof access doesn’t have stairs—just a ladder—so Alice couldn’t accompany us, which I felt shitty about, but she assured me it was perfectly fine with her.
“The world decided I didn’t need functional legs so I could never be peer pressured into leaving the ground,” she quipped. “I’m not into heights. But y’all have fun up there. Somebody needs to be here for the patrons anyway.”
Fair and fair. So Wiley and I gathered up an armful of blankets and one of Matt’s trusty camping lanterns and headed out to scale the building.
Wiley went up ahead of me. That was my first mistake.
Really, they aren’t that much younger than I am. Maybe four or five years, and I’m too close to thirty for comfort now. But there’s something about them, even as far as they’ve come, that makes it impossible for me not to do everything in my power to protect them. I think Matt feels the same way. Maybe most of us do.
Anyway, that’s why I immediately started cursing myself when they reached the top of the ladder, pulled their way up and over the ledge of the roof, and said, “...Whoa.”
My second mistake was not immediately telling them to turn around and start climbing right the fuck back down.
I knew exactly what that tone of voice meant. But something in me just kicked into hyperdrive and I…had to see it. Whatever it was, I had to see it for myself.
“Don’t move,” I said, and then, “What is it?”
But by that point, I was at the top, too. I hoisted myself over the ledge and was met with…
…Water.
It was everywhere. Extending in every direction. There was no edge in sight—not even a horizon line. Just vast, dark water as far as the eye could see.
“Okay. This is not—let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Wiley agreed, a little breathless.
I’m sure you’ll be downright shocked to learn that, when we turned around, the ladder was gone.
The edge of the rooftop was, too.
The thing that surprised me, really, was that it wasn’t as though we were standing on some sort of island. We were somehow in the water all of a sudden, up to our waists, neither of us having taken a single step.
“Fucking…shit. Jesus. Adam?”
“We’re fine,” was my default response, because my anxiety override kicks in like a motherfucker as soon as someone else is more openly afraid than I am. “It’s okay, let’s just—let’s think for a second. Maybe it’s just, like, an illusion or something.”
“Okay,” Wiley said. “Maybe we should…try moving?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll bump the ledge and then we can just feel for the ladder. Good idea.”
Wiley and I shared a look, wordlessly nodding to one another, and stepped forward in unison.
Maybe I misspoke before, when I said we weren’t on a platform. It was just that our platform wasn’t above the water. Now, though, there was nothing.
It felt, almost, like the stomach-turning sensation of missing a step walking up a staircase. The only difference was that there was no moment-too-late connection.
We plummeted.
There wasn’t any difference in temperature beneath the surface, which was, in a way, more disorienting than the water itself. The mental recalibration that typically comes with plunging into a cool lake or, adversely, a heated pool wasn’t allotted an opportunity to take place. It felt, for most intents and purposes, the same as being in the air, just that I couldn’t breathe.
It was heavy, too. The weightlessness water tends to embody was null; I immediately abandoned everything I’d been carrying, clawing my way upward frantically enough that it would’ve been mortifying, I’m sure, had anyone witnessed it.
Wiley resurfaced at the same moment I did—empty handed as well, I noted—coughing a little but not to the extent that I was worried they were choking. “Next idea?” they asked, pushing their wet hair back from their face, dark, damp lashes obscuring their eyes.
“Let’s get back on the…” I started, but trailed off when I raised my head.
A couple hundred yards out from us, there was a ship. It was a dark, hulking thing, with tattered sails and something indistinguishable affixed to the bow, glittering and glinting in the moonlight.
Wiley spun around to face it, drifting back slightly when their gaze landed parallel to mine. “What the fuck is that?” they demanded, legs kicking haphazardly beneath the water to keep them in place.
“Maybe it’s…good,” I said. I knew better than that and I knew Wiley did, too, but I said it anyway. “Maybe someone will help.”
They didn’t even humor me with a response to that bullshit.
Now, at this point in the story, maybe you’re thinking being suddenly surrounded by water and watching as an ominous ship approached us with absolutely nowhere to go and no way to escape doesn’t feel quite enough like imminent condemnation. To which I say to you: not to worry. Because the next realization we came to was that the platform we’d been standing on previously had suddenly ceased to exist.
“Shit,” Wiley said. “Shit, shit, shit. Adam.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s fine. We’re fine. We just—we’re gonna—follow me.”
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to swim toward the Obvious Death Ship. I guess just that there wasn’t anything else save for open water anywhere so it essentially felt like our options were paddle around until we were exhausted and drown or face a quicker, simpler demise.
“You better have a fucking plan, bro,” Wiley intoned from behind me, which I chivalrously pretended not to hear, because I did not, in fact, have a fucking plan.
The closer we drew to the vessel, the more unbelievably monstrous it appeared to become. It loomed above us, casting a shadow over everything in its direct path, and the sinking in my stomach almost convinced me to turn around. Almost.
But then something curled around my ankle. It was slick and strong, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that whatever it was could’ve pulled me under and eaten me alive in a fraction of a second.
Luckily for me, it wasn’t interested. It let go as quickly as it had latched on, almost as though it was simply using me as a handrail to move itself along. Still, though, the knowledge that it was there was all the motivation I needed to push forward ever faster. I didn’t say anything—didn’t want to add more fuel to Wiley’s panicked fire—just picked up my pace and swam up to their side.
“There’s a ladder,” they informed me, raising a hand and pointing toward the back half of the ship.
Indeed, there was a ladder. It was a tattered, worn thing, comprised of old, fraying rope and rotting, untreated wooden boards, but it looked composed enough that I figured we could likely make it up if we were swift.
“Bet,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We went.
Up close, the ladder appeared even shoddier than it had when we’d first seen it. I reached out of the water and wrapped my fingers around the rope at the bottom, giving it a hearty tug. To my slight surprise, it held fast.
“I think we’re good,” I told Wiley. “I’ll go up first and tell you what I see.”
“Be careful,” they said, but didn’t protest, just backed up enough for me to get the leverage I needed to hoist myself onto the bottom board.
I climbed warily, overly conscious of every creak of the wood bowing beneath my weight, every groan of the fibers of rope under my hands, but made it without incident to the top.
Once there, I grabbed onto the ship’s edge, lifting my gaze to take in whatever lie before me.
It was…nothing. I mean, it was a ship, obviously. But there wasn’t anything on board. No apparent crew nor cargo nor even a captain manning the helm. Granted, I couldn’t see perfectly, but the moon shone brightly enough that I was fairly confident in my observation that the deck was devoid of anything but its own shiplap floor.
“Hello?” I called, because I wasn’t about to beckon Wiley up if some fucked shit was going to pop out of nowhere the second we made a sound.
Nothing responded. Nothing moved. The ship rocked gently on the impossible water, as silent and vacant as it had been a moment before.
“Good?” Wiley questioned nervously from below me.
“Yeah,” I told them, easing myself off the ladder and down into the confines of the vessel. “Come on.”
They did so tenuously but still more swiftly than I had, climbing aboard and landing next to me with a dampened thunk.
We allowed ourselves the briefest of moments to catch our breath, silently rejoicing in the small win that was having found solace from the pool itself. Not that we had any idea what to do or where to go from here, but at the very least, we weren’t drowning.
“Okay,” I said, clearing the unease from my throat. “I don’t know what good trying to steer this thing would do us—there’s nothing but water no matter where we go. But maybe there’s something here somewhere that’ll help us figure out how to get back. So I think we just…start looking around?”
Wiley nodded. “Cool. Split halves, front and back?”
Nooo, Adam, don’t split up! Never split up! I know. I can literally hear you screaming it at me. And actually, for once in my life, I considered that something might be a horrible fucking idea before acting on it.
But then I saw something.
As I turned back to respond, Wiley’s eyes shimmered, dancing in the moonlight.
They were silver and mercurial, with no pupils or whites in sight.
Whatever had come back up from underwater, it was not my coworker.
I swallowed, forcing my expression to remain as neutral as I was able and praying whatever was standing in front of me didn’t notice I’d caught on. My entire body was instantaneously covered in chills, in a way that I understood to have the same purpose as a dog’s hackles rising. “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll take the front.”
I headed in the opposite direction of the thing wearing Wiley’s face (at a pace that I hoped didn’t appear hurried but one that would remove me in a timely manner from the vicinity) and didn’t stop until I’d reached the front of the ship, breathing heavily and attempting to slow my reeling mind.
I didn’t know what to tackle first. I didn’t know where Wiley was, or if they were anywhere—if they were even still alive. I didn’t know what my next move should be. I didn’t know what I was looking for or where I might find it.
It’s rare that I feel utterly hopeless, to the degree that I genuinely contemplate just sitting down and giving up, but in this instance, I thought long and hard about how easy it would be to succumb. I’d let the unthinkable happen. Wiley was gone. No one else had been here with them—there was no one else to blame. Just me. Only me.
