The new gift-specific dialogue from the 1.6 update has me absolutely tickled pink! This one especially… I also haven’t practiced my creative writing in a while, and I decided it needed to happen sooner rather than later, so here, have a short story! Sorry if it's boring… I’m a little rusty!
“A Gift From The Void”
It was only yesterday… No one was quite sure where it had come from. There had been a sinister cackling noise ringing through the night air and Abigail had mentioned seeing an unidentifiable shape soaring through the sky during her walk home from the cemetery. The townsfolk gossiped and speculated about what it could have been that evening, but by the next morning they still hadn’t come to any reasonable explanation. It was only yesterday, and yet the entire village seemed to have already put it out of their minds and moved on. The scandal and chatter following the “Anchovy Soup Incident” at the Summer Luau several years back had lasted far longer than this… Even now Sam was still getting sideways glances whenever he got within a 20 foot radius of the soup cauldron, but this just blows over in less than a day? The priorities of small town people were strange.
Things had gone back to that same semblance of backwater, middle-of-nowhere kind of normal, and now the night had become just the same as any other Friday evening. Sebastian was playing a round of billiards with Sam, and while Sam was preoccupied with lining up the cue with his intended target ball, the farmer strolled into the saloon and up to the bar. Heads turned and raised to the newcomer for a moment before returning to whatever it was that had been previously holding their attention. Sebastian caught the sudden flourish of movement out of his periphery, but didn’t pay it much mind. The farmer ordered a coffee and a plate of the night’s special, and struck up a conversation with Gus about a peculiar egg that had materialized in their coop seemingly out of nowhere the night before. Apparently they’d decided to tuck it away into the incubator and wait to see what… if anything hatched from it.
Sebastian had never really been one to eavesdrop, but the wait for Sam to make his move was becoming boring, and sometimes the stories that passed around the saloon on Friday evenings got interesting depending on who all was involved. The story didn’t really go too far into detail. The farmer poked at their food until it had cooled enough to not scald the inside of their mouth, then they took a few bites before bringing up the events of the previous evening. What first started off as a funny story seemed to turn into some deep discussion with Gus about the mysteries of life. Eventually, Willy and Elliott were caught up in the mirth and it turned into a medley of strange tales from faraway lands and once-upon-a-times. Obviously exaggerated sightings of fearsome creatures on a midnight stormy sea, legends of colossal white whales, references to works written by masters of the mystery genre, as well as some from a trashy neo-noir novel or two that had probably been picked up from a bookstore clearance shelf.
Willy stroked his beard and mused about some daring battle between himself and a fish of questionable proportions that seemed to grow larger each time he told the story. Sebastian had heard this one before. The fight over the line had gone on for over an hour before the shadow of the fish rose near to the surface, and just before Willy could land the monster of a catch, it dove below again, taking the whole fishing rod overboard and nearly Willy himself with it.
Elliott gulped down the last few swigs of ale in his tankard, slapped the farmer firmly on the back, snorted and chuckled in an ungraceful yet jolly display that only ever crept out of him when he’d had a bit too much to drink.
“That fish becomes more miraculous each time he talks about it!” Elliott shook his head and smiled as he leaned almost a little too far forward. There was a slight sway to his posture and he tried to straighten his body back in line with the barstool. “To life, and her many little silly tricks of fate, my friends!” he declared. He raised the empty mug, and with his free hand, delicately tucked a few strands of stray hair behind his ear with the tips of his fingers. He rested his elbow back on the bar before he could lose his balance and sighed contently. Elliott’s cheeks were practically glowing red at this point and it was a wonder that he wasn’t slurring his words yet.
“Aye, you’ve all heard my fish story haven’t ye?” Willy chuckled. “How ‘bout the one about the Baba Yaga?” the farmer’s head tilted and they gazed curiously at the fisherman. Willy rested his foot on the crossbar of the barstool, lifted the rim of his hat out of his line of sight, and leaned into the counter. “Some know ‘er as the cannibal witch… others say she’s just a misunderstood haggard ol’ woman who lives alone out in woods or marshes. It’s said she lives a rickety old house that stands on chicken feet, and she likes to lure weary travelers into ‘er home, only to gobble ‘em up once they let their guard down. Apparently she’s especially fond of the taste of children…” He laughed in a hoarse tone and made strange spider-like gestures with his calloused hands as if he were telling campfire stories to a group of kids. The farmer’s nose wrinkled at the outlandish notion of some feral old woman devouring toddlers, and Willy laughed heartily at their reaction. “I think that last part the parents like to add into the story to frighten the little ones. It keeps ‘em from wondering into the forests and swamps alone at night.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes and glanced back to the pool table. He watched the cue ball clack into the twelve before the twelve bounced off the barriers in the corner of the table and rolled slowly to a stop on the felt surface without pocketing. Sam huffed and stood back upright.
“You really aren’t very good at this, are you?” Seb chimed as he returned his full attention to the game at hand. Sam grinned and laughed.
“Nope!”
“Watch and learn….” Sebastian took aim at the cue ball, and after a single firm strike, drove it into the tiny gap between the two and seven. The cue stopped hard, but the two and seven sped to the opposite corners of the foot of the table, each dropping into one of the corner pockets simultaneously. Sam scoffed and paced about the pool room, but looked back over his shoulder just in time to catch Sebastian with a triumphantly cheeky grin on his face. Sam clicked his tongue and lightly thumped the base of his cue stick into the floorboards.
“Show-off…” he mumbled.
Elliott lifted the rim of the empty vessel to his lips, then chuckled again as he noticed the absence of ale and gestured it in Gus’ direction.
“Good sir, my glass is empty and…. I’m a writer!”
“Maybe you should stop for tonight…” the farmer interjected. “You won’t be sober enough to start your next chapter in the morning!” Elliott rolled his eyes and leaned against the bar counter. He tried to give one of his best theatrically exasperated sighs, but when the exhale turned into a case of the hiccups, they knew he was down for the count. He smiled defiantly and tried his best to look dignified through the sudden spasms in his diaphragm and soused thousand yard stare.
“I-am fiiine… ne’re betta’…”
“…..Aaaand, there he goes…” Leah giggled from the end of the bar counter. “It’s like dropping a ton of bricks on a peach.”
“I oughtta’ help the ol’ scallywag home, I s’pose!” Willy groaned as he stood from the bar stool. He smiled as he hoisted one of Elliott’s arms over his shoulders and stood him up from the bar stool. “C’mon you menace… Let’s get ya home before you make a fool of yourself in front of all the lassies!” he chuckled. Sam took a moment to appreciate the situation at the bar counter. He shook his head and laughed, then took another shot at the 12 and missed horribly yet again.
“Easy does it there!” Emily cooed as she cleared away the empty tankard. “Try not to drop him too hard!” Elliott wobbled towards the door as Willy struggled to keep him upright, and just before they stepped out into the lukewarm summer evening, the farmer waved one last farewell and called out to the well marinated dandy-man as he staggered away.
“Nighty-night! Sleep tight, Rapunzel!” they chirped. Elliot responded to the joke by blowing an overly exaggerated kiss over his shoulder and daintily waiving his fingertips at the company in the saloon, then he nearly tripped over himself as he turned back to the path home. A couple of snorts, giggles and guffaws rose up over the music and chatter in the saloon and quickly melted back into the white noise once the moment passed.
Seb looked Sam in the eyes with a determined glare and smirked.
“Eight in the corner pocket….” Seb didn’t have a clear shot, but leaned over the table, reared back the stick and spiked it into the cue ball. It ricocheted from the bumper, side-swiped the eight, and put just enough force into the edge to cause it to spin sideways into the pocket he’d called. Sam laughed and scratched at the back of his head.
“Awwww, man…” he groaned. “You got me again!” Sam leaned against his cue stick and looked over the table before his eyes lit up in anticipation. “How about a best three out of five?” Abigail giggled at Sam’s request as she stretched and leaned back into the sofa.
“Give it up, blondie! He cooks your goose at this game EVERY single time…. You’re doomed.” She teased. “It’s getting late anyways…”
…
It had been almost a month since the odd shape had been spotted flying over town at this point. Seb and Abby had talked in depth about it, and though most of the other townsfolk had come to the conclusion that it had merely been some sort of exotic bird flying out toward the fern islands, Abby was positive she hadn’t been mistaken. In fact she was adamant that the form looked human. She hadn’t seen or heard any wings flapping and the “squawking” sounded more so like the laugh of an old woman than the cries of a bird. The figure seemed to levitate or hover effortlessly and without the use of any physical or mechanical assistance. It was slumped over as if it was curled up or sitting and just…. Floated away.
The long night spent coding and researching the relevant programing issues at the computer, had caused Sebastian to rise late. He was groggy, didn’t have much motivation to bother rolling out of bed, and it was almost noon at this point. He could hear the rain pattering against the roof of the house and the rumble of distant thunder. As lazy as he felt, a smoke sounded pretty good about now. The sound and sight of the ocean on rainy days also had a way of clearing his head and a little stroll would probably do him some good.
He didn’t pass anyone on the way out of the house. Robin was likely at her aerobics club, Maru, at work in the clinic, and who knew where Demetrius was… Out shoving dirt samples into test tubes, or measuring the volume and PH of the current rainfall? As long as he wasn’t dissecting frogs. Out of all of Sebastian’s childhood memories, that was the one that stuck in his head and haunted him. Back then, Maru had only just been born, and while Robin was busy keeping her entertained, fixing her bottle or changing diapers, Seb was wandering the house trying to find something to occupy his time. He’d wandered into his step-father’s study and there on the examination tray was a deceased frog pinned on it’s back, limbs splayed like Da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man” with it’s belly sliced open. Sebastian had cried and pouted over that for several days and had given Demetrius the silent treatment for even days longer intermixed with spells of arm crossing, head turning and the occasional stuck out tongue and blown raspberry. He cringed at the thought even now.
The hinges creaked as he pushed the front door open and paused. The summer was starting to give way to autumn and the parched ground soaked up the rain and turned loose the pungent, almost overpowering scent of petrichor.
Sebastian flipped the hood of his pull-over around his head and tightened up the drawstrings. He took a moment to smell the aroma of wet grass and earth that drifted through the air and held the fragrance in his lungs as he closed the door behind him.
He began his slow, steady march toward the beach and lost count of his steps after he’d passed the old Community Center. He’d barely noticed the changing of terrain under his feet as he moved almost subconsciously toward the ocean. The raw, muddy dirt paths of the mountain, the crunch of rough stones and shuffle of old, dead pine needles that carpeted the ground… They’d transitioned into the grass and cobblestone of the town plaza at some point, but they all seemed to blend together into “just steps” after a while. His inner thoughts distracted him to the point where he barely paid attention to his surroundings until he felt his footfalls sinking and shifting underneath him, and he knew he’d hit sand. He heaved a deep sigh of the salt air and looked over the horizon as he paced toward the docks.
When the sky was this gray and muted, the color of the sea seemed to take on it’s own jewel-like quality and without the blue sky to draw attention away from it, the eyes of each breaking wave became a splendor to watch. They erupted into columns of aquamarine, sapphire and sodalite laced with the bright, almost pearlescent white of the sea foam before curling over, crashing into the tides and giving way to the next one.
Sebastian came to a stop at the furthest reaching section of the wood panels and straightened up his posture as he groped into his pockets for the pack of cigarettes he’d brought with him. He selected one from the box, tucked it between his teeth and plunged his fingers back into the pocket for his lighter. He curled his left hand in front of his face, to protect the fire from the wind, flicked open the lid and thumbed the igniter. The flint sparked into a flame as it spun and lit up the end of the cigarette to a smoldering red glow. He pulled in a breath and held it for a moment before letting it out and watching the smoke dance away in the wind. It still wasn’t quite as satisfying as that first breath of rain when he’d stepped out of the house. Another sigh escaped Seb’s lips as he stared back at the oncoming crests of seawater and his mind started to drift again.
He imagined the city lights blazing somewhere across the ocean like stars, and thought about starting over somewhere far away. Disappearing, and reappearing somewhere else like a shadow moving through fragments of darkness and light, somewhere where no one knew him. Just vanishing and leaving everything behind. His parents, his sister, his friends… the thought excited him for a moment, before giving way to an intense feeling of regret and sadness. Maybe even a little shame. Having everyone was frustrating, but would having none of them be better or worse? He’d never known anything else. The same friends he’d grown up with, the same smell of the changing seasons in the mountain air, the same four walls of his bedroom, the sound of his sister’s laugh, or the taste of his mother’s cooking… even the way his stepfather overreacted to the littlest things was something he'd grown used to. He took another long breath.
The waves lapped and pounded at the underside of the dock so loudly he couldn’t hear the patter of oncoming footfalls against the wood and he was caught unaware when a sudden presence made itself known.
“Hey.” The start was enough to make him tense up, and he almost tripped over his own feet. Seb whirled around and when he found himself face to face with the farmer, he relaxed again.
“You scared the absolute crap out of me…..” He said as he rolled his eyes. He flicked his thumb against the filter of the cigarette to knock away the ashes and looked over the docks. They were alone.
“Sorry….” There was an awkward moment of silence between the two of them before Sebastian tried to force conversation.
“What are you up to out here?” He asked. He wasn’t really interested in the answer, but felt obligated to return the acknowledgement of his presence. The farmer held up the rod that was firmly clasped in their right hand and gestured to the ocean.
“Fishing!” Seb raised an eyebrow and cocked his head at the response.
“In the rain?” he asked. His tone was almost dismissive. The farmer nodded.
“Willy said that there’s a number of fish that only come out when it’s raining, so I wanted to see what bites.” They began. “Some fish just like it better this way I guess.” There was another long pause. “…and you?”
“Hanging out…” Seb shrugged and adjusted the collar of his hoodie.
“In the rain?” The irony of the retort wasn’t lost on either of them though only the farmer seemed to find it amusing.
“Some people just like it better this way too…” Seb declared as he shifted his posture and crossed his arms over his chest. “I like to come out here where it’s quiet and have some alone time with my own thoughts.” There was a brief moment of guilt when Sebastian realized that he hadn’t actually ever bothered to ask the farmer’s name, but his introverted nature snubbed it out pretty quickly.
“Well, if you’re out here for some alone time, I won’t keep bothering you. I’ll go find a spot to fish and leave you to it.” At least they could take a hint. The farmer turned to leave and Sebastian suddenly regretted the entire conversation. Maybe he came off as cold and bristly? Either way, they hadn’t meant any harm. Just engaging in basic pleasantries. He found himself compelled to say something else just so the conversation wouldn’t end on such a sour note, then the thought of the flying figure and the appearance of the strange egg in the farmer’s coop a while back suddenly popped into his head.
“Wait….” Sebastian flicked away the spent cigarette and stamped it out with the toe of his shoe before he continued. The farmer turned back in his direction. “I was just curious… do you remember what happened a couple of weeks ago? The night that… thing… flew over Pelican Town?” The farmer’s eyes narrowed and they nodded slowly. “That was the night that strange egg just showed up in your chicken coop, right?” The farmer looked bewildered. Seb chuckled soundlessly when he realized that, for at least a moment, he was acting like the epitome of some small town country boy who was nosing into someone else’s business. The farmer was likely confused because they hadn’t spoken to Sebastian about it directly. How could he know about that? They didn’t have to ask before he preemptively put the question to rest. “I was in the saloon playing pool with Sam the night after it happened. I overheard you talking about it with Gus, Willy and uh- …Rapunzel.” He explained. A tiny snort escaped the farmer’s nose as they stifled a laugh and they nodded again.
“Right… I still don’t know where it came from.” They rested the handle of the fishing pole on the dock like a staff or walking stick and looked up at the sky as if they were contemplating something. “I don’t know if the egg had anything to do with the flying figure, or if it was just a coincidence… they did both appear on the same night.”
“Everyone in town says that the flying thing was probably just some weird bird heading toward the islands…” Seb droned. He shoved his hands into his pockets to sooth the chill in his fingers. “If that IS where the egg came from, then maybe it was just a bird…” The farmer briskly shook their head before they answered.
“No, I don’t think so.” They rested a hand on their hip, fidgeted with the line strung through the fishing rod and seemed to gaze off into the distance towards the island in question. “That wouldn’t make sense considering what hatched.” Sebastian’s head snapped upright to meet their gaze. Now this was getting interesting.
“It actually hatched?!” He piped as his eyes widened inquisitively. “What was it?”
“A chicken…. And those can’t fly long distances.” The farmer chortled as they watched Sebastian’s face droop back to some semblance of apathy. He looked mildly disappointed.
“Aww…. Well that’s kind of anticlimactic.” He groaned.
“Yeah, sorry it’s not more exciting than that…” There was a sudden gust of wind and both of them had to brace against the pelting of raindrops that came with it. “It is a pretty peculiar looking chicken, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Really?... How so?” He gazed back at them expectantly and waited for them to go into detail.
“The feathers are jet black and the comb and wattles have a bit of an odd shape to them. The eyes are also bright red, like an animal with albinism and they’re almost reflective in the dark too… like a cat’s eyes.” They paused and rested their hand over the lower half of their face as if they were taking a moment to recall more of the specifics to memory. “And there’s just something about the way it clucks.” They added. “It doesn’t really cluck like a normal hen, but it sounds more like… an echo of a cluck, I suppose.”
“What?....” Sebastian laughed as his expression shifted again. The description of the noise sounded completely ridiculous. Not a cluck, but an echo of a cluck? They may as well have likened it to a phantom voice or the cry of a specter. Something that eluded the range of sounds that most humans would ever have the chance or perception to experience. The farmer lifted their eyes back to Sebastian’s as if they’d suddenly remembered something else.
“She started laying eggs a couple of days ago. They look just like the one that appeared in the coop that night…” They let the fishing pole drop from their hand to the wood planking of the dock and slipped their arm out of the left strap of their backpack. “I actually have one with me if you want to see it….” They slid the other strap off of their shoulder and swung the bag around their right side, letting it come to a rest in front of them as they knelt down. Seb took a few steps closer and stooped to get a better look as they dug through the contents.
They gingerly grasped what looked like a tiny bundle wrapped in a kerchief and began to slowly peel away the corners of the fabric, exposing what was probably the most bizarre looking egg he’d ever seen in his life. It was black and somewhat glossy, unlike the calcified matte shells of most chicken eggs, and the surface seemed to be covered in tiny indents or fissures that exposed flecks of a bright, almost luminescent red underneath. The farmer held the egg out to Sebastian as they stood up straight and nodded, silently offering to let him hold it for a closer look. He gently cupped the egg in his hands, tucked his arms in close to his body and cradled it in his palms like a cautious child trying to hold a hamster. It was heavier than he’d expected it to be, and surprisingly warm.
The color reminded him of magma or hot coals. Something like the intense heat glowing through crackling obsidian after a volcanic eruption or a dying fire. He leaned his head even closer to the egg as he examined the texture of the shell, and his nose wrinkled a bit when he caught the scent. It was sulphurous, and almost earthy smelling, but not overpoweringly so.
“It’s not rotten, is it?” he asked as he gently turned the egg over in his hands.
“See, that’s the strange thing about it. It can’t be…. That egg was just laid this morning.” They explained. “All of the eggs that hen lays have that… little whiff of something burning to them.” The rain was starting to slow up a bit. The farmer thought for a moment and giggled at the notion of what they said next. “I’m not inclined to say that they’re edible either… at least, not to people, and I wouldn’t be keen on being the first one to test that.” Sebastian winced at the thought…and smell, and stifled a laugh.
“Me neither…” He smiled softly when the red speckled pattern caught his attention again. “It does look really cool though!”
He really did have a nice smile. It was kind of a shame that he didn’t let people see it more often. His eyes brightened, and his face looked softer and more approachable, yet also, inquisitive and curious. It was a look of fascination and wonder. Like a kid who’d just discovered dinosaurs and outer space for the first time, or someone who’d just felt their first taste of freedom and didn’t quite know what to do with it. An imaginative or inspired sort of expression.
“Since you like it so much, why don’t you hang onto it?” the farmer beamed.
“Can I?” Sebastian’s eyes lit up again and he gazed back at the farmer with a delighted look on his face.
“Sure! Hens lay eggs every day or so. There’ll be more before long!” they chimed. Sebastian chuckled as he curled his fingers about the egg and sheltered it from the rain.
“Thank you!” He gazed at it for a few moments more as the farmer hefted the rucksack back onto their shoulders and pulled the fishing rod from it’s resting place on the dock. “Hey, this might sound kind of stupid….” He began as he gazed back and forth between the farmer and his new prize… “But, do you think it’ll hatch if I put it under my pillow?” he laughed awkwardly at his own question when he realized how foolish it must have sounded, but was pleasantly surprised when the farmer’s response was more optimistic than he had expected.
“Umm, I don’t know… Maybe! It’s worth a try anyway, and stranger things have happened.”
“Only one way to find out I guess!” Sebastian said smiling in anticipation.
“Good luck! You’ll have to let me know what happens!” They scanned out over the tides as if looking for something before turning back to Sebastian. “I should hurry and find a spot to fish before the rain stops again, but it was really nice talking to you!”
“Yeah, you too!” Seb agreed. “I’ll see you later!” He distracted himself for a moment, making sure the egg was tucked away safe and warm in his hoodie pocket, when he suddenly realized something. “Hey, wait!...” he quickly turned back to where the farmer had been standing just a minute before, but by the time he’d remembered what he’d needed to ask, they’d already trotted too far out of earshot to be able to hear him. “Aw, man… I forgot to catch their name again.” He lamented. “I’ll have to remember to ask them next time… Next time for sure.”

The next afternoon, Kokichi and Himiko wished each other luck before Kokichi went off to his own stand. Himiko set her table up and placed her cookies down. Kokichi suggested making two batches of each comedy Snoozdoodles, just in case.

"HIMIKO!!" Himiko's head shot up to see Ibuki above her rushing out of the school, followed by Himiko's other previous customers.
"Nyeh! You guys are already here?!" Himiko gasped.

"We just plainly couldn't wait to buy more of your cookies, Himiko!" Tsumugi said.
"Yeah, I had to admit, they were pretty good," Fuyuhiko admitted. "And I had a pretty cool dream after eating mine."
"As did I," Peko said.

"Yes! They were absolutely wonderful, Himiko!" Sonia said. "I adored my dream!"
"Meeeeee, tooooooo!!" Ibuki shouted.
"I want to be the first one to buy your cookies, Himiko!" Tenko cried. Kaito shoved her out of the way.
"No way! Me, first!" he said. Miu stepped on his foot, causing Kaito to cry out in pain.

"Outta the way, rocket man!" she spat. Everyone began arguing with each other about who was going to buy the cookies first.
"H-Heeey!!" Himiko screamed. Everyone went silent and turned to her. "U-Um...it doesn't matter who goes first, cuz...you'll each be able to get a cookie, okay? Now, please form a single file line. Fuyuhiko, you can go first."
"Awww, why a degenerate male?" Tenko whined. "Why can't it be meeee?"
"Tenko!" Himiko snapped sternly. Tenko abashedly hung her head and stood in line in front of the first boy after Fuyuhiko, which was Kaito. "Hmph!" Tenko flicked her braid at him. The line grew shorter as each customer bought a cookie, until Ibuki remained.
"I'm gonna tell everyone about your cookies, Himiko!" Ibuki said. "I can't wait to try these before I go to sleep!"
"I've already told lots of people about Himiko's Snoozydoodles!" Angie chimed in.
"Yeah, me, too!" Tenko said. "I told more people than Angie did!"
"It looks like you've got a busy day ahead of you," Maki said, eyeing a bunch of students heading towards Himiko's direction. Himiko braced herself.

"Hey, Himiko, I heard your cookies were pretty good," Makoto said. "Can I buy one?"
"I suppose I shall try one, too, just to see what the big deal is," Byakuya sighed reluctantly.

"I hear these mystical cookies give you the power of...pleasant dreams, yes?" Gundham asked.
"Nyeh...that's right," Himiko replied. "But, it's very important that you eat these cookies before you go to bed."
"That s-sounds very i-interesting," Mikan admitted.
"Hell, yeah! I could use a good, fuckin' dream!" Mondo agreed. "Hadn't had one in a while!"
"Well, I think it's suspicious," Byakuya said, eyeing Himiko with suspicion. "How are you able to bake cookies that give you good dreams after eating them?" Himiko felt her heart drop. She couldn't tell everyone about her magic, of course.
"I-It's an old family secret recipe, I guess," Himiko lied, trying to remain calm. "My grammy used to bake these cookies for me whenever I had nightmares, and so I decided to use her recipe to see if it would work on you guys, too."
"Tuh...such nonsense," Byakuya scoffed. Nevertheless, he took one of her Snoozydoodles and examined it. "I don't usually believe in foolishness like that, but I must admit, I am curious."
"So, hurry up and buy one already!" Kazuichi cried. "We wanna buy one, too, y'know!"
"Lowlife scum like you have no business pushing me around," Byakuya said. He then turned to Himiko to pay for his cookie. Himiko handed him a baggie for his Snoozydoodle. Without a word, Byakuya slipped the cookie inside and walked away.
"Finally!" Kazuichi picked a cookie, then paid. Next was Celeste, then Mondo, Kyoko, Makoto, Taka, Toko, Hifumi, Sakura, Chiaki, Hajime, Mikan, Nagito, and Kiyo. It was as if Himiko had struck gold. Her heart beat with excitement as she counted her money. It was the most money she'd ever made. She felt proud of herself.
"I'm actually excited about this!" Makoto admitted.

"You guys won't regret it! It's gonna be way cool!" Ibuki said.
"But, do we seriously have to eat this before bed?" Taka asked. "I brush before bed, and I don't think I should be eating cookies before bedtime! It's just not right!"
"You have to eat it before bed," Himiko insisted.
"C'mon, bro, it's just one cookie for just one night," Mondo said. "Don't be so wound up tight about it." Taka sighed and shrugged his shoulders reluctantly.
"Well, if those are Himiko's rules, I guess I should follow them," he muttered.
***
Later that afternoon, Himiko let out a happy sigh. She had managed to sell most of her cookies, save about ten, or so, and earned a total of ¥25,000. Even the others who were selling cookies went to her to buy some for themselves.
"Monkey Buns! That's a whole lot of cash!" Kokichi exclaimed, walking down Hope's Peak's front entrance stairs. Himiko smiled big at him.
"Nyeeeh...I sold lots of cookies today!" she said as Kokichi sauntered over to her.
"Nee-heehee...I can see that!" he said, proudly eyeing Himiko's nearly empty trays. "Bravo, Himiko!" He wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. "How does it feel?" Himiko flushed with pride.
"It feels good," she said shyly. "Thank you for not letting me give up on myself, Kokichi."

"I'm there for ya, babe," Kokichi replied with a wink.
***

Later that night, Himiko and Tenko were getting ready for bed. Tenko slipped under her pink blanket and reached for the baggie with the Snoozydoodle inside.
"I'm ready to eat your Snoozydoodle, Himiko!" she said. Himiko nodded to her. Tenko ate her cookie. "Mmph, dewicious!" she muffled. It wasn't long before she finished the cookie. Her eyelids began to droop. "That...was...so...so...del...ciou...sssss..." Tenko hit her pillow and snored deeply. She was out like a light, which reminded Himiko that she needed to turn their bedroom light off. As soon as Himiko stood up from her bed, she felt something wrap around her ankle.
"NYEEEEHHHH!!!" she screamed, jumping and flapping her hands around wildly. She looked down to see Kokichi laughing and crawling from underneath the bed, his hand still wrapped around her ankle. Himiko swatted his head.

"You idiot!! What are you doing down there?!" she hissed. "You scared the life outta me!!"

"Hahahahahaaa...I just wanted to see...a-hahahahaha...the effects of your Snoozydoodle...hahahaha...on Tenko," Kokichi said, still wheezing with laughter. He stood up and wiped a tear from his eye. "Phew! Man, that was funny!" Himiko swatted his arm.
"You're a doofus, Kokichi," she grumbled.
"Yeeaaahhh..." Kokichi said with a content sigh. "So, when should the Snoozydoodle take effect?" Before Himiko could respond, Tenko suddenly burst into laughter in her sleep. Kokichi and Himiko exchanged amused grins.
"Kirumi...smacked Kaito...with her broom...!" Tenko laughed.

"Slapstick comedy dream," Kokichi and Himiko said to each other simultaneously with sly grins. They watched for a bit longer as Tenko continued to laugh out loud while dreaming.
Part Fourteen
Himiko was just as successful Sunday afternoon with her Snoozydoodle sale. The word about her cookies had spread that nearly everyone from Hope's Peak lined up to try them, even her enemies, like Junko and Leon. The following Monday, Himiko woke up to get ready for school, when she noticed something absolutely creepy. As she turned her alarm off, she realized that everyone in Casa V3, except Kokichi, was in her room, staring at her in eerie silence.
"Nyeeeh...w-what's...going on?" Himiko murmured apprehensively.
"W-W-We...want more cookies," Tenko said in a jittery voice. "P-P-Please...Hi-Hi-Himiko?" She and the others were flinching and trembling, as if they were going through withdrawal.
"Um...no more cookies for now," Himiko said in a small voice. "It's Monday, after all."

"WHO CARES?!" Miu snapped irritably. "GO IN THAT KITCHEN AND MAKE US SOME MORE DAMN SNOOZY DOO-DOO'S, OR WHATEVER THE HELL YOU CALL 'EM, ALREADY!!" She started moaning and groping herself. "Ah-haaaah...my b-b-body...needs...m-m-more!! Hahahahaaa!" Himiko cringed.
"Um...I think you guys have had enough..." she said.
"Well, I say we haven't! So, hurry the hell up, Himiko!" Kaito demanded angrily. The others surrounded Himiko even closer.
"It's not cool to make us wait," Ryoma said, his eye twitching.
"Do you wanna die?" Maki threatened in a low voice, reaching at Himiko's throat. Himiko shook her head fearfully. "Then, make us more Snoozydoodles...now." Everyone then began chanting monotonously in an unsettling manner.
"Snoozydoodles...Snoozydoodles...Snoozydoodles...Snoozydoodles...Snoozydoodles..." they chanted as they closed in on Himiko. Himiko huddled closer to the wall, covering herself with her blanket.
"KOKICHIIIIII!!!" she screamed over the loud, repetitive chanting.
"Move it! Get out of the way!" came Kokichi's voice as he barged through the students grabbing at Himiko. Squeezing in between Kirumi and Rantaro, Kokichi held his arms out to Himiko. "Himiko! Grab on!" Himiko reached out and grabbed Kokichi's hands. He pulled her through the crowd, still grabbing at Himiko. Gonta grabbed Himiko's ankles before she and Kokichi could escape. Himiko squeaked with fear as she and Kokichi looked at him. His expression was blank, cold, and uncaring, very much unlike his usual cheerful and warm demeanor.
"Gonta no can let you leave, Himiko," he growled as he grabbed Himiko's ankles tighter. Himiko yelped in pain.
"Let her go!!" Kokichi demanded. He leaned forward and bit Gonta's hand as hard as he could. Gonta reeled back in pain, releasing Himiko from his grip. Kokichi managed to pull Himiko away from the crowd. He led her down the stairs. Himiko cried out in pain on the way down. Her ankles still hurt. Kokichi scooped her up in his arms and carried her the rest of the way down the stairs. The others were pursuing them like an angry mob. Kokichi opened the door to Casa V3 and ran outside, still carrying Himiko. He carried her all the way to Hope's Peak.
"It won't be long before they find us here," Kokichi said, gently placing Himiko down. "Can you walk?" Himiko took a few steps. Most of the pain was gone, but she felt that she was able to manage.
"Yeah...I'm good," she said with a nod.

"So, they're now addicted to your cookies, huh?" Kokichi said. Himiko sighed and plopped herself on the floor.

"Yeah..." she muttered. "I guess even mixed with other ingredients, the dream powder is too much."
"I guess it was a smart move for me not to eat those cookies," Kokichi said. Himiko nodded in agreement. She loved Kokichi sane, and wanted him to stay that way. Kokichi tapped his chin in thought. "So, how do we get out of this one, Monkey Buns?" Himiko sighed heavily.
"I don't know..." she mumbled with a despondent shrug. "It's not easy erasing the effects of the dream powder."
"Wow...so, everyone's gonna be a Snoozydoodle addict from now on," Kokichi sighed. "Geez, what a nightmare!" Himiko suddenly perked up. She looked at Kokichi.
"Nyeh...what did you say?!" she exclaimed.
"Hm? I said everyone's going to be addicted to your Snoozydoodles from now on...what a nightmare," Kokichi repeated. Himiko broke out into a huge smile.
"Th-That's it!" she cried. "I know how to-"
"Look! There she is!!" cried the voice of Kazuichi, who was pointing directly at Himiko. Kokichi and Himiko looked down the hall to see students from both 7th Island House and Hope House.
"Don't let her get away!" Hina cried.
"Time to make like Blue and Skidoo, HimiCocoa Bean!" Kokichi said, pulling Himiko up from the floor. They ran back towards the entrance of the school, but it was blocked by the students of Casa V3. Kokichi and Himiko were surrounded.
"Snoozydoodles...Snoozydoodles...Snoozydoodles..." everyone chanted as they closed in on Kokichi and Himiko. Some of them even had lines of drool spilling from their mouths. Kokichi wrapped his arms protectively around Himiko.
"Uh...Kokichi...what do we do?" Himiko asked in fear.

"Didn't you say you had a plan?" Kokichi murmured.
"I-I think I do..." Himiko said.

"Well...now would be a good time to do something," Kokichi replied, backing up against a wall.
"E-Everyone...wait!" Himiko yelled. The crowd before them stopped.
"We want Snoozydoodles, and we want them now!" Mahiru demanded impatiently. The others murmured in agreement.
"Um...I know, I know," Himiko said. "I've heard your pleas, and I promise you guys that I'll make some more Snoozydoodles today!" The crowd cheered eagerly. "All I ask is that you give me some time, and they should be ready by the time school ends." The crowd cheered even louder.

"Uhh...you sure you know what you're doing?" Kokichi whispered in Himiko's ear.
"Nyeh...I do, trust me," Himiko whispered back confidently. Kokichi held up his hands in surrender, letting Himiko do her thing.
"Now...if you'll excuse us, we have to leave now," Himiko said. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and Kokichi and Himiko walked through the crowd confidently. As soon as they left the school, Kokichi pulled Himiko aside.
"What's the plan, Monkey Buns?" he asked. With a devious grin, Himiko leaned in to whisper in Kokichi's ear. As he listened, a devious grin of his own began to spread across his face, as well.
"Now, that's my Supreme Lady," Kokichi said proudly in response to Himiko's plan, stroking her cheek affectionately.