…You’ll be glad to know that the self-pity didn’t last long. Embarrassing, honestly.
If I was the only one here, it meant I was the only shot they had at making it out alive. Our version of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ had always been ‘alive until proven dead’ and I wasn’t about to turn my back on the insane streak of luck we’d had up until this point. Not a single one of our lives had been lost, and we’d been in the midst of some absolute shitstorms. There was no reason to believe that right now, tonight, was an outlier. I couldn’t lie down like a sick dog and wonder if Wiley was still out there somewhere, suffering until the bitter, bloody end. I had to find them. By whatever means necessary, as long as it took, I had to find them.
I pushed off the railing before me and spun on my heel, eyes flitting back and forth to assess my options as efficiently as possible, and after a moment, I registered that fitted flush against the large front mast, there was a door.
It was only a sliver, thin and not particularly extraordinary in height, but there was a handle carved roughly into its right side and a set of rust-riddled hinges on its left.
I took about half a second to weigh my options and then reached for it, curling my fingers around the handle and giving it a generous tug.
The hinges, unsurprisingly, complained, but not loudly and not for long. The door gave way with little resistance, and opened up to my worst fucking nightmare.
A set of stairs, descending into blackness.
I mean, I guess if I’m being fair, my first pool encounter had featured a staircase leading to the pool rather than away from it, but I didn’t feel like there could possibly be good news awaiting me below deck of a ship where I’d just encountered a fucking mimic.
Still, though, there was a niggling insistence in my brain (not that kind, come on) that it was my only lead on finding Wiley if they were, in fact, somewhere on board. So I cast one last glance over my shoulder and stepped into the dark, letting the door fall closed behind me.
It smelled different, instantly, from the open air above. Mustier, which was to be expected, but also almost sweet somehow. I tried, unsuccessfully, to shove my true-crime-podcast-addled brain’s helpful reminder that the scent of human death is said to be sweet into a mental lockbox and put my hand to the wall, easing tentatively down to the second step.
The visibility wasn’t just low—it was practically zero. If you’ve ever been on a cave tour and had a guide cut the lights and instruct you to lift your hand to your face to demonstrate the complete absence of light, it was nearly that intense. The placing of both feet on each concurrent stair was an arduous, calculated process, but finally, after approximately one (1) century, I reached flat ground. I still couldn’t see, and there was no definitive way to tell whether I was standing on the floor or just a landing without thoroughly feeling out the space around me, so I reluctantly departed from the wall, scooting my feet in small, tentative motions and keeping both arms partially outstretched before me.
After a (l o n g) moment, I determined that either this was the world’s largest landing or I’d made it all the way down. I had no idea whether I was in a singular, enormous room, or if there were individual cabins, or if I was about to run face-first into the grim fucking reaper.
And then I turned to my left.
There was a light.
It was so, so faint. Flickering. Barely discernible, its warm, gentle glow ever so shyly illuminating the cracks around what appeared to be another closed door.
Being the only visible thing in my line of sight, in any direction, it emitted the aura of both a beacon and an omen.
I headed towards it.
I was about half afraid I was stuck in a horror movie situation where no matter how long I walked it would never grow any closer, but fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. I actually gained on it more quickly than I felt I should have for the speed I was moving, but I wasn’t going to complain about reaching the end of the nothingness in commendable time.
I ran my fingertips along the edge of the door and, sure enough, there was a carved-in handle, just like the last.
It opened just as effortlessly, and yellow candlelight rolled dimly out to greet me, lapping at my waterlogged clothes.
“Please,” came a quiet, terrified voice from inside the room. “Please don’t. I don’t know what you want, or–or what you are, but please don’t—”
“...Wiley?”
Rather than calming, the voice’s state of alarm rose to a level bordering on full-blown panic as I took a step into the space. “Please,” the voice begged. There wasn’t anyone visible from my current vantage point, but I could hear it clearly enough to feel fairly confident that the person attached to it—the person who either had to be Wiley or yet another duplicate of them—was close. “Why are you doing this?”
This was a cabin, I thought, or perhaps a study of some sort, with a rotting wooden desk and a decaying leather chair both covered in a flurry of loose, browned book pages and a thick layer of dust. There were candles littering several surfaces, placed in what appeared not to be any intentional manner. Directly to my right, there was a shelf; its back faced me and the odd placement led me to imagine that it may have been employed to block the door at some time.
It was also, I would have just about bet, the source of the voice.
I nudged a couple of planks and a broken amber bottle out of the way with the toe of my shoe, rounding the shelf to find a crumpled, bloodied Wiley, restrained to the floor by a thick, coarse rope fixed expertly to a bolted tie and holding their bound hands up to shield their face.
“Jesus fuck,” I said. “What happened to you?”
Slowly, they lifted their head. “...Adam?”
Realization dawned on me, and I felt my stomach sink. “Look at me,” I told them. “Look at my eyes.”
They did, their own bloodshot and watery and inherently human, and I watched their shoulders deflate, the defense and terror draining from their form. “There’s someone…something…down here. Or, I guess it still is, anyway. I don’t know where it went, but I don’t wanna be here when it comes back.”
I nodded. “It look like me?”
Wiley nodded back.
“Yeah, there’s one of you upstairs. Not real sure what we’re supposed to do about them, but one thing at a time. Let’s get you up from there.”
It was a struggle, disentangling Wiley from the heavy, abrasive leads coccooning their body, but we got there eventually, and throughout the entirety of the arduous process they gave me the rundown on how, when we’d parted from the solace of the platform, something had instantaneously latched onto them, dragging them down deeper and deeper until their ears popped and their head felt like it was going to explode. They said they’d been knocked out by the pressure, and that when they’d come to, already tied in place and coughing up lungfuls of water, “I” had been standing over them, wielding a large net hook and no mercy.
“I knew it wasn’t you, obviously,” they said, “but I didn’t know where you actually were or if something had, like. Hijacked your body? I don’t know. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We grabbed a couple of candles (the majority had simply been melted into place atop whatever surface they’d adorned, but there was a small collection fitted into slightly-too-small brass holders) and got the fuck out.
Being able to see so little in the space around us was almost more disorienting than the pitch darkness I’d been feeling my way through before. It felt as though we were in a fragile, wavering bubble of reality and nothing existed outside of it.
“Wish I’d been awake coming down here,” Wiley remarked. “Guess I still wouldn’t have seen shit, though.”
“I could…maybe get us back upstairs?” I considered, with little to no confidence. “But I don’t really know what good it would do us. Nowhere to go. Maybe we just…look around down here for a bit? See if we can find anything useful?”
“Yeah, okay,” Wiley assented. “But we’ve gotta be quiet. I don’t want that thing to hear us.”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that.
We wandered hesitantly through the dark, shielding the flames of our candles with cupped palms and praying we wouldn’t misstep. We made it some unsubstantiated quantity of time without incident, but softly, after seconds or minutes or hours, we heard a light rustling from the shadow veiled corridor to our right, and Wiley pulled me into the nearest open room in the opposite direction.
Flattening our backs to the wall, we listened intently as footsteps echoed faintly behind us, cyclically growing closer and then further away again for several moments before disappearing altogether.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and uncovered my candle, easing the door of the room to a gentle, silent close. The contents of this one were different from that of the last in that there practically weren’t any. It wasn’t just that it was tidier; there was a chest shoved against the wall nearest us and a leatherbound book of some sort lying in the center of the floor, but otherwise the space was vacant.
Wiley moved first, crouching next to the journal and lifting it from the ground, a cloud of dust rising in the wake of their breath. I knelt down beside them, offering my candlelight so they could discard theirs and open the cover.
Beneath which there was a box.
It was a plain, unadorned wooden rectangle, nestled into the carved-out central pages of the book, and we learned upon extracting it that there was no lock or latch, just a seam indicating the lid’s separation from the body.
I don’t need to spell the whole situation out for you. There was a key in the box. The key opened, you guessed it: the chest. Inside the chest, there were piles of gold and jewels beyond your wildest imagination. We’re rich now. The end.
Nah, JK. But the key in the box did open the chest, in which there was, A) a pair of peeling, pleather driving gloves, and B)...
I felt my heart skip.
A bicycle chain.
I’m not going to get into the nuances of that right now, or maybe ever. But for the purposes of dramatic flair, just know that it was incredibly, pointedly relevant to me, on a level so personal it sucker punched the air straight out of my lungs.
“No,” Wiley said, staggering back a step. “Uh-uh. Nope.”
I put together, then, that the gloves must have been their ticket item. “It’s okay,” I said, on autopilot, because it was not. “There’s something—something’s carved into the bottom of this thing.” Pushing past the reaction every fiber of my being had to the sensation of the frigid metal against my skin, I shoved both the chain and the gloves to the side and could scarcely make out a host of crudely scrawled letters in the wavering light of my half-gone candle.
“What is it?” Wiley asked, making no move to come nearer again.
“Though your…hand…? Heart. Though your heart does pound and knees grow…weak,” I deciphered slowly, “Rid yourself by your… That doesn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t it be of? It says ‘rid yourself by your fear’ and…something. Drain the…clin… No. Drink. Drain the drink.”
“Rid yourself by your fear and drain the drink,” Wiley repeated analytically. “The hell does that mean? Is this shit telling us to kill ourselves with the—oh. Oh. Fuck.”
I was not following. “...I’m not following,” I said.
“It is.” Wiley returned to my side, squatting down and nudging me out of the way with their shoulder to peer warily into the trunk. “It’s telling us to kill ourselves, but not these selves. We’re supposed to use…those…to kill our fuckin’ doppelgangers, or whatever they are. That’s how we get rid of the water.”
“Oh,” I echoed. “Fuck.”
We marinated for a moment in silence before Wiley sighed, resigned, and lifted the gloves from the chest, closing their eyes and pulling the fabric snugly over their hands. “Let’s get to work.”

Okay, I’m gonna level with you. Focusing on current events is just getting a little too fucking heavy. I’m no closer to answers than I was a month ago, none of us can sleep through a full night without waking up shaking and drenched in sweat, and there are some new downright bizarre phenomena cropping up that I just don’t have it in me to allot my energy to at the moment.
So, for today’s installment (and then also for the next one) I’m gonna tell you another good ol’ fun-for-the-whole-family pool story. Yep, you heard that right—welcome to our first bonafide two-parter.
This was quite a while ago. My measure of time is all off by a year now, but I feel fairly confident in chalking it up to post-first pool story, pre-ouija board fiasco—so however long ago that’s been now.
It was a weird, rare night, in that Matt was out. Not an unheard of occurrence, but it’s fairly anomalous, and it certainly puts the rest of us on slightly higher alert.
Obviously, he always tells us to call him at the first sign of some shit going down and to use our best judgment to determine whether it’s serious enough to lock up and head out. Better safe than sorry and all that. The night in question was no exception to the rule.
Overall, though, things were mostly quiet. Alice was in, as was I, as was Wiley. We do a lot of congregating, but we do a lot of work, too, and this night, we were all in our respective areas, doing our respective jobs.
I was in my not-office mending a finicky Shakespeare anthology, Alice was watching the desk while working on cataloging a truckload of new donations, and Wiley was replacing several lightbulbs that had all decided to call it quits after our most recent power outage (this one due to a flash-flood).
It was calm to an almost uncharacteristic degree. There was a relatively steady flow of patrons in and out of the building—I could hear Alice greeting them and wishing them a good evening—but as far as anomalous activity, there was none.
It does happen, on rare occasion, that we make it through a full night without any goings on, but there’s almost always at least the odd disembodied voice or two.
We should’ve known better than to trust a meteor shower.
See, there’s just something about natural anomalies. Not just the ones that knock our power out, either, although those are clearly included. Blizzards, thunderstorms, hail and tornados and earthquakes and all your run-of-the-mill destructive shit, sure. But the things of beauty, too. Rainbows. Eclipses, lunar or solar. And you think full moons hit emergency rooms hard? Try this fucking place.
It was just that a meteor shower wasn’t one we’d dealt with before. Does that mean we shouldn’t have known better? Fuck no. Obviously not. But perhaps our collective greatest fault is that we still have some semblance of hope.
Wiley wanted to look at it from the roof. Kid never fucking wants to do anything, and they were set to climb up and camp out alone. I couldn’t not entertain such an innocent, youthful whim.
Our roof access doesn’t have stairs—just a ladder—so Alice couldn’t accompany us, which I felt shitty about, but she assured me it was perfectly fine with her.
“The world decided I didn’t need functional legs so I could never be peer pressured into leaving the ground,” she quipped. “I’m not into heights. But y’all have fun up there. Somebody needs to be here for the patrons anyway.”
Fair and fair. So Wiley and I gathered up an armful of blankets and one of Matt’s trusty camping lanterns and headed out to scale the building.
Wiley went up ahead of me. That was my first mistake.
Really, they aren’t that much younger than I am. Maybe four or five years, and I’m too close to thirty for comfort now. But there’s something about them, even as far as they’ve come, that makes it impossible for me not to do everything in my power to protect them. I think Matt feels the same way. Maybe most of us do.
Anyway, that’s why I immediately started cursing myself when they reached the top of the ladder, pulled their way up and over the ledge of the roof, and said, “...Whoa.”
My second mistake was not immediately telling them to turn around and start climbing right the fuck back down.
I knew exactly what that tone of voice meant. But something in me just kicked into hyperdrive and I…had to see it. Whatever it was, I had to see it for myself.
“Don’t move,” I said, and then, “What is it?”
But by that point, I was at the top, too. I hoisted myself over the ledge and was met with…
…Water.
It was everywhere. Extending in every direction. There was no edge in sight—not even a horizon line. Just vast, dark water as far as the eye could see.
“Okay. This is not—let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Wiley agreed, a little breathless.
I’m sure you’ll be downright shocked to learn that, when we turned around, the ladder was gone.
The edge of the rooftop was, too.
The thing that surprised me, really, was that it wasn’t as though we were standing on some sort of island. We were somehow in the water all of a sudden, up to our waists, neither of us having taken a single step.
“Fucking…shit. Jesus. Adam?”
“We’re fine,” was my default response, because my anxiety override kicks in like a motherfucker as soon as someone else is more openly afraid than I am. “It’s okay, let’s just—let’s think for a second. Maybe it’s just, like, an illusion or something.”
“Okay,” Wiley said. “Maybe we should…try moving?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll bump the ledge and then we can just feel for the ladder. Good idea.”
Wiley and I shared a look, wordlessly nodding to one another, and stepped forward in unison.
Maybe I misspoke before, when I said we weren’t on a platform. It was just that our platform wasn’t above the water. Now, though, there was nothing.
It felt, almost, like the stomach-turning sensation of missing a step walking up a staircase. The only difference was that there was no moment-too-late connection.
We plummeted.
There wasn’t any difference in temperature beneath the surface, which was, in a way, more disorienting than the water itself. The mental recalibration that typically comes with plunging into a cool lake or, adversely, a heated pool wasn’t allotted an opportunity to take place. It felt, for most intents and purposes, the same as being in the air, just that I couldn’t breathe.
It was heavy, too. The weightlessness water tends to embody was null; I immediately abandoned everything I’d been carrying, clawing my way upward frantically enough that it would’ve been mortifying, I’m sure, had anyone witnessed it.
Wiley resurfaced at the same moment I did—empty handed as well, I noted—coughing a little but not to the extent that I was worried they were choking. “Next idea?” they asked, pushing their wet hair back from their face, dark, damp lashes obscuring their eyes.
“Let’s get back on the…” I started, but trailed off when I raised my head.
A couple hundred yards out from us, there was a ship. It was a dark, hulking thing, with tattered sails and something indistinguishable affixed to the bow, glittering and glinting in the moonlight.
Wiley spun around to face it, drifting back slightly when their gaze landed parallel to mine. “What the fuck is that?” they demanded, legs kicking haphazardly beneath the water to keep them in place.
“Maybe it’s…good,” I said. I knew better than that and I knew Wiley did, too, but I said it anyway. “Maybe someone will help.”
They didn’t even humor me with a response to that bullshit.
Now, at this point in the story, maybe you’re thinking being suddenly surrounded by water and watching as an ominous ship approached us with absolutely nowhere to go and no way to escape doesn’t feel quite enough like imminent condemnation. To which I say to you: not to worry. Because the next realization we came to was that the platform we’d been standing on previously had suddenly ceased to exist.
“Shit,” Wiley said. “Shit, shit, shit. Adam.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s fine. We’re fine. We just—we’re gonna—follow me.”
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to swim toward the Obvious Death Ship. I guess just that there wasn’t anything else save for open water anywhere so it essentially felt like our options were paddle around until we were exhausted and drown or face a quicker, simpler demise.
“You better have a fucking plan, bro,” Wiley intoned from behind me, which I chivalrously pretended not to hear, because I did not, in fact, have a fucking plan.
The closer we drew to the vessel, the more unbelievably monstrous it appeared to become. It loomed above us, casting a shadow over everything in its direct path, and the sinking in my stomach almost convinced me to turn around. Almost.
But then something curled around my ankle. It was slick and strong, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that whatever it was could’ve pulled me under and eaten me alive in a fraction of a second.