Hey folks, hello again. I took a bit longer this time to update (Part 1 and Part 2 here) you but at least I bring good news: this weekend, I got the definitive answer from the prison's legal department, and now I know how much I can tell (and I believe it's enough). For your information, after this incident and my eventual release from prison, I haven't contacted anyone I met behind bars, except of course for my wife, Linda. The point is, even after all these years, this story has troubled me a lot, and since my first post, I've become even more paranoid. Finally, this morning, I went out to get the mail but as soon as I opened the door, I came face to face with a small untouched white envelope, except for two identical characters stamped on its surface: 11. Linda is sleeping, and I don't want to worry her, I'm at the kitchen counter thinking about what to do with this envelope while reliving the final events of all this mess, of what was really inside cell 11.
It was morning, and there I was in my cell, in a scene poetically similar to this. I held a playing card, an 11 of clubs. I later searched for such a card online, but found nothing. It was strange, very well made. Before I could reflect more deeply on this, one of the guards passed by our corridor, opening the cell doors for our breakfast.
So, slowly, as if in a trance, I got up from bed and put the playing card in my pocket. Somehow, the card seemed to heat up in my pocket, I could feel the heat increasing and increasing, almost burning my skin. It was a strange stupor, almost drunken, I could even swear I smelled ether lingering in the air as I staggered to the cafeteria.
I slumped into the seat as I placed the tray on the table. Old Munford looked at me in a friendly manner:
"Overdid it yesterday, lad? Your hangover face is priceless."
I forced a weak smile in response to Munford's comment, trying to seem normal despite the whirlwind of thoughts racing through my mind. The heat still burned in my pocket, an uncomfortable sensation that seemed to be intensifying with each passing moment.
"No, nothing much," I muttered, looking away to my food tray. "Just didn't sleep very well."
Munford seemed satisfied with my response and turned his attention back to his own meal. As I stirred the food without really eating, struggling to maintain my composure, I began to think about what to do.
My thoughts were interrupted when Francis joined us at the table, his usual smile lighting up his face. He looked at me with a questioning expression.
"Hey man, everything okay? You look awful."
"I think it was the heat, or maybe something I ate last night."
Francis frowned. Unlike the elder, he clearly wasn't convinced by my superficial explanation.
"Some of the guys told me they saw Bob talking to you last night. Did he do something?"
The question caught me off guard. All this news about the playing card had prevented me from thinking about the strange interaction with Bob since the previous night, but now the memories began to resurface, mixed with the heat sensation coming from my pocket.
"Oh, it was nothing," I said quickly, trying to sound casual. "Bob was just being a bit... Bob."
I felt Francis's gaze linger on my face for a moment.
"If he does anything, you know you can talk to us, right? I know he's one of ours, but that doesn't mean I'll go easy on him."
I analyzed the options for a moment, reflecting on everything. Well, now it seemed to make sense, a prank by Bob, or an attempt to intimidate me...
"There's... something, Francis," I said in a low tone, feeling tense about the confession I was about to make. "Last night, after the card tournament, I... I ran into Bob in the hallway. He was questioning me about the tournament, accusing me of cheating."
Francis's face hardened at my words, a displeased expression passing over his features.
"Cheating? And you?"
"I swear I played fair," I replied quickly, the pressure building inside me. "But he was convinced I had some advantage, and... well, things got a bit tense... He walked away, and this morning I found this in my cell."
Deciding to omit the encounter with Tulley, I got straight to the point, pulling the card out of my pocket and placing it on the table. I could feel it almost incandescent now.
Munford looked at the card for a moment, his gaze narrowing as he studied it. The heat emanating from it was almost palpable, a strange aura that seemed to envelop the table.
"Is that... an 11 of clubs?" he murmured, his voice tinged with surprise and suspicion.
I nodded, my own confusion mingling with growing anxiety.
"Yes... I don't know, maybe Bob did this to scare me, to show that he has access to my cell, or to try to provoke me, knowing my fear of cell 11..."
My words were cut off when the guard's voice echoed through the cafeteria, interrupting our conversation as he announced that the meal period was over.
Francis looked at me with a serious expression.
"We'll talk about this later," he pointed to the card. "Mind if I take it with me?"
I nodded.
"No problem, feel free."
We began our march back to the cells, and I couldn't help but exchange glances with old Munford. He seemed to hesitate on the matter, as if he wanted to say something but was afraid. I made a mental note to speak with him as soon as possible. Our yard time would be in the next 4 hours, and I spent half of that time trying to ponder what had happened.
I don't know how long it took, but I fell asleep, sitting, with my back pressed against the wall of my cell. The dream, or rather, nightmare resulting from this was a disturbing experience.
I found myself standing, walking through the prison corridors in a way that seemed endless. The walls seemed to close in around me, creating a claustrophobic labyrinth that I couldn't escape. Every door I tried to open was locked, and the sound of footsteps echoed behind me, as if someone were following my every step.
Finally, I reached a door that was ajar, a dim light emanating from within. With a knot in my stomach, I pushed it slowly, revealing what seemed to be cell 11. But something was terribly wrong. A man was there, his back to me. Disheveled, uneven hair, a hunched posture, he was crouched down, rummaging through something I couldn't see, seemed to regurgitate. Suddenly, he stopped. He slowly got up and then looked at me.
Somehow, I knew that man was that prisoner, the one who had committed those atrocities and painted the eye on the damn cell. I noticed something dripping from his mouth, forming a red puddle in the center. On the wall, what seemed to be an incomplete sketch of the dreaded painting was there.
I watched, hypnotized by the horror before me, as the man slowly raised his trembling hand towards his face. Drops of that dark liquid dripped from his fingers, echoing in the oppressive silence of the cell. It was as if the very air was tainted with that impurity.
Before I could fully process what was happening, he began to move towards me, his irregular steps echoing like the distant clinking of chains. A visceral panic seized me, preventing me from retreating as he came closer and closer, his distorted figure gaining sharper contours as he advanced through the gloom. I could now smell the terrible scent he had, not just as something rotten, but a pure and concrete smell of death.
"Who... who are you?" My own voice sounded weak and trembling.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he kept advancing, his empty eyes seeming to pierce my soul. My heart was now pounding uncontrollably in my chest, a deafening cacophony that seemed to fill the entire space of the cell. I was about to retreat, to beg for mercy, when a voice whispered in my mind, a distorted echo reverberating like the sigh of a ghost:
"You... can you see? The watchful eye. He wants you. He liked looking at you."
The sound of my own breath echoed in the silence that followed, a dissonant note of fear and desperation. I wanted to scream, to run, to escape this living nightmare, but I was paralyzed by the terror that enveloped me like a coffin.
It was then that I woke up, gasping and covered in sweat, the echo of the whisper still resonating in my mind like a distant echo of a nightmare. For a moment, everything around me seemed distorted and unreal, a fleeting mirage, and then, I startled again. Munford was standing in front of my cell, staring at me with curiosity.
"Are you okay, son?" the old man asked in a soft voice, as if trying to calm a frightened animal.
I shook my head slowly, trying to gather my thoughts amidst the whirlwind of information.
"I... I think so," I murmured, my voice sounding strange and distant even to myself. "I had a horrible nightmare... It felt so real."
Munford nodded understandingly, his eyes fixed on mine.
"Yeah, the situation isn't good... but I came to talk about that letter, earlier in the cafeteria."
"Oh yeah, what about it?"
"Let's just say I've never seen a card like that, but the energy coming from it, oh yeah, I've seen that before."
"What do you mean?"
"You know, a few years ago, there was a murder in one of the cells. This was before Francis arrived, we didn't have much organization, lynchings were common, and in an attempt to reduce these incidents, we decided that the main suspect, a newly captured serial killer, would be forcibly transferred to cell 11. It was one of the most terrible incidents I've ever witnessed in here. And do you know how that man was known?"
I shook my head negatively. Munford leaned his hands on two bars, bringing his face closer to the center of them.
"The Card Cutter."
A wave of shivers ran down my spine.
"He used to leave playing cards as a kind of signature on the bodies of his victims. They say he would choose the card based on the person or the method of murder. So, when he was put in cell 11, things got even weirder."
"What happened to him?" I asked, a bittersweet and macabre curiosity in my mouth.
Munford sighed heavily, looking at a fixed point this time.
"A few weeks after being transferred, he was found dead in his cell. Hung with sheets. And next to his body..."
"What was it?" I could barely breathe as I listened.
"A playing card. An ace of spades, if I'm not mistaken. And that cell... well, since then, no one wants to stay there. They say it does something to people, kills them."
The shock of Munford's revelation reverberated in my chest, trembling as I thought about what could happen to Guard Tulley from now on, or worse, what could happen to us.
"So you think this card is... a warning?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, staring into the old man's green eyes.
Munford nodded slowly, responding more to himself than to me.
"I can't say for sure, but it's a possibility to consider."
I swallowed hard.
"What should we do then?"
He fell silent for a moment, as if pondering his words carefully.
"I have no idea. I guess all we can do is keep quiet; we don't want to scare the other inmates. Francis doesn't believe in these things, so I won't waste my time trying to convince him, and I advise you to do the same. Maybe if we just keep pretending that nothing is happening, things will sort themselves out. But remember: whatever this force is, it wants to take you to the cell, wants you to face the eye. Resist those urges, okay?"
The clock struck 12:30. Time for yard time. I walked with Munford to the yard, the sun burning our heads as we stepped outside, futilely trying to erase the worry from our minds.
As I watched the other inmates spreading out across the yard, trying to appear normal, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find Bob, his voice low and threatening.
"What did you tell Francis?" he whispered, he was behind me, and I couldn't see him.
The flesh on my back trembled and twisted, the fluid of fear rising up to my brain.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Bob," I replied firmly, trying to sound confident.
He paused for a few seconds.
"You cheat first, and now, you make up lies about what I did or didn't do."
"I think there's a misunderstanding-"
"Shut up!" his voice rose sharply "I'm just here to say that I'm not a kid, I don't go around sending playing card letters or anything like that. I didn't threaten you with that thing, but now I am, and in a very direct way, and if I were you, I'd sleep with one eye open."
He was dead serious, and the threat was as clear as day. But what could I do? Confront Bob directly like Francis? That could mean he wasn't trustworthy... My thoughts were interrupted by the guard watching us.
"You two, no contact!" he shouted.
"No problem here, officer," Bob said, pulling me into a hug that felt more like an attempted chokehold.
I tried to pull away unsuccessfully, and the officer seemed to simply not care.
"Okay, but we'll be watching," he turned away, and Bob shoved me against the yard bars.
"Listen here, Bob," I began, my voice firm, confused about where this courage had even come from. "I don't know what you're up to, but I won't stand still while you try to intimidate me. If you have something to say, then say it like a man. Otherwise, leave me alone." I pushed him away with my hand.
"You're a fool, you know that?" he muttered.
"I'm not looking for trouble, but if you want it, you'll get it. Let's just leave it be, okay? If anything happens to me, I'll make sure some people know and-"
My assailant's hand closed around my neck, tightening. I squirmed, struggling to breathe as I desperately tried to free myself from his grip.
"Going to call daddy? Look, Francis may have that whole attitude, but he won't do anything to me, or any of the guys," he remarked.
I noticed the usual group of big guys who hung around with Francis, they were watching us from afar, seeming to distract the boss.
"He's getting out in two months...but honestly, I don't think I need to wait that long."
I couldn't breathe. Fighting against the grip on my neck, my eyes desperately searched for any help.
"Let him go!" The guard shouted from afar, starting to make his way down the stairs to reach us.
Bob didn't obey. I felt my body losing strength, so I did what I could: I focused my strength into a clenched fist and punched the bastard in the stomach, aiming right at his gut. And judging by his expression, it worked. I saw him lean over, his hands releasing my body and being placed on his belly.
I knew if I let it slide, he would come back and continue to harass me, so that had to be a definitive response to the jerk that I wasn't an easy prey. I lunged at him again, this time with a well-aimed kick to his knee, trying to destabilize him. He staggered backwards with a groan of pain, falling to his knees on the yard ground.
The other prisoners now realized what had happened, and soon their shouts in a circle were audible.
"Go, get him! Don't hold back! Finish this guy off!"
I lunged at Bob, raising my hand time after time to punch him. He didn't take it lightly, grabbing my right hand as I prepared to hit him; I could feel the pressure applied to the joints, my fingers starting to crack, and I could feel them tense, about to break. In desperation, I threw myself onto him with the only weapon I had left: my teeth.
I felt the flesh of his neck between the rows of teeth in my mouth. Without thinking and trying to loosen the grip on my hand, I pressed on the pearly bones harder and harder, feeling them slide against the skin, the metallic taste slowly emerging as the flesh was torn.
The scene around me seemed blurry, as if I were watching everything happen from afar, in slow motion. Bob's scream echoed through the yard, mixing with the encouragement shouts from the other inmates. I felt a mix of adrenaline and horror as my teeth sank into his neck flesh, a strange feeling of power and disgust.
While still hunched over that bloody man, I felt the blows on my back: it was the guards. Their batons striking time after time as the adrenaline rush passed, and I now began to feel the pain. Without resistance, I let myself be pulled away. Bob wasted no time and moved away, stumbling as he covered the wound.
"YOU SCUMBAG, WHAT KIND OF ANIMAL ARE YOU?"
As I was being taken away, everything around me seemed blurred, as if I were in a state of stupor. The voices of the other inmates echoed in my ears, mixed with images of the fight that had just occurred. I still felt the blood running through my mouth, dripping lightly onto the ground and forming a trail of red dots marking my path. However, before we left the yard, our warden arrived at the scene, and the guards stopped, my arm uncomfortably twisted behind my body.
"What's going on here?" His voice was calm, but there was an unquestionable tone of authority in his words.
"He... he bit a detainee, sir," one of the guards explained, firmly holding my arm.
The warden looked at me, his eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.
"Why did you do that?"
My mind was spinning, trying to find a coherent explanation for what had happened. I knew it would be useless to tell about Bob's threat, about the playing card, about the fear he had instilled in me. So, I found the most plausible words I could gather:
"He... he provoked me, sir," I murmured, my voice trembling. "I... couldn't take it anymore. He was intimidating me, threatening me, and I... I lost control."
The warden looked at me for a long moment, as if assessing my words. Finally, he sighed, seeming resigned, approaching me with slow, steady steps.
"No, you did that because you're an animal."
He gave me two pats on the cheek, then wiped the blood running from my mouth.
"Take this one to solitary."
The prisoners began to shout, a real noisy commotion. I trembled at the thought of being locked up there. No one came back the same from solitary, but at that moment, I really think I'd prefer to go there than what was to come.
"But sir," one of the guards said, causing the inmates to fall silent in an attempt to hear something, "The solitary is occupied..."
The warden frowned, clearly irritated by the interruption.
"Then take him to cell 11," he ordered, his voice cold and authoritative.
That was the final blow, causing the uproar to become widespread, with even some inmates needing to be subdued with tear gas. I could see as I was pushed, Munford looking at me, a worried and distressed expression on his face; he said something I couldn't understand amidst the noise.
With my heart pounding erratically in my chest and my mind clouded with fear and uncertainty, I was led by the guards towards cell 11. Each step felt like it weighed tons, as if I were walking towards the abyss. I could feel the stares of the other inmates watching the scene, some with expressions of shock, others with a mixture of curiosity and indifference.
Finally, we arrived, and by this point, I was sweating uncontrollably; they opened the cell and threw me inside. My eyes instinctively closed as I fell to the ground. I didn't want to look at it. I got up, still blinding my vision, slowly groping around until I found the bed. I lay on it and turned to the wall beside it, my face as close as possible.
Lying on the hard bed, I could feel my heart beating so loudly that it seemed to echo off the concrete walls around me. Each beat was a pulsating reminder of my situation. I tried to push away the thoughts, but it was like trying to hold back a raging river with bare hands. All the while, I heard stories, heard things about that place, and now I was there, cornered by circumstances beyond my control.
Gradually, I noticed the thick layer of sweat forming around me. I could even feel my pores opening, pouring the water from my body in an attempt to cool myself in that stuffy, hot environment. I couldn't help but think about the heat of the card and... about Francis. He still had the card. Wasn't that dangerous? I fixated on musings about it.
In my feverish frenzy, time seemed to stretch infinitely in that dark cell, minutes dragging on like hours as I struggled to maintain my sanity. Every sound, every shadow was a source of growing anxiety until somehow, I fell into a deep sleep, dreamless this time.
I woke up in the middle of the night, with a faint noise coming from behind the heavy steel door. At first, I feared, wondering what it could be, but as soon as I regained my senses, I remembered where I was, and frankly, nothing outside could be worse. I cautiously approached the source of the sound, trying to listen better, when a "Hey, kid, it's me!" sounded whispered.
"Munford! Munford, I'm glad you're here, knew you wouldn't abandon me."
"Ha, I know, I know," he sounded nervous, perhaps hiding from the guards. "Look, I'd help you out, but I can't get it open from this side, try it there." A small plastic rectangle slid through the door gap. A credit card... I remembered I had done this many times before.
I grabbed the card and started working, carefully sliding it into the lock. Each movement was made with the precision I gained from years of street experience, trying not to make any noise that could attract the guards' attention. My mind was racing, and the tremor it transmitted to my fingers made motor coordination difficult.
Finally, after several minutes of trial and error, I heard a soft click, and the door opened slowly. I could smell the fresh air from the corridor and was already about to smile when, along with the bright light of a flashlight, I saw Bob, now with his neck and shoulder bandaged, along with three more of his cronies. Munford was being held by one, who held an improvised knife to his neck.
"Sorry, kid, they forced me," the old man lamented.
"Not so fast, princess." Bob pushed me inside, onto the floor, and then he entered with one of his cronies, closing the door behind him and illuminating me with the halo of his flashlight.
"What's up, Bob, can't you leave me alone?"
"You wanted to settle things, didn't you? Well..." he pointed to his wound. "You just signed your death warrant! But first, I'm going to make sure to pull out all your teeth and make you swallow them."
He lifted me by the collar of my shirt and landed a punch with his heavy hand. I felt dizzy, seeing stars, curling up into a fetal position. His laughter was now a terrifying melody to me.
"Look at this crybaby. Where did your bravery go?" He kicked my stomach, and I'm sure he found it an ironic poetic justice.
His cohort laughed until the beam of his flashlight shifted away from me.
"Hey Bob, what's that over there?" He said, simultaneously pointing with his finger and the flashlight.
Even though it was on the wall behind me, I knew what it was. I saw Bob straighten up to face it, becoming petrified. He and the other, standing there, mouths agape. I waited for seconds, counting mentally and holding my breath, expecting anything, but nothing. Until suddenly, I began to see small puddles forming under their lower eyelids, dark marks... of blood.
The red tears started to stream down their faces like large crimson waterfalls. Soon, they began to make a noise... a familiar noise, which made my mind freeze as I felt my toes curling inside my shoes and my mouth trembling uncontrollably. It was the same sound as Tulley's. They were now allowing these moans to escape their throats and resonate in the tight concrete walls.
I had to do something. I began slowly to pass by them, trying to edge around. When, however, I was almost reaching the door, I could see their shadows turning slowly in my direction. The tension in the air was palpable, as if it could be cut with a knife. I held myself back from trembling as I tried to maintain composure in front of those men, whose bloodshot eyes were now fixed on me, full of terror and despair.
"What... what's happening?" My voice came out in a trembling whisper, barely able to make myself heard.
Bob and his cohort remained silent. They began to walk towards me, and in desperation, I opened the cell door and slammed it loudly behind me, not caring about attracting the guards' attention. As I looked around, I actually noticed that this was a concern I didn't need to have.
The environment where I was wasn't what I expected, from the prison corridor. It was actually another cell. I stopped for a moment, confused, only to be surprised by a figure in the center of it. A man in a straitjacket looking at me with a petrified smile.
"I've been waiting for you," he said. His voice was blood-curdling, sounding like someone scratching a chalkboard with their nails or scraping a fork on a glass plate.
I tried to open the door but it was stuck. When I turned around again, he was leaning, his face inches from mine, eyes bloodshot. I almost fell backward. He laughed. It was like the last time, he had his mouth covered by a sticky red mass that dripped, probably serving as material for the painting, which now displayed an almost complete surreal eye. He turned and walked to the painting, and then he regurgitated it again. Since his hands were tied, he used his tongue as a brush, finishing the last line of the drawing.
"This," he whispered. "Is my masterpiece."
I was trembling. I had forgotten Munford's advice, and now I found myself petrified, just like the others, staring at the eye. I don't know how much time passed, but I felt like it was hours, days... years. All in the blink of an eye, or rather, in a stare without a single blink.
I tried in vain to regain my composure. Scenes of horror penetrated my mind. Cadavers, bodies marked by playing cards. Criminals, inmates being violently beaten with batons, pepper spray, and all sorts of luxuries the police can serve, I saw gang fights, blood, death, and abuse. I saw people being killed inside the prison. Each scene of violence that each of those who looked had already witnessed. My legs were no more than reeds in the wind now, and I just wanted to run away and scream, cry, and sleep to never wake up again. I tried to scream but the man came to me, placing his foot over my mouth.
"Shhh... you need to see."
He repeated this indefinitely. "need to see, need to see, need to see, need to see"
With superhuman effort, I managed to free myself from the weight of his foot on my mouth, but I could barely articulate coherent words. My voice came out trembling and weak when I finally managed to speak:
"What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?"
He simply continued smiling, as if my words were just another piece in his sadistic game. Then, with a quick and fluid movement, he approached me, so close that I could feel his fetid breath and the metallic smell of blood dripping from his mouth.
"Your mind is a fascinating playground," he murmured, his voice echoing in the claustrophobic space of the cell.
I felt tears running down my cheek, and I knew what color they were. I stood there, in shock, staring at the large painted eye, while my entire being was eaten alive in fear and dread. I don't know how much time passed, maybe the entire age of the universe, eternity, who knows. I woke up on the infirmary bed. Wires connected to my arm while a machine reproduced the "beeps" of my heart.
I looked to the side, seeing the green eyes of nurse Linda looking at me, concerned.
"Are you okay?"
"You need to see," I said, not even wanting to.
She frowned, evidently confused by my response. Linda seemed hesitant, as if she were trying to decide whether to ask more or simply ignore my strange statement. I could see the concern in her eyes, but also a certain curiosity, as if something inside her was intrigued by what I had to say.
"What do you mean by that?" She finally asked, her soft voice echoing in the silence of the infirmary.
I sat up slowly on the bed, feeling a wave of dizziness pass over me. My mind was still cloudy, as if I were struggling to emerge from a deep nightmare. I tried to articulate my words as coherently as possible.
"I... I saw things," I murmured, my voice still trembling. "Terrible things. In the cell... in there... something... something is wrong."
Linda watched me with a serious expression, her green eyes analyzing me carefully. She seemed to understand that something serious had happened, but couldn't fully comprehend what I was trying to communicate.
"Look... you and the others had a collective hallucination in that cell... The director has already arranged for an investigation, but we suspect carbon monoxide poisoning, we've already talked to him about the lack of windows in that place, but it seems he doesn't listen."
I stopped, confused by that information. Was I hallucinating? Well, maybe I would even think that if it weren't for what followed. A man in a dark suit entered. He had a serious and intimidating expression, and he asked Linda to leave.
"Listen here, young man, you're lucky to have come back. The others are catatonic... and probably won't come back to themselves. That's why your cooperation is extremely important, and we need to know: what did you see?"
I stumbled, recounting as much information as I could remember, from Tulley to Bob. The man listened to me without making any expression. After that, he took a radio that was hanging from his blazer and said some words that I didn't quite understand, something like "Ceter," "Queter"... and then he took a clipboard, handing it to me.
"This is your letter of freedom. Our proposal is as follows: We release you from prison and in exchange, you don't open your mouth about the specific events mentioned here," he pointed to the clauses.
That was five years ago, and given my freedom, you must imagine that not everything that happened is transcribed here, but the most important parts are. I ended up visiting Munford a few times after that, and I was horrified to discover that Francis, on the eve of his release, hanged himself with the bedsheet. The old man and I stared at each other after this discovery, in a mutual silent understanding. Shortly after, they closed not only the cell, but our entire pavilion, relocating the inmates. I never saw Munford or any of the others again after that. My nightmares persisted, but in recent months they have been much less frequent, and I think I might be slowly healing.
I wanted to say that this story ends well, with my rehabilitation. A troublesome prisoner full of stories becoming a family man. And it would be, if it weren't for the last 15 minutes of this morning. I believe you may remember that I received a letter this morning like that cursed number. I left it on the counter in the living room while I came here, to have breakfast and finish reporting this to you. When I finished the last paragraph, I went back to the room, but now, it seems like the whole nightmare is back.
I felt the tears, transparent this time, forming in my eyes. In the center of the room right now is Linda, holding the letter, looking at something in it that I can already imagine. She's standing there, wet and red stains on her face, I can hear her whispering "You need to see... need to see," and by God... I can see...

Spin a yarn Spin a yarn Spin a yarn Unravel the spars
Swords up bristo spark opportunity Columbine cakewalk to licks stab unity Freedom fighter fancy the rapier integrity Corporate the clobbersnot broadsword veracity
No three rounder finish him bout When the cards on the table difficult to render clout We'll deal instead a dead turn to a steel bad beat Wish the river run long enough to ride the waves from ducks defeat
So begins the thrust, Chan flip table in the rut, Strategizing on the cusp unwieldy swing from Damaruk, gracious four arms slice the dust, freedom fighter pushes up, maximize the purest luck to bleat the heart the battle won the freedom straights now flushing done
Spin a yarn Spin a yarn Spin a yarn Unravel the stars
She spoke to me of emptiness A Pluto fissure happenstance That formed between our spatial weather Scalped light year happiness That drifted farther than Icarus A terra speck ubiquitous A blackhole bait of tenderness Now sucked to cease in consequence Spoke in past tense about ourselves The taped up paper cranes in flight Abandoned cosmos Ommadawn A song for lummox lovers tonight The fuel exhaust the fan ignite the Whirl of stars the twinkle bright the Moon a pile the Challenger smoke the Lavender scent our love unspoken
Spin a Yarn Spin a Yarn Spin a Yarn Unravel the bars
Google poly dacron rope Made the best for breaking throats Lasso king the nylon grope Three inches pull to strangle hope Nawajutsu pancake then Human punching bag begins Pummel passion add them kicks 808s and hihat hits This dim Charlie barking up the Wrongest Mollies on the block to Clubbing seals appealing half the Age of Grey's Anato-Math he Probly thought the thots were ripe But bites them down taste sour tripe With red and blue all up his eyes He ran til' running redefined to Hurling up the gallows steps Collar perfect lever ready Pull the floor from under him Watch the flailing struggled limbs Heaves and heaves till crackle pop Like rice so crisp his neck jets up Let's clap for scoundrels breaking bread And choking forthright everdread
Spin a Yarn (I'm burning daisies) Spin a yarn (On the plains) Spin a yarn (I'm tellin' Clothos) Spin a yarn (To spin again)
I stole the scissors (Spin a Yarn) The snipping wizard (Spin a yarn) 2-8 on offsuit (Spin a yarn) Still win on the river

I am NOT the Original Poster. That is u/Uncle-Barnacle. She posted in EntitledPeople.
Thanks to u/No-Mechanic-3048 for the rec!
Trigger Warnings: animal abuse; sexual harassment;
Mood Spoiler: Good ending for OOP
Original Post: January 27, 2024
As the title says, last week I kicked what I thought was a good friend out of my house because I can no longer handle her antics. Just wanna write it here just to destress and deal with the grief of losing a friend.
Kendall (25F) and I met in university in 2016, we studied different majors but were from the same department so we share many classes together and bonded over our passion for gaming and memes.
Upon graduation, Kendall moved back to her hometown due to covid and found a job there, we kept in touch online through Instagram.
About 3 years later, Kendall told me she found a better paying job in the city I so she's planning to move out from her parents place. When I asked her about her plans on her accomodations she replied with "That's the thing, I was going to ask if you have an extra bedroom that I could move into"
For context, I have inherited an apartment from my late grandfather which is a nice 3 bedroom 2 bath near the city center last year January and I currently live alone there since it is closer to my workplace and it has all the convenience of public transport.
After some thinking I thought that there's no harm in living with Kendall since I considered us as close friends. We discussed the terms and ofc the rent. A week later Kendall moved into my apartment. It was great at first, my home felt more lively than usual and the thought of going home to a close friend warmed my heart and gave me a sense of security. Things were okay for awhile and then sh*t goes downhill super quick.
Kendall started complaining about many things at home, about her work, her savings and how she feels homesick. At first I was very accommodating, thinking maybe she just needs time to get used to the city life. I offered as much help as I can, even to the point of if she's low on money I don't mind voiding a month's rent if it meant I could help her to achieve financial stability.
I taught her how I save money, how I live off with my then low salary with several commitments like my car, my dog and a student loan. I grew up where my parents expect me to be independent so I told her things I'd do when I'm low on cash, how to get freelance jobs etc but she always seem to have excuses for every suggestion I have. Finding a freelance job is too hard, or how she couldn't let go of her premium junk food, that she isn't willing to cook or meal prep, and I eventually decided to leave it as it is.
And after two months of living together, I realised Kendall started treating me as some kind of competition. She would constantly ask me things like how much money I make a month, how many job hoppings did that take. Anything that she thinks she's better than me, she'll definitely pop that question. She boasts about how she is loyal to her "sh#tty paying company" and how I would never be able to move up the corporate ladder as she called me "an industry frog" 🐸.
She once snooped my savings balance and asked how tf did I have so much saved up with commitments etc (mind you she didn't have a lot of commitments since her parents paid off her student loans and fully paid off a brand new car for her) and maybe I should stop collecting rent from her. I got mad, and told her if she isn't happy living with me maybe she should move out. Queue crocodile tears as she said it was a joke I didn't have to take her seriously she begged for forgiveness and promised to never snoop my personal items and details again. I let it go once, but she kept bringing things up like, "well you have the cash and a credit card" everytime I told her I rather stay home because I no longer have the budget to go out and "have fun". Comments like these became more frequent when I got a new job 6 months ago.
On top of that, she doesn't clean up after herself, tried to flirt with my boyfriend and at times parked in my parking space when our initial agreement was that she has to find her own parking space if she's moving in with her own car because my apartment only has one parking lot per unit.
The straw that broke the camel's back was when I caught her kicking my dog in his abdomen when I got home from work. I yelled at her and rushed to check my dog, luckily he was fine but I still rushed him to the vet for safety measures. I got home and she sneered that it was just a dog and as a friend I shouldn't treat her like that. I asked why she'd kicked my dog and she didn't answer me, she shrugged and tried to escape into her room.
At this point it was already about a year since Kendall moved in with me. I lost my cool and told her off, bringing up her problems and how I tried to be nice and accommodating. Then I told her I'm giving her a week to move out and that from then on I rather we keep our relationship casual or we don't ever talk at all. Kendall cried and begged me to not kick her out but soon it turned into her screaming back at me, calling me a bad friend because apparently in her words, I "didn't tell her off on how badly she was behaving" (like wtf?!). There was a lot of back and forth which I don't remember what I said, but I remember eventually calling her an entitled brat. She cried again saying it was uncalled for and stormed off to her room.
The next day I was bombarded with texts from other uni friends, some calling me selfish and others sympathize with me. Apparently, Kendall posted our argument on Facebook and Instagram, painting me to be the bad guy. I was upset at first but I decided that after Kendall moved out we would no longer be friends as well as those who took her side of the story and condemned me.
Last week, Kendall left, and I have changed the locks on my apartment. I curled up in bed and cried myself out, probably from the sadness of losing a friend or maybe I am finally letting out all the frustrations.
I am definitely still griefing about this loss of a friend as I've had many good times with Kendall. For now I wanna focus on myself and hopefully I eventually get over this.
Edit: The whole "teasing" that I have more money than Kendall gotten worse when I told her I was given an offer by an MNC as a Senior Designer, and I disclosed her the offered salary (as we always did, like I know how much she earns too) which was about 50% more than hers. That was dumb on my part, I now understand why my parents told me to never disclose/discuss salaries the moment I started working
Relevant Comments:
Commenter: Kendall should eat a whole bag of dicks. You did well looking out for yourself, and your dog.

OOP: Yea but it took me a year to see how my "friend" didn't treat me like one ☹️

Commenter: Per your post, I would think that Kendall is a user rather than an actual friend. You will need time to heal. I recommend that you seek short-term psychological counseling to help - and maybe find out how to more effectively set and enforce personal boundaries.

OOP: Im planning to look into those as well, if I could afford them. But for the time being I'll try to find comfort in spending time with doggo, my bf and drowning in my hobbies :))

Commenter: If I were you, I'd be telling everyone she was hurting your dog - that would probably swing some opinions real quick

OOP: I did but some still called me an AH for kicking a poor girl who has travelled far from her hometown out in a big city 😒 I got off fine but why can't she?

Commenter: Also, time to step back for just a moment. Your so-called friend had No Student Loans and a Brand New Car. She has parents who can help her out. They created this puppy- kicking monster; they can deal with her. You gave her plenty of opps to play nice.
You don't owe her squat!!! Hold your head high! You're a wonderful person

OOP: Yet I don't understand where her money went, her wallets are always empty near the end of the month. She once showed me her savings balance, which was two digits, she was asking if I could lend her money. Luckily I didn't lend her any, but that's probably why she was angry at me for a week lmao

Commenter: This type hates being told no. They often seek revenge. If they put a fraction of that energy into working for what they wanted? They’d be in great shape. May you think of her no more & enjoy your life!

OOP: Exactly what I thought, there were so many other things and ways she could have work around to be stable financially, it's true I probably didn't have to collect rent from her but I was glad I did, even if it wasn't a year's worth. I spent so much for that thorough checkup of my boii after she kicked him :((

Commenter: I would have thrown her out on her ass the second I saw her kick my dog. That is completely unacceptable. She's lucky you gave her a week.

OOP: It ain't easy out in the city where I'm from, but she moved out in a couple of days after asked her to move out, last I heard one of our uni friends who called me an AH allowed her to crash at their place while she finds her own place to rent. I wish them good luck for sure they gonna end up like me

Commenter: Change your accounts so all paper work is clear so she cannot pretend to be you. Social security office visit to be sure no new accounts have been opened in your name is mandatory to cleanse sociopath vibe from your life.

OOP: Oh no worries about that, where I'm from to make most accounts would need my fingerprints and my physical id which neither have been missing, but thanks for the heads up on that! I've never considered from this angle

OOP originally paid the dog tax but has since deleted the picture.
Commenter: Anyone who could harm such a sweet boi would instantly be dead to me. For this alone, you are absolutely in the right!

OOP: I was really worried, but luckily the vet said he's as fit as a fiddle and as sturdy as ever
(to a different comment) From the checkups and with my vet's assurance, it seems like I caught her hurting my dog for the first time. He has never shown any sign of nervousness or anxiety near Kendall up till the day she kicked him, then again I didn't have cameras installed at home so I'm not sure if she has every attempted anything prior to this.
The most important thing is my ol'boy is still healthy and happy, with a tiny bruise which dissipated after a few days

Update Post 1: February 14, 2024 (3 weeks later)
Hello everyone, I'm here with some updates about me and my doggo as well as my now ex-friend, Kendall.
Let's start off with the update about myself. I've been doing well and surprisingly as some of you mentioned previously, I had gotten over the lost of this friendship rather quickly. My boyfriend planned a trip to a pet friendly beachfront hotel and I spent a few days with just my boyfriend and doggo. We played in the sea water and I watched my dog played in the sand. Overall had a great time and we even had grilled fish together while watching the sun set. (Doggo had a deboned fish fillet)
I am also grateful for my friends who stood by my side regarding this issue, they check in on me from time to time and sent me funny content to watch during my free time. Some of them even told me their stories about Kendall and their discontentment with her behavior, which I will list some below.
Friend A: Kendall ridiculed Friend A several times because Friend A earned less than Kendall despite he has worked a year longer than Kendall.
Friend B: Kendall trash talked Friend B's company via instagram just because Kendall flunked her interview with said company with flying colors.
Friend C: Kendall always demands Friend C to be her personal driver during our college days. If Friend C refuses, Kendall will guilt trip her.
Friend D: Ruined Friend D's assignment by 'pranking' him. She actually formatted his laptop when the project was due in two weeks. When confronted, all Kendall said was 'oopsies'.
There are many more but these are the more icky ones I've heard from my friends.
And now with that out of the way, here is today's main course:-- after I kicked Kendall out of my house, one of my uni friends, let's call her Anne, stood by Kendall's version of events and has allowed Kendall to move in with her instead. Anne called me out of the blue this afternoon and her first question to me was: "How on earth did you managed to put up with Kendall for a year? She's driving me crazy!!" Long story short, whatever Kendall did when she's living with me, she now does it to Anne. Snooping Anne's personal items, leaving dirty laundry around...generally being a prick in the butt. Anne told me she's planning to force Kendall out of her house too. I didn't comment much since Anne were among those who called me a cruel person, but now it has came back to bite her.
But wait, that's not all, according to Anne, Kendall lost her job because she tried to ask for a 100% increment and assaulted her supervisor when the increment request was turned down two weeks ago. She was immediately escorted out of the office building by security. And she just texted me 20mins ago saying she needed a favour from me that she wants a job at my workplace.
I replied stating there isn't any vacancy. Tbh even if there is I wouldn't hire her lmaoo.
So yea, I hope this is the last time I will hear from Kendall and I'll only update if somehow , something interesting happened that involves Kendall 🤣
Relevant Comments:
Commenter: "Anne told me she's planning to force Kendall out of her house too." How in the ever loving world did you not reply, "Wouldn't that be cruel though?"

OOP: I went with a sarcastic tone of, "Oh wow really? What happened?" 🤣

Commenter: Bet Kendall applies to the company and uses OP as a reference anyway.

OOP: Regarding this I have no worries about it since hr has to wait for me to filter through candidates for my department before sending out an email invite for job interviews. I'll make sure to shred Kendall's if I see hers

Commenter: What about the other departments??

OOP: She only has skills for my dept, sadly. I'm working in an advertising agency it's either graphic designer or motion designer, Kendall can't for the love of God make good designs. She would only want my department. Even if she tried, I doubt she could get into my company since one of the requirements is to be able to converse in basic japanese and you are tested during the interview plus you would need to show the certification of JLPT.
Thanks for giving this advice guys, but no worries I doubt Kendall would be able to pass the first screening :D

Commenter: I can imagine her turning up on your door step wanting a place to stay do you have a camera doorbell. just in case she will be getting desperate for friends and a place to stay now people are realising how crazy she is.

OOP: I have set up a new doorbell cam, I live in an apartment and there's plenty of cameras in the lift and corridor. Plus, I wouldn't be that afraid of her appearing at my door step since the security would call me to verify if I have visitors. A simple "no" would render her plans useless.

Commenter: Please keep us posted if anything happens with Kendall going forward. This is too funny and she’s too crazy for this to be the end of it.