Luckily for me, it wasn’t interested. It let go as quickly as it had latched on, almost as though it was simply using me as a handrail to move itself along. Still, though, the knowledge that it was there was all the motivation I needed to push forward ever faster. I didn’t say anything—didn’t want to add more fuel to Wiley’s panicked fire—just picked up my pace and swam up to their side.
“There’s a ladder,” they informed me, raising a hand and pointing toward the back half of the ship.
Indeed, there was a ladder. It was a tattered, worn thing, comprised of old, fraying rope and rotting, untreated wooden boards, but it looked composed enough that I figured we could likely make it up if we were swift.
“Bet,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We went.
Up close, the ladder appeared even shoddier than it had when we’d first seen it. I reached out of the water and wrapped my fingers around the rope at the bottom, giving it a hearty tug. To my slight surprise, it held fast.
“I think we’re good,” I told Wiley. “I’ll go up first and tell you what I see.”
“Be careful,” they said, but didn’t protest, just backed up enough for me to get the leverage I needed to hoist myself onto the bottom board.
I climbed warily, overly conscious of every creak of the wood bowing beneath my weight, every groan of the fibers of rope under my hands, but made it without incident to the top.
Once there, I grabbed onto the ship’s edge, lifting my gaze to take in whatever lie before me.
It was…nothing. I mean, it was a ship, obviously. But there wasn’t anything on board. No apparent crew nor cargo nor even a captain manning the helm. Granted, I couldn’t see perfectly, but the moon shone brightly enough that I was fairly confident in my observation that the deck was devoid of anything but its own shiplap floor.
“Hello?” I called, because I wasn’t about to beckon Wiley up if some fucked shit was going to pop out of nowhere the second we made a sound.
Nothing responded. Nothing moved. The ship rocked gently on the impossible water, as silent and vacant as it had been a moment before.
“Good?” Wiley questioned nervously from below me.
“Yeah,” I told them, easing myself off the ladder and down into the confines of the vessel. “Come on.”
They did so tenuously but still more swiftly than I had, climbing aboard and landing next to me with a dampened thunk.
We allowed ourselves the briefest of moments to catch our breath, silently rejoicing in the small win that was having found solace from the pool itself. Not that we had any idea what to do or where to go from here, but at the very least, we weren’t drowning.
“Okay,” I said, clearing the unease from my throat. “I don’t know what good trying to steer this thing would do us—there’s nothing but water no matter where we go. But maybe there’s something here somewhere that’ll help us figure out how to get back. So I think we just…start looking around?”
Wiley nodded. “Cool. Split halves, front and back?”
Nooo, Adam, don’t split up! Never split up! I know. I can literally hear you screaming it at me. And actually, for once in my life, I considered that something might be a horrible fucking idea before acting on it.
But then I saw something.
As I turned back to respond, Wiley’s eyes shimmered, dancing in the moonlight.
They were silver and mercurial, with no pupils or whites in sight.
Whatever had come back up from underwater, it was not my coworker.
I swallowed, forcing my expression to remain as neutral as I was able and praying whatever was standing in front of me didn’t notice I’d caught on. My entire body was instantaneously covered in chills, in a way that I understood to have the same purpose as a dog’s hackles rising. “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll take the front.”
I headed in the opposite direction of the thing wearing Wiley’s face (at a pace that I hoped didn’t appear hurried but one that would remove me in a timely manner from the vicinity) and didn’t stop until I’d reached the front of the ship, breathing heavily and attempting to slow my reeling mind.
I didn’t know what to tackle first. I didn’t know where Wiley was, or if they were anywhere—if they were even still alive. I didn’t know what my next move should be. I didn’t know what I was looking for or where I might find it.
It’s rare that I feel utterly hopeless, to the degree that I genuinely contemplate just sitting down and giving up, but in this instance, I thought long and hard about how easy it would be to succumb. I’d let the unthinkable happen. Wiley was gone. No one else had been here with them—there was no one else to blame. Just me. Only me.
…You’ll be glad to know that the self-pity didn’t last long. Embarrassing, honestly.
If I was the only one here, it meant I was the only shot they had at making it out alive. Our version of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ had always been ‘alive until proven dead’ and I wasn’t about to turn my back on the insane streak of luck we’d had up until this point. Not a single one of our lives had been lost, and we’d been in the midst of some absolute shitstorms. There was no reason to believe that right now, tonight, was an outlier. I couldn’t lie down like a sick dog and wonder if Wiley was still out there somewhere, suffering until the bitter, bloody end. I had to find them. By whatever means necessary, as long as it took, I had to find them.
I pushed off the railing before me and spun on my heel, eyes flitting back and forth to assess my options as efficiently as possible, and after a moment, I registered that fitted flush against the large front mast, there was a door.
It was only a sliver, thin and not particularly extraordinary in height, but there was a handle carved roughly into its right side and a set of rust-riddled hinges on its left.
I took about half a second to weigh my options and then reached for it, curling my fingers around the handle and giving it a generous tug.
The hinges, unsurprisingly, complained, but not loudly and not for long. The door gave way with little resistance, and opened up to my worst fucking nightmare.
A set of stairs, descending into blackness.
I mean, I guess if I’m being fair, my first pool encounter had featured a staircase leading to the pool rather than away from it, but I didn’t feel like there could possibly be good news awaiting me below deck of a ship where I’d just encountered a fucking mimic.
Still, though, there was a niggling insistence in my brain (not that kind, come on) that it was my only lead on finding Wiley if they were, in fact, somewhere on board. So I cast one last glance over my shoulder and stepped into the dark, letting the door fall closed behind me.
It smelled different, instantly, from the open air above. Mustier, which was to be expected, but also almost sweet somehow. I tried, unsuccessfully, to shove my true-crime-podcast-addled brain’s helpful reminder that the scent of human death is said to be sweet into a mental lockbox and put my hand to the wall, easing tentatively down to the second step.
The visibility wasn’t just low—it was practically zero. If you’ve ever been on a cave tour and had a guide cut the lights and instruct you to lift your hand to your face to demonstrate the complete absence of light, it was nearly that intense. The placing of both feet on each concurrent stair was an arduous, calculated process, but finally, after approximately one (1) century, I reached flat ground. I still couldn’t see, and there was no definitive way to tell whether I was standing on the floor or just a landing without thoroughly feeling out the space around me, so I reluctantly departed from the wall, scooting my feet in small, tentative motions and keeping both arms partially outstretched before me.
After a (l o n g) moment, I determined that either this was the world’s largest landing or I’d made it all the way down. I had no idea whether I was in a singular, enormous room, or if there were individual cabins, or if I was about to run face-first into the grim fucking reaper.
And then I turned to my left.
There was a light.
It was so, so faint. Flickering. Barely discernible, its warm, gentle glow ever so shyly illuminating the cracks around what appeared to be another closed door.
Being the only visible thing in my line of sight, in any direction, it emitted the aura of both a beacon and an omen.
I headed towards it.
I was about half afraid I was stuck in a horror movie situation where no matter how long I walked it would never grow any closer, but fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. I actually gained on it more quickly than I felt I should have for the speed I was moving, but I wasn’t going to complain about reaching the end of the nothingness in commendable time.
I ran my fingertips along the edge of the door and, sure enough, there was a carved-in handle, just like the last.
It opened just as effortlessly, and yellow candlelight rolled dimly out to greet me, lapping at my waterlogged clothes.
“Please,” came a quiet, terrified voice from inside the room. “Please don’t. I don’t know what you want, or–or what you are, but please don’t—”
“...Wiley?”
Rather than calming, the voice’s state of alarm rose to a level bordering on full-blown panic as I took a step into the space. “Please,” the voice begged. There wasn’t anyone visible from my current vantage point, but I could hear it clearly enough to feel fairly confident that the person attached to it—the person who either had to be Wiley or yet another duplicate of them—was close. “Why are you doing this?”
This was a cabin, I thought, or perhaps a study of some sort, with a rotting wooden desk and a decaying leather chair both covered in a flurry of loose, browned book pages and a thick layer of dust. There were candles littering several surfaces, placed in what appeared not to be any intentional manner. Directly to my right, there was a shelf; its back faced me and the odd placement led me to imagine that it may have been employed to block the door at some time.
It was also, I would have just about bet, the source of the voice.
I nudged a couple of planks and a broken amber bottle out of the way with the toe of my shoe, rounding the shelf to find a crumpled, bloodied Wiley, restrained to the floor by a thick, coarse rope fixed expertly to a bolted tie and holding their bound hands up to shield their face.
“Jesus fuck,” I said. “What happened to you?”
Slowly, they lifted their head. “...Adam?”
Realization dawned on me, and I felt my stomach sink. “Look at me,” I told them. “Look at my eyes.”