OOP: Man I can't believe I was crying over the loss of this friendship. Rn I'm laughing at everything she has done or tried to do to people.

Commenter: Shouldn't she have been arrested for the assault? [at work]

OOP: Maybe her employer didn't press charges? Idk

Commenter: How many days she stay with Anne?

OOP: I think it's about or almost a month? She moved in quite quickly with Anne after I told her she had a week to leave.

Update Post 2: May 5, 2024 (3+ months from OG post)
At this point I wonder if I should change the title to "The Kendall Chronicles" 🤣
Hello everyone, it's been about two months since I kicked my now ex friend, Kendall out of my home. For those who has read my story before, just wanna let you guys know doggo and I are well fed and happy.
If you guys remember last time, Anne, one of my friends who sided with Kendall, told me about all the horrible things that has happened while having Kendall as a roommate. Ho boy, Anne had to call the cops to evict Kendall.
I happen to meet Anne at a pet friendly cafe to enjoy a good book yesterday while my doggo gets to enjoy playing at the doggy daycare-ish kinda area. I did wonder if it was intentional on her side since all my friends know I love this cafe in particular. Anne greeted me and asked if she could sit and have a chat with me. We started out with some small talk but the moment she brought up about her evicting Kendall, I just sat there and listened.
I gave Anne a smile and prodded her lightly with a comment I borrowed from the previous comment on reddit, "Oh, so you're gonna really kick her out then? I remember someone last told me it was cruel to kick a friend out of their homes." Anne stuttered for awhile before saying how I should have made a post to counteclarify Kendall's social media claims about me. I simply told her neither have I the energy to do so nor I have the need to. Which in turn, landed us in some brief awkward silence before I asked what she needed from me. Anne told me she wanted someone to vent to about Kendall and didn't know who to turn to.
Anne told me she filed a police report against Kendall; for theft and destruction of property, and ultimately Anne needed the assistance of police officers to evict Kendall from her home. She is also in the midst of filing a restraining order as she mentioned Kendall looked completely psycho at that moment. Unlike me, Anne lives in landed property so I guess she'd be a lot more worried about Kendall coming back to find her.
Kendall apparently stole Anne's debit card and spent a whopping 2k$ in total. Anne only found out about the missing money when she found her debit card missing from her wallet. She checked the bank statements only to find that 2k$ went to clothes, expensive meals and clubbing activities. At this point, one might ask, how did Anne know it was Kendall that spent that money? Well, the answer presented itself when Kendall came home screaming at Anne for terminating her debit card. According to Anne, Kendall was shouting every insult in the book while flailing her arms around with Anne's debit card in hand which Kendall proceeded with slamming the card on the table before storming off into her room.
That was the first time Anne felt afraid of another person much less a friend. Since then, Kendall made Anne's life hell on earth. Kendall would leech off Anne's groceries, judges her choice of snacks, body shames Anne etc. Kendall also attempted to seduce Anne's boyfriend. She once kissed Anne's boyfriend, (let's call him Jason) on the cheek and giggled before running straight for her room during movie night. In another instance she groped Jason's manhood right in front of Anne but later claimed that she was drunk and thought what she touched was a couch pillow. The worst thing that Kendall did was throwing herself onto Jason and saying she has a fever and later guided Jason's hand to feel her breast in which Anne walked in at the same time Jason's hand was under Kendall's shirt. These incidents has since cause a strain between the three and Jason felt awkward to the point where he told Anne he would stop visiting her house unless Kendall moves out. Anne cried for a bit when she reached this part.
Anne then told Kendall to move out, and gave her a week to do so. Kendall then cried and ran out of the house only to come back later in the evening to lock herself in her room. Anne presumed that Kendall is packing her stuff and she decided to ignore Kendall for the time being. The next morning Anne woke up to the sound of some grunts and broken ceramics. She rushed out to her yard to see an unhinged Kendall swinging a rod against everything she could hit, a tree, flower pots, even the grass on the ground. This led Anne to immediately lock her doors and call the police fearing for her own safety. The police arrived and handled the situation swiftly and they took Kendall away. There were still a lot of screaming and shouting. Anne said she's not sure if Kendall is being locked up or has anyone who would've posted bail for her.
While I guess it was kinda nice sipping tea about Kendall but at how Anne described Kendall is behaving, I wonder if she'd actually needed professional help. I can't help but feel sad for her condition despite we have gone no contact for two months.
Relevant Comments:
Commenter: And why is this still your problem , Anne made her choice , why you still talk to her, she not a good friend , she is like Kendall, a two face snake.

OOP: I have went no contact since Anne's last call two months ago but I believed she went to my favourite cafe spot to try to bump into me and well I have a hard time turning others down so I decided to serve myself some Kendall tea I guess
After this I would probably not want to hear anything about Kendall, Anne or anybody that decided to take in Kendall

Commenter: What about Anne's bf ? He's not naive to the point of having his hand led under shirt iniit

OOP: Anne only told me about the things Kendall did to Jason, maybe she did mention his reaction but I just don't remember the entire thing she told me (I have bad memory)
The gist of it is that these "interactions" had affected their relationship. She didn't further elaborate I didn't probe.

Commenter: While these stories are interesting to read, I wonder how true they actually are. If her parents were so wealthy and paid for her education and car, then at what point has anyone called them and informed them to her behavior? I’m not buying it

OOP: I never had her parents' contact so it didn't really cross my mind to call her parents. While it is hard to believe, it is true, some of us had long severed ties with Kendall since her incident with me.
Kendall also didn't say much about her parents. For all I know was that she moved out of her parents' place because she wanted a better paying job.

Growing up I was always one of the boys and all of my friends were guys. I always ached because I knew I wasn’t “really” one of the guys. When we grew up my friends started developing crushes on me and what had once been a safe place no longer was. I started getting breasts really early on. I was eight or so and was fully developed within a few years. My double d’s have been the source of nonconsensual groping, sexualization and I’ve been objectified by men since age eight. I also noticed how people who were AFAB were treated as less intelligent and strong in school and I definitely didn’t want to be seen as that. I’d go back and forth between being very girly and very much not girly and identified more with guys. I was proud of it actually. Girl seemed to mean weak and icky and unintelligent. As a teenager I started noticing I liked women but more as if I was a guy and liking men but more as a woman. I was worried maybe I was actualky a trans man (nothin wrong with that I just wondered if my whole existence I’d been faking and pretending) but that didn’t quite seek right. I had a gender crisis but much like my bi crisis, I tabled that for years. I am bi, by the way. It’s been six years and I’ve been wearing more androgynous stuff and growing my body hair out. I never understood what gender euphoria was before I grew hair under my arms. I’ve started embracing more feminine stuff as an adult or things I associated with that (the color pink? SO pretty!). But whenever I wear girly stuff these days I definitely don’t feel super comfortable. I’m very aware of my breasts and hips and getting ogled. I think a large reason why as a teen I did get super girly was I wanted attention and didn’t know healthier ways to get it. I don’t quite know what I am maybe a demigirl or non-binary but I definitely don’t think I’m just a girl but idk maybe I am I just like more traditionally masculine stuff. Idk what to think. I just want to be seen as me. I have bound my chest a few times and feel really happy when I do. But some days I love my boobs. I don’t want to be perceived as either a boy or a girl. Just me. Idk! Idk! Idk!! Also of course someone who is a woman can have body hair and still be a woman! So I’m like. What the heck am I and what do I do and what do I think? I think a binary is so dumb but for so long my gender felt affirming but sometimes I feel like I’m eavesdropping when I’m around women. Idk!!! Idk!!

Special thanks to SpacePaladin15 for allowing fanfiction and giving us Tilfish.
I'd like to mention that there's another member of the Sillis Gang out there making amazing work and a great story. Go give Occupation Hazard a read, it's well worth it!
[First] [Prior] [Next]
Sillis Gang!
.*~*.
Memory Transcription Subject: Zoil, Tilfish Space Corps.
Date: December 5, 2136
.~*~.
Zivik snapped at the tail end of the third wave. I realized I could hear him shouting nonsense in between the brief lulls were I was locating a new target to shoot at. I thought he got shot, but after a few more moments I realized he sounded enraged and not injured. I couldn't focus on it too much; the Arxur were applying constant pressure, so even though the third push was dismantled they were not giving us any breathing room. Cracks of gunfire lit up windows across from us and down in between buildings, constantly keeping us firing to push them back while they regrouped to hit us again with more ordinance.
The third floor was still retaining most of their lights with minimal casualties, but they were accumulating losses. None of the ground teams wanted to push up past their barricades to offer additional coverage despite Tugal's heated shrieking, and there was only five of us that could pick off problem targets. I couldn't get up and look over the side to see if they were complying or not without getting my head blown off, and I groped around for another magazine as I got low suppressing some windows that were causing problems.
I managed to find another as a shape materialized a building over, and I snapped to it and dropped it before shakily reloading and snapping back before my lapse could cause a casualty above me.
Zivik was still shouting about something called an area of denial, then Tugal was yelling at him to make some damn sense and the two started going back and forth while we were all being shot at.
I had to tune it out. Another sharp zing overhead made me flinch as I tried to find who shot at me, then ducked down further when the air over my head rippled. I scooted back, grabbing the magazine that had little left in it after realizing there was nothing else to haul to the next spot. I could see Tugal and Zivik now, and while Tugal was busy doing his job Zivik had the radio and was yelling in it. I wanted to scream at him to pick his rifle back up and fight, but before I could say anything he sat it down and suddenly took off.
I balked, watching one of Cleo's most trusted exterminators deserting. The exterminators didn't run from the Arxur. What was he doing? I couldn't get it out of my mind and crawled to my next firing position, noting far less ammunition than I wanted as I lined up another shot. If the Exterminator was running, what chance did I have? There wasn't anywhere to run to!
"Where's he going?!" I shouted, my head ringing as shell casings skittered along the tile from another salvo.
Tugal heard me, thank the stars.
"He's rallying the remaining exterminators! The Greys might try and hit an area we're not inside so they can blindside us, so he's countering that before it can happen!"
"We need them here!"
"They'll be back soon! They're going to make it real hot for any Greys that try to breach the walls!"
I refused to believe that I heard that correctly.
"They're going to set the building on fire?!"
"Yeah!"
"Are they nuts?!"
"I think it's a good idea!"
Tugal had lost his mind, and I wanted to rip out my antennae. "Maybe if we were not inside the building they're about to torch!"
"They'll burn areas we can't cover! They know what they're doing! They're not going to smoke us out!"
We were all going to burn to death. I wanted to laugh but I also wanted to cry. How did you control fire? You didn't. Dumb-asses burned down more than a few buildings during Mom's career in accidental burns. Now Zivik was going to set us all on fire to spite the Arxur.
A few minutes dragged on before Tugal shouted to me again: "Zoil! We've gone through half of our reserves and the rest of the teams are not that far behind! I need you to run down to Vadim and bring back a cart of ammunition. Everyone's caught up with their own problems so I need you to do it! Pernnit won't respond so make it quick!"
I wanted to stay but there wasn't a choice in the matter. Two guns down up here wouldn't matter if all the guns went down later, so I edged back and moved as fast as I could through the nest. I grabbed a spare radio on the way out, tuning it to the correct broadband as I ran down the hall. I tried to not think about how much a difference three soldiers would make on the second floor. Everyone else was going to have to pick up the slack.
Why in the blazing stars was there no one running supplies to the people that needed them? They couldn't pull two or three guys off of the defenses on the other end of the building? They had every advantage, while we had Zivik preparing to burn down parts of the building to buy us some more time!
Ducking below some hanging ceiling tiles I went down the staircase and found myself back on the ground floor, trying to remember which way I had to go at every branching path since everything looked different now. Up ahead was a cart I could use, laden with forgotten welding equipment. I shoved all of it off into a mess on the floor and took it along with me, puffing as I turned a corner.
The lights overhead flickered again, then died. I tightened my grip on the cart as I pushed it through the gloom, feeling out where I should be lest I run head first into a wall. I regretted not grabbing a flashlight but there wasn't anything I could do about that now, but I didn't need it to know where I was going. I continued for a few more moments before realizing that the lights still hadn't come back to life, and this time I did laugh. Maybe that guard had been right, and bureaucracy was what would get us in the end.
"Zoil, I just got word that the building lost power. The generator room should be near where you helped turn off the fire suppression systems. Figure out what happened and get them back on." Tugal's voice crackled over the radio.
"Okay, I'll be there soon." I clicked back, rounding a corner. The hallway opened up slightly and I recognized where I was, the scent of burned fuel growing stronger. I left the cart in an intersection and kept going, passing office spaces in the dark. The occasional sign on the wall was still illuminated by their own emergency power supply, and I found myself moving faster as I figured out exactly where I was going.
The ground jolted beneath me and I flinched, several thunderclaps making me stagger. I hit the ground and covered my head as it continued, breathing hard as it ended after a few long seconds. I grabbed my radio and brought it to my face, getting my legs back under me and running a bit faster. "Tugal?!"
"We're fine! Focus on the generators!"
I dropped my paw from the radio and kept running, my heart beating in my skull. I had to focus on my task. Everyone else's job was to worry about the ordinance falling on their heads. I chanted that mantra in my head over and over as I turned one corner, then went down a long hallway and turned another corner. I hoped to the stars above it was a simple failure. Something like a refueling, or a reset that was needed. A basic fault that I could fix without needing to look for complex tools. The chances were most the equipment I would need was nearby if it needed such repairs, but that would take time to repair and I didn't want to be away from my team any longer than necessary.
I scuttled to a stop in front of a door labeled for the generator room, freezing in place as I stared at the handle.
Sunshine.
What if this was another one of his traps? No one was guarding the room; what if he wasn't as injured as we thought he was, and he hadn't gone and died in a hole somewhere? Tasiilaq's death lingered on my mind, knowing full well that the human could trap electrical rooms with lethal efficiency. This could easily be another ploy to weaken us further. Another trap someone had to enter, and another dead soldier to add to that monster's name.
It had to be me. It could've been anyone that got caught in it, but it was me standing here. There wasn't time to figure out how to circumvent it, and I couldn't force someone else to take my place. There wasn't time for it, and a selfish part of me knew that even if I did there was a chance I'd die anyway from a trap laid further back in the hall.
Another dull explosion sounded from somewhere else in the building, and I felt my heart trying to pop. I took a deep breath, then a second. I released it in a scream and threw myself at the door, banging through it and into the room. I staggered and nearly tripped, diving behind the nearest obstacle. I cracked my head on something and everything got fuzzy, but as I came out of it I realized that I wasn't dead and nothing seemed to have exploded.
Rubbing at a sore part of my skull and batting my antennae, I pulled myself back together as the thudding in my chest eased slightly. I'd thrown myself into one of the generators, I realized.
It was silent, but as I carefully scooted back and examined my surroundings I noticed the display was illuminated but reading an error I wasn't familiar with. Cautiously, I hefted my rifle up and peered around the side, seeing two more generators in the gloom displaying the same error. The radiant glow gave the room some color and let me see more, and I finally noticed smoke in the air. Acidic and sour, a faint haze was hanging around the ceiling.
Hesitantly, I stepped out from my cover and looked around, trying to locate where it was coming from. My paws kicked something and it skittered across the ground, and with a start I realized there were spent shell casings everywhere. I plucked a light off of a nearby station and clicked it on, letting me see the room properly as it banished away the dark.
Holes marred the generators everywhere I could see, jagged metal and chipped paint leaking fumes and smoldering heat. My shoulders slowly sagged as I took it all in. Most of it was superficial damage in areas that didn't matter. Some of it wasn't. Ruined circuits and fried junctions leered at me from crucial feed points. Mechanical equipment that was jammed and twisted beyond repair.
There isn't enough time.
I found myself looking through it anyway, going generator to generator. One was smoldering, and I didn't have an extinguisher to put it out. The second one was dead as well, the junctions ruined beyond reasonable repair. The third one had all it's electronics smashed, and I wasn't even certain if there was anything I could salvage off of it to fix the second one.
The tools I needed to fix this were not here. There were wrenches and various tools and spare parts, but nothing was stocked for the hardware that was ruined. Why would there be? No one would reasonably plan for sabotage of this scale.
Backing out of the room, I numbly got on the radio. "The generators are shot up. I don't have the time to fix them, Tugal."
"Then get back here with the ammunition. " Came a hurried response. "I'll pass word along. We'll do without them."
I sucked in a breath and coughed, feeling a deep ache in my chest. I wasn't whistling so bad anymore, or at least I thought so until I coughed again and it sounded more like a chirp than a cough. I flexed my mandibles and grimaced, slowing down
I wanted to run. Everything around me demanded I do. The basic urge to flee to somewhere safer. The fact that I was working on a timer before everyone's bullets ran out. The reality that I was alone in the dark, completely surrounded by predators that wished to tear me apart. But if I did that, I'd exhaust myself before it counted. I couldn't run, or I'd die. I'd sap my strength before I needed it, and then I'd either collapse in a fit or before I could get those bullets where they needed to be.
Tugal was counting on me to get this done. I couldn't fail him because I lost my self control.
Walking wouldn't cut it so I found myself settling into a swift jog, my rifle tapping against my side in a steady pattern. For some reason it started to irritate me, then it started to grow and bloom into anger. How much time would this buy us? A few hours, defending a place of no value? We had the choice of abandoning this place to the Arxur or losing it to them entirely, and that would be soon. We would have been better off defending a bunker and dying for a reason, instead of dying in a burrow saving nobody but ourselves and a pawful of civilians. How were we going to escape the Arxur encircling us? The cost would be in blood, and I wasn't foolish enough to think a lot of it wouldn't be ours.
This was Sunshine's fault. That predator did this, locking us all in here until we were discovered. All that blood was on his twisted hands, and honestly he probably wasn't bothered by that. Predators liked suffering, and Sunshine loved making a game out of it with his bombs and traps and sweet little lies. He had no interest in helping anyone. He wanted Vadim dead and we were all collateral. His advice to help the civilians was just some ploy. He was favoring us, wanting us to feel indebted to him? I wasn't doing his dirty work.
It hurt, finding out Tugal hadn't trusted me enough to let me in on that fact. Realizing that Marullo never had his pad was a burning coal in my chest, and Tugal's logic burned even worse. Sunshine was keeping us alive. You'd think that was because he had feelings, or some grand plan. It was just to use us. I got to see first hand how he treated anything that got in his way.
But Tugal was right to not talk about it. Vadim's men would kill us if he found out, and the optics around us were bad as it was. He should have at least told me, instead of letting me figure it out on my own. All the secrets we kept between us, and the most pressing one is the one he keeps away from me. It left a vile taste in my mouth.
With how things were going, maybe we would have to take Sunshine's backward advice. Evidently he knew the building better than me. If we got pushed back too far we'd have to move the cafeteria there, and then Vadim's plans would get shot up in the process. By the blazing stars, maybe they already had been and that's why he was taking so long to figure out a proper course of action. Sunshine could've done who knows what that I wasn't aware of to complicate things further.
It dawned on me that the flashing yellow lights for the lockdown were out. Not that it mattered anymore. You might as well go outside with a plate in each paw. Our prison of locked doors got turned into one made of teeth. I had to wonder if the absence of the extra security from the lockdown would mean anything. This was a government building, but I didn't know what kind of maglocks they were using. I knew that there were some that disengaged when they lost power and there were some that didn't, but the later ones were for areas that needed the utmost security. This was normally an entire building full of professionals trained with firearms, so maybe there was a chance that some of the stuff we'd been unable to recover was now available.
I suddenly hoped not. If it was true then it meant every way out was unlocked now, and the Arxur could come right on in if there was a spot we missed.
Finally, I reached the cart again and shoved it along. I could feel the grimy soot beneath my paws as I hurried, my flashlight illuminating stained walls where the smoke had been particularly foul. I could see Vadim's quarters at the far end, the set of doors marred and tainted with soot and grubby paw prints. The soot on the floor had a lot of traffic around there, with prints going both in my direction and the other way from countless soldiers coming and going.
There were a few fresh holes in the door, and it made me pause again. I didn't want to end up like the man that had rushed in there after Sunshine's proposal, and I hesitated before knocking firmly on the door a few times. There wasn't an immediate answer and I fidgeted. Tugal told them I'd be coming. He had to of. I knocked again, just in case. Once more no one bothered to usher me in, and my irritation flared before deciding that I'd given more than enough notice.
Gently pushing the door open, I was surprised to find the room dark. Vadim's guard would have plenty of lights set up by now. Leaving the cart at the door I stepped further in, seeing rows and rows of tables with equipment of all kinds either laid out or in neat stacks, but not a person in sight.
"What..." I couldn't help but chitter, being the only noise in the vacated room.
The ammunition I needed was at the first table. I physically shook my head, my antennae swinging in a delayed arc with the motion as I stepped back and grabbed the cart, dragging it into the room and shoving it up to the table. I was quick to plunk down several cases of bullets, then stack magazines with them. Several were already loaded and felt like a blessing, and in no time I'd cleared the table off entirely and moved onto the next, grabbing more munitions.
Vadim had to be attending to something dire. Maybe he was rallying the troops or investigating a lead out of here. Something.
Why is this room abandoned? Sunshine could stroll right in here and blow up everything!
The doors opened behind me and my heart sank, my paws occupied with a case of munitions. I started to spin, fumbling with the box and dropping it before realizing there wasn't a lone predator looming in the entrance but three of my own kind.
"Where in the blazing stars is everyone?" I clacked sharply at them, recognizing Vadim's men flanking Pernnit on either side. She flinched at my harsh greeting, but her antennae dipped slightly as she dug in.
"We've figured a way out. Everyone not actively fighting off the Arxur are working at making an opening. Tugal said you'd coming down so I grabbed two guys to help speed this up. We need more time but we're close." She chittered back, her entourage taking a cue to come closer to help. My boiling anger simmered just enough to not belittle them further, but my antennae swayed aggressively still.
"And what's General Vadim doing?" I asked, a bit sharper than I meant to.
"He's helping with the evacuation point to make it go faster."
The image of an old man moving heavy machinery or doing who knew what to forge an escape route crossed my mind, and I grit my mandibles as I picked up the case I'd dropped and moved it onto the cart.
"We need people supporting the ones fighting the Arxur. I shouldn't be down here fetching ammunition; I should be back there!" I hissed, turning and grabbing another box. "And maybe let people know the good news? Everyone thinks they're about to die! Shoot, if we move the civilians now that'll free up more paws to get us out of here!"
Pernnit shifted on her paws, still not helping me load the cart with the other two.
"We can't risk a stampede running into the operation and slowing everything down. When it's open we'll send word of it."
"That doesn't explain why everyone defending this place is in the dark." I grumbled more evenly, stacking some cases. There was a way out. It stilled my temper as a weight was lifted off my chest, and I imagined it would be like that for everyone else. We weren't going to die in a corner. We had progress, more so than we had in the past cycle.
"Mistakes were made." Pernnit conceded, looking to one of the men helping me finish loading the cart. "You should not have needed to come down here."
"Everyone guarding the lobby is running low on ammunition. I'm going to need help getting magazines loaded for everyone. I don't know what the other end of the building looks like, but supplies need to get to them as well. I'm not logistics but that sounds like too m-"
One of the soldiers lifted the case of ammunition in their paws a little higher before slamming it down against my carapace, and the rest of the words gushed past my mandibles in an incoherent whoosh as my lungs seized. I staggered and caught myself on the cart, my legs nearly splaying out in every direction as it rolled and nearly took me to the floor. The other soldier rushed to my side to help. His paws were grasping his own rifle tightly, and he started pushing it to the side as he got to me. The stock of it was coming back around too fast-

She was used to disturbing dreams. For a while after the… incident, they’d been full of clowns. Clowns with sickly green eyes, in bad boaters and garish Hawaiian shirts. This one was different, disturbing in a less placeable way.
The room is pristine white and clean. It should be full of light, but something about it is dim and dingy. Large windows line the walls, but outside there is thick smog or mist; only a few slender fingers of light can make it through. There is a seat at one of the windows. A boy sits on the seat, dressed all in white. Somehow she knows to call this boy ‘brother.’
The brother stares out at nothing in particular, unless it is merely the world beyond the walls. She decides to take a few steps closer to him, then stops dead, blood running cold. The brother turns in his seat to look dead at her. He seems almost entirely like an ordinary boy until you see his eyes. They were full of something like hate. Actually hate seems too mild a word for what is in those eyes. Hate is human. These eyes are full of a murderous intent, guided almost it seems by a higher-lower power. It transcends anything human.
In her mind’s eye she sees fat specks of blood spatter on a pitch black surface like drops of rain.
Barbara Gordon jerked half-awake in her hospital bed. Whoa. Damn sedative. She was embarrassingly aware of a puddle of drool next to her mouth and was grateful to see Dick was not around. So where was everyone? Pitch black out. What time was it? Eight? Nine?
Easy, Barb. You nodded off. Dick decided to go do something besides watch you sleep. Nothing to panic about. She was aware of her legs again. Or still, rather. Before the ‘incident’ she would have guessed that paraplegics lost all feeling in their legs. Even after making a hundred new adjustments, relearning how to pull on her pants, coming to terms with how screwed she’d be as a wheelchair-user with a second-floor apartment, even after all that, she still felt phantom pains going up and down her legs some nights.
Well. If everything went alright tonight, that might change. A doctor flown in from South Africa, a quick surgical technique that was younger than she was, and Barbara Gordon could walk again.
Damn, she was tired. Her eyes were stinging from the effort of keeping the lids open. She let them close. Not to sleep. Just a little rest… what was she dreaming about before she woke, anyway? Something about a brother wanting to kill his sister. The details were already slipping out of her mind.
She sighed comfortably. Not sleeping. Just a little rest.
***
Dick Grayson sipped from a cup of truly awful coffee (he had been warned) and grinned. Inconvenient delays aside, he’d managed to kill an enjoyable couple hours in the commissary with a pair of nurses named Pieter and Asa while Kadaver’s Mystery Theater played Thing From Another World. Dick was fairly certain, despite his best efforts, he was hitting it off with at least one of them.
“So you really grew up in a circus?”
“Yep.”
“Sorry, you just don’t seem the type.”
“To bite heads off chickens or balance a ball on my nose?”
“I mean. For example.”
“I was an acrobat. In an act with my parents and my Aunt Harry. We were the Flying Graysons.”
“No way.”
“Yeah. It was pretty normal, really. I had a teacher who traveled with us, I had chores, friends. And when we were on the road we had coffee even worse than this. Tastes like nostalgia.”
Easygoing chatter was interrupted by a noise from a nearby table, the only other one occupied. An orderly was seated there, one whose demeanor rather aptly conveyed ‘sleazeball’ without requiring too much consultation with his appearance. He was, to put it mildly, engaging a coworker standing slightly behind him, with a good deal more physicality than was strictly indicated professional ethics. The object of his affections, evidently accustomed to it, stalked off acidly while the seated orderly smirked.
Turning to his two new acquaintances, Dick raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“That’s Morty Drake,” Pieter murmured, distaste evident. “Not really the most popular guy.”
“Wouldn’t be here if we’d had even one more person apply for the job,” Asa added.
Morty Drake, still unabashed, was now singing softly to himself. “Ohhh, my love, my darling, I hunger for your pie. Oh, IIII’ll be theeere-” Abruptly, Dick made up his mind.
“Hey,” he called across the room. He was aware of Pieter and Asa looking alarmed but pressed on. “That was a bit much, don’t you think? Might want to think about apologizing.”
Drake shot him a murderous glance. “Might wanna mind your own business, dicklick.” To punctuate the suggestion, he pulled a switchblade that certainly wasn’t part of the standard uniform.
Wonder if he came up with that before or after hearing my name. Dick idly noticed a rather skillfully-done tattoo of a skeletal Musketeer on the man’s neck. He found it somehow uplifting to look for redeeming features in unpleasant people. He realized with a start that he still had ‘Maid of Honor’ tucked away in a pocket.
Dick heaved a deep, theatrical sigh. “Oh, I’d really rather not do this. But since you’re testing me. You want to take this outside?”
Drake sneered. “You’re on.”
As Pieter and Asa watched in horror, both men stood, and both sauntered languidly and insolently towards the exit door to the back alley. Dick popped the door open, then was shoved aside haughtily by Drake, who walked out first.
Dick gently shut the door behind him, let the lock click, and walked back to the table, where Pieter and Asa were staring, stupefied. He tossed Drake’s artfully-swiped security pass onto the table.
“Told him I didn’t want to do it.”
***
It took Mortimer Drake a few seconds to realize he’d been locked out, after which he immediately began seething with rage. His keycard wasn’t in its usual pocket, either, leaving him stuck with a few king-size dumpsters. A few moments’ pounding on the door met with no response, though it made him feel marginally better. That goddam skinny pretty boy fruit. Gonna kick his ass.
Mortimer Drake gritted his teeth and stomped in a random direction, trying to orient himself. Nothing looked familiar in the dark. And damn, it was cold. He fantasized about pounding the fruit’s face inside-out in the vain hope that sufficient anger could make him feel warm.
He had walked along perhaps thirty minutes when he suddenly felt a strange feeling that he was being watched. Instinctively his hand went for the switchblade in his pocket, and he stopped to look behind him. Nothing there. But the hairs on the back of his neck were still pricking. He shrugged and moved on, muttering.
It occurred to Mortimer that he wouldn’t be able to get in through the usual entrance without getting a chewing-out for losing his ID. They’d blame him for something like that, never mind the punk in the cafeteria stole it from him. But… there was a window in the hydrotherapy room that was sometimes left unlocked. He might make a discreet entrance through there.
He picked up his pace a bit, cramming down the sensation that the thing watching him was now following him.
***
Harvey Bullock drove rather faster than was advisable through the Old Gotham. Even flooded with light, the city seemed dark tonight, and the darkness seemed to be staring at him, dark like a pair of empty eyeholes. Out in the darkness was the Shape.
Gordon had been right. Bullock had been something very close to a good cop, once. Maybe he’d taken money, when it was offered. In this town, who hadn’t? But he’d known where to draw the line. He’d never roughed up anyone who didn’t have it coming and he’d never turned a blind eye to anything that would keep him up at night.
The first night Michael Myers had run amok in Gotham City, Bullock had been on duty. In point of fact, he had run the bastard over in a car. And then Myers’ insane psychiatrist had given him an unneeded tracheotomy via pen-knife. Hits had kept coming through weeks of recovery. All of a sudden he didn’t have a job anymore, and neither did Montoya. Took a shot, turned out to be the wrong target, and out on her ass. Accusations like that stuck with a cop all their lives, even ones who kept their jobs. Shoot the wrong person, and ‘extenuating circumstances’ were just two words in a dictionary.
Bullock had been lucky enough to land on his feet. But somehow he’d never left that night behind. The nightmares had started not long after he left the hospital. Even though it hadn’t been Myers that slashed his throat, in the dreams it was always that pale mask-face. Some kind of darkness had gotten into him that night, through the wound in his neck, and it had spent the last few years festering.
“I got you now, you bastard,” Bullock muttered to himself. “Evil dies tonight.”
Tonight. By his hand. No need for Gordon, no need for the Bat. This was between him and Myers. Harvey Bullock drove faster than was strictly necessary, into the darkness.
***
The hospital really was quiet for a Halloween night. Even in small towns, you could normally expect a few minor disasters on a Halloween. Evidently the lengthening string of local disasters was persuading Gothamites in the East End to stay indoors after dark. That should have been a relief to Dr. Kinsolving; with staff begging off early to go to parties, they were short-staffed by now. Instead the emptiness felt oddly disquieting. Her footsteps seemed to fill entire hallways.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when she rounded a hallway and came face to face with Dick Grayson.
“Sorry!” the young man said, almost a whisper.
Kinsolving realized with a little embarrassment that she’d yelped, and grasped for her composure. “No. I- it’s Grayson, isn’t it? You were with Barbara Gordon. Are you still here?”
Grayson looked apologetic. “Sorry,” he said, voice still low. Kinsolving guessed that the Gordon girl must have been asleep. “We were waiting on some test results and never got them. I kind of lost track of time, I was-” and there he abruptly cut himself off, blushing slightly. “Actually I’ve been trying to get ahold of someone.”
He said it perfectly patiently, but to the doctor it sounded like the kind of patience that was just impatience trying to be polite. With another touch of embarrassment she realized how long they’d been kept waiting. On a slow night, too. Old Thompkins would have been furious.
“I’m terribly sorry, I don’t know what could be taking so long. Normally I would get some kind of notice from a technician-”
“Would his name be Morty Drake, by any chance?”
“Well… yes. How did you-”
“Never mind.”
“In any case, I’ll go along to the lab and see if the results are ready.”
“I’ll come with you,” Grayson said, innocently enough but clearly brooking no argument. Something about him seemed slightly on edge.
Kinsolving didn’t feel much like arguing, in any case. She was on edge herself. A little company would not be amiss. She walked briskly and Grayson kept pace with almost insolent ease. He had an undeniable charisma about him; Kinsolving was fairly certain he’d spent the last hour or so flirting with nursing staff.
Come to think of it. Where could Drake have gotten to? The doctor pursed her lips. Some day she was going to have to file a report on that one.
“Here we are,” she said at last. “If you could just hold on out here for a moment.” Grayson nodded obligingly.
Kinsolving poked her head into the lab, entering quietly, not quite tiptoeing. It was surprisingly dark. Too dark for anyone to be working. But she could make out someone sitting in the shadows. Judging from the hairstyle:
“Drake,” she said, relieved but annoyed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
It did not occur to her, in that moment, that Drake was unusually quiet for almost anyone and especially for Drake. It was only as she got closer to him that she began to realize something was wrong. Shondra Kinsolving had been a doctor in Gotham City a long time. She, it must be said, had seen some terrible things- things done by patients, to patients, to doctors, on occasion even by doctors (she still had nightmares about what had happened with Giggling Rendell in Surgery). Nothing had quite prepared her for what had happened to Drake.
It was the smell that reached her first, but she didn’t fully process it until she felt Drake’s shoulder. It squelched. He was soaking wet. And his skin, she could see by the little remaining light, was angry, blistering red, outermost layers peeled and torn away from musculature. Drake had been boiled alive, or drowned; either way his head had been held under scalding hot water- the hydrotherapy tanks, she realized- until he died.
Kinsolving’s hand started to go over her mouth, either to stifle a scream or hold back vomit. She wasn’t sure which. But before her hand could reach her mouth, another one was there. A wet, warm hand with strength like an iron bar. She tried to scream, couldn’t. Thrashed desperately, to no avail. Out of the corner of her eye, through panic, she saw the face of the man behind her, covered in a leathery clown mask of human skin. And she saw, clamped in the other hand, a syringe inching towards her eye, thumb slowly depressing the plunger. It was close now. Closer.
And suddenly the iron grip relaxed, and she could kick free. As she did, she could hear a grunt of surprise and the flapping of pages as a book hit the Shape in the side of its head. Less than a second later the Shape’s legs came out from beneath it, and it plummeted to the floor. She felt something grip her hand, and heard Dick Grayson’s voice. “Come on. Hurry.”
By some miracle her legs began working.
They were nearly out of the room, away from Drake’s mangled body and the nightmare in the clown-skin mask. A short distance that felt like an infinity. She heard a gasp of pain from Grayson, turned around- the Shape, lunging across the floor like an animal, had pulled a scalpel from somewhere, gashed the young man’s leg. A balletic kick to the masked face sent it sprawling once more.
They made it. Out of the room. Safe. No. Not safe.
Sheer survivor instinct was numbing her senses. She could barely comprehend what Grayson was doing as he pulled something- a short metal rod?- from a pocket, and jammed it through the door’s handles.
“What was that thing?” Kinsolving said. Shrieked, really. Her voice was not under her own control.
“Mask’s different. But I’m pretty sure we just met Michael Myers. Serial killer with very messed-up ideas about Halloween pranks.” Grayson said, grimly. He was leaning slightly, sparing a leg; the scalpel must have caught him. Kinsolving half-noticed a second layer of clothing under his jeans as he groped in his pocket.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“I… When he stabbed me, I think he somehow got my knife.”
She barely paid attention to that. “Is that going to hold him?!”
Suddenly the door dented outwards. Once. Twice. Again and again. The brace in the handles bent from the strain.
“Smart money says no. Run.Not ideal conditions to be facing an unstoppable serial killer, he reflected, drawing the other one. Not that facing unstoppable serial killers is ideal itself.
Nothing for it. His thumb squeezed a button on a hidden button in the stick’s base, feeling it extend and hum. Not just a stick anymore. Now it was a stun baton. That ought to at least give Myers a headache. There wasn’t much use in getting into costume now. The opportune moment for a dramatic Nightwing entrance was officially past. So, time for another tried-and-true tactic. As the Master said, ‘if your opponent is of bad temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, so that he may grow arrogant.’
“Heeeeey, Mikey Mikey Mikey,” Dick called out, as he moved through the halls. “Didn’t hurt your face too bad, did I? The clown look suits you, by the way.”
He rounded another corner, carefully. Focus. Like Bruce taught you. What can you sense? At the moment, it was the lingering smell of Drake’s boiled flesh. Smelled like guilt. Sorry, Drake. All things considered, you didn’t deserve that. Along with the smell, there was sound-
Dick Grayson whirled out of the way just as a knife, pink-handled and engraved with MAID OF HONOR, stabbed through the air. A nanosecond from piercing his neck, the wicked curved blade gouged straight through the wall next to him. Dick felt his neck muscles tense as he imagined what that blade would have done to him.
He got his first good look at Michael Myers.
The Boogeyman did not look like a knife-wielding lunatic in a pair of coveralls. He looked like a shadow that had come to life, undying hatred in its black, black eyes. The preserved clown-skin mask, wrapped around his head on leather straps, gave his face a nightmare grin, and those black eyes peeked out now through the holes, alive with naked hate. Looking at him.
“Hi, Mike,” Dick breathed.
The Shape, of course, said nothing. But suddenly the knife was moving again, whistling through the air. Dick leapt. As the knife swung wildly he vaulted the monster’s shoulder, running across the wall and landing behind. Pain! lancing through his wounded leg as he hit ground. Ignore.
The stun baton struck Myers once, twice, before Dick flipped backwards out of reach. Just in time; another wild swipe came less than inches from slicing open his belly.
The Shape staggered slightly, only slightly. A hit from the baton should have left even a strong man curled up on the ground in agony. The Shape seemed barely annoyed. Oh, that’s a bad sign. Dick saw the muscles tense. The Shape did his trick well, but it was his only trick- lunge and slash. The day a Flying Grayson couldn’t dodge a knife was the day to hang up the tights.
Again. Alley-oop. Toro! Ole!
This time, ducking down and around, under the knife blow. Another few strong blows with the baton, and something like a grunt of pain this time. Oh, dear. Am I wearing you down?
Again. Again. Avoid the knife, hit him where he was weak. Zap. AGAIN!
The baton had struck Myers no fewer than a dozen times when he/it finally collapsed to one knee, heavy breathing agonized behind the clownface mask. The head dipped, and finally the Shape collapsed to the ground hard enough to shake the hallway. He was beaten.
Dick Grayson sighed. Huh. Okay. Not so tough after all, then. Though for a moment there…
The clown-mask still looked disturbing plastered across Myers’ expressionless face. Dick realized with a start that his hand was reaching out to remove it, almost entirely unbidden by his conscious mind. Time for that later. Get his knife and get some cuffs on him. He undid a spare pair from his belt and reached out, slowly.
Slowly…
He wasn’t sure what alerted him first. Something must have. When Myers stopped playing possum, when he sat upright with mechanical stiffness, he did so fast enough to finally get a good slash in. If Dick hadn’t suddenly sensed it coming it could have been his throat instead of his hand.
He heard himself swear. Felt himself stumble on his wounded leg.
And suddenly the Shape was on its feet and was grabbing him by his jacket, charging forward to pound him into a wall. Dick kept one hand on each of the Shape’s, the one near his throat and the one bringing the knife down at him. The strength was amazing, muscles like steel. Myers slammed him again, twice, vengefully.
Gotta flip him around. Or trip him. Get a foot around his leg-
Somehow Myers sensed his intention. They wriggled, struggled. And before Dick knew what was happening he heard broken glass and felt something sharp brushing his face. He plummeted backwards out the window into the cold night. Falling. Like Mom. Like Dad. Need my grapple.
Only a floor or two up. A short fall. Thought never got the chance to become action. The sickening smack into the ground. The thud against the back of his head, and his vision giving way to blackness.
From the broken window, Myers looked at the ground below, and at Dick Grayson’s quiet, still body sprawled out upon it. He tilted his face, either quizzically or admiringly. This one had surprised him. Come close to defeating him. No worries now. On to the main course. He turned on his heel and stalked for Barbara Gordon’s room.
***
The room was as quiet as a grave. There was not even the sound of footsteps on tile hallway outside, nor was there any creaking as the door opened. It still breezed open, silently, and a horribly patient shadow filled the doorframe. It moved across the floor, still silent, savoring. The low light of the room was simply swallowed up by the shadow, but a small gleam of it glinted off the knife’s blade.
The shadow reached the bedside. The blade rose over the shadow’s head with a terrible slowness, and it struck, plunging deep into the bedclothes. The shadow kept stabbing, almost frantically. And suddenly it stopped. The shadow ripped the bedclothes free and found, not Barbara Gordon’s mutilated body, but a neat line of pillows tucked into the bed. If the Shape felt anything like human emotions, it was probably feeling rage, now...
And down the dark hallway, struggling to crank the handrims both quickly and quietly and keep her breathing steady at the same time, Barbara Gordon was making for the elevator.
Come on come on come on come on.
Maybe the bad dreams had awakened her to the sounds of fighting. Or maybe the fighting itself had awakened her. Either way, the second she was awake, Barbara had been aware that something was wrong. Every instinct in her being screamed at her to run. After a quick push of the nurse call button had failed to raise anyone, she felt inclined to listen to instinct.
Come on come on come on come on. Why the FUCK didn’t I grab my phone? It was still in the pocket of her jeans, back in the room. It had seemed like too much wasted time to retrieve it as she fled. Now she was cursing herself. Phones on the wall. Stop to make a quick call?
Barbara turned her head over her shoulder. Someone was behind her. Something. Some Shape. Different from what she remembered, but horrifyingly unmistakeable.
Nope. No stopping. Barbara’s arms, raked with muscle, began working the handrims even faster. And Michael Myers, with his terrible patient determination, followed.
The elevator was at the end of the hall. Myers was moving slowly, toying with her like a cat with a mouse. Somehow the space of that single hallway seemed to stretch on for an eternity. She dared another glance over her shoulder.
In the half-light she saw Myers was no longer wearing the mask she remembered from those years ago. The pale emotionless face with the ratty hair and black hole eyes was now a tattered, lined clown face, ugly red lips drawn taut in a hideous grin. She had seen a face like that before, leering at her before a hammer pulled back and a trigger was pulled-
Her breath was in her throat again. Just go. Fast as you can. Just go. Just go. Come on come on come ON.
It seemed miraculous that she reached the elevator, almost unreal. Primed for flight, Barbara’s mind barely processed the corpse of the nurse stuffed in, limbs twisted and back bent backwards. The name tag read “Asa.” Don’t think about it. For now, survive.
She leaned overthe arm of the chair, hand slamming against a button almost at random. Ground floor. Most space to run. She hit it again. Again. Again again again. The clown-faced Shape was still striding towards her. The empty eyes, the malicious grin. Close close close come on come on COME ON. He was nearly on her.
The doors slid shut with barely a second to spare, and Barbara heard a hand slam against it furiously. About an eternity later, Barbara felt the elevator descend, and her heart begin to beat normally. The immediate fight-or-flight fear ebbed away, replaced with a sick, horrified feeling for the dead nurse she was sharing an elevator with. Dick, she thought, suddenly. Have to find him. He could be- no. He’s still alive. Find him. No. Prioritize. First get help. This fight isn’t on your terms. So first get help. Easy-peasy. Nearly there, in fact. You’re on the home stretch.
***
Michael Myers, normally silent, grunted with effort behind his new mask. His fingers jammed between the sliding doors of the elevator like crowbars. His muscles strained. The interlock groaned from the effort, then deformed, and, finally, with strength that was beyond freakish, Michael Myers pulled the doors apart. There was a heavy, sick breathing as the black eyes watched the cables of the elevator. Then, with swift and terrible movement, Michael Myers raised his knife and sliced through the cables.

At this point I wonder if I should change the title to "The Kendall Chronicles" 🤣
Hello everyone, it's been about two months since I kicked my now ex friend, Kendall out of my home. For those who has read my story before, just wanna let you guys know doggo and I are well fed and happy.
If you guys remember last time, Anne, one of my friends who sided with Kendall, told me about all the horrible things that has happened while having Kendall as a roommate. Ho boy, Anne had to call the cops to evict Kendall.
I happen to meet Anne at a pet friendly cafe to enjoy a good book yesterday while my doggo gets to enjoy playing at the doggy daycare-ish kinda area. I did wonder if it was intentional on her side since all my friends know I love this cafe in particular. Anne greeted me and asked if she could sit and have a chat with me. We started out with some small talk but the moment she brought up about her evicting Kendall, I just sat there and listened.
I gave Anne a smile and prodded her lightly with a comment I borrowed from the previous comment on reddit, "Oh, so you're gonna really kick her out then? I remember someone last told me it was cruel to kick a friend out of their homes." Anne stuttered for awhile before saying how I should have made a post to counteclarify Kendall's social media claims about me. I simply told her neither have I the energy to do so nor I have the need to. Which in turn, landed us in some brief awkward silence before I asked what she needed from me. Anne told me she wanted someone to vent to about Kendall and didn't know who to turn to.
Anne told me she filed a police report against Kendall; for theft and destruction of property, and ultimately Anne needed the assistance of police officers to evict Kendall from her home. She is also in the midst of filing a restraining order as she mentioned Kendall looked completely psycho at that moment. Unlike me, Anne lives in landed property so I guess she'd be a lot more worried about Kendall coming back to find her.
Kendall apparently stole Anne's debit card and spent a whopping 2k$ in total. Anne only found out about the missing money when she found her debit card missing from her wallet. She checked the bank statements only to find that 2k$ went to clothes, expensive meals and clubbing activities. At this point, one might ask, how did Anne know it was Kendall that spent that money? Well, the answer presented itself when Kendall came home screaming at Anne for terminating her debit card. According to Anne, Kendall was shouting every insult in the book while flailing her arms around with Anne's debit card in hand which Kendall proceeded with slamming the card on the table before storming off into her room.
That was the first time Anne felt afraid of another person much less a friend. Since then, Kendall made Anne's life hell on earth. Kendall would leech off Anne's groceries, judges her choice of snacks, body shames Anne etc. Kendall also attempted to seduce Anne's boyfriend. She once kissed Anne's boyfriend, (let's call him Jason) on the cheek and giggled before running straight for her room during movie night. In another instance she groped Jason's manhood right in front of Anne but later claimed that she was drunk and thought what she touched was a couch pillow. The worst thing that Kendall did was throwing herself onto Jason and saying she has a fever and later guided Jason's hand to feel her breast in which Anne walked in at the same time Jason's hand was under Kendall's shirt. These incidents has since cause a strain between the three and Jason felt awkward to the point where he told Anne he would stop visiting her house unless Kendall moves out. Anne cried for a bit when she reached this part.
Anne then told Kendall to move out, and gave her a week to do so. Kendall then cried and ran out of the house only to come back later in the evening to lock herself in her room. Anne presumed that Kendall is packing her stuff and she decided to ignore Kendall for the time being. The next morning Anne woke up to the sound of some grunts and broken ceramics. She rushed out to her yard to see an unhinged Kendall swinging a rod against everything she could hit, a tree, flower pots, even the grass on the ground. This led Anne to immediately lock her doors and call the police fearing for her own safety. The police arrived and handled the situation swiftly and they took Kendall away. There were still a lot of screaming and shouting. Anne said she's not sure if Kendall is being locked up or has anyone who would've posted bail for her.
While I guess it was kinda nice sipping tea about Kendall but at how Anne described Kendall is behaving, I wonder if she'd actually needed professional help. I can't help but feel sad for her condition despite we have gone no contact for two months.

Colonel Mountjoy had an appointment in India that kept him there permanently. Consequently he was constrained to send his two daughters to England when they were quite children. His wife had died of cholera at Madras. The girls were Letice and Betty. There was a year's difference in their ages, but they were extraordinarily alike, so much so that they might have been supposed to be twins. Letice was given up to the charge of Miss Mountjoy, her father's sister, and Betty to that of Lady Lacy, her maternal aunt. Their father would have preferred that his daughters should have been together, but there were difficulties in the way; neither of the ladies was inclined to be burdened with both, and if both had been placed with one the other might have regarded and resented this as a slight. As the children grew up their likeness in feature became more close, but they diverged exceedingly in expression. A sullenness, an unhappy look, a towering fire of resentment characterised that of Letice, whereas the face of Betty was open and gay. This difference was due to the difference in their bringing up. Lady Lacy, who had a small house in North Devon, was a kindly, intellectual, and broad-minded old lady, of sweet disposition but a decided will. She saw a good deal of society, and did her best to train Betty to be an educated and liberal-minded woman of culture and graceful manners. She did not send her to school, but had her taught at home; and on the excuse that her eyes were weak by artificial light she made the girl read to her in the evenings, and always read books that were standard and calculated to increase her knowledge and to develop her understanding. Lady Lacy detested all shams, and under her influence Betty grew up to be thoroughly straightforward, healthy-minded, and true. On the other hand, Miss Mountjoy was, as Letice called her, a Killjoy. She had herself been reared in the midst of the Clapham sect; had become rigid in all her ideas, narrow in all her sympathies, and a bundle of prejudices. The present generation of young people know nothing of the system of repression that was exercised in that of their fathers and mothers. Now the tendency is wholly in the other direction, and too greatly so. It is possibly due to a revulsion of feeling against a training that is looked back upon with a shudder. To that narrow school there existed but two categories of men and women, the Christians and the Worldlings, and those who pertained to it arrogated to themselves the former title. The Judgment had already begun with the severance of the sheep from the goats, and the saints who judged the world had their Jerusalem at Clapham. In that school the works of the great masters of English literature, Shakespeare, Pope, Scott, Byron, were taboo; no work of imagination was tolerated save the Apocalypse, and that was degraded into a polemic by such scribblers as Elliot and Cumming. No entertainments, not even the oratorios of Handel, were tolerated; they savoured of the world. The nearest approach to excitement was found in a missionary meeting. The Chinese contract the feet of their daughters, but those English Claphamites cramped the minds of their children. The Venetians made use of an iron prison, with gradually contracting walls, that finally crushed the life out of the captive. But these elect Christians put their sons and daughters into a school that squeezed their energies and their intelligences to death. Dickens caricatured such people in Mrs. Jellyby and Mr. Chadband; but he sketched them only in their external aspect, and left untouched their private action in distorting young minds, maiming their wills, damping down all youthful buoyancy. But the result did not answer the expectations of those who adopted this system with the young. Some daughters, indeed, of weaker wills were permanently stunted and shaped on the approved model, but nearly all the sons, and most of the daughters, on obtaining their freedom, broke away into utter frivolity and dissipation, or, if they retained any religious impressions, galloped through the Church of England, performing strange antics on the way, and plunged into the arms of Rome. Such was the system to which the high-spirited, strong-willed Letice was subjected, and from which was no escape. The consequence was that Letice tossed and bit at her chains, and that there ensued frequent outbreaks of resentment against her aunt. "Oh, Aunt Hannah! I want something to read." After some demur, and disdainful rejection of more serious works, she was allowed Milton. Then she said, "Oh! I do love Comus." "Comus!" gasped Miss Mountjoy. "And L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, they are not bad." "My child. These were the compositions of the immortal bard before his eyes were opened." "I thought, aunt, that he had dictated the Paradise Lost and Regained after he was blind." "I refer to the eyes of his soul," said the old lady sternly. "I want a story-book." "There is the Dairyman's Daughter." "I have read it, and hate it." "I fear, Leticia, that you are in the gall of bitterness and the bond of iniquity." Unhappily the sisters very rarely met one another. It was but occasionally that Lady Lacy and Betty came to town, and when they did, Miss Mountjoy put as many difficulties as she could in the way of their associating together. On one such visit to London, Lady Lacy called and asked if she might take Letice with herself to the theatre. Miss Mountjoy shivered with horror, reared herself, and expressed her opinion of stage-plays and those who went to see them in strong and uncomplimentary terms. As she had the custody of Letice, she would by no persuasion be induced to allow her to imperil her soul by going to such a wicked place. Lady Lacy was fain to withdraw in some dismay and much regret. Poor Letice, who had heard this offer made, had flashed into sudden brightness and a tremor of joy; when it was refused, she burst into a flood of tears and an ecstasy of rage. She ran up to her room, and took and tore to pieces a volume of Clayton's Sermons, scattered the leaves over the floor, and stamped upon them. "Letice," said Miss Mountjoy, when she saw the devastation, "you are a child of wrath." "Why mayn't I go where there is something pretty to see? Why may I not hear good music? Why must I be kept forever in the Doleful Dumps?" "Because all these things are of the world, worldly." "If God hates all that is fair and beautiful, why did He create the peacock, the humming-bird, and the bird of paradise, instead of filling the world with barn-door fowls?" "You have a carnal mind. You will never go to heaven." "Lucky I—if the saints there do nothing but hold missionary meetings to convert one another. Pray what else can they do?" "They are engaged in the worship of God." "I don't know what that means. All I am acquainted with is the worship of the congregation. At Salem Chapel the minister faces it, mouths at it, gesticulates to it, harangues, flatters, fawns at it, and, indeed, prays at it. If that be all, heaven must be a deadly dull hole." Miss Mountjoy reared herself, she became livid with wrath. "You wicked girl." "Aunt," said Letice, intent on further incensing her, "I do wish you would let me go—just for once—to a Catholic church to see what the worship of God is." "I would rather see you dead at my feet!" exclaimed the incensed lady, and stalked, rigid as a poker, out of the room. Thus the unhappy girl grew up to woman's estate, her heart seething with rebellion. And then a terrible thing occurred. She caught scarlet fever, which took an unfavourable turn, and her life was despaired of. Miss Mountjoy was not one to conceal from the girl that her days were few, and her future condition hopeless. Letice fought against the idea of dying so young. "Oh, aunt! I won't die! I can't die! I have seen nothing of the pomps and vanities. I want to just taste them, and know what they are like. Oh! save me, make the doctor give me something to revive me. I want the pomps and vanities, oh! so much. I will not, I cannot die!" But her will, her struggle, availed nothing, and she passed away into the Great Unseen. Miss Mountjoy wrote a formal letter to her brother, who had now become a general, to inform him of the lamented decease of his eldest daughter. It was not a comforting letter. It dwelt unnecessarily on the faults of Letice, it expressed no hopes as to her happiness in the world to which she had passed. There had been no signs of resignation at the last; no turning from the world with its pomps and vanities to better things, only a vain longing after what she could not have; a bitter resentment against Providence for having denied them to her; and a steeling of her heart against good and pious influences. A year had passed. Lady Lacy had come to town along with her niece. A dear friend had placed her house at her disposal. She had herself gone to Dresden with her daughters to finish them off in music and German. Lady Lacy was very glad of the occasion, for Betty was now of an age to be brought out. There was to be a great ball at the house of the Countess of Belgrove, unto whom Lady Lacy was related, and at the ball Betty was to make her début. The girl was in a condition of boundless excitement. A beautiful ball-dress of white satin, trimmed with rich Valenciennes lace, was laid over her chair for her to wear. Neat little white satin shoes stood on the floor, quite new, for her feet. In a flower-glass stood a red camellia that was destined to adorn her hair, and on the dressing-table, in a morocco case, was a pearl necklace that had belonged to her mother. The maid did her hair, but the camellia, which was to be the only point of colour about her, except her rosy lips and flushed cheeks—that camellia was not to be put into her hair till the last minute. The maid offered to help her to dress. "No, thank you, Martha; I can do that perfectly well myself. I am accustomed to use my own hands, and I can take my own time about it." "But really, miss, I think you should allow me." "Indeed, indeed, no. There is plenty of time, and I shall go leisurely to work. When the carriage comes just tap at the door and tell me, and I will rejoin my aunt." When the maid was gone, Betty locked her door. She lighted the candles beside the cheval-glass, and looked at herself in the mirror and laughed. For the first time, with glad surprise and innocent pleasure, she realised how pretty she was. And pretty she was indeed, with her pleasant face, honest eyes, finely arched brows, and twinkling smile that produced dimples in her cheeks. "There is plenty of time," she said. "I shan't take a hundred years in dressing now that my hair is done." She yawned. A great heaviness had come over her. "I really think I shall have a nap first. I am dead sleepy now, and forty winks will set me up for the night." Then she laid herself upon the bed. A numbing, over-powering lethargy weighed on her, and almost at once she sank into a dreamless sleep. So unconscious was she that she did not hear Martha's tap at the door nor the roll of the carriage as it took her aunt away. She woke with a start. It was full day. For some moments she did not realise this fact, nor that she was still dressed in the gown in which she had lain down the previous evening. She rose in dismay. She had slept so soundly that she had missed the ball. She rang her bell and unlocked the door. "What, miss, up already?" asked the maid, coming in with a tray on which were tea and bread and butter. "Yes, Martha. Oh! what will aunt say? I have slept so long and like a log, and never went to the ball. Why did you not call me?" "Please, miss, you have forgotten. You went to the ball last night." "No; I did not. I overslept myself." The maid smiled. "If I may be so bold as to say so, I think, Miss Betty, you are dreaming still." "No; I did not go." The maid took up the satin dress. It was crumpled, the lace was a little torn, and the train showed unmistakable signs of having been drawn over a floor. She then held up the shoes. They had been worn, and well worn, as if danced in all night. "Look here, miss; here is your programme! Why, deary me! you must have had a lot of dancing. It is quite full." Betty looked at the programme with dazed eyes; then at the camellia. It had lost some of its petals, and these had not fallen on the toilet-cover. Where were they? What was the meaning of this? "Martha, bring me my hot water, and leave me alone." Betty was sorely perplexed. There were evidences that her dress had been worn. The pearl necklace was in the case, but not as she had left it—outside. She bathed her head in cold water. She racked her brain. She could not recall the smallest particular of the ball. She perused the programme. A light colour came into her cheek as she recognised the initials "C. F.," those of Captain Charles Fontanel, of whom of late she had seen a good deal. Other characters expressed nothing to her mind. "How very strange!" she said; "and I was lying on the bed in the dress I had on yesterday evening. I cannot explain it." Twenty minutes later, Betty went downstairs and entered the breakfast-room. Lady Lacy was there. She went up to her aunt and kissed her. "I am so sorry that I overslept myself," she said. "I was like one of the Seven Sleepers." "My dear, I should not have minded if you had not come down till midday. After a first ball you must be tired." "I meant—last night." "How, last night?" "I mean when I went to dress." "Oh, you were punctual enough. When I was ready you were already in the hall." The bewilderment of the girl grew apace. "I am sure," said her aunt, "you enjoyed yourself. But you gave the lion's share of the dances to Captain Fontanel. If this had been at Exeter, it would have caused talk; but here you are known only to a few; however, Lady Belgrove observed it." "I hope you are not very tired, auntie darling," said Betty, to change slightly the theme that perplexed her. "Nothing to speak of. I like to go to a ball; it recalls my old dancing days. But I thought you looked white and fagged all the evening. Perhaps it was excitement." As soon as breakfast was concluded, Betty escaped to her room. A fear was oppressing her. The only explanation of the mystery was that she had been to the dance in her sleep. She was a somnambulist. What had she said and done when unconscious? What a dreadful thing it would have been had she woke up in the middle of a dance! She must have dressed herself, gone to Lady Belgrove's, danced all night, returned, taken off her dress, put on her afternoon tea-gown, lain down and concluded her sleep—all in one long tract of unconsciousness. "By the way," said her aunt next day, "I have taken tickets for Carmen, at Her Majesty's. You would like to go?" "Oh, delighted, aunt. I know some of the music—of course, the Toreador song; but I have never heard the whole opera. It will be delightful." "And you are not too tired to go?" "No—ten thousand times, no—I shall love to see it." "What dress will you go in?" "I think my black, and put a rose in my hair." "That will do very well. The black becomes you. I think you could not do better." Betty was highly delighted. She had been to plays, never to a real opera. In the evening, dinner was early, unnecessarily early, and Betty knew that it would not take her long to dress, so she went into the little conservatory and seated herself there. The scent of the heliotropes was strong. Betty called them cherry-pie. She had got the libretto, and she looked it over; but as she looked, her eyes closed, and without being aware that she was going to sleep, in a moment she was completely unconscious. She woke, feeling stiff and cold. "Goodness!" said she, "I hope I am not late. Why—what is that light?" The glimmer of dawn shone in at the conservatory windows. Much astonished, she left it. The hall, the staircase were dark. She groped her way to her room, and switched on the electric light. Before her lay her black-and-white muslin dress on the bed; on the table were her white twelve-button gloves folded about her fan. She took them up, and below them, somewhat crumpled, lay the play-bill, scented. "How very unaccountable this is," she said; and removing the dress, seated herself on the bed and thought. "Why did they turn out the lights?" she asked herself, then sprang to her feet, switched off the electric current, and saw that actually the morning light was entering the room. She resumed her seat; put her hands to her brow. "It cannot—it cannot be that this dreadful thing has happened again." Presently she heard the servants stirring. She hastily undressed and retired between the sheets, but not to sleep. Her mind worked. She was seriously alarmed. At the usual time Martha arrived with tea. "Awake, Miss Betty!" she said. "I hope you had a nice evening. I dare say it was beautiful." "But," began the girl, then checked herself, and said— "Is my aunt getting up? Is she very tired?" "Oh, miss, my lady is a wonderful person; she never seems to tire. She is always down at the same time." Betty dressed, but her mind was in a turmoil. On one thing she was resolved. She must see a doctor. But she would not frighten her aunt, she would keep the matter close from her. When she came into the breakfast-room, Lady Lacy said— "I thought Maas's voice was superb, but I did not so much care for the Carmen. What did you think, dear?" "Aunt," said Betty, anxious to change the topic, "would you mind my seeing a doctor? I don't think I am quite well." "Not well! Why what is the matter with you?" "I have such dead fits of drowsiness." "My dearest, is that to be wondered at with this racketing about; balls and theatres—very other than the quiet life at home? But I will admit that you struck me as looking very pale last night. You shall certainly see Dr. Groves." When the medical man arrived, Betty intimated that she wished to speak with him alone, and he was shown with her into the morning-room. "Oh, Dr. Groves," she said nervously, "it is such a strange thing I have to say. I believe I walk in my sleep." "You have eaten something that disagreed with you." "But it lasted so long." "How do you mean? Have you long been subject to it?" "Dear, no. I never had any signs of it before I came to London this season." "And how were you roused? How did you become aware of it?" "I was not roused at all; the fact is I went asleep to Lady Belgrove's ball, and danced there and came back, and woke up in the morning without knowing I had been." "What!" "And then, last night, I went in my sleep to Her Majesty's and heard Carmen; but I woke up in the conservatory here at early dawn, and I remember nothing about it."This is a very extraordinary story. Are you sure you went to the ball and to the opera?" "Quite sure. My dress had been used on both occasions, and my shoes and fan and gloves as well." "Did you go with Lady Lacy?" "Oh, yes. I was with her all the time. But I remember nothing about it." "I must speak to her ladyship." "Please, please do not. It would frighten her; and I do not wish her to suspect anything, except that I am a little out of sorts. She gets nervous about me." Dr. Groves mused for some while, then he said: "I cannot see that this is at all a case of somnambulism." "What is it, then?" "Lapse of memory. Have you ever suffered from that previously?" "Nothing to speak of. Of course I do not always remember everything. I do not always recollect commissions given to me, unless I write them down. And I cannot say that I remember all the novels I have read, or what was the menu at dinner yesterday." "That is quite a different matter. What I refer to is spaces of blank in your memory. How often has this occurred?" "Twice." "And quite recently?" "Yes, I never knew anything of the kind before." "I think that the sooner you return to the country the better. It is possible that the strain of coming out and the change of entering into gay life in town has been too much for you. Take care and economise your pleasures. Do not attempt too much; and if anything of the sort happens again, send for me." "Then you won't mention this to my aunt?" "No, not this time. I will say that you have been a little over-wrought and must be spared too much excitement." "Thank you so much, Dr. Groves." Now it was that a new mystery came to confound Betty. She rang her bell. "Martha," said she, when her maid appeared, "where is that novel I had yesterday from the circulating library? I put it on the boudoir table." "I have not noticed it, miss." "Please look for it. I have hunted everywhere for it, and it cannot be found." "I will look in the parlour, miss, and the schoolroom." "I have not been into the schoolroom at all, and I know that it is not in the drawing-room." A search was instituted, but the book could not be found. On the morrow it was in the boudoir, where Betty had placed it on her return from Mudie's. "One of the maids took it," was her explanation. She did not much care for the book; perhaps that was due to her preoccupation, and not to any lack of stirring incident in the story. She sent it back and took out another. Next morning that also had disappeared. It now became customary, as surely as she drew a novel from the library, that it vanished clean away. Betty was greatly amazed. She could not read a novel she had brought home till a day or two later. She took to putting the book, so soon as it was in the house, into one of her drawers, or into a cupboard. But the result was the same. Finally, when she had locked the newly acquired volume in her desk, and it had disappeared thence also, her patience gave way. There must be one of the domestics with a ravenous appetite for fiction, which drove her to carry off a book of the sort whenever it came into the house, and even to tamper with a lock to obtain it. Betty had been most reluctant to speak of the matter to her aunt, but now she made to her a formal complaint. The servants were all questioned, and strongly protested their innocence. Not one of them had ventured to do such a thing as that with which they were charged. However, from this time forward the annoyance ceased, and Betty and Lady Lacy naturally concluded that this was the result of the stir that had been made. "Betty," said Lady Lacy, "what do you say to going to the new play at the Gaiety? I hear it very highly spoken of. Mrs. Fontanel has a box and has asked if we will join her." "I should love it," replied the girl; "we have been rather quiet of late." But her heart was oppressed with fear. She said to her maid: "Martha, will you dress me this evening—and—pray stay with me till my aunt is ready and calls for me?" "Yes, miss, I shall be pleased to do so." But the girl looked somewhat surprised at the latter part of the request. Betty thought well to explain: "I don't know what it is, but I feel somewhat out of spirits and nervous, and am afraid of being left alone, lest something should happen." "Happen, miss! If you are not feeling well, would it not be as well to stay at home?" "Oh, not for the world! I must go. I shall be all right so soon as I am in the carriage. It will pass off then." "Shall I get you a glass of sherry, or anything?" "No, no, it is not that. You remain with me and I shall be myself again." That evening Betty went to the theatre. There was no recurrence of the sleeping fit with its concomitants. Captain Fontanel was in the box, and made himself vastly agreeable. He had his seat by Betty, and talked to her not only between the acts, but also a good deal whilst the actors were on the stage. With this she could have dispensed. She was not such an habituée of the theatre as not to be intensely interested with what was enacted before her. Between two of the acts he said to her: "My mother is engaging Lady Lacy. She has a scheme in her head, but wants her consent to carry it out, to make it quite too charming. And I am deputed to get you to acquiesce." "What is it?" "We purpose having a boat and going to the Henley Regatta. Will you come?" "I should enjoy it above everything. I have never seen a regatta—that is to say, not one so famous, and not of this kind. There were regattas at Ilfracombe, but they were different." "Very well, then; the party shall consist only of my mother and sister and your two selves, and young Fulwell, who is dancing attendance on Jannet, and Putsey, who is a tame cat. I am sure my mother will persuade your aunt. What a lively old lady she is, and for her years how she does enjoy life!" "It will be a most happy conclusion to our stay in town," said Betty. "We are going back to auntie's little cottage in Devon in a few days; she wants to be at home for Good Friday and Easter Day." So it was settled. Lady Lacy had raised no objection, and now she and her niece had to consider what Betty should wear. Thin garments were out of the question; the weather was too cold, and it would be especially chilly on the river. Betty was still in slight mourning, so she chose a silver-grey cloth costume, with a black band about her waist, and a white straw hat, with a ribbon to match her gown. On the day of the regatta Betty said to herself; "How ignorant I am! Fancy my not knowing where Henley is! That it is on the Thames or Isis I really do not know, but I fancy on the former—yes, I am almost positive it is on the Thames. I have seen pictures in the Graphic and Illustrated of the race last year, and I know the river was represented as broad, and the Isis can only be an insignificant stream. I will run into the schoolroom and find a map of the environs of London and post myself up in the geography. One hates to look like a fool." Without a word to anyone, Betty found her way to the apartment given up to lessons when children were in the house. It lay at the back, down a passage. Since Lady Lacy had occupied the place, neither she nor Betty had been in it more than casually and rarely; and accordingly the servants had neglected to keep it clean. A good deal of dust lay about, and Betty, laughing, wrote her name in the fine powder on the school-table, then looked at her finger, found it black, and said, "Oh, bother! I forgot that the dust of London is smut." She went to the bookcase, and groped for a map of the Metropolis and the country round, but could not find one. Nor could she lay her hand on a gazetteer. "This must do," said she, drawing out a large, thick Johnston's Atlas, "if the scale be not too small to give Henley." She put the heavy volume on the table and opened it. England, she found, was in two parts, one map of the Northern, the second of the Southern division. She spread out the latter, placed her finger on the blue line of the Thames, and began to trace it up. Whilst her eyes were on it, searching the small print, they closed, and without being conscious that she was sleepy, her head bowed forward on the map, and she was breathing evenly, steeped in the most profound slumber. She woke slowly. Her consciousness returned to her little by little. She saw the atlas without understanding what it meant. She looked about her, and wondered how she could be in the schoolroom, and she then observed that darkness was closing in. Only then, suddenly, did she recall what had brought her where she was. Next, with a rush, upon her came the remembrance that she was due at the boat-race. She must again have overslept herself, for the evening had come on, and through the window she could see the glimmer of gaslights in the street. Was this to be accompanied by her former experiences? With throbbing heart she went into the passage. Then she noticed that the hall was lighted up, and she heard her aunt speaking, and the slam of the front door, and the maid say, "Shall I take off your wraps, my lady?" She stepped forth upon the landing and proceeded to descend, when—with a shock that sent the blood coursing to her heart, and that paralysed her movements—she saw herself ascending the stair in her silver-grey costume and straw hat. She clung to the banister, with convulsive grip, lest she should fall, and stared, without power to utter a sound, as she saw herself quietly mount, step by step, pass her, go beyond to her own room. For fully ten minutes she remained rooted to the spot, unable to stir even a finger. Her tongue was stiff, her muscles set, her heart ceased to beat. Then slowly her blood began again to circulate, her nerves to relax, power of movement returned. With a hoarse gasp she reeled from her place, and giddy, touching the banister every moment to prevent herself from falling, she crept downstairs. But when once in the hall, she had recovered flexibility. She ran towards the morning-room, whither Lady Lacy had gone to gather up the letters that had arrived by post during her absence. Betty stood looking at her, speechless. Her aunt raised her face from an envelope she was considering. "Why, Betty," said she, "how expeditiously you have changed your dress!" The girl could not speak, but fell unconscious on the floor. When she came to herself, she was aware of a strong smell of vinegar. She was lying on the sofa, and Martha was applying a moistened kerchief to her brow. Lady Lacy stood by, alarmed and anxious, with a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. "Oh, aunt, I saw——" then she ceased. It would not do to tell of the apparition. She would not be believed. "My darling," said Lady Lacy, "you are overdone, and it was foolish of you tearing upstairs and scrambling into your morning-gown. I have sent for Groves. Are you able now to rise? Can you manage to reach your room?" "My room!" she shuddered. "Let me lie here a little longer. I cannot walk. Let me be here till the doctor comes." "Certainly, dearest. I thought you looked very unlike yourself all day at the regatta. If you had felt out of sorts you ought not to have gone." "Auntie! I was quite well in the morning." Presently the medical man arrived, and was shown in. Betty saw that Lady Lacy purposed staying through the interview. Accordingly she said nothing to Dr. Groves about what she had seen. "She is overdone," said he. "The sooner you move her down to Devonshire the better. Someone had better be in her room to-night." "Yes," said Lady Lacy; "I had thought of that and have given orders. Martha can make up her bed on the sofa in the adjoining dressing-room or boudoir." This was a relief to Betty, who dreaded a return to her room—her room into which her other self had gone. "I will call again in the morning," said the medical man; "keep her in bed to-morrow, at all events till I have seen her." When he left, Betty found herself able to ascend the stairs. She cast a frightened glance about her room. The straw hat, the grey dress were there. No one was in it. She was helped to bed, and although laid in it with her head among the pillows, she could not sleep. Racking thoughts tortured her. What was the signification of that encounter? What of her strange sleeps? What of those mysterious appearances of herself, where she had not been? The theory that she had walked in her sleep was untenable. How was she to solve the riddle? That she was going out of her mind was no explanation. Only towards morning did she doze off. When Dr. Groves came, about eleven o'clock, Betty made a point of speaking to him alone, which was what she greatly desired. She said to him: "Oh! it has been worse this last occasion, far worse than before. I do not walk in my sleep. Whilst I am buried in slumber, someone else takes my place." "Whom do you mean? Surely not one of the maids?" "Oh, no. I met her on the stairs last night, that is what made me faint." "Whom did you meet?" "Myself—my double." "Nonsense, Miss Mountjoy." "But it is a fact. I saw myself as clearly as I see you now. I was going down into the hall." "You saw yourself! You saw your own pleasant, pretty face in a looking-glass." "There is no looking-glass on the staircase. Besides, I was in my alpaca morning-gown, and my double had on my pearl-grey cloth costume, with my straw hat. She was mounting as I was descending." "Tell me the story." "I went yesterday—an hour or so before I had to dress—into the schoolroom. I am awfully ignorant, and I did want to see a map and find out where was Henley, because, you know, I was going to the boat-race. And I dropped off into one of those dreadful dead sleeps, with my head on the atlas. When I awoke it was evening, and the gas-lamps were lighted. I was frightened, and ran out to the landing and I heard them arrive, just come back from Henley, and as I was going down the stairs, I saw my double coming up, and we met face to face. She passed me by, and went on to my room—to this room. So you see this is proof pos that I am not a somnambulist." "I never said that you were. I never for a moment admitted the supposition. That, if you remember, was your own idea. What I said before is what I repeat now, that you suffer from failure of memory." "But that cannot be so, Dr. Groves." "Pray, why not?" "Because I saw my double, wearing my regatta costume." "I hold to my opinion, Miss Mountjoy. If you will listen to me I shall be able to offer a satisfactory explanation. Satisfactory, I mean, so far as to make your experiences intelligible to you. I do not at all imply that your condition is satisfactory." "Well, tell me. I cannot make heads or tails of this matter." "It is this, young lady. On several recent occasions you have suffered from lapses of memory. All recollection of what you did, where you went, what you said, has been clean wiped out. But on this last—it was somewhat different. The failure took place on your return, and you forgot everything that had happened since you were engaged in the schoolroom looking at the atlas." "Yes." "Then, on your arrival here, as Lady Lacy told me, you ran upstairs, and in a prodigious hurry changed your clothes and put on your——" "My alpaca." "Your alpaca, yes. Then, in descending to the hall, your memory came back, but was still entangled with flying reminiscences of what had taken place during the intervening period. Amongst other things——" "I remember no other things." "You recalled confusedly one thing only, that you had mounted the stairs in your—your——" "My pearl-grey cloth, with the straw hat and satin ribbon."Precisely. Whilst in your morning gown, into which you had scrambled, you recalled yourself in your regatta costume going upstairs to change. This fragmentary reminiscence presented itself before you as a vision. Actually you saw nothing. The impression on your brain of a scrap recollected appeared to you as if it had been an actual object depicted on the retina of your eye. Such things happen, and happen not infrequently. In cases of D. T.——" "But I haven't D. T. I don't drink." "I do not say that. If you will allow me to proceed. In cases of D. T. the patient fancies he sees rats, devils, all sorts of objects. They appear to him as obvious realities, he thinks that he sees them with his eyes. But he does not. These are mere pictures formed on the brain." "Then you hold that I really was at the boat-race?" "I am positive that you were." "And that I danced at Lady Belgrove's ball?" "Most assuredly." "And heard Carmen at Her Majesty's?" "I have not the remotest doubt that you did." Betty drew a long breath, and remained in consideration. Then she said very gravely: "I want you to tell me, Dr. Groves, quite truthfully, quite frankly—do not think that I shall be frightened whatever you say; I shall merely prepare for what may be—do you consider that I am going out of my mind?" "I have not the least occasion for supposing so." "That," said Betty, "would be the most terrible thing of all. If I thought that, I would say right out to my aunt that I wished at once to be sent to an asylum." "You may set your mind at rest on that score." "But loss of memory is bad, but better than the other. Will these fits of failure come on again?" "That is more than I can prognosticate; let us hope for the best. A complete change of scene, change of air, change of association——" "Not to leave auntie!" "No. I do not mean that, but to get away from London society. It may restore you to what you were. You never had those fits before?" "Never, never, till I came to town." "And when you have left town they may not recur." "I shall take precious good care not to revisit London if it is going to play these tricks with me." That day Captain Fontanel called, and was vastly concerned to hear that Betty was unwell. She was not looking herself, he said, at the boat-race. He feared that the cold on the river had been too much for her. But he did trust that he might be allowed to have a word with her before she returned to Devonshire. Although he did not see Betty, he had an hour's conversation with Lady Lacy, and he departed with a smile on his face. On the morrow he called again. Betty had so completely recovered that she was cheerful, and the pleasant colour had returned to her cheeks. She was in the drawing-room along with her aunt when he arrived. The captain offered his condolences, and expressed his satisfaction that her indisposition had been so quickly got over. "Oh!" said the girl, "I am as right as a trivet. It has all passed off. I need not have soaked in bed all yesterday, but that aunt would have it so. We are going down to our home to-morrow. Yesterday auntie was scared and thought she would have to postpone our return." Lady Lacy rose, made the excuse that she had the packing to attend to, and left the young people alone together. When the door was shut behind her, Captain Fontanel drew his chair close to that of the girl and said— "Betty, you do not know how happy I have felt since you accepted me. It was a hurried affair in the boat-house, but really, time was running short; as you were off so soon to Devonshire, I had to snatch at the occasion when there was no one by, so I seized old Time by the forelock, and you were so good as to say 'Yes.'" "I—I——" stammered Betty. "But as the thing was done in such haste, I came here to-day to renew my offer of myself, and to make sure of my happiness. You have had time to reflect, and I trust you do not repent." "Oh, you are so good and kind to me!" "Dearest Betty, what a thing to say! It is I—poor, wretched, good-for-naught—who have cause to speak such words to you. Put your hand into mine; it is a short courtship of a soldier, like that of Harry V. and the fair Maid of France. 'I love you: then if you urge me farther than to say, "Do you in faith?" I wear out my suit. Give me your answer; i' faith, do: and so clap hands and a bargain.' Am I quoting aright?" Shyly, hesitatingly, she extended her fingers, and he clasped them. Then, shrinking back and looking down, she said: "But I ought to tell you something first, something very serious, which may make you change your mind. I do not, in conscience, feel it right that you should commit yourself till you know." "It must be something very dreadful to make me do that." "It is dreadful. I am apt to be terribly forgetful." "Bless me! So am I. I have passed several of my acquaintances lately and have not recognised them, but that was because I was thinking of you. And I fear I have been very oblivious about my bills; and as to answering letters—good heavens! I am a shocking defaulter." "I do not mean that. I have lapses of memory. Why, I do not even remember——" He sealed her lips with a kiss. "You will not forget this, at any rate, Betty." "Oh, Charlie, no!" "Then consider this, Betty. Our engagement cannot be for long. I am ordered to Egypt, and I positively must take my dear little wife with me and show her the Pyramids. You would like to see them, would you not?" "I should love to." "And the Sphynx?" "Indeed I should." "And Pompey's Pillar?" "Oh, Charlie! I shall love above everything to see you every day."