They did, their own bloodshot and watery and inherently human, and I watched their shoulders deflate, the defense and terror draining from their form. “There’s someone…something…down here. Or, I guess it still is, anyway. I don’t know where it went, but I don’t wanna be here when it comes back.”
I nodded. “It look like me?”
Wiley nodded back.
“Yeah, there’s one of you upstairs. Not real sure what we’re supposed to do about them, but one thing at a time. Let’s get you up from there.”
It was a struggle, disentangling Wiley from the heavy, abrasive leads coccooning their body, but we got there eventually, and throughout the entirety of the arduous process they gave me the rundown on how, when we’d parted from the solace of the platform, something had instantaneously latched onto them, dragging them down deeper and deeper until their ears popped and their head felt like it was going to explode. They said they’d been knocked out by the pressure, and that when they’d come to, already tied in place and coughing up lungfuls of water, “I” had been standing over them, wielding a large net hook and no mercy.
“I knew it wasn’t you, obviously,” they said, “but I didn’t know where you actually were or if something had, like. Hijacked your body? I don’t know. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We grabbed a couple of candles (the majority had simply been melted into place atop whatever surface they’d adorned, but there was a small collection fitted into slightly-too-small brass holders) and got the fuck out.
Being able to see so little in the space around us was almost more disorienting than the pitch darkness I’d been feeling my way through before. It felt as though we were in a fragile, wavering bubble of reality and nothing existed outside of it.
“Wish I’d been awake coming down here,” Wiley remarked. “Guess I still wouldn’t have seen shit, though.”
“I could…maybe get us back upstairs?” I considered, with little to no confidence. “But I don’t really know what good it would do us. Nowhere to go. Maybe we just…look around down here for a bit? See if we can find anything useful?”
“Yeah, okay,” Wiley assented. “But we’ve gotta be quiet. I don’t want that thing to hear us.”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that.
We wandered hesitantly through the dark, shielding the flames of our candles with cupped palms and praying we wouldn’t misstep. We made it some unsubstantiated quantity of time without incident, but softly, after seconds or minutes or hours, we heard a light rustling from the shadow veiled corridor to our right, and Wiley pulled me into the nearest open room in the opposite direction.
Flattening our backs to the wall, we listened intently as footsteps echoed faintly behind us, cyclically growing closer and then further away again for several moments before disappearing altogether.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and uncovered my candle, easing the door of the room to a gentle, silent close. The contents of this one were different from that of the last in that there practically weren’t any. It wasn’t just that it was tidier; there was a chest shoved against the wall nearest us and a leatherbound book of some sort lying in the center of the floor, but otherwise the space was vacant.
Wiley moved first, crouching next to the journal and lifting it from the ground, a cloud of dust rising in the wake of their breath. I knelt down beside them, offering my candlelight so they could discard theirs and open the cover.
Beneath which there was a box.
It was a plain, unadorned wooden rectangle, nestled into the carved-out central pages of the book, and we learned upon extracting it that there was no lock or latch, just a seam indicating the lid’s separation from the body.
I don’t need to spell the whole situation out for you. There was a key in the box. The key opened, you guessed it: the chest. Inside the chest, there were piles of gold and jewels beyond your wildest imagination. We’re rich now. The end.
Nah, JK. But the key in the box did open the chest, in which there was, A) a pair of peeling, pleather driving gloves, and B)...
I felt my heart skip.
A bicycle chain.
I’m not going to get into the nuances of that right now, or maybe ever. But for the purposes of dramatic flair, just know that it was incredibly, pointedly relevant to me, on a level so personal it sucker punched the air straight out of my lungs.
“No,” Wiley said, staggering back a step. “Uh-uh. Nope.”
I put together, then, that the gloves must have been their ticket item. “It’s okay,” I said, on autopilot, because it was not. “There’s something—something’s carved into the bottom of this thing.” Pushing past the reaction every fiber of my being had to the sensation of the frigid metal against my skin, I shoved both the chain and the gloves to the side and could scarcely make out a host of crudely scrawled letters in the wavering light of my half-gone candle.
“What is it?” Wiley asked, making no move to come nearer again.
“Though your…hand…? Heart. Though your heart does pound and knees grow…weak,” I deciphered slowly, “Rid yourself by your… That doesn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t it be of? It says ‘rid yourself by *your fear’ and…*something. Drain the…clin… No. Drink. Drain the drink.”
“Rid yourself by your fear and drain the drink,” Wiley repeated analytically. “The hell does that mean? Is this shit telling us to kill ourselves with the—oh. Oh. Fuck.”
I was not following. “...I’m not following,” I said.
“It is.” Wiley returned to my side, squatting down and nudging me out of the way with their shoulder to peer warily into the trunk. “It’s telling us to kill ourselves, but not these selves. We’re supposed to use…*those…*to kill our fuckin’ doppelgangers, or whatever they are. That’s how we get rid of the water.”
“Oh,” I echoed. “Fuck.”
We marinated for a moment in silence before Wiley sighed, resigned, and lifted the gloves from the chest, closing their eyes and pulling the fabric snugly over their hands. “Let’s get to work.”

Club Vlad sat near the confluence of Central Avenue and Washington Avenue, Albany’s two main thoroughfares. Two stories with blackout windows and a box office from when it used to be a movie theater, it was swarmed with people when Dom first spotted it ahead. He was somewhat familiar with it: He passed it every day on his way to work, and it was always busy around his time of evening, even on weeknights. Part of him always wanted to go inside and be a part of the scene, but he never did.
The man in sunglasses - his name was Joe - led Dom toward the club, and even before Joe spoke, Dom somehow knew that it was their destination. “There,” Joe said. “We’ll go around back.”
Dom and Joe had been walking for what seemed like an hour but couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. Dom stuck as close to Joe as possible as if for protection, and had become accustomed to his pungent smell. It was noticeable only at extremely close range, part sickly sweet and part…something else, something Dom could not place but still somehow recognized. They were two blocks from the club, maybe three, and Dom could hear the pulsing techo/house/whatever music as clearly as if he were standing in the middle of the dancefloor. He could hear the chatter of the people inside, or at least he imagined he could. He could smell them too: Beneath the odors of perfume, desperation, and spiritual rot was something richer, something blissful. Dom realized for the first time that he was parched - so parched - and drool filled his mouth.
A crowd of people waited outside Club Vlad, talking and laughing; some vaped, some stared down at their cellphones like Gollum with his precious ring. Dom’s first reaction was to avoid them. Perhaps sensing this…or perhaps feeling it himself…Joe ducked into an alleyway two doors down from the club. “We’ll go in the back,” Joe explained.
The back entrance to Club Vlad was a single door underneath a bare bulb. The music was so loud that Dom’s head began to throb. Inside, a dark hallway terminated in an archway filled with throbbing white light. Dread filled Dom as they approached it - he didn’t want to be around people - but thankfully they went into a room off the hall instead. An office. A cramped desk, a filing cabinet. A set of stairs disappeared into shadows.
“Sit,” Joe said.
Dom obeyed, sitting in the swivel chair.
Joe went up the stairs and Dom was alone. The deep coldness that had long settled into his bones made itself known again, and Dom leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his chest for warmth. The muffled music vibrated in his skull, setting his teeth on edge, and the various smells wafting in from the main room assaulted his senses. He was alternately repulsed and aroused by the crashing din of scents: The good, the bad, and the mouth watering. A sharp pain cut through his stomach like the killing edge of a knife, and Dom hugged himself tighter. Had his throat always been this dry? His throat felt like sandpaper; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and getting it unstuck hurt so badly that tears sprang to his eyes.
Dom rubbed his arms with his hands and tried to still his chattering teeth. He looked around for a blanket, a discarded jacket, something to cover himself with, but there was nothing. Only drifts of glitter on the floor and walls. He supposed it came from a party or something. He’d never been to a night club but it seemed fitting.
A sound drew his attention to the door leading back into the hall. A woman - no older than a girl - stood there, looking confused and unsteady. She was dressed in black, wore glow sticks around her wrists and neck, and held a red solo cup. “I have to pee,” she said drunkenly and laughed. “I thought this was the bathroom.”
A cold wind washed over Dom, and Joe was standing next to him. “The bathroom’s up here,” he said.
“Oh, good,” the girl laughed, “I thought it was here but I didn’t know. This is my first time here.” She held her cup aloft. “Take me to it.”
Joe glanced at Dom. “Come on.”
They formed a party as they climbed the stairs, Dom in the tear and Joe at the head. The girl stumbled and held onto the railing, talking incessantly. Her voice hurt Dom’s head, but the hot smell wafting from her was intoxicating. Drool coursed down his chin and his breathing came in short, hot bursts. Another sharp pain rent his stomach, and he winced.