As a sexual abuse survivor this show was just what I needed. Someone brave enough to talk about all the things that go on in our heads that seem so fucked up to someone who hasn't experienced such trauma, but so relatable to someone who has. As I was watching I was thinking that people who have never been subjected to SA or just any abuse or trauma would not understand and they probably thinking how fucked up he is and how he brings this all onto himself. As an SA survivor I was like oh wow its not just me going through this kind of stuff. I just thought the series was so brave, because he just lay it all on the table and just made me feel like I'm not as fucked up for shit I have done or allowed to be done to me because my trauma is what made me that way. I just related so much to it.
I was sexually abused by my father. I can't remember when it started, I assume very young because it's all I knew and it continued until maybe I was 8 or 9. For so many years I had no idea it was wrong, but I knew I shouldn't say anything and he never once told me not to tell anyone (unless I blocked that out). I know it happened a lot, but I can only remember a handful of times it happened. He never made me do anything to him so I always wondered what sexual pleasure he got out of it because I don't recall (unless I blocked it out) him doing anything to himself. He would get brave and do it right under my mother's nose without her ever seeing. He would always call me onto his lap when sitting in the lounge and touch me in a way it couldn't be seen, but if my mom walked past the lounge to the kitchen, just as he heard her footsteps he would quickly move his hands away so she wouldn't see anything and it just looked like a daughter sitting on her father's lap watching TV together. I just somehow knew that she couldn't know and that this was a secret I had to keep. The thing also was that he was so good at what he did that as much as I hated it, it also felt good. It was so confusing.
As I studied teaching, I learned that children only start to learn wrong from right from a moral sense at the age of 7. You can tell a young child about what's wrong or right and teach them rules from a young age, but the actual understanding of it comes at a later age. This really stuck with me because I remember having that click in my brain, an almost "aha" moment when I was around 7/8 that's this was wrong and then that's when the extreme anger set in and all the shame kicked it. It's also when I started to fight back and the abuse finally stopped because he obviously got scared I was going to start talking.
It fucked me up though. That trauma really fucked me up. You would never say though because I hid it well. I was a straight A student, did well in sports and was always the Captain of the swimming team/ athletics team and running team. I never got into any trouble, just a dream student. Inside I was a complete fucking mess.
I struggled with relationships, still do actually. I find sex really difficult and don't have a desire to have sex with someone I love. I loved putting myself in dangerous situations and having reckless sex that gave me no pleasure, but it just was so much more appealing. I was also sexually assaulted by a photographer once when I was doing a bikini shoot and he would go to "fix my bikini bottoms" and stick his fingers in me while he did that and I would just freeze an let it happen so I related to the scene where she groped him and he just froze. I relate to him returning to his abuser because as a child I would call my father to come lie with me in my bed when I had a nightmare and I knew what he would do to me, but I would call him anyway. I also would enjoy negative attention from people I knew were shady and dangerous, but I would entertain it because i lived the attention, even if it was weird i loved it. I would send graphic photos of myself to guys just for attention. I had a few guys who i would send these photos to and I knew they had no respect for me and would never date me, but the attention i got from them when they wanted something from me was all i needed. As I got older and reflected back on this behavior of mine I was so ashamed of myself and I would think of how fucked up I am for doing that shit and this cloud of shame followed me. I was always telling myself how fucked up I am, how disgusting I am and how i deserved all the bad things because clearly I wanted it to happen to me with my actions. Still to this day my body remembers how the abuse felt so when something triggers a memory of my abuse, it's almost like I can feel the orgasms he used to give me as a child and even though I don't want it to, it almost arouses me and then I feel so disgusted with my body for reacting to the memory in that way. I can't control the arousal, it's like it's muscle memory from the abuse and it just happens by itself. I hate what happened to me and I feel so disgusted by it and I hate my dad for causing all of this. Because of what my father did, I find it almost painful when my husband touches me down there and no matter what, it always takes me back to the memory of what my dad did. The worst part of it all is that if I want to orgasm, I just have to think back to the abuse and the orgasm comes so quickly and that's why I struggle to have intimacy with someone I love because that's so fucked up and then I feel disgusting afterwards and I don't want to have any intimacy so that my mind doesn't go back there. Its like the only way i can orgasm is by thinking of the abuse that happened to me. That's probably why I enjoyed the reckless sex so much because I never got any actual sexual pleasure as the guy was only concerned about his own pleasure so I was not taken back to my abuse when it felt good. It was more the attention of it and putting myself in those dangerous situations that gave me pleasure. I just feel so angry with my father because he has taken sex and sexual pleasure away from me for the rest of my life. Any sexual experiences will always be tainted with what he did to me. I will never enjoy being touched or having pleasurable sex because it always takes me back to him.
I am just so thankful for this show as it really showed me how I'm not alone and that I'm not the only one going through this.

I've been in and out of prisons and jails ever since I was 17. I thought I had seen it all- Aryan Brotherhood members stabbing guards, gang wars, escapes and torture. I saw many things that still give me nightmares to this day.
"MacDonald, 402202," the guard barked out. I jumped up, the thin mattress under me exhaling a whiff of stale air. I looked through the bars, seeing Correctional Officer Shea. CO Shea was a morbidly obese man with a penchant for being loud and lazy. I had seen a member of the Bloods punch him straight in the nose before, a scene I still remembered with some humor. Shea had crumpled like wet paper on the floor, screaming and crying as more COs ran over and tackled the inmate.
"Yeah?" I asked. Shea handed me a sheet of paper. He regarded me with his gray, colorless eyes.
"Congratulations, you're being transferred. Pack your shit. This is your last day at Springfield Correctional Center."
***
You might think I would be happy to get a transfer. SCC was, after all, a shithole. The food was terrible and always cold, the place always smelled like bleach and chemicals, and at night it got so cold with only my flimsy sheet that I regularly woke up shivering. The building was nearly a century old, and the fact that it still functioned at all was a miracle in itself.
But, to be honest, I was not thrilled about the transfer. I had made friends here and knew the lay of the land. I didn't have to worry about getting jumped or stabbed to death in the showers. As the old adage goes, it's better the devil you know than the one you don't.
I was led out of my cell the next evening with all the worldly possessions I owned, which fit neatly into a clear trash bag with room to spare. I owned some prison clothes, toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, a Bible, a pair of sandals and a radio. I felt the unbearable lightness of my existence reflected in that bag as it smacked rhythmically against my leg.
"Good luck, friend Josh!" a rather insane acquaintance of mine named Alvin called out from his cell as I passed down the bleak, concrete hallway.
"Take care man. I hope we meet again on the outside," I said, waving, knowing I would almost certainly never see any of these people again. Hell, I hadn't even seen my family in over five years. None of them came to visit me anymore. No one wrote me letters or put money in my commissary account or sent me books to read.
"Well, we're all born alone, and we all die alone," I thought to myself as CO Shea walked by my side. He was breathing heavily, as if he had just finished running a marathon. I looked over at his face, seeing the burst capillaries on his nose from years of hard drinking and the squint of his little, piggy eyes. There was a slight gleam of intelligence and slyness behind that ugly mug, though.
"Well, amigo," Shea said in his slow, plodding way, "I got assigned to go with you. I'll be your ride along buddy. You excited or what?" I smiled faintly at him
"There are worse people than you here, Shea," I said. "Far worse."
***
I got on the prison bus in my bright-orange jumpsuit. To my surprise, I saw the back was nearly empty. There was only one other prisoner in the back. Shea sat with us to monitor us. We were also handcuffed and anklecuffed. A chain ran down and connected the two.
I looked over at the other prisoner, a black guy with a shaved head. I think he also shaved his eyebrows. I mean, I literally didn't see a single hair on his head besides eyelashes, which he apparently hadn't found a way to shave… yet.
"Sup," he said. I nodded.
"Sup." We sat there in awkward silence as Shea plopped down hard on the bench between us. It groaned like a confused old man.
"So what do you know about this place, Shea?" I asked. He sucked down half a bottle of Coke and then heaved a deep sigh.
"I don't know much about it, to be frank," he admitted sheepishly. "It is apparently brand-new, though. They asked us to send a couple people who met... certain criteria."
"What does that mean?" the black guy asked. Shea gave him a serious look.
"Come on, Timmy, you know what I mean. Hardened criminals. People with long records who tour prisons like some people tour French beaches." I scoffed.
"There are far worse people than me in prison," I said.
"Well, they asked for no murderers or gang bangers too. I don't know why, but maybe it is some new government program. They apparently call it an 'experimental prison’.”
“What about me?” Timmy asked. Shea apparently knew what he meant.
“You’re not a murderer, Timmy,” Shea said, his lips forming the faintest twitch of a smile. “You never…”
“Well, there was that time my girlfriend got me to drop some acid with her. She went and killed her parents. Then we hit the road,” Timmy said fondly, his eyes rising as if he were looking at a hovering angel in the far-off distance.
“You were never convicted of any accessory charges, so it doesn’t count,” Shea retorted.
“Oh, it counts,” Timmy drawled in his slow, plodding way. “It counts. Everything in life counts. If I’ve learned anything in the last 36 years, it’s that you can never truly escape anything you’ve done- good or bad.”
***
I couldn't see much from the prison van. There was a small, shatterproof window in the swinging back doors, but it only gave a fleeting view of what was behind us. I noticed the dark forests stretching out to the horizon over rolling hills.
We drove for a few hours. The three of us bullshitted, talking about everything from sports to politics to the recent spate of fatal stabbings at SCC.
I felt the van stop. I looked out the back window, seeing more endless trees. I didn’t see a single house or car on the road we had taken.
“This place is a ghost town,” I said. Shea nodded.
“Yeah, it’s dead as Frank Sinatra ‘round here,” Shea said, wheezing out a high-pitched laugh at his own joke. “This area used to be big for coal mining, but as it dried up and people lost their jobs, they moved away. You know, my grandfather was a coal miner.”
“Good place to build a prison, huh?” Timmy asked. “If there is no one around…” We were cut off by a clanging alarm up ahead. I heard something large moving, probably the gate opening. Then we were inside.
I saw the guard towers and rolls of razor wire for a brief moment as the van pulled into an open garage. The darkness immediately blanketed us. The garage door slowly rolled shut behind us. Shea jumped up.
“Let’s get you boys inside so I can take off your handcuffs and everything,” he said, motioning for us to follow. He pulled out a flashlight from his belt, guiding us through the pitch black. The dim light sent shadows racing across the room like groping tentacles. I caught glimpses of strange objects in the darkness. They looked like medieval torture devices.
“What is this place?” I whispered. My voice echoed far too loudly off the cold concrete floor and walls. “Those look like torture devices on that table, Shea. I think those bloody things are thumbscrews and that might be a pear of anguish…” I pointed to the pear-shaped object with three, wicked blades whose points came together sitting on a dusty shelf. The ornate handle had springs connected to it. The object could be forced into any human orifice and, when the springs were engaged, it would open like a flower inside the person’s body, ripping their flesh apart and enlarging that orifice to a bloody, gaping hole.
“How do you know so much about this?” Shea asked, giving me a strange look. He narrowed his little piggy eyes. He continued to fumble with the flashlight, peering around for a door to exit the garage. I looked back at the car and saw the driver just sitting there, his entire body as lifeless and still as a mannequin.
“I’ve read a few books…” I said as Timmy interrupted us.
“I see a little red light glowing under that door,” Timmy said. Shea focused his flashlight on the spot. Across the room, I noticed what Timmy was pointing at. It was an ancient-looking black door. The wood had started to crack and splinter down the middle. Engraved in silver on the front, it said, “Entrance to Northfrost Penitentiary.”
“Hello?” Shea called toward the door as the three of us moved forward, the steel chains giving my steps a clinking rhythm.
Shea reached the antique crystal doorknob. Timmy and I stood next to a dust-covered brazen bull, its bronze mouth wide open as if it were silently roaring at us. As Shea pulled open the door, crimson light flooded into the garage.
Tinted black glass covered the back wall. A speaker button sat next to the window. I looked to my right, seeing a massive sign sprawled across the wall there. It read:
RULES FOR PERSONAL CONDUCT AT NORTHFROST

1. The COs without faces don’t work here and we don’t know who they are. If you see one, press one of the buttons labeled “Emergency Dispatch” that are scattered around the complex.
2. When the red emergency lights come on, hide until they shut off.
3. Do not go into the medical ward for any reason.
4. The warden roams the prison every night at 3:33 AM looking for human meat. Don’t let him catch you.

“What is this, a goddamned joke?” Timmy asked, his dark face forming into a scowl.
“Uhh, well…” Shea rubbed the back of his neck, looking like an obese little boy who lost his parents. “I’ve never been here before, but this is all pretty unusual, I’ll admit.” A buzzing came from the back of the room, and suddenly a garish, echoing intercom turned on.
“Please remove their chains and direct them through the door on the left,” a female robotic voice said calmly in a tone as cool as lemonade on a hot day. “Your transfer will then be complete.” Shea sighed in relief.
“Good,” he grunted. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Bro, you can’t leave us here,” Timmy protested. “What the fuck is this place? Where is everyone? Why is there a room filled with bloody, ancient torture devices next to the garage?” Shea put up his hands.
“I’m sorry, son, but I have orders. I’m just a messenger here. I was told to transfer you here, and that’s what I’ve done.” He fumbled around his belt for his keyring. He came over and unlocked the handcuffs and anklecuffs from both of us. I stretched, rubbing my wrists. I was glad to be out of those suffocating restraints.
“Thanks for everything, then,” I said, picking up my extremely light garbage bag of possessions and heading for the door on the left. Timmy reluctantly followed behind. A sign on this door read: “To General Population.”
But when we got to the other side and it slammed shut behind us, I found a hallway filled with more red emergency lights streaming down. An involuntary shiver ran down through my body. I remembered those absurd rules someone had put up. What had it said about red lights? My mind raced for a few moments, then the answer popped up. It said to hide.
A man shrieked up ahead, his voice riddled with agony and terror. The hallway split to the right and left, and I couldn’t see anyone. Timmy and I stopped.
“Dude, screw this,” Timmy said, turning and running back toward the door we had come through. He tried pulling it open, but it was firmly locked.
***
The scream came again, louder and closer, but this time it was cut off suddenly. I heard someone gurgling like a man with a slit throat trying to breathe. And then everything went deathly silent again.
The gray, concrete floor of the hallway had arrows pointing forward on it. There were no doors here. There was nowhere to hide that I could see. Timmy and I reluctantly went forward. As we got to the intersection, we saw the dead body of a man in a brown khaki uniform.
His sightless eyes remained open. They stared up at the ceiling, glassy and still filled with horror. Deep gouge marks bit deeply into the flesh on his back and arms and chest. His throat had been cut or bit open as well. A spreading puddle of blood encircled his body.
I saw a dark blur at the end of the hallway on the right. It looked like little more than a shadow. I whispered to Timmy, pointing. We decided to go left immediately. My heart was pounding at this point. I felt like a soldier walking through the no-man’s land of a warzone. I expected the attack to come at any moment.
The hallway to the left had some doors. I sprinted forward as quietly as I could with Timmy close by my side. I read the first door: To Medical Ward.
“Ugh, no,” I whispered, going to the second one. I heard light footsteps behind me. Turning, I saw a creature from a nightmare sneaking up on us in the bloody glow of the emergency lights.
Its skin was black and shiny like that of a centipede’s. In its general form, it reminded me of a hairless werewolf. It towered over us, its eyes like bone-white cataracts, its claws as long and sharp as a dagger. And yet, its face seemed almost reptilian. It had two small nose holes like a snake and a jaw that unhinged and dropped far below its head. I saw rows of blood-soaked fangs. It gave off a low, gurgling growl that emanated from its chest.
With a rush of adrenaline and a sense of mortal terror, I pushed through the second door without reading the sign on the front. Timmy was right behind me. I heard him scream as he fell into me.
I found myself in a prison dormitory, and we weren’t alone. As I hit the ground, I saw a white face peering out at me from behind the bunk bed. The man hiding there saw the abomination behind us and got up, screaming and running away.
The creature growled, giving chase. In two powerful bounds, it had rushed across the dormitory and grabbed the man by the neck. I looked back at Timmy, seeing him groaning on the ground. Blood poured from deep cuts on his back. I grabbed him, pulling him up.
“Let’s go, let’s go, no time to…” I said when I was cut off by the sound of a neck snapping. I looked back, seeing the creature had twisted the man’s head around in a circle. It raised the limp body to its massive mouth and severed the head in a single powerful bite.
“Get me out of here, man, please,” Timmy whispered as I pulled him back out into the hallway. I looked over, seeing another werewolf creature bounding down the hallway, chasing a man in a prison jumpsuit. I had no choice.
I pulled Timmy toward the door labeled “Medical Ward”. With a creak of rusted hinges, it opened. We went inside to hide.
***
“Maybe there’s something in here we can use to bandage you up,” I said to Timmy, pulling him down the short hallway toward a room filled with single beds. I didn’t know why the rules said to avoid this place. It looked totally empty. Against the back wall, I saw a glass cabinet filled with bandages, rubbing alcohol, band-aids and other various first aid supplies. I ran toward it. Timmy limped along after me, still groaning.
“Goddamn, I think those claws went down to the bone,” he said.
“It’s gonna be OK,” I said as I pulled out some antiseptic and bandages, adding, “It could’ve been a lot worse.” The universe would immediately prove me right. I heard a slight giggling from under one of the beds. Timmy and I both froze.
Two rotted hands reached out, dragging the mutilated body of a little girl behind them. She had patches of garish, black stitches running across her face, hands and arms. Dark, clotted blood dripped from the sites. She wore a gore-smeared hospital gown and had no eyes. I looked into the empty sockets. They stared back at me like two black holes spinning in the void.
As she rose, her giggles became full-blown laughter, a hysterical gurgling like the laugh of a dying person. Then she ran at me. I saw the silver gleam of a scalpel in her little hand.
“No!” I screamed, raising my hands to protect myself. The scalpel came down, slicing across my palm. It cut deeply. A cold, burning pain ran up my arm. I repressed the urge to scream.
At that moment, the red emergency lights flicked off. Bright, fluorescent lights popped on, flickering and strobing in rapid succession. Timmy ran forward, tackling the undead girl. But I saw more small hands reaching out from under the beds, hands filled with sores and squirming larvae. I could see the bones of their hands through necrotic patches eaten into their flesh.
I ran for Timmy, grabbing him and hauling him up.
“Time to go! Now!” I screamed, pulling him forward as more undead boys and girls rose up, all with sharp knives and surgical instruments grasped in their little hands. I felt a sudden pain in my leg. Looking down, I saw a knife sticking out of my thigh. The empty eye sockets of a little boy’s face stared up at me, grinning like a skull.
I collapsed on the ground as we were surrounded. I prayed to God then, knowing we would die. I prayed that he would forgive me for all my mistakes, because I was on a fast-track to the afterlife and would be seeing him in a few seconds. With a sharp cry of pain, I yanked the knife out of my leg, turning it on my attacker.
Then a gunshot rang out. The head of the nearest girl exploded in a shower of bone fragments and dead maggots. I looked up, seeing Shea standing at the door, his pistol raised.
“Come on!” he screamed. “Come on, you idiots! Let’s go! Now!” Timmy and I didn’t need any more encouragement. As Shea continued to blow apart the nearest of the undead abominations, we limped and scrambled towards him. My leg gave a shriek of pain with every step.
We got out of the medical ward, battered and bruised but still alive.
***
“Why’d you come back, Shea?” I asked through pained breaths. Shea gave me a frantic look.
“When I got back out to the car, the driver was dead. His throat was… ripped out or something, I don’t know. I grabbed his keys and came back for you two. I don’t know where we are, but I’m getting you out of here,” he explained. I looked at him in amazement. I had never thought in a million years Shea would risk his life to save some scumbag inmates.
“So what’s the plan?” Timmy asked, sweating heavily, his eyes wild and pained. “How are we getting out of here without dying?” Shea shrugged.
“The door locked behind us when we came in,” I said. “Unless we can break it down and get back to the car…” We passed by buttons labeled “Emergency Dispatch” under glowing red emergency signs. I wondered if we could get help somehow through them.
“Halt!” someone cried from behind us. I looked back, seeing a man in a black correctional officers uniform. He ran toward us, his hand on the radio hanging from his belt. But something immediately seemed off about the figure.
As he got closer, I realized why. He had no face. His entire head was just smooth, white skin, without hair or any signs of features. He spoke again, and the voice seemed to come from all around his body.
“You must report to the medical ward,” the strange figure said. “We do not allow injured people in the hallways.”
“No, we’re fine,” Shea said, grinning. “See, buddy? I work for the DOC too.” He pointed at the identification clipped to his breast pocket. The figure raised his radio to his lips.
“We have resistance near Dormitory One,” the fake CO said into his radio before any of us could stop him. Shea ran forward, knocking the radio from his hand. The CO instantly straightened up and whipped out his pistol, pointing it at Shea’s torso. He fired, and I saw Shea’s chest explode in a blossoming flower of blood.
“No, dammit!” Timmy said, running forward. I saw a silver gleam in his hand, and I realized he had taken one of the scalpels from the undead Shea had killed in the Medical Ward. As the fake CO spun to point the pistol at Timmy, Timmy ran into him, stabbing the scalpel deeply into the CO’s neck.
They fell together with Timmy on top of the fake CO. His body weight drove the scalpel deeper into the white, featureless skin. Blood the color of soot spurted from the wound. The gun went off, the bullet missing Timmy entirely and smashing into the ceiling. The CO’s gurgling death gasps seem to come from all around his body. I grabbed Timmy.
“Get the guns!” I said. “They’re both dead. We need the guns.” He nodded, grabbing the CO’s gun and taking an extra magazine from his belt. I did the same with Shea’s gun and magazine. I pressed the button labeled “Emergency Dispatch” as more faceless men appeared far off down the corridor. Then we fled as fast as we could from that hallway, but, seeing as we were both in pretty bad shape, it wasn’t very fast.
At that point, I was just glad to be alive, though.
***
We wandered around the prison, avoiding the faceless COs whenever we saw them patrolling the hallways. They would radio to each other, their voices always surrounding their bodies rather than coming from their heads, which I found extremely eerie and unsettling. A couple times, I saw men in black SWAT suits with automatic rifles gunning down the fake COs. I wondered if this was the “Emergency Dispatch”. Timmy and I avoided them as well, and we gave a wide berth anytime we heard gunfire.
We passed cells with mummified corpses hanging from the ceiling. We passed dormitories where the victims of the strange, werewolf-like creatures littered the floors, rotting and stinking like roadkill. Occasionally, I would catch a glimpse of another survivor, a pale face peeking out from some hiding spot, but Timmy and I kept pushing forward, looking for a way out.
We were in a sprawling gymnasium, sitting down and resting for a few minutes, when we encountered the Warden.
We heard a demonic roar from the hallway, a mixing of many strange, inhuman tongues. As Timmy and I sat up quickly, a decapitated body flew into the gym, and a creature from Hell followed after it. The body smacked into the concrete wall with a soft, fleshy whack.
The Warden stood ten feet tall. He had on a black correctional officers uniform and a leather visor cap. His face looked like it had no flesh. A thick layer of bone covered it with two reptilian eyes peering out from behind slitted pupils. He hissed, a forked tongue shooting out of his gaping maw. His fingers looked like sharp daggers of bone. A smell like old leather and blood rose from his body.
“Shoot it!” I screamed, raising the pistol and firing at its head. The first shot blew off its visor cap, revealing the hairless, reptilian skull underneath. But the bullet only gouged the top of its skull. It ran at us with powerful, bounding steps, covering the distance in moments.
Timmy and I fired as fast as we could as it got within a few feet of us. It bounded into Timmy like a freight train hitting a car. Timmy’s body went flying and smashed against the back wall with the sound of bones shattering. I slammed another magazine in the pistol as the Warden turned to me.
We had hit it, I saw. One of its eyes had exploded in a shower of gore and vitreous fluid, and its head was bleeding badly. I raised the gun, aiming for the same eye and firing.
The Warden smacked his hand against his face as if he had forgotten something, falling to the floor. I ran forward, putting the pistol point-blank against his ruined eye before emptying the clip. By the end, he wasn’t moving anymore.
“Oh, God,” I said, walking over to Timmy. I saw his shattered legs, his broken spine and his snapped ribs. He coughed up blood. “I’m sorry, Timmy. I really am.” His head might have nodded slightly as he died, giving a final death gasp before falling still.
***
I found a ring of keys on the Warden’s body. In excitement, I ran downstairs and tried the locked door. It worked.
I went to the van, pulling out the dead driver and starting it. After smashing through the garage door, I drove it through the gate. It did catastrophic damage to the prison van, but it got me far enough away before the engine gave out.
I don’t know what kind of prison that was, but I hope I never see that hellscape again.

I've been in and out of prisons and jails ever since I was 17. I thought I had seen it all- Aryan Brotherhood members stabbing guards, gang wars, escapes and torture. I saw many things that still give me nightmares to this day.
"MacDonald, 402202," the guard barked out. I jumped up, the thin mattress under me exhaling a whiff of stale air. I looked through the bars, seeing Correctional Officer Shea. CO Shea was a morbidly obese man with a penchant for being loud and lazy. I had seen a member of the Bloods punch him straight in the nose before, a scene I still remembered with some humor. Shea had crumpled like wet paper on the floor, screaming and crying as more COs ran over and tackled the inmate.
"Yeah?" I asked. Shea handed me a sheet of paper. He regarded me with his gray, colorless eyes.
"Congratulations, you're being transferred. Pack your shit. This is your last day at Springfield Correctional Center."
***
You might think I would be happy to get a transfer. SCC was, after all, a shithole. The food was terrible and always cold, the place always smelled like bleach and chemicals, and at night it got so cold with only my flimsy sheet that I regularly woke up shivering. The building was nearly a century old, and the fact that it still functioned at all was a miracle in itself.
But, to be honest, I was not thrilled about the transfer. I had made friends here and knew the lay of the land. I didn't have to worry about getting jumped or stabbed to death in the showers. As the old adage goes, it's better the devil you know than the one you don't.
I was led out of my cell the next evening with all the worldly possessions I owned, which fit neatly into a clear trash bag with room to spare. I owned some prison clothes, toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, a Bible, a pair of sandals and a radio. I felt the unbearable lightness of my existence reflected in that bag as it smacked rhythmically against my leg.
"Good luck, friend Josh!" a rather insane acquaintance of mine named Alvin called out from his cell as I passed down the bleak, concrete hallway.
"Take care man. I hope we meet again on the outside," I said, waving, knowing I would almost certainly never see any of these people again. Hell, I hadn't even seen my family in over five years. None of them came to visit me anymore. No one wrote me letters or put money in my commissary account or sent me books to read.
"Well, we're all born alone, and we all die alone," I thought to myself as CO Shea walked by my side. He was breathing heavily, as if he had just finished running a marathon. I looked over at his face, seeing the burst capillaries on his nose from years of hard drinking and the squint of his little, piggy eyes. There was a slight gleam of intelligence and slyness behind that ugly mug, though.
"Well, amigo," Shea said in his slow, plodding way, "I got assigned to go with you. I'll be your ride along buddy. You excited or what?" I smiled faintly at him
"There are worse people than you here, Shea," I said. "Far worse."
***
I got on the prison bus in my bright-orange jumpsuit. To my surprise, I saw the back was nearly empty. There was only one other prisoner in the back. Shea sat with us to monitor us. We were also handcuffed and anklecuffed. A chain ran down and connected the two.
I looked over at the other prisoner, a black guy with a shaved head. I think he also shaved his eyebrows. I mean, I literally didn't see a single hair on his head besides eyelashes, which he apparently hadn't found a way to shave… yet.
"Sup," he said. I nodded.
"Sup." We sat there in awkward silence as Shea plopped down hard on the bench between us. It groaned like a confused old man.
"So what do you know about this place, Shea?" I asked. He sucked down half a bottle of Coke and then heaved a deep sigh.
"I don't know much about it, to be frank," he admitted sheepishly. "It is apparently brand-new, though. They asked us to send a couple people who met... certain criteria."
"What does that mean?" the black guy asked. Shea gave him a serious look.
"Come on, Timmy, you know what I mean. Hardened criminals. People with long records who tour prisons like some people tour French beaches." I scoffed.
"There are far worse people than me in prison," I said.
"Well, they asked for no murderers or gang bangers too. I don't know why, but maybe it is some new government program. They apparently call it an 'experimental prison’.”
“What about me?” Timmy asked. Shea apparently knew what he meant.
“You’re not a murderer, Timmy,” Shea said, his lips forming the faintest twitch of a smile. “You never…”
“Well, there was that time my girlfriend got me to drop some acid with her. She went and killed her parents. Then we hit the road,” Timmy said fondly, his eyes rising as if he were looking at a hovering angel in the far-off distance.
“You were never convicted of any accessory charges, so it doesn’t count,” Shea retorted.
“Oh, it counts,” Timmy drawled in his slow, plodding way. “It counts. Everything in life counts. If I’ve learned anything in the last 36 years, it’s that you can never truly escape anything you’ve done- good or bad.”
***
I couldn't see much from the prison van. There was a small, shatterproof window in the swinging back doors, but it only gave a fleeting view of what was behind us. I noticed the dark forests stretching out to the horizon over rolling hills.
We drove for a few hours. The three of us bullshitted, talking about everything from sports to politics to the recent spate of fatal stabbings at SCC.
I felt the van stop. I looked out the back window, seeing more endless trees. I didn’t see a single house or car on the road we had taken.
“This place is a ghost town,” I said. Shea nodded.
“Yeah, it’s dead as Frank Sinatra ‘round here,” Shea said, wheezing out a high-pitched laugh at his own joke. “This area used to be big for coal mining, but as it dried up and people lost their jobs, they moved away. You know, my grandfather was a coal miner.”
“Good place to build a prison, huh?” Timmy asked. “If there is no one around…” We were cut off by a clanging alarm up ahead. I heard something large moving, probably the gate opening. Then we were inside.
I saw the guard towers and rolls of razor wire for a brief moment as the van pulled into an open garage. The darkness immediately blanketed us. The garage door slowly rolled shut behind us. Shea jumped up.
“Let’s get you boys inside so I can take off your handcuffs and everything,” he said, motioning for us to follow. He pulled out a flashlight from his belt, guiding us through the pitch black. The dim light sent shadows racing across the room like groping tentacles. I caught glimpses of strange objects in the darkness. They looked like medieval torture devices.
“What is this place?” I whispered. My voice echoed far too loudly off the cold concrete floor and walls. “Those look like torture devices on that table, Shea. I think those bloody things are thumbscrews and that might be a pear of anguish…” I pointed to the pear-shaped object with three, wicked blades whose points came together sitting on a dusty shelf. The ornate handle had springs connected to it. The object could be forced into any human orifice and, when the springs were engaged, it would open like a flower inside the person’s body, ripping their flesh apart and enlarging that orifice to a bloody, gaping hole.
“How do you know so much about this?” Shea asked, giving me a strange look. He narrowed his little piggy eyes. He continued to fumble with the flashlight, peering around for a door to exit the garage. I looked back at the car and saw the driver just sitting there, his entire body as lifeless and still as a mannequin.
“I’ve read a few books…” I said as Timmy interrupted us.
“I see a little red light glowing under that door,” Timmy said. Shea focused his flashlight on the spot. Across the room, I noticed what Timmy was pointing at. It was an ancient-looking black door. The wood had started to crack and splinter down the middle. Engraved in silver on the front, it said, “Entrance to Northfrost Penitentiary.”
“Hello?” Shea called toward the door as the three of us moved forward, the steel chains giving my steps a clinking rhythm.
Shea reached the antique crystal doorknob. Timmy and I stood next to a dust-covered brazen bull, its bronze mouth wide open as if it were silently roaring at us. As Shea pulled open the door, crimson light flooded into the garage.
Tinted black glass covered the back wall. A speaker button sat next to the window. I looked to my right, seeing a massive sign sprawled across the wall there. It read:
RULES FOR PERSONAL CONDUCT AT NORTHFROST

1. The COs without faces don’t work here and we don’t know who they are. If you see one, press one of the buttons labeled “Emergency Dispatch” that are scattered around the complex.
2. When the red emergency lights come on, hide until they shut off.
3. Do not go into the medical ward for any reason.
4. The warden roams the prison every night at 3:33 AM looking for human meat. Don’t let him catch you.

“What is this, a goddamned joke?” Timmy asked, his dark face forming into a scowl.
“Uhh, well…” Shea rubbed the back of his neck, looking like an obese little boy who lost his parents. “I’ve never been here before, but this is all pretty unusual, I’ll admit.” A buzzing came from the back of the room, and suddenly a garish, echoing intercom turned on.
“Please remove their chains and direct them through the door on the left,” a female robotic voice said calmly in a tone as cool as lemonade on a hot day. “Your transfer will then be complete.” Shea sighed in relief.
“Good,” he grunted. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Bro, you can’t leave us here,” Timmy protested. “What the fuck is this place? Where is everyone? Why is there a room filled with bloody, ancient torture devices next to the garage?” Shea put up his hands.
“I’m sorry, son, but I have orders. I’m just a messenger here. I was told to transfer you here, and that’s what I’ve done.” He fumbled around his belt for his keyring. He came over and unlocked the handcuffs and anklecuffs from both of us. I stretched, rubbing my wrists. I was glad to be out of those suffocating restraints.
“Thanks for everything, then,” I said, picking up my extremely light garbage bag of possessions and heading for the door on the left. Timmy reluctantly followed behind. A sign on this door read: “To General Population.”
But when we got to the other side and it slammed shut behind us, I found a hallway filled with more red emergency lights streaming down. An involuntary shiver ran down through my body. I remembered those absurd rules someone had put up. What had it said about red lights? My mind raced for a few moments, then the answer popped up. It said to hide.
A man shrieked up ahead, his voice riddled with agony and terror. The hallway split to the right and left, and I couldn’t see anyone. Timmy and I stopped.
“Dude, screw this,” Timmy said, turning and running back toward the door we had come through. He tried pulling it open, but it was firmly locked.
***
The scream came again, louder and closer, but this time it was cut off suddenly. I heard someone gurgling like a man with a slit throat trying to breathe. And then everything went deathly silent again.
The gray, concrete floor of the hallway had arrows pointing forward on it. There were no doors here. There was nowhere to hide that I could see. Timmy and I reluctantly went forward. As we got to the intersection, we saw the dead body of a man in a brown khaki uniform.
His sightless eyes remained open. They stared up at the ceiling, glassy and still filled with horror. Deep gouge marks bit deeply into the flesh on his back and arms and chest. His throat had been cut or bit open as well. A spreading puddle of blood encircled his body.
I saw a dark blur at the end of the hallway on the right. It looked like little more than a shadow. I whispered to Timmy, pointing. We decided to go left immediately. My heart was pounding at this point. I felt like a soldier walking through the no-man’s land of a warzone. I expected the attack to come at any moment.
The hallway to the left had some doors. I sprinted forward as quietly as I could with Timmy close by my side. I read the first door: To Medical Ward.
“Ugh, no,” I whispered, going to the second one. I heard light footsteps behind me. Turning, I saw a creature from a nightmare sneaking up on us in the bloody glow of the emergency lights.
Its skin was black and shiny like that of a centipede’s. In its general form, it reminded me of a hairless werewolf. It towered over us, its eyes like bone-white cataracts, its claws as long and sharp as a dagger. And yet, its face seemed almost reptilian. It had two small nose holes like a snake and a jaw that unhinged and dropped far below its head. I saw rows of blood-soaked fangs. It gave off a low, gurgling growl that emanated from its chest.
With a rush of adrenaline and a sense of mortal terror, I pushed through the second door without reading the sign on the front. Timmy was right behind me. I heard him scream as he fell into me.
I found myself in a prison dormitory, and we weren’t alone. As I hit the ground, I saw a white face peering out at me from behind the bunk bed. The man hiding there saw the abomination behind us and got up, screaming and running away.
The creature growled, giving chase. In two powerful bounds, it had rushed across the dormitory and grabbed the man by the neck. I looked back at Timmy, seeing him groaning on the ground. Blood poured from deep cuts on his back. I grabbed him, pulling him up.
“Let’s go, let’s go, no time to…” I said when I was cut off by the sound of a neck snapping. I looked back, seeing the creature had twisted the man’s head around in a circle. It raised the limp body to its massive mouth and severed the head in a single powerful bite.
“Get me out of here, man, please,” Timmy whispered as I pulled him back out into the hallway. I looked over, seeing another werewolf creature bounding down the hallway, chasing a man in a prison jumpsuit. I had no choice.
I pulled Timmy toward the door labeled “Medical Ward”. With a creak of rusted hinges, it opened. We went inside to hide.
***
“Maybe there’s something in here we can use to bandage you up,” I said to Timmy, pulling him down the short hallway toward a room filled with single beds. I didn’t know why the rules said to avoid this place. It looked totally empty. Against the back wall, I saw a glass cabinet filled with bandages, rubbing alcohol, band-aids and other various first aid supplies. I ran toward it. Timmy limped along after me, still groaning.
“Goddamn, I think those claws went down to the bone,” he said.
“It’s gonna be OK,” I said as I pulled out some antiseptic and bandages, adding, “It could’ve been a lot worse.” The universe would immediately prove me right. I heard a slight giggling from under one of the beds. Timmy and I both froze.
Two rotted hands reached out, dragging the mutilated body of a little girl behind them. She had patches of garish, black stitches running across her face, hands and arms. Dark, clotted blood dripped from the sites. She wore a gore-smeared hospital gown and had no eyes. I looked into the empty sockets. They stared back at me like two black holes spinning in the void.
As she rose, her giggles became full-blown laughter, a hysterical gurgling like the laugh of a dying person. Then she ran at me. I saw the silver gleam of a scalpel in her little hand.
“No!” I screamed, raising my hands to protect myself. The scalpel came down, slicing across my palm. It cut deeply. A cold, burning pain ran up my arm. I repressed the urge to scream.
At that moment, the red emergency lights flicked off. Bright, fluorescent lights popped on, flickering and strobing in rapid succession. Timmy ran forward, tackling the undead girl. But I saw more small hands reaching out from under the beds, hands filled with sores and squirming larvae. I could see the bones of their hands through necrotic patches eaten into their flesh.
I ran for Timmy, grabbing him and hauling him up.
“Time to go! Now!” I screamed, pulling him forward as more undead boys and girls rose up, all with sharp knives and surgical instruments grasped in their little hands. I felt a sudden pain in my leg. Looking down, I saw a knife sticking out of my thigh. The empty eye sockets of a little boy’s face stared up at me, grinning like a skull.
I collapsed on the ground as we were surrounded. I prayed to God then, knowing we would die. I prayed that he would forgive me for all my mistakes, because I was on a fast-track to the afterlife and would be seeing him in a few seconds. With a sharp cry of pain, I yanked the knife out of my leg, turning it on my attacker.
Then a gunshot rang out. The head of the nearest girl exploded in a shower of bone fragments and dead maggots. I looked up, seeing Shea standing at the door, his pistol raised.
“Come on!” he screamed. “Come on, you idiots! Let’s go! Now!” Timmy and I didn’t need any more encouragement. As Shea continued to blow apart the nearest of the undead abominations, we limped and scrambled towards him. My leg gave a shriek of pain with every step.
We got out of the medical ward, battered and bruised but still alive.
***
“Why’d you come back, Shea?” I asked through pained breaths. Shea gave me a frantic look.
“When I got back out to the car, the driver was dead. His throat was… ripped out or something, I don’t know. I grabbed his keys and came back for you two. I don’t know where we are, but I’m getting you out of here,” he explained. I looked at him in amazement. I had never thought in a million years Shea would risk his life to save some scumbag inmates.
“So what’s the plan?” Timmy asked, sweating heavily, his eyes wild and pained. “How are we getting out of here without dying?” Shea shrugged.
“The door locked behind us when we came in,” I said. “Unless we can break it down and get back to the car…” We passed by buttons labeled “Emergency Dispatch” under glowing red emergency signs. I wondered if we could get help somehow through them.
“Halt!” someone cried from behind us. I looked back, seeing a man in a black correctional officers uniform. He ran toward us, his hand on the radio hanging from his belt. But something immediately seemed off about the figure.
As he got closer, I realized why. He had no face. His entire head was just smooth, white skin, without hair or any signs of features. He spoke again, and the voice seemed to come from all around his body.
“You must report to the medical ward,” the strange figure said. “We do not allow injured people in the hallways.”
“No, we’re fine,” Shea said, grinning. “See, buddy? I work for the DOC too.” He pointed at the identification clipped to his breast pocket. The figure raised his radio to his lips.
“We have resistance near Dormitory One,” the fake CO said into his radio before any of us could stop him. Shea ran forward, knocking the radio from his hand. The CO instantly straightened up and whipped out his pistol, pointing it at Shea’s torso. He fired, and I saw Shea’s chest explode in a blossoming flower of blood.
“No, dammit!” Timmy said, running forward. I saw a silver gleam in his hand, and I realized he had taken one of the scalpels from the undead Shea had killed in the Medical Ward. As the fake CO spun to point the pistol at Timmy, Timmy ran into him, stabbing the scalpel deeply into the CO’s neck.
They fell together with Timmy on top of the fake CO. His body weight drove the scalpel deeper into the white, featureless skin. Blood the color of soot spurted from the wound. The gun went off, the bullet missing Timmy entirely and smashing into the ceiling. The CO’s gurgling death gasps seem to come from all around his body. I grabbed Timmy.
“Get the guns!” I said. “They’re both dead. We need the guns.” He nodded, grabbing the CO’s gun and taking an extra magazine from his belt. I did the same with Shea’s gun and magazine. I pressed the button labeled “Emergency Dispatch” as more faceless men appeared far off down the corridor. Then we fled as fast as we could from that hallway, but, seeing as we were both in pretty bad shape, it wasn’t very fast.
At that point, I was just glad to be alive, though.
***
We wandered around the prison, avoiding the faceless COs whenever we saw them patrolling the hallways. They would radio to each other, their voices always surrounding their bodies rather than coming from their heads, which I found extremely eerie and unsettling. A couple times, I saw men in black SWAT suits with automatic rifles gunning down the fake COs. I wondered if this was the “Emergency Dispatch”. Timmy and I avoided them as well, and we gave a wide berth anytime we heard gunfire.
We passed cells with mummified corpses hanging from the ceiling. We passed dormitories where the victims of the strange, werewolf-like creatures littered the floors, rotting and stinking like roadkill. Occasionally, I would catch a glimpse of another survivor, a pale face peeking out from some hiding spot, but Timmy and I kept pushing forward, looking for a way out.
We were in a sprawling gymnasium, sitting down and resting for a few minutes, when we encountered the Warden.
We heard a demonic roar from the hallway, a mixing of many strange, inhuman tongues. As Timmy and I sat up quickly, a decapitated body flew into the gym, and a creature from Hell followed after it. The body smacked into the concrete wall with a soft, fleshy whack.
The Warden stood ten feet tall. He had on a black correctional officers uniform and a leather visor cap. His face looked like it had no flesh. A thick layer of bone covered it with two reptilian eyes peering out from behind slitted pupils. He hissed, a forked tongue shooting out of his gaping maw. His fingers looked like sharp daggers of bone. A smell like old leather and blood rose from his body.
“Shoot it!” I screamed, raising the pistol and firing at its head. The first shot blew off its visor cap, revealing the hairless, reptilian skull underneath. But the bullet only gouged the top of its skull. It ran at us with powerful, bounding steps, covering the distance in moments.
Timmy and I fired as fast as we could as it got within a few feet of us. It bounded into Timmy like a freight train hitting a car. Timmy’s body went flying and smashed against the back wall with the sound of bones shattering. I slammed another magazine in the pistol as the Warden turned to me.
We had hit it, I saw. One of its eyes had exploded in a shower of gore and vitreous fluid, and its head was bleeding badly. I raised the gun, aiming for the same eye and firing.
The Warden smacked his hand against his face as if he had forgotten something, falling to the floor. I ran forward, putting the pistol point-blank against his ruined eye before emptying the clip. By the end, he wasn’t moving anymore.
“Oh, God,” I said, walking over to Timmy. I saw his shattered legs, his broken spine and his snapped ribs. He coughed up blood. “I’m sorry, Timmy. I really am.” His head might have nodded slightly as he died, giving a final death gasp before falling still.
***
I found a ring of keys on the Warden’s body. In excitement, I ran downstairs and tried the locked door. It worked.
I went to the van, pulling out the dead driver and starting it. After smashing through the garage door, I drove it through the gate. It did catastrophic damage to the prison van, but it got me far enough away before the engine gave out.
I don’t know what kind of prison that was, but I hope I never see that hellscape again.

I've been in and out of prisons and jails ever since I was 17. I thought I had seen it all- Aryan Brotherhood members stabbing guards, gang wars, escapes and torture. I saw many things that still give me nightmares to this day.
"MacDonald, 402202," the guard barked out. I jumped up, the thin mattress under me exhaling a whiff of stale air. I looked through the bars, seeing Correctional Officer Shea. CO Shea was a morbidly obese man with a penchant for being loud and lazy. I had seen a member of the Bloods punch him straight in the nose before, a scene I still remembered with some humor. Shea had crumpled like wet paper on the floor, screaming and crying as more COs ran over and tackled the inmate.
"Yeah?" I asked. Shea handed me a sheet of paper. He regarded me with his gray, colorless eyes.
"Congratulations, you're being transferred. Pack your shit. This is your last day at Springfield Correctional Center."
***
You might think I would be happy to get a transfer. SCC was, after all, a shithole. The food was terrible and always cold, the place always smelled like bleach and chemicals, and at night it got so cold with only my flimsy sheet that I regularly woke up shivering. The building was nearly a century old, and the fact that it still functioned at all was a miracle in itself.
But, to be honest, I was not thrilled about the transfer. I had made friends here and knew the lay of the land. I didn't have to worry about getting jumped or stabbed to death in the showers. As the old adage goes, it's better the devil you know than the one you don't.
I was led out of my cell the next evening with all the worldly possessions I owned, which fit neatly into a clear trash bag with room to spare. I owned some prison clothes, toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, a Bible, a pair of sandals and a radio. I felt the unbearable lightness of my existence reflected in that bag as it smacked rhythmically against my leg.
"Good luck, friend Josh!" a rather insane acquaintance of mine named Alvin called out from his cell as I passed down the bleak, concrete hallway.
"Take care man. I hope we meet again on the outside," I said, waving, knowing I would almost certainly never see any of these people again. Hell, I hadn't even seen my family in over five years. None of them came to visit me anymore. No one wrote me letters or put money in my commissary account or sent me books to read.
"Well, we're all born alone, and we all die alone," I thought to myself as CO Shea walked by my side. He was breathing heavily, as if he had just finished running a marathon. I looked over at his face, seeing the burst capillaries on his nose from years of hard drinking and the squint of his little, piggy eyes. There was a slight gleam of intelligence and slyness behind that ugly mug, though.
"Well, amigo," Shea said in his slow, plodding way, "I got assigned to go with you. I'll be your ride along buddy. You excited or what?" I smiled faintly at him
"There are worse people than you here, Shea," I said. "Far worse."
***
I got on the prison bus in my bright-orange jumpsuit. To my surprise, I saw the back was nearly empty. There was only one other prisoner in the back. Shea sat with us to monitor us. We were also handcuffed and anklecuffed. A chain ran down and connected the two.
I looked over at the other prisoner, a black guy with a shaved head. I think he also shaved his eyebrows. I mean, I literally didn't see a single hair on his head besides eyelashes, which he apparently hadn't found a way to shave… yet.
"Sup," he said. I nodded.
"Sup." We sat there in awkward silence as Shea plopped down hard on the bench between us. It groaned like a confused old man.
"So what do you know about this place, Shea?" I asked. He sucked down half a bottle of Coke and then heaved a deep sigh.
"I don't know much about it, to be frank," he admitted sheepishly. "It is apparently brand-new, though. They asked us to send a couple people who met... certain criteria."
"What does that mean?" the black guy asked. Shea gave him a serious look.
"Come on, Timmy, you know what I mean. Hardened criminals. People with long records who tour prisons like some people tour French beaches." I scoffed.
"There are far worse people than me in prison," I said.
"Well, they asked for no murderers or gang bangers too. I don't know why, but maybe it is some new government program. They apparently call it an 'experimental prison’.”
“What about me?” Timmy asked. Shea apparently knew what he meant.
“You’re not a murderer, Timmy,” Shea said, his lips forming the faintest twitch of a smile. “You never…”
“Well, there was that time my girlfriend got me to drop some acid with her. She went and killed her parents. Then we hit the road,” Timmy said fondly, his eyes rising as if he were looking at a hovering angel in the far-off distance.
“You were never convicted of any accessory charges, so it doesn’t count,” Shea retorted.
“Oh, it counts,” Timmy drawled in his slow, plodding way. “It counts. Everything in life counts. If I’ve learned anything in the last 36 years, it’s that you can never truly escape anything you’ve done- good or bad.”
***
I couldn't see much from the prison van. There was a small, shatterproof window in the swinging back doors, but it only gave a fleeting view of what was behind us. I noticed the dark forests stretching out to the horizon over rolling hills.
We drove for a few hours. The three of us bullshitted, talking about everything from sports to politics to the recent spate of fatal stabbings at SCC.
I felt the van stop. I looked out the back window, seeing more endless trees. I didn’t see a single house or car on the road we had taken.
“This place is a ghost town,” I said. Shea nodded.
“Yeah, it’s dead as Frank Sinatra ‘round here,” Shea said, wheezing out a high-pitched laugh at his own joke. “This area used to be big for coal mining, but as it dried up and people lost their jobs, they moved away. You know, my grandfather was a coal miner.”
“Good place to build a prison, huh?” Timmy asked. “If there is no one around…” We were cut off by a clanging alarm up ahead. I heard something large moving, probably the gate opening. Then we were inside.
I saw the guard towers and rolls of razor wire for a brief moment as the van pulled into an open garage. The darkness immediately blanketed us. The garage door slowly rolled shut behind us. Shea jumped up.
“Let’s get you boys inside so I can take off your handcuffs and everything,” he said, motioning for us to follow. He pulled out a flashlight from his belt, guiding us through the pitch black. The dim light sent shadows racing across the room like groping tentacles. I caught glimpses of strange objects in the darkness. They looked like medieval torture devices.
“What is this place?” I whispered. My voice echoed far too loudly off the cold concrete floor and walls. “Those look like torture devices on that table, Shea. I think those bloody things are thumbscrews and that might be a pear of anguish…” I pointed to the pear-shaped object with three, wicked blades whose points came together sitting on a dusty shelf. The ornate handle had springs connected to it. The object could be forced into any human orifice and, when the springs were engaged, it would open like a flower inside the person’s body, ripping their flesh apart and enlarging that orifice to a bloody, gaping hole.
“How do you know so much about this?” Shea asked, giving me a strange look. He narrowed his little piggy eyes. He continued to fumble with the flashlight, peering around for a door to exit the garage. I looked back at the car and saw the driver just sitting there, his entire body as lifeless and still as a mannequin.
“I’ve read a few books…” I said as Timmy interrupted us.
“I see a little red light glowing under that door,” Timmy said. Shea focused his flashlight on the spot. Across the room, I noticed what Timmy was pointing at. It was an ancient-looking black door. The wood had started to crack and splinter down the middle. Engraved in silver on the front, it said, “Entrance to Northfrost Penitentiary.”
“Hello?” Shea called toward the door as the three of us moved forward, the steel chains giving my steps a clinking rhythm.
Shea reached the antique crystal doorknob. Timmy and I stood next to a dust-covered brazen bull, its bronze mouth wide open as if it were silently roaring at us. As Shea pulled open the door, crimson light flooded into the garage.
Tinted black glass covered the back wall. A speaker button sat next to the window. I looked to my right, seeing a massive sign sprawled across the wall there. It read:
RULES FOR PERSONAL CONDUCT AT NORTHFROST
The COs without faces don’t work here and we don’t know who they are. If you see one, press one of the buttons labeled “Emergency Dispatch” that are scattered around the complex.
When the red emergency lights come on, hide until they shut off.
Do not go into the medical ward for any reason.
The warden roams the prison every night at 3:33 AM looking for human meat. Don’t let him catch you.
“What is this, a goddamned joke?” Timmy asked, his dark face forming into a scowl.
“Uhh, well…” Shea rubbed the back of his neck, looking like an obese little boy who lost his parents. “I’ve never been here before, but this is all pretty unusual, I’ll admit.” A buzzing came from the back of the room, and suddenly a garish, echoing intercom turned on.
“Please remove their chains and direct them through the door on the left,” a female robotic voice said calmly in a tone as cool as lemonade on a hot day. “Your transfer will then be complete.” Shea sighed in relief.
“Good,” he grunted. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Bro, you can’t leave us here,” Timmy protested. “What the fuck is this place? Where is everyone? Why is there a room filled with bloody, ancient torture devices next to the garage?” Shea put up his hands.
“I’m sorry, son, but I have orders. I’m just a messenger here. I was told to transfer you here, and that’s what I’ve done.” He fumbled around his belt for his keyring. He came over and unlocked the handcuffs and anklecuffs from both of us. I stretched, rubbing my wrists. I was glad to be out of those suffocating restraints.
“Thanks for everything, then,” I said, picking up my extremely light garbage bag of possessions and heading for the door on the left. Timmy reluctantly followed behind. A sign on this door read: “To General Population.”
But when we got to the other side and it slammed shut behind us, I found a hallway filled with more red emergency lights streaming down. An involuntary shiver ran down through my body. I remembered those absurd rules someone had put up. What had it said about red lights? My mind raced for a few moments, then the answer popped up. It said to hide.
A man shrieked up ahead, his voice riddled with agony and terror. The hallway split to the right and left, and I couldn’t see anyone. Timmy and I stopped.
“Dude, screw this,” Timmy said, turning and running back toward the door we had come through. He tried pulling it open, but it was firmly locked.
***
The scream came again, louder and closer, but this time it was cut off suddenly. I heard someone gurgling like a man with a slit throat trying to breathe. And then everything went deathly silent again.
The gray, concrete floor of the hallway had arrows pointing forward on it. There were no doors here. There was nowhere to hide that I could see. Timmy and I reluctantly went forward. As we got to the intersection, we saw the dead body of a man in a brown khaki uniform.
His sightless eyes remained open. They stared up at the ceiling, glassy and still filled with horror. Deep gouge marks bit deeply into the flesh on his back and arms and chest. His throat had been cut or bit open as well. A spreading puddle of blood encircled his body.
I saw a dark blur at the end of the hallway on the right. It looked like little more than a shadow. I whispered to Timmy, pointing. We decided to go left immediately. My heart was pounding at this point. I felt like a soldier walking through the no-man’s land of a warzone. I expected the attack to come at any moment.
The hallway to the left had some doors. I sprinted forward as quietly as I could with Timmy close by my side. I read the first door: To Medical Ward.
“Ugh, no,” I whispered, going to the second one. I heard light footsteps behind me. Turning, I saw a creature from a nightmare sneaking up on us in the bloody glow of the emergency lights.
Its skin was black and shiny like that of a centipede’s. In its general form, it reminded me of a hairless werewolf. It towered over us, its eyes like bone-white cataracts, its claws as long and sharp as a dagger. And yet, its face seemed almost reptilian. It had two small nose holes like a snake and a jaw that unhinged and dropped far below its head. I saw rows of blood-soaked fangs. It gave off a low, gurgling growl that emanated from its chest.
With a rush of adrenaline and a sense of mortal terror, I pushed through the second door without reading the sign on the front. Timmy was right behind me. I heard him scream as he fell into me.
I found myself in a prison dormitory, and we weren’t alone. As I hit the ground, I saw a white face peering out at me from behind the bunk bed. The man hiding there saw the abomination behind us and got up, screaming and running away.
The creature growled, giving chase. In two powerful bounds, it had rushed across the dormitory and grabbed the man by the neck. I looked back at Timmy, seeing him groaning on the ground. Blood poured from deep cuts on his back. I grabbed him, pulling him up.
“Let’s go, let’s go, no time to…” I said when I was cut off by the sound of a neck snapping. I looked back, seeing the creature had twisted the man’s head around in a circle. It raised the limp body to its massive mouth and severed the head in a single powerful bite.
“Get me out of here, man, please,” Timmy whispered as I pulled him back out into the hallway. I looked over, seeing another werewolf creature bounding down the hallway, chasing a man in a prison jumpsuit. I had no choice.
I pulled Timmy toward the door labeled “Medical Ward”. With a creak of rusted hinges, it opened. We went inside to hide.
***
“Maybe there’s something in here we can use to bandage you up,” I said to Timmy, pulling him down the short hallway toward a room filled with single beds. I didn’t know why the rules said to avoid this place. It looked totally empty. Against the back wall, I saw a glass cabinet filled with bandages, rubbing alcohol, band-aids and other various first aid supplies. I ran toward it. Timmy limped along after me, still groaning.
“Goddamn, I think those claws went down to the bone,” he said.
“It’s gonna be OK,” I said as I pulled out some antiseptic and bandages, adding, “It could’ve been a lot worse.” The universe would immediately prove me right. I heard a slight giggling from under one of the beds. Timmy and I both froze.
Two rotted hands reached out, dragging the mutilated body of a little girl behind them. She had patches of garish, black stitches running across her face, hands and arms. Dark, clotted blood dripped from the sites. She wore a gore-smeared hospital gown and had no eyes. I looked into the empty sockets. They stared back at me like two black holes spinning in the void.
As she rose, her giggles became full-blown laughter, a hysterical gurgling like the laugh of a dying person. Then she ran at me. I saw the silver gleam of a scalpel in her little hand.
“No!” I screamed, raising my hands to protect myself. The scalpel came down, slicing across my palm. It cut deeply. A cold, burning pain ran up my arm. I repressed the urge to scream.
At that moment, the red emergency lights flicked off. Bright, fluorescent lights popped on, flickering and strobing in rapid succession. Timmy ran forward, tackling the undead girl. But I saw more small hands reaching out from under the beds, hands filled with sores and squirming larvae. I could see the bones of their hands through necrotic patches eaten into their flesh.
I ran for Timmy, grabbing him and hauling him up.
“Time to go! Now!” I screamed, pulling him forward as more undead boys and girls rose up, all with sharp knives and surgical instruments grasped in their little hands. I felt a sudden pain in my leg. Looking down, I saw a knife sticking out of my thigh. The empty eye sockets of a little boy’s face stared up at me, grinning like a skull.
I collapsed on the ground as we were surrounded. I prayed to God then, knowing we would die. I prayed that he would forgive me for all my mistakes, because I was on a fast-track to the afterlife and would be seeing him in a few seconds. With a sharp cry of pain, I yanked the knife out of my leg, turning it on my attacker.
Then a gunshot rang out. The head of the nearest girl exploded in a shower of bone fragments and dead maggots. I looked up, seeing Shea standing at the door, his pistol raised.
“Come on!” he screamed. “Come on, you idiots! Let’s go! Now!” Timmy and I didn’t need any more encouragement. As Shea continued to blow apart the nearest of the undead abominations, we limped and scrambled towards him. My leg gave a shriek of pain with every step.
We got out of the medical ward, battered and bruised but still alive.
***
“Why’d you come back, Shea?” I asked through pained breaths. Shea gave me a frantic look.
“When I got back out to the car, the driver was dead. His throat was… ripped out or something, I don’t know. I grabbed his keys and came back for you two. I don’t know where we are, but I’m getting you out of here,” he explained. I looked at him in amazement. I had never thought in a million years Shea would risk his life to save some scumbag inmates.
“So what’s the plan?” Timmy asked, sweating heavily, his eyes wild and pained. “How are we getting out of here without dying?” Shea shrugged.
“The door locked behind us when we came in,” I said. “Unless we can break it down and get back to the car…” We passed by buttons labeled “Emergency Dispatch” under glowing red emergency signs. I wondered if we could get help somehow through them.
“Halt!” someone cried from behind us. I looked back, seeing a man in a black correctional officers uniform. He ran toward us, his hand on the radio hanging from his belt. But something immediately seemed off about the figure.
As he got closer, I realized why. He had no face. His entire head was just smooth, white skin, without hair or any signs of features. He spoke again, and the voice seemed to come from all around his body.
“You must report to the medical ward,” the strange figure said. “We do not allow injured people in the hallways.”
“No, we’re fine,” Shea said, grinning. “See, buddy? I work for the DOC too.” He pointed at the identification clipped to his breast pocket. The figure raised his radio to his lips.
“We have resistance near Dormitory One,” the fake CO said into his radio before any of us could stop him. Shea ran forward, knocking the radio from his hand. The CO instantly straightened up and whipped out his pistol, pointing it at Shea’s torso. He fired, and I saw Shea’s chest explode in a blossoming flower of blood.
“No, dammit!” Timmy said, running forward. I saw a silver gleam in his hand, and I realized he had taken one of the scalpels from the undead Shea had killed in the Medical Ward. As the fake CO spun to point the pistol at Timmy, Timmy ran into him, stabbing the scalpel deeply into the CO’s neck.
They fell together with Timmy on top of the fake CO. His body weight drove the scalpel deeper into the white, featureless skin. Blood the color of soot spurted from the wound. The gun went off, the bullet missing Timmy entirely and smashing into the ceiling. The CO’s gurgling death gasps seem to come from all around his body. I grabbed Timmy.
“Get the guns!” I said. “They’re both dead. We need the guns.” He nodded, grabbing the CO’s gun and taking an extra magazine from his belt. I did the same with Shea’s gun and magazine. I pressed the button labeled “Emergency Dispatch” as more faceless men appeared far off down the corridor. Then we fled as fast as we could from that hallway, but, seeing as we were both in pretty bad shape, it wasn’t very fast.
At that point, I was just glad to be alive, though.
***
We wandered around the prison, avoiding the faceless COs whenever we saw them patrolling the hallways. They would radio to each other, their voices always surrounding their bodies rather than coming from their heads, which I found extremely eerie and unsettling. A couple times, I saw men in black SWAT suits with automatic rifles gunning down the fake COs. I wondered if this was the “Emergency Dispatch”. Timmy and I avoided them as well, and we gave a wide berth anytime we heard gunfire.
We passed cells with mummified corpses hanging from the ceiling. We passed dormitories where the victims of the strange, werewolf-like creatures littered the floors, rotting and stinking like roadkill. Occasionally, I would catch a glimpse of another survivor, a pale face peeking out from some hiding spot, but Timmy and I kept pushing forward, looking for a way out.
We were in a sprawling gymnasium, sitting down and resting for a few minutes, when we encountered the Warden.
We heard a demonic roar from the hallway, a mixing of many strange, inhuman tongues. As Timmy and I sat up quickly, a decapitated body flew into the gym, and a creature from Hell followed after it. The body smacked into the concrete wall with a soft, fleshy whack.
The Warden stood ten feet tall. He had on a black correctional officers uniform and a leather visor cap. His face looked like it had no flesh. A thick layer of bone covered it with two reptilian eyes peering out from behind slitted pupils. He hissed, a forked tongue shooting out of his gaping maw. His fingers looked like sharp daggers of bone. A smell like old leather and blood rose from his body.
“Shoot it!” I screamed, raising the pistol and firing at its head. The first shot blew off its visor cap, revealing the hairless, reptilian skull underneath. But the bullet only gouged the top of its skull. It ran at us with powerful, bounding steps, covering the distance in moments.
Timmy and I fired as fast as we could as it got within a few feet of us. It bounded into Timmy like a freight train hitting a car. Timmy’s body went flying and smashed against the back wall with the sound of bones shattering. I slammed another magazine in the pistol as the Warden turned to me.
We had hit it, I saw. One of its eyes had exploded in a shower of gore and vitreous fluid, and its head was bleeding badly. I raised the gun, aiming for the same eye and firing.
The Warden smacked his hand against his face as if he had forgotten something, falling to the floor. I ran forward, putting the pistol point-blank against his ruined eye before emptying the clip. By the end, he wasn’t moving anymore.
“Oh, God,” I said, walking over to Timmy. I saw his shattered legs, his broken spine and his snapped ribs. He coughed up blood. “I’m sorry, Timmy. I really am.” His head might have nodded slightly as he died, giving a final death gasp before falling still.
***
I found a ring of keys on the Warden’s body. In excitement, I ran downstairs and tried the locked door. It worked.
I went to the van, pulling out the dead driver and starting it. After smashing through the garage door, I drove it through the gate. It did catastrophic damage to the prison van, but it got me far enough away before the engine gave out.
I don’t know what kind of prison that was, but I hope I never see that hellscape again.

(originally posted on JustSyncIntuit original post)
I warn you that this post will be long and in three parts. It's the transcription of an episode of serendipity that will take us, starting with Charles Lindbergh, then through Shakespeare and other points of interest, on the trail of a spirit.
TL;DR: Here's a 👁️‍🗨️ table of contents.
⚠️ This post was intended as a follow-up to Identity Crisis, which I published on Retconned on July 24, 2022. The wave of coincidences hadn't stopped with the publication of the post.
I had hoped to publish the post before August 2022, but it didn't work out as expected.
However, I persevered and took the necessary time to finish it, which ended up being 21 months! During that time, I made additional connections and the topic's content expanded.
First, I'll repost here what I already wrote in the Identity Crisis thread and then add the rest of the story:
​
^{⌄ original posts ⌄}

IDENTITY CRISIS

I would like to talk about an entertaining little experience triggered by the post: Charles Lindburg or Lindbergh? by Emilieduchatelet1706.

Doubtful ressemblance

Seeing images of Charles Lindbergh immediately came to mind a certain resemblance to Patrick McGoohan.
Charles Lindbergh vs Patrick McGoohan
Well, I readily admit that it's not obvious, and I don't even dare to defend my case, but it's the rest of the story that matters.
Patrick McGoohan, plane… immediately, there too, I had in mind the episode of Columbo, Identity Crisis (s05e03).
Patrick McGoohan plays Nelson Brenner, the killer, and Columbo discovers that he was an aviator in his life full of travels and experiences. Columbo calls him a hero, much like Charles Lindbergh.
I think it's even likely that the character of Nelson Brenner was inspired by Lindbergh.

Fun Fact

Fun fact: As I write these lines I mechanically typed on Google "charles lindbergh" hero, and on the first link I clicked on I see this.
In the image Lindbergh stands in front of his plane, the Spirit of St.Louis. The article talks about his multiple lives. The first line, which I have highlighted, says: “Who the hell was Charles Lindbergh, whose multiple avatars spanned the entire history of the 20th century?”
…and Columbo is there in the corner.
In this video that I had prepared and uploaded before starting to write my post (and therefore before coming across the article), Columbo asks Brenner if he is the one standing in front of a plane (a “T33… SilverStar”) in a photo in black and white.
And ends with “Yes I seem to remember reading about that”... I find it a bit funny in this new context.