At the top of the stairs, where the lights were cold and white, a woman in black stood by a doorway, her back ramrod straight and her eyes vacant. Her face was gaunt, her white flesh pulled tight across her skull. She wore a black dress and her black hair long and straight. Dom only caught a glance at her before looking away again.
She looked like a ghost.
“Show her the bathroom,” Joe said.
The woman’s eyes slowly, ponderles, went from Joe to the drunk girl. Her expression, like Joe’s, was dead. She had no expression. “This way.”
She and the drunk girl disappeared down the hall, and Joe led Dom into a room. Though it was pitch black, Dom could still see; not very well…but he could see. Suddenly, a blinding white light flicked on in front of him, causing him to stop and fall back a step. Ahead, through an archway, sat a vaulted chamber, at the center of which sat a man. To Dom’s light dazzled eyes, he seemed a proud king perched upon a throne, the skulls of his many enemies piled around him. Dom blinked and turned his head slightly to the side. His eyes began to adjust, and the world came into focus.
The man was not, as it had first seemed, sitting on a throne. Instead, he was esconded in a motorized wheelchair. The piles of skulls were actually various pieces of machinery, the kind you’d find in a hospital room. A clear tube extended from one of them to the side of the man’s neck: Yellow liquid flowed from the machine and into the man. Another tube, this one in the other side of his neck, filtered out a mixture of what looked like yellow pus and black sludge. An infected malodor filled the air, and the machines whirred softly as they worked.
As for the man himself, his appearance was normal at first glance, Dressed in a flowing red velvet robe, a blue and green blanket with a plaid pattern draped over his shoulders, he was portly, about fifty, and had shoulder length grayish hair with a bald spot in the middle. If the local theater put on a production of Hamilton, they could cast a worse Ben Franklin than him.
On closer inspection, he was not normal at all. His complexion was yellow and waxy, like a statue, and his body was lumpy, misshapen, resembling an overfilled trash bag stuffed with cotton. His eyes were sick and yellow, and something about his posture seemed…off. It didn’t make sense, but the only thing Dom could think was: He looks impossible.
Joe stopped at the edge of the shadows, where the line between light and darkness lay. He seemed to stand up a little straighter, a general greeting his king. “Here he is,” Joe said.
The man squinted slightly against the glare of the light and motioned with one gnarled hand. “Step into the light,” he said. His voice was soft and kind, that of a senile though loving grandmother. Dom imagined he felt a pull toward the man, and did as he was bidden, wincing as the light stung his eyes.
For a moment, the man stared at him, his waxen features frozen fast as stone. Then, a subtle look of compassion flickered across his face. Dom did not believe in God, but he suddenly felt like a man standing before God, his every thought, feeling, and transgression laid bare. He had never felt so naked in his life, so exposed. He had the sense that the man before him could see everything, knew everything.
“You’ve been through a lot,” the man said. It was not a question, but a statement.
Everything Dom had been through over the past couple of days came back to him in a rush, and hot tears filled his eyes. He nodded.
The man nodded slightly, more to himself than to Dom. “Kneel down,” he said, “I want to look at you.”
Dom knelt without question.
The man lifted one hand and touched Dom’s face, tilting Dom’s head from one side to the other like a farmer appraising a horse. His fingers were long and bony, his nails ragged and unkempt; his touch was like ice. He brushed his knuckles over the purple bruise on Dom’s cheek, and there was such gentleness in that one act that Dom broke down sobbing. He leaned into the man’s touch like a cat and gave voice to his misery.
“Shhh,” the man said, “it’s all over now.”
“W-What’s happening to me?” Dom asked.
In his heart of hearts, however, he already knew.
“You died,” the man said patiently. “And you came back.”
Hearing it stated so plainly, Dom cried even harder.
“Only a handful of people throughout history can claim to have defeated death,” the man said, stroking Dom’s hair, “and you’re one of them. You should be proud.”
“How?” Dom asked between sobs. “What am I?”
The man stroked Dom’s cheek. “You’re the same thing I am.”
At that, Dom looked up at the man. “What are you?” he asked.
A little, knowing smile touched the man’s lips, and when he spoke, his canine teeth were longer and sharper than before. “I’m a vampire.”
“No,” Dom moaned and shook his head, “no, no, no.” He grabbed the man’s hand and held tight, his tears coming faster. He trembled like a frightened animal and squeezed his eyes closed, as if by doing so he could escape the hell his life had become.
But there was no escape.
“You have a lot of questions,” the man said, monologuing now rather than speaking directly to Dom, “I had the same questions when I was your age. I have spent the last forty-two years of my life trying to answer them, but every answer I find leads me to still more questions. There’s one thing I’m certain of, though.”
Dom blinked the tears from his eyes. The last of them had been squeezed from his dead tear ducts and he had no more to give. He simply stared into space, trying to come to grips with his situation.
“There is freedom in death,” the man said. “Death is easy. It’s simple. Once it’s over, you feel no pain, no sadness, no grief. It’s living that’s hard.”
As he spoke, he brushed his long nails across Dom’s scalp. It was a soothing feeling, and served to calm him. “People have so many troubles.” A note of revulsion crept into his voice. “So many needs, so many desires. People are complex but we’re not. We’re easy to please. A vampire wants only two things: A little blood and one more night.”
The combination of his touch and his voice had pacified Dom to the point of almost tranquility. “I’m scared,” Dom heard himself mumble.
Nodding almost reluctantly, the man said, “Fear is one of the only emotions a vampire can’t escape. Everything feels fear. Do you want to know a secret?”
Dom nodded.
“I’m afraid too,” the man confessed. “I’m afraid of death. Well…death as it were. I’m terrified that my body will rot away and leave me a pile of bones somewhere, unable to move but still aware”
A shudder went through Dom.
“As I’m sure you’ve seen yourself, the movies lied. We rot just like any other dead thing. Our flesh decays, our organs turn to sludge, and we go from rational men to monsters whose only thought is feeding.”
Now it was his turn to shiver.
“But…you’re not like that,: Dom said.’
The man smiled. “I’m lucky, I guess” A thin yellow fluid began to drip from his nostrils. He did not seem to notice. “What is your name?”
“Dominick,” Dom said.
“I’m Merrick,” the man said, “and this is my family.”
Dom realized that they were now surrounded by others, ten in all. They stood ramrod straight, their eyes vacant and their faces devoid of humanity. They were mainly men, though one was a woman. Some were pale, others were blue or black, and one was little more than a skeleton clad in withered brown skin, a white button up and jeans hanging from its frame.
A thought occurred to Dom. “You said my brain was going to rot…”
“Not necessarily,” Merrick cautioned, “though it’s possible.”
“Am I going to be…?”
“Like them?” Merrick asked. “Braindead and staring?”
Sheepishly, Dom nodded.
“Maybe,” Merrick allowed. “But these people are free of everything that troubles humanity. You were human just a short time ago. I’m sure you remember all too well what it was like. The constant politics, the moral quandaries, the philosophical pontificating. Human beings - and make no mistake, we are humans - were not meant for all of that. We’re animals. We were made to hunt, fuck, and sleep. Somewhere along the way, we got pretentious and started complicating things.” He looked at Dom, sizing him up, seeming to read him. “Things that animals take for granted, people work their entire lives to achieve. If an animal wants to fornicate, it fornicates. If a man wants to fornicate, he needs to be tall, handsome, rich, funny, progressive when it suits women but traditional when it doesn’t. If a man wants a home, he has to work thirty years for it. An animal has only to dig a hole in the ground.”
Every word struck a chord with Dom.
Because every word was true.
“Unfortunately, the living won’t allow us to live that freely, so we have to hide. These people here - my children - need a guiding hand, a protector, someone who can lead them. And I, an old man, need help.” Here he smiled playfully and patted his bulging stomach. “My body is mostly sawdust and cotton balls at this point, so I can’t do much. I share my wisdom and my knowledge with them, and they take care of me.”
“Why haven’t you…rotted?” Dom asked.
“Embalming fluid,” Merrick said. “Blood doesn’t sustain you. Embalming fluid does.” He smiled at Dom. “It can sustain you as well. If you’ll stay with us. We’re not the most attractive bunch, but we’re a family, and we really wish you’d join us.”
A family.
Dom’s parents had broken up and he lived with his mother. He had never had a family before, and had always wanted one, a real one, like in the movies. Even as a grown man, he sought the love, acceptance, and belonging that a family brings. He sought it in the wrong ways, but that - and not sex, not romantic love - is what he had really wanted all along.
This is what he had wanted all along.
“I want to,” Dom said.
Working quickly, Merrick slashed his wrist open with his thumbnail. An ugly mixture of stale blood, siphoned from someone else, and embalming fluid leaked out. “If you choose to drink, my blood will be in you. You will be my son and I will be your father. You will obey me as your father. You will do whatever is asked of you for this family, as this family will do for you. You will not reveal the secrets of this family to anyone outside of it. You will protect this family from all threats, both inside and out. Do you accept?”