Steinmetz

In the episode there is another shady character whose true identity remains a mystery, he's called Steinmetz.
Mechanically too, I had typed Steinmetz on Google and I came across Charles Proteus Steinmetz, American mathematician and electrical engineer. I notice that his real name is “Karl August Rudolph Steinmetz”.
August, that sounds familiar to me. I look at Charles Lindbergh's page and yes that's right, his name is "Charles Augustus Lindbergh".
-> Identity Crisis
 
These entertaining little coincidences…

TAPESTRY OF LIFE

Small personal theory

I'm beginnig to imagine a small personal theory (a small hypothesis to guide my thoughts). That of a new birth in adulthood (rather around 40 years old than 20 years old). In any case a threshold in life.
In this vision, the genetic heritage is replaced by the knowledge of life before, that is to say before the threshold, and wisdom.
The reborn person by groping their way, configures (and reconfigures), (re)connects the data of the previous life to adapt to the (true) life to come. In a better way of their formatting before in the previous matrix with its so-called genetic program and the teaching received. And it's as if there was an underlying program of knowledge and wisdom from the start that tutored their life. A better program.

Not so personal?

I'm not a Christian... but a quick quick look at Wikipedia shows that I may not be far from the concept of born again that we hear about here and there.

Jesus replied, "Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again."
"How can someone be born when they are old?" Nicodemus asked.
"Surely they cannot enter a second time into their mother's womb to be born!" Jesus answered, "Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit."
— Gospel of John, John chapter 3, verses 3–5, NIV[8]

Water and Spirit

In the previous image of the article -> Spirit of St.Louis is the name of the plane, and in front of the magazine cover with Columbo there is a magazine cover where it is written: La guerre de l'eau est déclarée (Water war is declared).

ALL IN ONE

Yesterday I was watching the first video again where Columbo looks at the picture on the wall. On the same wall I see a portrait that looks familiar, it seemed to me that it was supposed to represent Shakespeare (but maybe not, maybe it's Cervantes :D).
I've heard of a theory that Shakespeare didn't exist and that in fact Francis Bacon (the philosopher) was the author of his work. I have since associated the "idea" of Shakespeare with Francis Bacon.
Well, this theory is completely in line with the subject of Steinmetz in the Columbo episode. But we see that the portrait of Bacon does not at all resemble that of Shakespeare: Shakespeare vs Francis Bacon.
But Steinmetz himself? Francis Bacon vs Charles Steinmetz.
Wonderful! Bravo. Bravo.
​
^{⌄ follow-up ⌄}
⚠️ A note about the use of the word similarity in this post:
When the word 'similarity' is used in this post, it means that the elements being compared share the same idea, but are not necessarily identical copies. For example, something that moves from right to left can be seen as different from something that moves from left to right, but at the level of idea there may be a resemblance.

THE SIMPSONS

▶ The Simpsons - Steinmetz; Very soon after posting, doing a quick search on Steinmetz I come across a scene from The Simpsons episode "Scenes from the Class Struggle in Springfield (s07e14)":

Homer as Steinmetz

Homer Simpson challenges Mister Burns to a game of golf. Burns as usual is mistaken about the identity of Homer Simpson. He calls him... Steinmetz!

Club sandwich

Homer says "Mmm... open-faced club sand wedge" and puts the word 'club' right before 'sand wedge'. The result is the phrase "club sandwich" (~ sand wedge). And one of the traditional ingredients in a club sandwich is bacon.

SHAKESPEARE

Interesting documentary

I don't know how I landed on the topic The Shakespeare Hole that I had already seen in the past but it was exactly the right time to remind myself of a documentary on Shakespeare that I had forgotten in a mental watch-later-list.
It is an interesting documentary, Cracking the Shakespeare Code (2017), about hidden codes in the work of Shakespeare with in particular the thesis that Sir Francis Bacon would be one of the authors. Viewable here.
This time I watched it! And... this lack of unfamiliarity... I don't remember ever watching it before but I didn't feel any sense of novelty. Hmmm...
For those interested, there are other hypotheses regarding Shakespeare's authorship.

Shakespeare the Bard

Shakespeare is known as "the Bard". The word bard, which means poet, also has other definitions, a piece of armor or ornament on a war horse and by analogy... bacon placed on game or meat before roasting.

COLUMBO

Sometimes the synchronicities come completely out of the blue, sometimes I have an intuition of where to focus my interest. Trivially I told myself that I was going to watch the episode of Columbo talking about Shakespeare, Dagger of the Mind.
In this episode several elements seem to gently taunt my flow of thoughts but it is obviously not the easiest things to explain. However I can relate a really curious series of synchronicities concerning golf and the Simpsons episode I mentioned above:

Welcome to the club

▶ Columbo in the club; Columbo while in London is invited to what I guess is called a gentlemen's club. There he makes two remarks:

• "When you said 'club', I thought you meant a country club or a health club."
  
• "When you said 'tea', I was afraid we were gonna get nothin’ but those tiny sandwiches."
  

Note the vocabulary used which, more or less subtly, refers to golf (while the episode has nothing to do with golf at all). A country club is commonly referred to simply as a golf club. And with ▶ the first video of The Simpsons freshly in mind, the words club, tea, and sandwich resonate like synchronicity. Especially with the formulation used by Columbo which adds a note of irony. Tea sounds exactly like tee, and sandwich for sand wedge.
▶ The Simpsons in the club; In the same episode of The Simpsons, the Simpson family is invited to a country club. Which echoes Columbo's words.
We will even notice that Homer and the kids remain at one entrance to the room while Marge is invited in among the other women. Which is the opposite of the Columbo video where the butler says: "Why do you think we keep the ladies out, sir?".

Pearls and balls

▶ Columbo - pearls; Note that in the scene a character throws a round white object which hits the head of another character who then lies on the ground in the middle of white pearls.
▶ The Simpsons - balls; Here a character hits a golf ball in the air which hits the head of another character who then lies on the ground before kneeling and finding himself in the middle of white balls.

Ruse

⚠️ SPOILER WARNING: Skip this one if you don't want to know how Columbo confounded the culprits just yet.
▶ Columbo - subterfuge; Without formal proof, Columbo discreetly puts a white bead in an umbrella which allows the culprits to be confounded by their reactions.
Also note these three points:

• A character who verifies that the bead is genuine: "Why, it’s the same. Exactly the same."
  
• A character who accuses another of trickery: "He put it there. Can’t you see? Before we came. He put it there!"
  
• A private discussion between two characters with the idea of keeping the subterfuge secret: "Off the record, eh?"
  

▶ The Simpsons - cheating; Smithers puts a golf ball on the green near the hole to make Mr. Burns win.
And note the same three points:

• A character who verifies that the balls are genuine: "These aren't reptile eggs."
  
• A character who accuses another of trickery: "You've been cheating. No matter where Mr. Burns hits the ball you put a fresh one on the green."
  
• A private discussion between two characters with the idea of keeping the cheating secret: "If you would keep quiet about the alleged decades of cheating I'm sure he'd support your application for membership tonight."
  

"sir" scenes

▶ The Simpsons - sir; Homer says: "For once, maybe someone will call me "sir" without adding, "you're making a scene"."
▶ Columbo - sir; A character hears himself called "sir" and arguably, he's making a scene...

BACON

When you're in a synchronistic wave, the interest isn't just the thrill of the coincidences, but also the fact that you learn about areas you weren't so interested in. And I found out more than enough about bacon. So much so that I saw references to bacon everywhere. It was no longer of interest.

Bacon overload

I wanted to move on, which was immediately comically reflected in the synchronicities as I came across these two clips of the Simpsons (from other episodes) that say it all:
▶ The Simpsons - Butter your bacon: "So, you think you know better than this family, huh? Well, as long as you're in my house, you'll do what I do and believe what I believe. So, butter your bacon!" :-)
▶ The Simpsons - The bacon man: The clip I saw at the time on the Internet only included the part where Homer takes his order. So without any mention of Shakespeare. But already the fact that Homer presents the "portrait" of the omelette and says that we could add a "bacon nose", "bacon hair", "bacon mustache", etc... that made me chuckle. It gave me the impression that they were mimicking what I was doing just before with the portraits of Shakespeare, Francis Bacon and Charles Steinmetz.
It was more than a month later while writing this post and creating the video extract that I noticed that Shakespeare was mentioned just before! "I'm getting a sweatshirt with Shakespeare's face on it!". So we have a mention of a portrait of Shakespeare followed by a "portrait of bacon".

Bacon numbers

And the Internet bombarded me with bacon number this, bacon number that... what!? This profusion of bacon has even been prophesied; they made a law about that, the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon!
I quote:

In a January 1994 interview with Premiere magazine, Kevin Bacon mentioned while discussing the film The River Wild that "he had worked with everybody in Hollywood or someone who's worked with them."
Following this, a lengthy newsgroup thread which was headed "Kevin Bacon is the Center of the Universe" appeared.

→ L.O.L.

PROTEAN SPIRIT

PROTEUS

I overlooked something about Steinmetz the first time, he's called Charles PROTEUS Steinmetz:

Steinmetz Americanized his name to Charles Steinmetz. He chose Proteus as his middle name—the nickname his professors in Germany had affectionately bestowed upon him in recognition of the shape-shifting sea god. In Greek mythology, Proteus was a cave-dwelling prophetic old man who always returned to his human form—that of a hunchback. Steinmetz thoroughly enjoyed the comparison.
src: Charles Proteus Steinmetz, the Wizard of Schenectady

Shakespeare and Proteus

It's no surprise Shakespeare and Bacon, prolific writers, talked about Proteus. On the Proteus wikipedia page there is this quote:

I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,
And set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down.
— William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part Three, Act III, Scene ii

I wanted to know what the last line meant and a quick search led me to this Reddit post, What does Richard/Gloucester mean when he says "Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down.". This is a transcription of a scene from the film Richard III (1955).
In the video they refer to, the original monologue from the play Richard III is mixed with parts of a monologue by the same character (Richard III) from another play, Henry IV (the one in the Wikipedia quote):

[…]

And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

[…]
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
[…]
I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall,
I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk;
I'll play the orator as well as Nestor,
Deceive more slyly than Ulysses could,
And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.

I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,

And set the murd'rous Machiavel to school
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut! were it further off, I'll pluck it down.

Bacon and Proteus

Francis Bacon also speaks of Proteus in "De sapientia veterum, liber", translated into English in "Of the Wisdom of the Ancients". It's short and interesting to read.

XIII. Proteus Or Matter

PROTEUS, the poets tell us, was herdsman to Neptune. He was an old man and a prophet; a prophet moreover of the very first order, and indeed thrice excellent; for he knew all three,—not the future only, but likewise the past and the present; insomuch that besides his power of divination, he was the messenger and interpreter of all antiquity and all secrets. His dwelling was under an immense cave. There it was his custom every day at noon to count his flock of seals and then go to sleep. And if any one wanted his help in any matter, the only way was first to secure his hands with handcuffs, and then to bind him with chains. Whereupon he on his part, in order to get free, would turn himself into all manner of strange shapes—fire, water, wild beasts, &c., till at last he returned again to his original shape.
The sense of this fable relates, it would seem, to the secrets of nature and the conditions of matter. For under the person of Proteus, Matter—the most ancient of all things, next to God—is meant to be represented. Now matter has its habitation under the vault of heaven, as under a cave. And it may be called the servant of Neptune, inasmuch as all the operation and dispensation of matter is effected principally in liquids.
[…]
src: https://www.bartleby.com/82/13.html

Spirit and Water

Consonant values

I noticed that the consonants of P-r-o-t-e-u-s are the same as those of S-p-i-r-i-t.

Matter of fact

The sense of this fable relates, it would seem, to the secrets of nature and the conditions of matter. For under the person of Proteus, Matter—the most ancient of all things, next to God—is meant to be represented. Now matter has its habitation under the vault of heaven, as under a cave. And it may be called the servant of Neptune, inasmuch as all the operation and dispensation of matter is effected principally in liquids.

Proteus, associated with matter, emerges from the sea^*️⃣ and sleeps in a cave, changing shape in between if one tries to capture him. The example of water is notoriously the first that comes to mind when we talk about the states of matter.
^*️⃣Note that in the video ▶ The Simpsons - The bacon man there is mention of returning to the ocean ("So, here for a snack before they roll you back into the ocean?"), in context I find that line a little ironic.

Capture the Serendipity

He can foretell the future, but, in a mytheme familiar to several cultures, will change his shape to avoid doing so; he answers only to those who are capable of capturing him.
src: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proteus

At this point I reflect on how easily connections come to us when we are in this particular position of observer, whether we like it or not. This is the principle of serendipity. Very strange word which I bet many have trouble pronouncing correctly and which for me has changed during my life (Mandela Effect). By the way, I had posted about this on Retconned in the past and when looking for my post I preferred to go through Google rather than the Reddit search engine.
This is where I get suggested a movie, Serendipity (2001), but it's a romantic comedy, I'm not too into that, I'm barely interested. But my instinct tells me it's not there by chance. If I don't watch the film, I will still look into the director's filmography.
Peter Chelsom; I'm looking at the list of movies he's directed. Not very funky at first glance but there are one or two key words, one or two imagery elements that have been involved in previous synchronicities for me that kept me from abandoning this lead in a hurry. I ended up clicking on the link of the movie The Mighty (1998).

The Old Man of the Sea

A young boy suffering from a debilitating disease causing deformities rides 👁️‍🗨️ on the shoulders of another, stronger boy. The young boy lends his insight while the other boy lends his strength.
It reminds me of the story of the Old Man of the Sea:

• In The Odyssey: Book IV, Homer (the other Homer) calls Proteus the wise Old Man of the Sea.
  
• The Old Man of the Sea in the tales of Sinbad the Sailor depicts 👁️‍🗨️ an old man clinging to a man on his shoulders.
  

While writing these lines

While writing these lines from my notes (more than a month later^*️⃣) I distractedly watched the Serendipity movie trailer... and there I see a golf scene that I hadn't noticed before (probably because I had not watched the entire video). I decide to watch the film.
^*️⃣Also while writing these lines I mentally played with the word "serendipity"; seren-dipidy, seren-pididy, etc. Which inevitably reminded me of ▶ this scene from a music video where Ben Stiller struggles to find the right name for rapper Puff Daddy. The plot coincidentally revolves around a golf ball...

SERENDIPITY

The plot of the film is a story of a character who seeks the identity of another, enough to entice him to pursue serendipity. Reminds me of the content of this post.
Moreover, there are several factual elements that suggest that resemblance:

Amazing likeness

Knockoff

▶ Serendipity - Prada:

• Purchase of a product (supposedly) from a luxury fashion house brand: "Ooh! Prada!" ... "I'll take it."
  
• Discussion about a knockoff product name: "Eve, that's a horrific knockoff. At least my fake says Prada. Yours says Prado."
  
• Discussion about altering the product a bit to make it more presentable: "Yeah? Well, I say for a dollar, I can buy a little magic marker and fix that."
  

▶ The Simpsons - Chanel:

• Purchase of a product (supposedly) from a luxury fashion house brand: "Oh, it's beautiful. Can it be a real Chanel?" ... "All right, I will buy it."
  
• Discussion about knockoff product names: "Don't be a sap, Dad. These are just crappy knock-offs." | "I know a genuine Panaphonics when I see it. And look, there's Magnetbox and Sorny."
  
• Discussion about altering the product a bit to make it more presentable: "Homer, please, I have to alter this suit so it looks different for tomorrow." | "Just slap some bumper stickers on it."
  

Golf

▶ The Simpsons - golf; To put into context, we had in the episode of The Simpsons:

• A character hit in the head by a golf club.
  
• A character hit in the head by a golf ball.
  
• A multitude of white balls scattered on the green.
  

[+]

• A character acknowledging a buried feeling: "I knew my kind wasn't welcome here."

▶ Serendipity - golf; The film Serendipity uses the synchronicity of golf as an factor of serendipity. And note these points:

• A character hit in the head by a golf ball.
  
• A character hit in the head by a golf club.
  
• A multitude of white balls scattered on a green floor.
  

[+] just a tiny bit of interpretation here:

• A character saying: "I think I swallowed a filling". Which I think is to be understood in the context of the film as "I think I swallowed a feeling".

Serpent and Destiny

Furthermore, the serpent is, in my humble opinion, an underlying theme in the film. I will avoid going too deep into the interpretations and just quickly relate a few noteworthy elements:

Serpent of old

▶ Serendipity - Cool Yule; The film opens with the song "Cool Yule" by Louis Armstrong with the Commanders. With these lyrics:

♪ And you gonna flip when Old Saint Nick ♪
♪ Plays a lick on a peppermint stick ♪

Old Nick could mean the Devil, Old Serpent, etc. An interesting discussion about the adjective "Old" in Old Nick.

Another one bites the dust

▶ Serendipity - crawling; A scene where the main character, Jonathan Trager (black jacket), is crawling on the ground.

In order, garter.

▶ Serenditpy - T-r-a-g-e-r; Jonathan Trager, T-r-a-g-e-r. Trager anagram of garter. Like a garter snake. But also a vocabulary used for a bride (which is in line with the apparent theme of the film).
Reminds me of something I jotted down somewhere...
...there it is:

Notably the pendant suspended on a ribbon from around Bacon’s neck, which in earlier portraits was deliberately concealed in such a way as to suggest a secret, is in this picture shown exposed, revealing itself as the Lesser George and thereby suggesting or indicating that Bacon was a secret Knight of the Garter, or had the right to be one.
src: https://www.fbrt.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/Portraits_of_Francis_Bacon.pdf#page=6

Some infos on The Order of the Garter.

Snake Club

The presence of the word snake in Beckinsale (the name of the main actress) is obvious. But, I was interested in the consonants of the word and I saw there the term Snake Club.
I explain, we remove the vowels and: b.c.k.n.s.l → s.n.k c.l.b
I do a Google search on "snake club". I come across a page on a movie site that talks about what looks like a Z movie titled "Snake Club: Revenge of the Snake Woman". I scroll down a bit and come across 👁️‍🗨️ this poster showing Kate Beckinsale herself in the first place of movie recommendations.

IN THE QUR'AN

CLUB AND SNAKE

At the time of the synchronicities with the Simpsons episode, I was interested in the symbolism of golf. The golf club is reminiscent of a farm tool, the hoe, I kept that in mind. With the intrusion of the serpent into my serendipity, I was instead led to think about the story of the staff of Musa (Moses) in the Qur'an. Especially in Surah 20, Ta-Ha:

20:17 And what is that in your right hand, O Moses?"
20:18 He said, "It is my staff; I lean upon it, and I bring down leaves for my sheep and I have therein other uses."
20:19 [Allah] said, "Throw it down, O Moses."
20:20 So he threw it down, and thereupon it was a snake, moving swiftly.
20:21 [Allah] said, "Seize it and fear not; We will return it to its former condition.
- Translation: Sahih International ⇠ I'll keep this translation throughout the topic.
src: Qur'an 20:[17-21]

This new perspective has taken the serendipity in a interesting direction. A scene described in this same surah caught my attention; Musa and Harun confront the magicians summoned by Pharaoh:

20:61 Moses said to the magicians summoned by Pharaoh, "Woe to you! Do not invent a lie against Allah or He will exterminate you with a punishment; and he has failed who invents [such falsehood]."
20:62 So they disputed over their affair among themselves and concealed their private conversation.
20:63 They said, "Indeed, these are two magicians who want to drive you out of your land with their magic and do away with your most exemplary way.
20:64 So resolve upon your plan and then come [forward] in line. And he has succeeded today who overcomes."
20:65 They said, "O Moses, either you throw or we will be the first to throw."
20:66 He said, "Rather, you throw." And suddenly their ropes and staffs seemed to him from their magic that they were moving [like snakes].
20:67 And he sensed within himself apprehension, did Moses.
20:68 Allah said, "Fear not. Indeed, it is you who are superior.
20:69 And throw what is in your right hand; it will swallow up what they have crafted. What they have crafted is but the trick of a magician, and the magician will not succeed wherever he is."
20:70 So the magicians fell down in prostration. They said, "We have believed in the Lord of Aaron and Moses."
20:71 [Pharaoh] said, "You believed him before I gave you permission. Indeed, he is your leader who has taught you magic. So I will surely cut off your hands and your feet on opposite sides, and I will crucify you on the trunks of palm trees, and you will surely know which of us is more severe in [giving] punishment and more enduring."
20:72 They said, "Never will we prefer you over what has come to us of clear proofs and [over] He who created us. So decree whatever you are to decree. You can only decree for this worldly life.
20:73 Indeed, we have believed in our Lord that He may forgive us our sins and what you compelled us [to do] of magic. And Allah is better and more enduring."
src: Qur'an 20:[61-73]

I spotted other similarities:

Intrigue and trick

➔ Qur'an 20:[61-63]; Note this:

• A secret confabulation: 20:62 "So they disputed over their affair among themselves and concealed their private conversation."
  
• Characters implying that other characters intend to use a trick: 20:63 "They said, "Indeed, these are two magicians who want to drive you out of your land with their magic and do away with your most exemplary way."^*️⃣
  

^*️⃣The magicians repeat here the words of Pharaoh a few ayat ("verses") before: "He said, "Have you come to us to drive us out of our land with your magic, O Moses?" Qur'an 20:57.
▶ Columbo - subterfuge (spoiler!); We have already mentioned these points in ALL IN ONE > COLUMBO > Ruse:

• A character who accuses another of trickery: "He put it there. Can’t you see? Before we came. He put it there!"
  
• A private discussion between two characters with the idea of keeping the subterfuge secret: "Off the record, eh?"
  

▶ The Simpsons - cheating; Same here:

• A character who accuses another of trickery: "You've been cheating. No matter where Mr. Burns hits the ball you put a fresh one on the green."
  
• A private discussion between two characters with the idea of keeping the cheating secret: "If you would keep quiet about the alleged decades of cheating I'm sure he'd support your application for membership tonight."
  

By hook or by crook

➔ Qur'an 20:[64-73]; Note this:

• An injunction to throw a staff...: 20:69 "And throw what is in your right hand; [...]"
  
• ...that will swallow up an illusion (objects that move like snakes; see 20:66): 20:69 "[...] it will swallow up what they have crafted. What they have crafted is but the trick of a magician, and the magician will not succeed wherever he is."
  
• Characters thrown down to prostration^1️⃣: 20:70 "So the magicians fell down in prostration. They said, "We have believed in the Lord of Aaron and Moses.""
  
• Characters acknowledging a hidden feeling: 20:73 "Indeed, we have believed in our Lord that He may forgive us our sins and what you compelled us^2️⃣ [to do] of magic. And Allah is better and more enduring.""
  

^1️⃣The magicians didn't just fell down, they were thrown down: fa-ul'qiya [So were thrown down] al-saharatu [the magicians] sujjadan [prostrating].Note that this is the same verb, in the passive form, as in the previous ayah in which Musa was asked to throw down his staff: wa-alqi [And throw] ma [what] fi [in] yaminika [your right hand]. This emphasizes the correlation between the two events.
^2️⃣The Arabic word "akrahtana" translated as "you compelled us" carries a notion of aversion. That is to say, to be compelled to something that generates aversion. Here the magicians finally admit their true feelings towards Pharaoh's orders.
▶ The Simpsons - golf; Notice the similarities:

• A character throws a golf club...
  
• ...which hits another character who then falls face down.
  
• The latter acknowledges a buried feeling: "I knew my kind wasn't welcome here."
  

▶ The Simpsons - cheating; ~ Swallowing fake snakes:
The club-thrower character puts a whole golf ball in his mouth, chews it, and proves that "these aren't reptile eggs".
▶ Serendipity - golf; Note the same similarities here:

• A character is hit by a golf club and then falls face down.
  
• The same character who says: "I think I swallowed a filling". Which I think is to be understood in the context of the film as "I think I swallowed a feeling"^*️⃣.
  

^*️⃣Note also the use of the verb "to swallow".

Destiny and Serpent

Divine measure

In Surah Ta-Ha Allah commands Musa to meet Pharaoh, reminding him of the divine interventions in the key stages of his existence on Earth:

20:36 [Allah] said, "You have been granted your request, O Moses.
20:37 And We had already conferred favor upon you another time,
20:38 When We inspired to your mother what We inspired,
20:39 [Saying], 'Cast him into the chest and cast it into the river, and the river will throw it onto the bank; there will take him an enemy to Me and an enemy to him.' And I bestowed upon you love from Me that you would be brought up under My eye.
20:40 [And We favored you] when your sister went and said, 'Shall I direct you to someone who will be responsible for him?' So We restored you to your mother that she might be content and not grieve. And you killed someone, but We saved you from retaliation and tried you with a [severe] trial. And you remained [some] years among the people of Madyan. Then you came [here] at the decreed time, O Moses.
20:41 And I produced you for Myself.
20:42 Go, you and your brother, with My signs and do not slacken in My remembrance.
20:43 Go, both of you, to Pharaoh. Indeed, he has transgressed.
src: Qur'an 20:[36-43]

All of these life events brought Musa to the ad hoc place and time: 20:40 "[...] Then you came [here] at the decreed time, O Moses.".

Tamed serpent

A sinuous life course alternating between threat and benevolence though not turning away from fate. Symbolized from the outset by the abandonment of the baby on the river, a river that snakes its way to destination. And marked at the appointed moment by the transformation of the staff into a serpent before it is returned to its former condition.
End of part 1/3.
The continuation is in On the trail of a spirit (2/3) →

I warn you that this post will be long and in three parts. It's the transcription of an episode of serendipity that will take us, starting with Charles Lindbergh, then through Shakespeare and other points of interest, on the trail of a spirit.
TL;DR: Here's a 👁️‍🗨️ table of contents.
⚠️ This post was intended as a follow-up to Identity Crisis, which I published on Retconned on July 24, 2022. The wave of coincidences hadn't stopped with the publication of the post.
I had hoped to publish the post before August 2022, but it didn't work out as expected.
However, I persevered and took the necessary time to finish it, which ended up being 21 months! During that time, I made additional connections and the topic's content expanded.
First, I'll repost here what I already wrote in the Identity Crisis thread and then add the rest of the story:
​
^{⌄ original posts ⌄}

IDENTITY CRISIS

I would like to talk about an entertaining little experience triggered by the post: Charles Lindburg or Lindbergh? by Emilieduchatelet1706.

Doubtful ressemblance

Seeing images of Charles Lindbergh immediately came to mind a certain resemblance to Patrick McGoohan.
Charles Lindbergh vs Patrick McGoohan
Well, I readily admit that it's not obvious, and I don't even dare to defend my case, but it's the rest of the story that matters.
Patrick McGoohan, plane… immediately, there too, I had in mind the episode of Columbo, Identity Crisis (s05e03).
Patrick McGoohan plays Nelson Brenner, the killer, and Columbo discovers that he was an aviator in his life full of travels and experiences. Columbo calls him a hero, much like Charles Lindbergh.
I think it's even likely that the character of Nelson Brenner was inspired by Lindbergh.

Fun Fact

Fun fact: As I write these lines I mechanically typed on Google "charles lindbergh" hero, and on the first link I clicked on I see this.
In the image Lindbergh stands in front of his plane, the Spirit of St.Louis. The article talks about his multiple lives. The first line, which I have highlighted, says: “Who the hell was Charles Lindbergh, whose multiple avatars spanned the entire history of the 20th century?”
…and Columbo is there in the corner.
In this video that I had prepared and uploaded before starting to write my post (and therefore before coming across the article), Columbo asks Brenner if he is the one standing in front of a plane (a “T33… SilverStar”) in a photo in black and white.
And ends with “Yes I seem to remember reading about that”... I find it a bit funny in this new context.

Steinmetz

In the episode there is another shady character whose true identity remains a mystery, he's called Steinmetz.
Mechanically too, I had typed Steinmetz on Google and I came across Charles Proteus Steinmetz, American mathematician and electrical engineer. I notice that his real name is “Karl August Rudolph Steinmetz”.
August, that sounds familiar to me. I look at Charles Lindbergh's page and yes that's right, his name is "Charles Augustus Lindbergh".
-> Identity Crisis
 
These entertaining little coincidences…

TAPESTRY OF LIFE

Small personal theory

I'm beginnig to imagine a small personal theory (a small hypothesis to guide my thoughts). That of a new birth in adulthood (rather around 40 years old than 20 years old). In any case a threshold in life.
In this vision, the genetic heritage is replaced by the knowledge of life before, that is to say before the threshold, and wisdom.
The reborn person by groping their way, configures (and reconfigures), (re)connects the data of the previous life to adapt to the (true) life to come. In a better way of their formatting before in the previous matrix with its so-called genetic program and the teaching received. And it's as if there was an underlying program of knowledge and wisdom from the start that tutored their life. A better program.

Not so personal?

I'm not a Christian... but a quick quick look at Wikipedia shows that I may not be far from the concept of born again that we hear about here and there.

Jesus replied, "Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again."
"How can someone be born when they are old?" Nicodemus asked.
"Surely they cannot enter a second time into their mother's womb to be born!" Jesus answered, "Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit."
— Gospel of John, John chapter 3, verses 3–5, NIV[8]

Water and Spirit

In the previous image of the article -> Spirit of St.Louis is the name of the plane, and in front of the magazine cover with Columbo there is a magazine cover where it is written: La guerre de l'eau est déclarée (Water war is declared).

ALL IN ONE

Yesterday I was watching the first video again where Columbo looks at the picture on the wall. On the same wall I see a portrait that looks familiar, it seemed to me that it was supposed to represent Shakespeare (but maybe not, maybe it's Cervantes :D).
I've heard of a theory that Shakespeare didn't exist and that in fact Francis Bacon (the philosopher) was the author of his work. I have since associated the "idea" of Shakespeare with Francis Bacon.
Well, this theory is completely in line with the subject of Steinmetz in the Columbo episode. But we see that the portrait of Bacon does not at all resemble that of Shakespeare: Shakespeare vs Francis Bacon.
But Steinmetz himself? Francis Bacon vs Charles Steinmetz.
Wonderful! Bravo. Bravo.
​
^{⌄ follow-up ⌄}
⚠️ A note about the use of the word similarity in this post:
When the word 'similarity' is used in this post, it means that the elements being compared share the same idea, but are not necessarily identical copies. For example, something that moves from right to left can be seen as different from something that moves from left to right, but at the level of idea there may be a resemblance.

THE SIMPSONS

▶ The Simpsons - Steinmetz; Very soon after posting, doing a quick search on Steinmetz I come across a scene from The Simpsons episode "Scenes from the Class Struggle in Springfield (s07e14)":

Homer as Steinmetz

Homer Simpson challenges Mister Burns to a game of golf. Burns as usual is mistaken about the identity of Homer Simpson. He calls him... Steinmetz!

Club sandwich

Homer says "Mmm... open-faced club sand wedge" and puts the word 'club' right before 'sand wedge'. The result is the phrase "club sandwich" (~ sand wedge). And one of the traditional ingredients in a club sandwich is bacon.

SHAKESPEARE

Interesting documentary

I don't know how I landed on the topic The Shakespeare Hole that I had already seen in the past but it was exactly the right time to remind myself of a documentary on Shakespeare that I had forgotten in a mental watch-later-list.
It is an interesting documentary, Cracking the Shakespeare Code (2017), about hidden codes in the work of Shakespeare with in particular the thesis that Sir Francis Bacon would be one of the authors. Viewable here.
This time I watched it! And... this lack of unfamiliarity... I don't remember ever watching it before but I didn't feel any sense of novelty. Hmmm...
For those interested, there are other hypotheses regarding Shakespeare's authorship.

Shakespeare the Bard

Shakespeare is known as "the Bard". The word bard, which means poet, also has other definitions, a piece of armor or ornament on a war horse and by analogy... bacon placed on game or meat before roasting.

COLUMBO

Sometimes the synchronicities come completely out of the blue, sometimes I have an intuition of where to focus my interest. Trivially I told myself that I was going to watch the episode of Columbo talking about Shakespeare, Dagger of the Mind.
In this episode several elements seem to gently taunt my flow of thoughts but it is obviously not the easiest things to explain. However I can relate a really curious series of synchronicities concerning golf and the Simpsons episode I mentioned above:

Welcome to the club

▶ Columbo in the club; Columbo while in London is invited to what I guess is called a gentlemen's club. There he makes two remarks:

• "When you said 'club', I thought you meant a country club or a health club."
  
• "When you said 'tea', I was afraid we were gonna get nothin’ but those tiny sandwiches."
  

Note the vocabulary used which, more or less subtly, refers to golf (while the episode has nothing to do with golf at all). A country club is commonly referred to simply as a golf club. And with ▶ the first video of The Simpsons freshly in mind, the words club, tea, and sandwich resonate like synchronicity. Especially with the formulation used by Columbo which adds a note of irony. Tea sounds exactly like tee, and sandwich for sand wedge.
▶ The Simpsons in the club; In the same episode of The Simpsons, the Simpson family is invited to a country club. Which echoes Columbo's words.
We will even notice that Homer and the kids remain at one entrance to the room while Marge is invited in among the other women. Which is the opposite of the Columbo video where the butler says: "Why do you think we keep the ladies out, sir?".

Pearls and balls

▶ Columbo - pearls; Note that in the scene a character throws a round white object which hits the head of another character who then lies on the ground in the middle of white pearls.
▶ The Simpsons - balls; Here a character hits a golf ball in the air which hits the head of another character who then lies on the ground before kneeling and finding himself in the middle of white balls.

Ruse

⚠️ SPOILER WARNING: Skip this one if you don't want to know how Columbo confounded the culprits just yet.
▶ Columbo - subterfuge; Without formal proof, Columbo discreetly puts a white bead in an umbrella which allows the culprits to be confounded by their reactions.
Also note these three points:

• A character who verifies that the bead is genuine: "Why, it’s the same. Exactly the same."
  
• A character who accuses another of trickery: "He put it there. Can’t you see? Before we came. He put it there!"
  
• A private discussion between two characters with the idea of keeping the subterfuge secret: "Off the record, eh?"
  

▶ The Simpsons - cheating; Smithers puts a golf ball on the green near the hole to make Mr. Burns win.
And note the same three points:

• A character who verifies that the balls are genuine: "These aren't reptile eggs."
  
• A character who accuses another of trickery: "You've been cheating. No matter where Mr. Burns hits the ball you put a fresh one on the green."
  
• A private discussion between two characters with the idea of keeping the cheating secret: "If you would keep quiet about the alleged decades of cheating I'm sure he'd support your application for membership tonight."
  

"sir" scenes

▶ The Simpsons - sir; Homer says: "For once, maybe someone will call me "sir" without adding, "you're making a scene"."
▶ Columbo - sir; A character hears himself called "sir" and arguably, he's making a scene...

BACON

When you're in a synchronistic wave, the interest isn't just the thrill of the coincidences, but also the fact that you learn about areas you weren't so interested in. And I found out more than enough about bacon. So much so that I saw references to bacon everywhere. It was no longer of interest.

Bacon overload

I wanted to move on, which was immediately comically reflected in the synchronicities as I came across these two clips of the Simpsons (from other episodes) that say it all:
▶ The Simpsons - Butter your bacon: "So, you think you know better than this family, huh? Well, as long as you're in my house, you'll do what I do and believe what I believe. So, butter your bacon!" :-)
▶ The Simpsons - The bacon man: The clip I saw at the time on the Internet only included the part where Homer takes his order. So without any mention of Shakespeare. But already the fact that Homer presents the "portrait" of the omelette and says that we could add a "bacon nose", "bacon hair", "bacon mustache", etc... that made me chuckle. It gave me the impression that they were mimicking what I was doing just before with the portraits of Shakespeare, Francis Bacon and Charles Steinmetz.
It was more than a month later while writing this post and creating the video extract that I noticed that Shakespeare was mentioned just before! "I'm getting a sweatshirt with Shakespeare's face on it!". So we have a mention of a portrait of Shakespeare followed by a "portrait of bacon".

Bacon numbers

And the Internet bombarded me with bacon number this, bacon number that... what!? This profusion of bacon has even been prophesied; they made a law about that, the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon!
I quote:

In a January 1994 interview with Premiere magazine, Kevin Bacon mentioned while discussing the film The River Wild that "he had worked with everybody in Hollywood or someone who's worked with them."
Following this, a lengthy newsgroup thread which was headed "Kevin Bacon is the Center of the Universe" appeared.

→ L.O.L.