He held his bleeding wrist out to Dom.
Dom did not question, nor did he hesitate. He grabbed the hand of his father, brought it to his mouth, and drank from the seeping wound. The fluid was cold, thick, and vile.
It tasted like belonging.
“Have you fed yet?”
“No,” Dom said.
“Before you do, I have a question for you. Who did this to you? Who made you?”
Dom thought. Everything was hazy. “Was it someone in this room?” Merrick asked.
Dom shook his head. “Her name is…” he wracked his brain. “Heather.”
Merrick nodded. “So there’s another out there.” He looked at Joe. “Did you turn her?”
“Yes,” Joe said.
Merrick looked annoyed. “I’ve told you not to go out and feed on your own. You have no self-control. You drink too much and create others, which creates headaches for the family. Tomorrow night, I want you and Dom to find her and bring her here.” “Okay,” Joe said.
Merrick looked over Dom’s shoulder. “Jess? Can you come here?”
The black haired woman from earlier came out of the shadows, the drunk girl with her, arms tied behind her back. The girl looked dazed. “Max,” Merrick said to the skeletal corpse-thing, “help her.”
Max, Jessie, and another vampire named Matt tied chains around the girl’s ankles and hoisted her aloft via a pulley system. Upside down, she swung back and forth. Merrick instructed the others to leave the room. “Max,” he said.
On his way out, the corpse-thing produced a knife and dragged it across the girl’s throat, slicing her skin; blood spurted out. Max leaned in to taste it, but Merrick shooed him away. When he and Dom were alone, Merrick told Dom, “Go to her.”
But Dom was already on his feet, his eyes transfixed by the crimson life flowing from her pumping throat. The hot, rich smell filled his nostrils and tantalized his senses. Saliva filled his mouth and his stomach panged with hunger. Some small, human part of his decaying brain screamed at him to stop, but he did not listen to it. He had been human for almost thirty years, and he had been miserable. Now, in this chamber of the undead, he gave himself over to his dark thirst. Like a man in a dream, he shuffled to her, inhaled the sweet scent of her blood, and shivered. He was so lost in lust that he hardly noticed the strange, cumbersome feeling of his descended fangs.
“Drink,” Merrick said.
Opening his mouth wide, Dom sank his teeth into the girl’s neck. Her blood filled his mouth and splashed down his throat. Warmth thawed the ice in his marrow and spread through him. His dead heart began to flutter, then to pound. His knees shook, his body trembled, and his mind rolled away on a tide of ecstasy.
As it was his first meal, he couldn’t drink much. Before long, his stomach was hard and distended and his body burned with fire. He collapsed to a heap on the floor and twitched as random nerve endings, stimulated by the blood, began to misfire. He felt full, warm, and drunk. He closed his eyes and let himself drift.
Dominick Mason had died.
And this…
This was heaven.
***
With all that was happening in the city of Albany, the last thing Bruce Kenner needed on Thursday morning was a visit from Bertha the bitch, but that’s exactly what he got. She flew into his office like she owned the place and instantly started in on him. Young man this and have you talked to Joe Rossi that. You’d think she was his boss. And if she were his boss, he’d quit and find another line of work. He heard McDonald’s was hiring.
Bruce almost snapped at her. He’d been up most of last night riding around Albany and looking for Dominick Mason. He and Vanessa expected him to drop dead somewhere close to the medical examiner’s office, but if he had, he’d done so in a super secret location.
“I’ve been busy,” Bruce said, “but I’m going to go by his place of work today.”
Tired and still confused over that bullshit from last night, he had no energy to argue with the old crone. He could spare a few minutes to talk to Joe Rossi, he figured. He assumed that Jessie was safe but he owed it to her to check. If he found the girl, he’d take her back to her grandmother (sorry, kid, really) and try to avoid arresting the guy. Unless he came off as a creep, then he’d bust his ass. See, people assumed that an older guy with a younger girlfriend was some master manipulator hell bent on evil deeds. Sometimes they were, but hell, his grandparents married when his grandpa was twenty-one and his grandma sixteen. They were married for fifty-five years and loved each other to the end. Maybe it was innocent, maybe not. It wasn’t his job to judge either way. Just gimme the girl so I can get her grandma off my back and no one gets hurt.
“It’s about time you started doing your job,” Bertha said, “I heard on the police scanner last night that you people lost a body. What kind of town is this? Your coroner is a drunk who makes up stories about bodies walking away. He probably sold it to black people.”
Bruce couldn’t help it; he snorted laughter.
“Now what would black people want with a dead body?”
“Probably to use it as a prop in one of their rap videos.”
Bruce didn’t know much about music videos, but he was pretty sure that the people who made them didn’t like the smell of corpse any more than the rest of us. “I’ll be sure to round up all the local rappers for questioning. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Luckily for him, there was not, and Bertha left shortly thereafter. Alone and able to hear himself think, Bruce sat back in his chair and went over his mental checklist for the day. First order of business, go to Club Vlad. Second, find Dominick Mason. There were others, but that was the most important. He wanted the body found so someone could get to work explaining this whole weird thing. There had to be an explanation. The thought that there wasn’t, that a dead guy literally rose from the grave and disappeared into the night, deeply disturbed Bruce, and the more this whole thing remained ongoing, the more disturbed he would become.
Needing some fresh air, he decided to hit up Club Vlad.
Outside, the day was hot and sunny. Waves of heat shimmered from the pavement and not a single breath of air stirred in the whole world. Bruce slipped on a pair of sunglasses and drove over to Club Vlad. It occurred to him that the place might be closed during the day; it was the only place Joe Rossi was associated with. His address in the computer system was Glens Falls, far to the north. The messages he sent Jessie indicated that he lived onsite at Club Vlad.
The build, wedged between a corner store and a check cashing place, was as grimy and dumpy looking as it had always been. The front windows were blacked out and covered with posters and fliers for punk concerts, house bands, and far left political organizations: The Albany Social Justice Center, something called Bash the Fash 2025, and Bruce’s favorite. ACAB. He caught some kid spraying that on the side of the police station once, and under extreme police torture (ie, a good tongue lashing), the kid told him it meant All Cops Are Barnacleheads.
Bruce shot the kid on the spot and planted a gun on him.
How's that for barnaclehead?
Calm down, he didn’t really do that. He made him clean the graffiti off with a toothbrush. LOL he was out there for hours.
The sidewalk in front of the former theater was empty save for some little. The box office was abandoned. There was no open sigh, but then again, there was no closed sign either. He parked his cruiser at the curb, killed the engine, and got out, sweat instantly springing to his brow.
To his surprise, the door opened. Inside, a couple steps led down to a dance floor. A bar lined the wall to his right, and a couple more sets led up to a railed platform filled with tables. Above, a huge balcony looked down on him. A giant disco ball hung from the ceiling like a pair of glittery nuts and there were cages here and there. Presumably where girls danced go-go style. Oh yeah, nothing hotter than a woman behind bars. Why do you think Bruce became a cop in the first place?
Speaking of glittery nuts, there was glitter everywhere. On the floor, on the tables, on the bar. It twinkled like flecks of diamond and swirled around your feet when you walked. Bruce imagined big buckets of the stuff raining down on the dance floor at midnight and he shuddered. Imagine having glitter stuck in your hair. That shit would never come out.
Music played from the sound system, not as loud as it would be during operating hours. It sounded like ‘80s metal, not exactly what he expected from a place like this.
Some say life she's a lady
Kinda soft, kinda shady
I can tell you life is rich
She's no lady, she's a bitch
Being morning, the place was deserted except for a man behind the bar, busy at cleaning the countertop in anticipation for the night’s events. He was tall, Hispanic or Italian, and feminine, with a single earring and a tank top.
Bruce moseyed over to the bar and the barkeep looked up, missing a beat when he realized the fuzz was here. He sat down his rag and walked over. “Can I help you?” he asked in a whispy voice.
“Yeah,” Bruce said, “I’m looking for Joe Rossi. Is he here?”
“I don’t know,” the bartender said. He looked nervous. “I can check.”
Before Bruce could answer, he scurried off, leaving him alone.
They suck my body out
But friend there is no doubt
I'm gonna pay the devil his dues
Cause I'm sick of being abused
Bruce looked around, his fingers absently drumming on the countertop. Club Vlad was a clashing mix of grunge and glam that made his head hurt. He imagined what the place must be like at midnight, packed and noisy, and nodded to himself. Yeah, this was the spot, he guessed, the place all the cool kids went, if they went anywhere anymore. Hell, if he was thirty years younger, he might come here.
He had been waiting for almost twenty minutes when a voice spoke behind him. He turned with a start, and beheld the strangest man he had ever seen in his life. Short and plump - lumpy, even - he sat in a wheelchair, a red blanket draped over his shoulders and his hands resting on his knees. He was about fifty with sparse gray hair falling to his shoulders and a plastic-looking face. He looked like a wax statue of Ben Franklin come to life, and a deep sense of disquiet stirred in the pit of Bruce’s stomach.
Just can't fight the temptation
It's become my inspiration
Gonna get myself an axe
Break some heads, break some backs
It was only then that Bruce noticed the sickly sweet smell of death.
It seemed to come from the man in waves.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the man said, “my name is Merrick Garvis and I own Club Vlad. Maybe I can be of assistance.”
Bruce grew up in the south where manners and saving face were paramount. His mother and his grandmother both taught him that it was impolite to stare. Maybe he'd been in New York so long that he’d forgotten himself, or maybe Merrick Garvis was just the strangest looking man in the world. Either way, Bruce couldn’t help gaping at his strange appearance. Recovering, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I -”
Merrick smiled and waved one hand. Why was it so goddamn skeletal? “Don’t worry. I was injured in a fire a long time ago and this is the best they could do for me. To be honest, I’d stare too. What can I help you with, officer?”
“I’d like to talk to Joe Rossi,” Bruce said. “I understand he works for you.”
“He did,” Merrick said, “but I had to let him go. Did he do something wrong?”
Bruce sighed. “Well, yeah, he’s shacked up with a sixteen year old runaway.”
A look of concern crossed Merrick’s features, such as they were. “Oh, my, that is concerning. I haven’t seen him in several days. I assume he went home. He lives in Glens Falls.”
Bruce nodded, his mind working. If Rossi really was in Glens Falls, that meant the whole mess was someone else’s problem. He could send Bertha up there to bother some other poor barnacle head and be rid of her. Yet…he didn’t think Rossi was in Glens Falls. Bruce had a knack for knowing when people were lying, and he was certain that Merrick Garvis was doing just that. It couldn’t be a facial tick, as his features were largely unmoving, like clay. Maybe it was something in his cloudy eyes. Maybe it was the tone of his voice. Or maybe Bruce had the shining and knew things just for the hell of it. In any event, the certainty that Merrick Garvis was lying grew stronger with each passing second.
“Why’d you fire him?”
“He got drunk and hit one of the customers.”
“What did he do?” Bruce asked. “What was his position?”
“He was a bouncer.”
“Aren’t bouncers supposed to hit people?”
Merrick fumbled. “Well…not to punch them in the face for bumping into them.”
“How long did he work for you?”
“Six months.”
“Did you ever see him with an underage girl?”
“Of course not,” Merrick said, “you have to be twenty-one to get in. I make sure everyone’s ID is checked at the door.”
“What if she had a fake ID?”
“Then I guess she’d get in, but I’d assume she was of legal age.”
“You said he shoved someone, when did this happen?”
“Last week,” Merrick said.
“I thought you said he hit someone.”
Merrick again fumbled. “I did.” Now his face seemed to darken a little. A strange yellowish liquid, too thin to be snot, began to drip from his nostrils. Bruce barely suppressed a smear of disgust. “I understand you have a job to do but playing mind games with me isn’t going to solve anything. I can give you his address. Other than that, I can’t help you further.”
“Fair enough,” Bruce said. “But I’d like to see your ID please.”
Merrick glared at him. “I suppose you want my name, rank, and serial number as well.”
“Actually, yeah, I’d love that.”
Merrick drew a deep sigh. “Okay.”
In five minutes, Bruce had Merrick’s ID, social, and all other relevant information. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have bothered, even though he was well within his rights to ask for this information from someone he was questioning. But something about Merrick Garvis was off, and not just his weird face or strangely bulbous body. Bruce was just smart enough to realize that something was going on here, but not quite smart enough to even begin to imagine what.
When he had everything he needed and saw no reason to stick around, Bruce bid Merrick farewell and left the club. Before he could do anything else, he got a call from dispatch: Officer needed assistance in Pine Hills. Bruce slipped behind the wheel and went forth to help, momentarily putting Merrick Garvis out of his mind.
But soon or later, he would get back to him.
Oh yes he would.

Curious how the community would handle a strange situation I witnessed during a U15 boys competitive match this weekend. I was a spectator there to support some of the players I have coached in the past (playing for the Away Team), but it got me thinking about how I would address the situation as a CR because I had never seen something like it in my 35+ years as a ref, coach, or player.
TL; DR: While ball was in play during a U15 competitive tournament match, the keeper left the pitch over the end line and walked to the parking lot; his coach was asleep on the sideline and CR had to wake him up to put another keeper on the pitch; restart of game was delayed 10 minutes; CR didn’t issue the keeper who left or the coach a card; how would you handle the situation as a CR?
*EDIT: I say per LOTG below re: substitution rule. I meant ROC locally and in the specific tournament's ROC. Apologies for my oversight and lack of clarity.
*EDIT 2: I was not the CR or an AR during the match, just a spectator. I don't engage match officials unless I'm there in an official capacity as a coach, so my narrative doesn't include first hand knowledge about what was discussed with the officiating crew or the coaches. I think the match officials handled a very confusing situation really well; it just got me thinking about what I would do as CR.
Full context: This was a tournament match between two teams mathematically eliminated from moving forward in the tournament prior to kick-off, so it was the last match of the tournament for both teams. About ten minutes into the second half, the Away Team scored on a long direct free kick to go up 3-0. Ball was returned to center, kick-off restart, and game proceeded with the Home Team carrying the ball into their offensive third. This is where it gets weird.
As his team carried the ball up the pitch, the Home Team’s keeper exited the pitch across the end line and just kept going — walking to the parking lot. Because play was on the other end of the pitch the refs (and almost everyone else) were unaware the keeper walked off until the ball returned to that third of the pitch 30 seconds later. At that point, everyone on or near the pitch quickly became aware the Home Team keeper was absent — except his coach (the only coach on the sideline for that team), who sleepily remained seated in his chair at the other end of the pitch.
CR (early twenties) rightly let play continue until a natural stop in play. Unfortunately for the CR, it was a throw-in possession for the Away Team on the spectator touchline (AR was on the teams’ touchline on the same half). Per LOTG the team out of possession cannot make a substitution unless the team in possession initiates their own substitution on a throw-in. In this case, the away team was not making a substitution and they had a clear advantage in their offensive third, so their coach encouraged them to take a quick throw-in. It was immediately clear the CR was struggling to decide if he should enforce the LOTG or uphold the SOTG because the absent player was the keeper. Fortunately, two of my former players heard me over the din and threw it in to immediately play it back out over the touchline for a turnover.
After all the commotion, one would expect the Home Team’s coach to have his team’s only substitution ready at midfield to enter the game and be communicating with his team to assign a new keeper to net ASAP, BUT the coach remained sleepily seated in his chair and didn’t send his only sub to midfield to enter the game.
Upholding the SOTG, the CR stopped the play and jogged toward the Home Team’s bench while delivering repeated verbal instructions to the coach that he should put another player on the pitch and/or identify a new keeper. Home Team coach didn’t budge; finally the CR had to tell the PLAYER (who just came off the field after the previous goal) he should re-enter the game as keeper. As this kid frantically scrambled through teammates’ bags to find a keeper jersey and gloves, the CR had to leave the pitch to WAKE THE COACH UP and inform him what was going on!
CR then ran to his AR (14/15 years old at most) on the other half to confer and then chatted with the Away Team’s Coach. The game was delayed about 10 minutes as the CR ran around trying to sort the chaos. End result was the game finally resumed without a single card being shown. I think the CR and crew were pretty well in control of the game prior to the absurd circumstance, but as a ref, coach, and former player I struggle with the fact a card never came out.
When I CR U15/16 competitive club games I still try to educate more than caution because experience and talent levels can still be pretty diverse within and between teams (and I’m also working with teenage brains), but the CR not showing cards in this circumstance boggles my mind as a ref. It a missed opportunity to enforce clear LOTG, educate through accountability, and minimize the risk that the Home Team’s frustrations with their teammate and coach could carry-over onto the pitch.
I would have approached the absurd situation this way as CR. Prior to re-start: Yellow (1) — Keeper for leaving the pitch; Yellow (1) — Coach for delay of restart. Post-match: Yellow (2, Red) — Keeper for unsporting behavio lack of respect for the game (to not penalize his team by making them play down a man); Yellow (2, Red) — Coach for unsporting behaviolack of respect for the game (to not penalize his team by removing the only coach they had on the sideline, which would have resulted in them needing to forfeit the match).
I’m curious to hear the community’s thoughts on how you would approach the situation as CR because I have never seen anything like it before and I hope to never see anything like it again.