PROTEAN SPIRIT

PROTEUS

I overlooked something about Steinmetz the first time, he's called Charles PROTEUS Steinmetz:

Steinmetz Americanized his name to Charles Steinmetz. He chose Proteus as his middle name—the nickname his professors in Germany had affectionately bestowed upon him in recognition of the shape-shifting sea god. In Greek mythology, Proteus was a cave-dwelling prophetic old man who always returned to his human form—that of a hunchback. Steinmetz thoroughly enjoyed the comparison.
src: Charles Proteus Steinmetz, the Wizard of Schenectady

Shakespeare and Proteus

It's no surprise Shakespeare and Bacon, prolific writers, talked about Proteus. On the Proteus wikipedia page there is this quote:

I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,
And set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down.
— William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part Three, Act III, Scene ii

I wanted to know what the last line meant and a quick search led me to this Reddit post, What does Richard/Gloucester mean when he says "Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down.". This is a transcription of a scene from the film Richard III (1955).
In the video they refer to, the original monologue from the play Richard III is mixed with parts of a monologue by the same character (Richard III) from another play, Henry IV (the one in the Wikipedia quote):

[…]

And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

[…]
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
[…]
I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall,
I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk;
I'll play the orator as well as Nestor,
Deceive more slyly than Ulysses could,
And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.

I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,

And set the murd'rous Machiavel to school
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut! were it further off, I'll pluck it down.

Bacon and Proteus

Francis Bacon also speaks of Proteus in "De sapientia veterum, liber", translated into English in "Of the Wisdom of the Ancients". It's short and interesting to read.

XIII. Proteus Or Matter

PROTEUS, the poets tell us, was herdsman to Neptune. He was an old man and a prophet; a prophet moreover of the very first order, and indeed thrice excellent; for he knew all three,—not the future only, but likewise the past and the present; insomuch that besides his power of divination, he was the messenger and interpreter of all antiquity and all secrets. His dwelling was under an immense cave. There it was his custom every day at noon to count his flock of seals and then go to sleep. And if any one wanted his help in any matter, the only way was first to secure his hands with handcuffs, and then to bind him with chains. Whereupon he on his part, in order to get free, would turn himself into all manner of strange shapes—fire, water, wild beasts, &c., till at last he returned again to his original shape.
The sense of this fable relates, it would seem, to the secrets of nature and the conditions of matter. For under the person of Proteus, Matter—the most ancient of all things, next to God—is meant to be represented. Now matter has its habitation under the vault of heaven, as under a cave. And it may be called the servant of Neptune, inasmuch as all the operation and dispensation of matter is effected principally in liquids.
[…]
src: https://www.bartleby.com/82/13.html

Spirit and Water

Consonant values

I noticed that the consonants of P-r-o-t-e-u-s are the same as those of S-p-i-r-i-t.

Matter of fact

The sense of this fable relates, it would seem, to the secrets of nature and the conditions of matter. For under the person of Proteus, Matter—the most ancient of all things, next to God—is meant to be represented. Now matter has its habitation under the vault of heaven, as under a cave. And it may be called the servant of Neptune, inasmuch as all the operation and dispensation of matter is effected principally in liquids.

Proteus, associated with matter, emerges from the sea^*️⃣ and sleeps in a cave, changing shape in between if one tries to capture him. The example of water is notoriously the first that comes to mind when we talk about the states of matter.
^*️⃣Note that in the video ▶ The Simpsons - The bacon man there is mention of returning to the ocean ("So, here for a snack before they roll you back into the ocean?"), in context I find that line a little ironic.

Capture the Serendipity

He can foretell the future, but, in a mytheme familiar to several cultures, will change his shape to avoid doing so; he answers only to those who are capable of capturing him.
src: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proteus

At this point I reflect on how easily connections come to us when we are in this particular position of observer, whether we like it or not. This is the principle of serendipity. Very strange word which I bet many have trouble pronouncing correctly and which for me has changed during my life (Mandela Effect). By the way, I had posted about this on Retconned in the past and when looking for my post I preferred to go through Google rather than the Reddit search engine.
This is where I get suggested a movie, Serendipity (2001), but it's a romantic comedy, I'm not too into that, I'm barely interested. But my instinct tells me it's not there by chance. If I don't watch the film, I will still look into the director's filmography.
Peter Chelsom; I'm looking at the list of movies he's directed. Not very funky at first glance but there are one or two key words, one or two imagery elements that have been involved in previous synchronicities for me that kept me from abandoning this lead in a hurry. I ended up clicking on the link of the movie The Mighty (1998).

The Old Man of the Sea

A young boy suffering from a debilitating disease causing deformities rides 👁️‍🗨️ on the shoulders of another, stronger boy. The young boy lends his insight while the other boy lends his strength.
It reminds me of the story of the Old Man of the Sea:

• In The Odyssey: Book IV, Homer (the other Homer) calls Proteus the wise Old Man of the Sea.
  
• The Old Man of the Sea in the tales of Sinbad the Sailor depicts 👁️‍🗨️ an old man clinging to a man on his shoulders.
  

While writing these lines

While writing these lines from my notes (more than a month later^*️⃣) I distractedly watched the Serendipity movie trailer... and there I see a golf scene that I hadn't noticed before (probably because I had not watched the entire video). I decide to watch the film.
^*️⃣Also while writing these lines I mentally played with the word "serendipity"; seren-dipidy, seren-pididy, etc. Which inevitably reminded me of ▶ this scene from a music video where Ben Stiller struggles to find the right name for rapper Puff Daddy. The plot coincidentally revolves around a golf ball...

SERENDIPITY

The plot of the film is a story of a character who seeks the identity of another, enough to entice him to pursue serendipity. Reminds me of the content of this post.
Moreover, there are several factual elements that suggest that resemblance:

Amazing likeness

Knockoff

▶ Serendipity - Prada:

• Purchase of a product (supposedly) from a luxury fashion house brand: "Ooh! Prada!" ... "I'll take it."
  
• Discussion about a knockoff product name: "Eve, that's a horrific knockoff. At least my fake says Prada. Yours says Prado."
  
• Discussion about altering the product a bit to make it more presentable: "Yeah? Well, I say for a dollar, I can buy a little magic marker and fix that."
  

▶ The Simpsons - Chanel:

• Purchase of a product (supposedly) from a luxury fashion house brand: "Oh, it's beautiful. Can it be a real Chanel?" ... "All right, I will buy it."
  
• Discussion about knockoff product names: "Don't be a sap, Dad. These are just crappy knock-offs." | "I know a genuine Panaphonics when I see it. And look, there's Magnetbox and Sorny."
  
• Discussion about altering the product a bit to make it more presentable: "Homer, please, I have to alter this suit so it looks different for tomorrow." | "Just slap some bumper stickers on it."
  

Golf

▶ The Simpsons - golf; To put into context, we had in the episode of The Simpsons:

• A character hit in the head by a golf club.
  
• A character hit in the head by a golf ball.
  
• A multitude of white balls scattered on the green.
  

[+]

• A character acknowledging a buried feeling: "I knew my kind wasn't welcome here."

▶ Serendipity - golf; The film Serendipity uses the synchronicity of golf as an factor of serendipity. And note these points:

• A character hit in the head by a golf ball.
  
• A character hit in the head by a golf club.
  
• A multitude of white balls scattered on a green floor.
  

[+] just a tiny bit of interpretation here:

• A character saying: "I think I swallowed a filling". Which I think is to be understood in the context of the film as "I think I swallowed a feeling".

Serpent and Destiny

Furthermore, the serpent is, in my humble opinion, an underlying theme in the film. I will avoid going too deep into the interpretations and just quickly relate a few noteworthy elements:

Serpent of old

▶ Serendipity - Cool Yule; The film opens with the song "Cool Yule" by Louis Armstrong with the Commanders. With these lyrics:

♪ And you gonna flip when Old Saint Nick ♪
♪ Plays a lick on a peppermint stick ♪

Old Nick could mean the Devil, Old Serpent, etc. An interesting discussion about the adjective "Old" in Old Nick.

Another one bites the dust

▶ Serendipity - crawling; A scene where the main character, Jonathan Trager (black jacket), is crawling on the ground.

In order, garter.

▶ Serenditpy - T-r-a-g-e-r; Jonathan Trager, T-r-a-g-e-r. Trager anagram of garter. Like a garter snake. But also a vocabulary used for a bride (which is in line with the apparent theme of the film).
Reminds me of something I jotted down somewhere...
...there it is:

Notably the pendant suspended on a ribbon from around Bacon’s neck, which in earlier portraits was deliberately concealed in such a way as to suggest a secret, is in this picture shown exposed, revealing itself as the Lesser George and thereby suggesting or indicating that Bacon was a secret Knight of the Garter, or had the right to be one.
src: https://www.fbrt.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/Portraits_of_Francis_Bacon.pdf#page=6

Some infos on The Order of the Garter.

Snake Club

The presence of the word snake in Beckinsale (the name of the main actress) is obvious. But, I was interested in the consonants of the word and I saw there the term Snake Club.
I explain, we remove the vowels and: b.c.k.n.s.l → s.n.k c.l.b
I do a Google search on "snake club". I come across a page on a movie site that talks about what looks like a Z movie titled "Snake Club: Revenge of the Snake Woman". I scroll down a bit and come across 👁️‍🗨️ this poster showing Kate Beckinsale herself in the first place of movie recommendations.

IN THE QUR'AN

CLUB AND SNAKE

At the time of the synchronicities with the Simpsons episode, I was interested in the symbolism of golf. The golf club is reminiscent of a farm tool, the hoe, I kept that in mind. With the intrusion of the serpent into my serendipity, I was instead led to think about the story of the staff of Musa (Moses) in the Qur'an. Especially in Surah 20, Ta-Ha:

20:17 And what is that in your right hand, O Moses?"
20:18 He said, "It is my staff; I lean upon it, and I bring down leaves for my sheep and I have therein other uses."
20:19 [Allah] said, "Throw it down, O Moses."
20:20 So he threw it down, and thereupon it was a snake, moving swiftly.
20:21 [Allah] said, "Seize it and fear not; We will return it to its former condition.
- Translation: Sahih International ⇠ I'll keep this translation throughout the topic.
src: Qur'an 20:[17-21]

This new perspective has taken the serendipity in a interesting direction. A scene described in this same surah caught my attention; Musa and Harun confront the magicians summoned by Pharaoh:

20:61 Moses said to the magicians summoned by Pharaoh, "Woe to you! Do not invent a lie against Allah or He will exterminate you with a punishment; and he has failed who invents [such falsehood]."
20:62 So they disputed over their affair among themselves and concealed their private conversation.
20:63 They said, "Indeed, these are two magicians who want to drive you out of your land with their magic and do away with your most exemplary way.
20:64 So resolve upon your plan and then come [forward] in line. And he has succeeded today who overcomes."
20:65 They said, "O Moses, either you throw or we will be the first to throw."
20:66 He said, "Rather, you throw." And suddenly their ropes and staffs seemed to him from their magic that they were moving [like snakes].
20:67 And he sensed within himself apprehension, did Moses.
20:68 Allah said, "Fear not. Indeed, it is you who are superior.
20:69 And throw what is in your right hand; it will swallow up what they have crafted. What they have crafted is but the trick of a magician, and the magician will not succeed wherever he is."
20:70 So the magicians fell down in prostration. They said, "We have believed in the Lord of Aaron and Moses."
20:71 [Pharaoh] said, "You believed him before I gave you permission. Indeed, he is your leader who has taught you magic. So I will surely cut off your hands and your feet on opposite sides, and I will crucify you on the trunks of palm trees, and you will surely know which of us is more severe in [giving] punishment and more enduring."
20:72 They said, "Never will we prefer you over what has come to us of clear proofs and [over] He who created us. So decree whatever you are to decree. You can only decree for this worldly life.
20:73 Indeed, we have believed in our Lord that He may forgive us our sins and what you compelled us [to do] of magic. And Allah is better and more enduring."
src: Qur'an 20:[61-73]

I spotted other similarities:

Intrigue and trick

➔ Qur'an 20:[61-63]; Note this:

• A secret confabulation: 20:62 "So they disputed over their affair among themselves and concealed their private conversation."
  
• Characters implying that other characters intend to use a trick: 20:63 "They said, "Indeed, these are two magicians who want to drive you out of your land with their magic and do away with your most exemplary way."^*️⃣
  

^*️⃣The magicians repeat here the words of Pharaoh a few ayat ("verses") before: "He said, "Have you come to us to drive us out of our land with your magic, O Moses?" Qur'an 20:57.
▶ Columbo - subterfuge (spoiler!); We have already mentioned these points in ALL IN ONE > COLUMBO > Ruse:

• A character who accuses another of trickery: "He put it there. Can’t you see? Before we came. He put it there!"
  
• A private discussion between two characters with the idea of keeping the subterfuge secret: "Off the record, eh?"
  

▶ The Simpsons - cheating; Same here:

• A character who accuses another of trickery: "You've been cheating. No matter where Mr. Burns hits the ball you put a fresh one on the green."
  
• A private discussion between two characters with the idea of keeping the cheating secret: "If you would keep quiet about the alleged decades of cheating I'm sure he'd support your application for membership tonight."
  

By hook or by crook

➔ Qur'an 20:[64-73]; Note this:

• An injunction to throw a staff...: 20:69 "And throw what is in your right hand; [...]"
  
• ...that will swallow up an illusion (objects that move like snakes; see 20:66): 20:69 "[...] it will swallow up what they have crafted. What they have crafted is but the trick of a magician, and the magician will not succeed wherever he is."
  
• Characters thrown down to prostration^1️⃣: 20:70 "So the magicians fell down in prostration. They said, "We have believed in the Lord of Aaron and Moses.""
  
• Characters acknowledging a hidden feeling: 20:73 "Indeed, we have believed in our Lord that He may forgive us our sins and what you compelled us^2️⃣ [to do] of magic. And Allah is better and more enduring.""
  

^1️⃣The magicians didn't just fell down, they were thrown down: fa-ul'qiya [So were thrown down] al-saharatu [the magicians] sujjadan [prostrating].Note that this is the same verb, in the passive form, as in the previous ayah in which Musa was asked to throw down his staff: wa-alqi [And throw] ma [what] fi [in] yaminika [your right hand]. This emphasizes the correlation between the two events.
^2️⃣The Arabic word "akrahtana" translated as "you compelled us" carries a notion of aversion. That is to say, to be compelled to something that generates aversion. Here the magicians finally admit their true feelings towards Pharaoh's orders.
▶ The Simpsons - golf; Notice the similarities:

• A character throws a golf club...
  
• ...which hits another character who then falls face down.
  
• The latter acknowledges a buried feeling: "I knew my kind wasn't welcome here."
  

▶ The Simpsons - cheating; ~ Swallowing fake snakes:
The club-thrower character puts a whole golf ball in his mouth, chews it, and proves that "these aren't reptile eggs".
▶ Serendipity - golf; Note the same similarities here:

• A character is hit by a golf club and then falls face down.
  
• The same character who says: "I think I swallowed a filling". Which I think is to be understood in the context of the film as "I think I swallowed a feeling"^*️⃣.
  

^*️⃣Note also the use of the verb "to swallow".

Destiny and Serpent

Divine measure

In Surah Ta-Ha Allah commands Musa to meet Pharaoh, reminding him of the divine interventions in the key stages of his existence on Earth:

20:36 [Allah] said, "You have been granted your request, O Moses.
20:37 And We had already conferred favor upon you another time,
20:38 When We inspired to your mother what We inspired,
20:39 [Saying], 'Cast him into the chest and cast it into the river, and the river will throw it onto the bank; there will take him an enemy to Me and an enemy to him.' And I bestowed upon you love from Me that you would be brought up under My eye.
20:40 [And We favored you] when your sister went and said, 'Shall I direct you to someone who will be responsible for him?' So We restored you to your mother that she might be content and not grieve. And you killed someone, but We saved you from retaliation and tried you with a [severe] trial. And you remained [some] years among the people of Madyan. Then you came [here] at the decreed time, O Moses.
20:41 And I produced you for Myself.
20:42 Go, you and your brother, with My signs and do not slacken in My remembrance.
20:43 Go, both of you, to Pharaoh. Indeed, he has transgressed.
src: Qur'an 20:[36-43]

All of these life events brought Musa to the ad hoc place and time: 20:40 "[...] Then you came [here] at the decreed time, O Moses.".

Tamed serpent

A sinuous life course alternating between threat and benevolence though not turning away from fate. Symbolized from the outset by the abandonment of the baby on the river, a river that snakes its way to destination. And marked at the appointed moment by the transformation of the staff into a serpent before it is returned to its former condition.
End of part 1/3.
The continuation is in On the trail of a spirit (2/3) →

“Deadly Attractor” (TOC)
by P. Orin Zack
[2003]
 
Chapter Six
... Downtown Los Angeles ...
Leonard Aroun was on a mission, he just wasn’t too clear on why. What he did know was that the tenuous trail he’d been following pointed to somewhere in Los Angeles. But then, what good is a trail if you don’t know why you’re following it? Being blackballed tended to do that to a person. Well, it did for Leonard, anyway.
It was late afternoon, and he’d been walking the streets of downtown L.A. since morning. He stepped aside to let a knot of self-involved Angelinos pass by, and was distracted by the irregular noise of a laboring delivery vehicle hovering on aGrav lifts a few stories up. Resuming his stride, he took to studying the architecture of the hodge-podge collection of individually interesting office towers that gave the city its famously anarchic appearance.
Appearances, however, could be not only deceiving, but from what he’d learned lately, downright contrived. At the moment, it wasn’t the buildings that really interested him so much as what he suspected was going on inside one of them. The fact that there were subliminals in the com didn’t really surprise him at first. After all, they embedded data in conversational channels to carry all the ancillary data cues used to indicate things like privacy and encryption levels, or even the watermarks that identified location or carrier. These other subliminals, though, they were different. Rather than being introduced by the service’s encoding gear, they were layered over the signal somewhere en route. So if you watched one of the courthouse newsfeeds, or made use of the MedCenter’s automated self-diagnosis interactives, you’d also get the unexpected benefits of whatever imperceptible messages were being smeared on them like the icing on a cake. The thing was, nobody would admit to even knowing about them. So, after frustrating himself trying to get answers the usual way, he’d taken to searching them out himself.
That’s what had led him to Los Angeles, and why he was prowling the streets this afternoon. After quitting that obnoxious civil service job, it seemed that nobody wanted to hire him. It was as if having sullied himself in the ranks of some faceless GD bureaucracy had made him a pariah for some reason. Burying his depression in old videos, he got caught up in movies that reflected his own situation, and was particularly intrigued by the ones about how Senator Joseph McCarthy had bullied his 20th-century congressional contemporaries into subverting the US Constitution in the name of political fear-mongering.
Those who had challenged his dubious authority, a knot of Hollywood screenwriters who stood up to the mock investigations he chaired, were forced from their jobs, prevented from working, and had their reputations destroyed. Leonard identified with these blackballed renegades, and resolved to emulate them by attempting to expose the truth behind the treatment he was getting. In fact, he was so taken by those grainy images of the Hollywood Ten that he’d taken to dressing like them as well. Of course, there were limitations to what the ragbots were capable of producing, so he’d had to settle for rendered tweed instead of the real thing.
Leonard stopped outside one of the less interesting-looking buildings, and looked through its grimy glass facade at the streams of non-descript people hurrying across yet another impersonal lobby. It was the kind of building that attracted the sort of businesses that didn’t concern themselves with impressing visitors, the kind that was home to the sort of businesses most likely to front for the far more intriguing activities that he was after.
His reflection in the glass made him seem a displaced traveler from a past that few people bothered to learn about anymore. After all, a double-breasted tweed suit wasn’t exactly the kind of fashion trend that was swirling through the social networks these days. Self-consciously straightening his tie, and squaring his shoulders to match the stiff look of those inside, he stepped through the airwall doorway and glanced around. There were two banks of elevators, and judging from the logo on the doors, they were the expensive aGrav variety that eliminated the annoying feeling of actually going up or down. His usual strategy, when checking out a possible haven for whoever was inserting the subliminals, was to play into the unstable persona he’d created and get lost in as many places as possible. Being loud and annoying was among the best ways to keep people from really noticing you. So he headed towards the bank that served the upper floors, and waited.
Soon, the doors of one unit slid open, and several people stepped out. Once the traffic cleared, Leonard stepped in and the door started to slide shut behind him. Before he finished turning around, though, a woman rushed in, grabbed his wrist, swung his arm up behind him and pulled his finger back nearly to the breaking point, forcing him to bend forward. The door was closed by this time, and the elevator had presumably started rising through the express floors.
She reached out and jabbed the emergency stop button. “All right,” she said gruffly, “other hand on your head. Now!”
Leonard tried to pull away, but only succeeded in making his finger hurt more. “What do you want?”
She jerked it back even further. Leaning close, she whispered in his ear, “I said, put your other hand on your head.”
His eyes watered. “Ow! If you want money,” he said, catching his breath, “I don’t—”
“Look,” she said, straightening a bit, “here’s your choice: I check the pockets of that bizarre getup, or you lose a finger.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Who are you, anyway?”
While Lenny waited for an answer, the woman opened his jacket and started patting him down. Judging from her technique, he figured that she knew something about anatomy, because she started with the places where something might be hidden, and that made the search somewhat intimate. When she found something in a pocket, she reached in, pulled it out, and threw it on the floor. Finally, she put two fingers against his cheek, and turned his face up towards her. “You first. What were you doing outside the courthouse yesterday morning?”
He squirmed to shake his head free. “Outside the—?”
She pushed his arm up further. “If you don’t stop struggling, I’ll knock you out and get the answers myself. Now, why were you there?”
Leonard’s eyes stung. “Get them your—? What are you, a psychic or something?”
He must have been close, because she hesitated long enough for him to slip free, grab her arm and push her against the elevator door with it. “Your turn,” he said. “What’s this about?”
While he waited for an answer, she narrowed her eyes, and then closed them tightly. A few seconds later, he yelped in response to what felt like a hot poker burrowing into the base of his skull. Stepping back from his attacker, he rubbed the phantom pain from his neck and shuddered.
“Simple,” she said. “I want to know if you’re one of them.”
He spread his hands in confusion. “One of who?”
She frowned. “That’s the other thing I don’t know.”
“Great,” he said, stooping to recover the items she’d tossed on the floor. “So I’ve got a psychic stalker who doesn’t know what she’s after. Look, there are two things you ought to know. First, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. And second, mugging someone in an elevator would never work anyway.”
She cocked her head. “Why not?”
Leonard gestured towards the ceiling. “Subliminals. That’s why I’m here right now, and that’s why I was at the courthouse yesterday.”
“Sub—?”
He shook his head as he brushed himself down. “Subliminals. Covert messages in the com channels, in the elevators, everywhere. I’ve been tracking down the source. Who did you think I was, anyway?”
She shook her head in dark amusement. “Someone a lot more dangerous than that. Whoever they are, they have the means to screw with reality. I’ve seen it happen.”
Leonard thought for a moment while running the heel of his hand down the jacket’s sealstrip. The one Lester Cole wore may have had functional buttons, but the ragbot could only provide decorative ones. If what she claimed had any truth to it at all, then the stories he’d been spreading might actually be true. He glanced around at the walls of their temporary prison, and then looked her squarely in the eye. “Here’s what. If either of these groups are in this building, they’re going to be wanting to talk with both of us, so I suggest you release this thing so we can go somewhere safe to talk this out.”
She nodded, released the stop button, and relaxed her stance. The safeties would return the car to the lobby in a moment, so they quickly brushed themselves down and took up the personae of confused, sartorially mismatched tourists in a scary situation. As the doors slid open, they pushed through the crowd while making idle chatter about spending their first vacation in years stuck in an elevator.
Once outside, the woman gestured towards the right. “My flier’s that way.”
“Before I go anywhere with you,” he said as they walked, “I want to know your name.”
 
Good question, Angela thought. It was one aspect of revealing herself that she hadn’t considered, and it started a torrent of memories sluicing through her mind.
The leading edge of that sudden flood brought her back a year, to Australia, and to that chaotic morning at the NullArbor City MedCenter. After fruitlessly wracking her brain for a way to identify their mysterious advisor, she’d put it out of her mind for a while and thought again about the ice cave. If the sudden retroactive appearance of that cave was caused by whoever had derailed the work being done by the people whose life-patterns she’d traced, then one of two things would have had to be true. Either her own investigation was being intentionally deflected, or the ice cave was just a side effect of some other, unrelated alteration being stitched into the fabric of reality.
The first path of that logic fork was tantalizing, because it would have given her unprovable evidence of being on the right track. Unfortunately, it didn’t make much sense. After all, if someone had the power to arrange for that sherpa accident, why would they go to the trouble to create a nonexistent ice cave to save her? There were easier and cheaper ways to scare someone.
The other path suggested that she was simply the lucky beneficiary of someone else’s misfortune. This made more sense, but at the expense of being impossible. Yet if it were true, it implied that her nemesis was steering a process rather than picking discrete events, because that’s the only way to get unintended consequences.
But then if her accident, her rescue, and her being at the MedCenter weren’t planned, her nemesis wouldn’t know that she was looking for him. And if that were true, she’d realized, then he wouldn’t be explicitly hiding his identity from her. Which in turn meant that the advisor, who she suspected of having orchestrated this and other events, would not be on his guard. So in a manner of speaking, she had the element of surprise. And with the element of surprise, perhaps she would be able to draw him out into the open. But the morning shift had come on duty by then, and there wasn’t much time left.
Angela shook the memory off, lest it interfere with the business at hand. “For the moment,” she said several strides later, “call me Cynthia.”
Her amusement at re-using the first alias she’d crafted brought her back once again to that morning in the MedCenter, and the reason she needed it. Events had cascaded so quickly over the next few hours that she wasn’t sure if she still remembered them clearly. The most important one, of course, had been the simplest. To draw the man out, to make him drop his guard long enough for her to learn who he was, all she had to do was put her neck on the block. The people she’d traced were clearly important to him, so by making the connections among their ‘accidents’ public, he’d have to act, if only to cover it up. Which meant that all she really needed to do was have a talk with one of the staff.
The call nurse who answered her attention request got an earful. Angela explained that because she’d been cooped up for so long, she really needed someone to talk to. Happy to gather fodder for the rumor mill, the nurse listened as Angela reeled off a tall story involving several of the people she’d been tracking, placing herself in a fictional nexus of their respective influence networks. Then, after releasing her conversational bait back into the wild, she sat back to scan for sudden changes in the MedCenter’s psychic noise.
It had happened shortly after breakfast. In the midst of the soundless roar, she felt the psychic equivalent of a searchlight suddenly brighten the room. While her target was checking her out, she quickly reached out towards the source of that probe. For a moment, it seemed as though she was going to be able to reach inside his mind and see who he was, when an odd sort of psychic shield got in the way. Working with patients, she’d encountered a wide variety of defensive walls, but his wasn’t like any of them. Then, when she attempted to push through the shield, it seemed like the awareness space inside it had been twisted in some direction that she didn’t understand.
A moment later, as she recalled, the door had burst open. One of the MedCenter Security people held her down while the nurse she’d used for bait gave her a transdermal — some kind of sedative — and babbled about how sad it was that Angela had succumbed to such a sudden mental breakdown. She resisted as long as she could, and then settled back into a drug-induced fog. Instead of being released, the nurse said, she was to be transferred after lunch to a security ward for dangerous patients. Fortunately, she was able to fight through it once they left, and during the usual lunchtime chaos, she escaped.
Feeling a bit paranoid, she’d decided to make a clean break with her problem, and went underground. Her first attempt at crafting a phony identity didn’t work out too well, but that month or so of living as ‘Cynthia Thedic’ gave her the practice she needed to get it done right. And perhaps now, she thought, would be the final payoff.
They’d reached her beat-up flier by this time. Once they were both secured, she spun up the fans, lifted into the skyway, and headed for the spot in the Angeles Crest where she’d left her gear.
 
Even before she’d gotten to L.A., Angela knew she’d need a set of wings. She scanned the resale listings, picked out a dirty fan job that was queued up for refurb, and made an offer. Then, as she’d done with the flier she left tucked away down under, she disabled the thing’s automatic nav system before leaving the used-flier lot. With that taken care of, she started hunting down a place to camp, and settled on a hidden alcove in the Angeles Crest canyon wall because it made an inverse reflection of the ice cave that had started her underground life. For one thing, it had been there before she arrived, and for another, it was not enclosed.
At the moment, they were hovering over the ridge that sheltered her temporary home, and she was scanning the area to be certain it was still deserted. After she set down behind the boulder fronting the alcove, and spun down the fans, she turned to her passenger. “You know,” she said, “I still don’t know your name.”
“No?” He smiled insincerely. “You didn’t exactly ask before groping me, now did you?”
She shook her head. “Sorry about that, but I had to be sure. Anyway, I’m asking now.”
He sighed. “It’s Leonard Aroun, but I prefer Lenny. Should I get out, or do you want to talk in here?”
She popped her restraint and turned a bit to lean against the door. “This is fine. So tell me your story.”
He stared out the forward window. “Only if you spill yours.”
“Fair enough,” she said.
Lenny released his restraint, and laid it to the side. “I’m not too good with accents, but I’m pretty sure you’re not from around here.”
“Too right,” she said amiably, emphasizing her Australian accent. “I’m from down under. Started in Canberra, but got degreed in NullArbor City, not too far from Dobrin Center.”
He turned to look at her. “Oh? Did you work for the GD? I mean, being so close to the government complex and all.”
“Me? Work for the GD? Are you nuts?” She shook her head in distaste. “Not a chance. It was bad enough just having those bureaucrat jerks as patients.”
Lenny slid around and leaned against the door, his right arm resting on the dash area. “Then you’re a doctor? But I though you said you were psychic?”
She grimaced. “The two don’t mix, Lenny. I was a Healer.”
He relaxed a bit. “Was?”
“Yeah. But I lost my license about a year ago. Nasty business.” Realizing that she’d lost control of the situation, she raised her hand. “Wait a minute. Weren’t you going to tell me your story?”
“Sorry,” he said, grinning. “It’s just that I used to work for the GD myself. Well, a minor agency of it anyway.”
“Used to?”
He took a breath and crossed his arms. “Well, I didn’t actually get that far. It was more like I was recruited, then bailed partway through the training when I learned more about it.”
“Why?” she said quietly. “What did you find out?”
“That’s, um…” Lenny turned to look out the window. “That’s part of my problem,” he said wistfully. “I don’t remember. It’s like my memories were messed with or something. I still remember everything else, though. I have all my technical skills intact, but the details of that job are just missing.”
She leaned towards him. “What do you remember?”
“Not much, really,” he said. “I think it had something to do with public relations, because they kept tabs on the activities of a lot of organizations. They wanted me because I’m good at teasing out the dynamics of interlocking systems. But the systems they wanted me to work on weren’t technical but social.”
“Social?” Angela echoed.
“Projecting the behavior of groups. Thinking of them like science experiments, where you can remove one person or another, and then see where the models go. It was all pretty arcane, really.”
She frowned, and looked down at the floor. “Removing people,” she said slowly. Then she looked up at him. “That sounds like they were looking for efficient ways to sabotage something.”
“I had the same thought,” he agreed. “But when I brought it up to my manager, he said it was for contingency planning. Something about it just didn’t seem right though.”
“I think I know what you mean,” she said. “So what about it don’t you remember?”
He uncrossed his arms and cupped his right fist in his left hand. “Details. Like the people there, where it was located, the groups I was supposed to be analyzing. Stuff like that. Why do you ask?”
“Well,” she said, a bit hesitantly, “if you let me do a psychic probe, I might be able to get at some of those memories for you.”
“I suppose, but what good would it do?”
Angela swallowed. “Remember what I told you in the elevator? That I was after some people who could screw with reality? I think it’s the same group.”
He narrowed his eyes and leaned towards her. “You mean they mess with reality to remove those people?”
She nodded.
He leaned back against the door. “But how?”
“I’m not sure yet. One thing I do know that is it’s just not natural. So can I take a look?”
Lenny slumped. “Might as well. What do I do?”
She rubbed her hands together. “Get comfortable, close your eyes, and think about that job. I’ll do the rest.”
Angela waited while Lenny slid his hand under the sealstrip to open his jacket, and then spent a moment removing his tie. When he was finished, she leaned towards him, held her hands over his head, took a long breath and closed her eyes.
Probing people’s minds had become something of a habit for her recently, but this was the first time she’d asked permission in the year since she’d gone underground. It felt good, almost like being back in her practice. At least, that’s how she felt until she started to sense what was going on inside his mind. She’d been able to tell that he was hyper just from watching him fidget, and had put it off to a combination of nervousness and caffeine, but once she began to sense the activity behind the scenes, she realized that there was more to it than that.
What she found when she reached into the interwoven energy knot of his consciousness was a more tightly connected network of chi than she had ever seen. Clearly, his interest in the dynamics of interlocking systems was an outward reflection of the incredibly dense network of ideas and memories that made up his inner world. Reaching into it was all the more a tactile experience for the glimpse that it gave her of how he experienced the world. But these sensations weren’t so much memories as they were the filter that his experiences passed through on their way to being stored. And one thing that he was experiencing at the moment was sexual arousal; not the mindless lustful passion too easily mistaken for love, but rather a deeper intrigue, one now fuelling the glimpse she caught of his idle speculation about their possible future together.
Pulling back abruptly in self-conscious protection of his privacy, she turned her attention instead to the wash of memory he was wading through. There were several images contending for his attention, but they had one thing in common: they’d been tampered with. Where there should have been clear images of the people he’d worked with — managers, coworkers and so forth — there were instead pasted-in placeholders, rendered non-entities who meant nothing to him. In a manner of speaking, someone had peace-bonded his memory, rendering it harmless against them.
She opened her eyes. “All right, I’m done.”
He shuddered slightly. “So, what did you find? Any dragons in there?”
“There might as well be. Someone stripped your memories. That’s why you can’t recall the details.”
He chuckled. “Gotta watch out for those exit interviews, I guess. So now what? Can you fix then?”
Angela studied his face for a moment before answering, and noticed for the first time that he’d used length differences to carve a subtle pattern into his short hair. “Unfortunately, no,” she said, frowning suddenly. “If you’d simply forgotten the details, I’d be able to fish them out, but since they’ve been tampered with, that’s not possible.”
“Hmmm.” Lenny looked dejectedly down at her seat. “Is there anything you can do to help?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “How about this. You mentioned subliminal messages when we were fighting in the elevator. How do you know about them?”
He looked up at her and smiled. “I hear them.”
She cocked her head in confusion.
“I know they’ve got to be subliminal, because nobody else hears them. But for me they’re everywhere, and they’re extremely annoying.”
Warming to the prospect of conducting a diagnostic session after a year away from the routine, she inched closer to him. “When did you first notice them?”
He scratched his head. “I’ve been through this with HealthTech’s diagnostic bot, and it’s just a waste of time.”
She touched his hand briefly in consolation. “I’m not surprised. But have you asked a Healer to help?”
Lenny shrugged. “Why bother?”
“Because we can do things that they can’t, that’s why.”
He looked at her for a moment. “Like what, for example?”
Angela smiled broadly and tapped her ear. “Like listen through your ears, that’s what.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, really. All I have to do is set up a psychic link, like I just did a few minutes ago, or like Frank Sanroya is doing in court this week, and share your senses. Your ears in this case.”
He sat back against the door. “You can do that?”
“Sure,” she said happily. “It’s basic diagnostics for a Healer. Want to give it a try?”
“And do what?”
“Like I said, let me listen to the subliminals. If they’re everywhere like you say, all we’d need to do is turn on the com, right?”
He sat for a while with the thought before answering. “Yeah. Sure. All right. Give it a try. Whatever.”
“Okay,” she said. “You hear the things, so tune up a feed with an interesting one, and then give me a minute to wiretap your head.”
He held up his hands in protest. “Do what?”
“Just kidding, Lenny. Relax.”
It took a few minutes for him to decide on a feed. Once that was done, he sat back and waited. Angela closed her eyes and focused on the feeling that she had established earlier of his consciousness. After hunting about for a bit to locate the sensory part of his energy nexus, she began to gently alter the location of her focus and listened. A few moments later, she began hearing the newsreader’s voice as if he were in two places at once. The second one would be how Lenny was hearing it. By consciously ignoring the one with the sonic image coming from her right, she could hear Lenny’s version more clearly. When she did this, she also realized that from his point of view, there were two people speaking. The second voice would be what Lenny reported as the subliminal.
“There is no danger to you,” it said, in a gentle, hypnotic voice. “The news is fun. Buy our sponsor’s products.”
Angela sat back, astonished, and opened her eyes. “Turn that thing off, would you?”
“Sure,” he said, and tapped the power control. “Hear anything?”
She nodded. “Enough to know that I can do without it. Thanks for the demo. I’m happy to report that you’re not crazy; you really do hear voices. So how were you tracking the source?”
“By listening.” He looked around the alcove before continuing. “Most feeds have generic announcements like the one you just heard, though they’re tailored to the venue. But some places, like that building, have specialty ones, and something triggers them. If I go into a place with one of those, I can tell what they’re trying to protect by behaving randomly and listening for changes in the messages.” He squirmed in his seat. “Listen, I’m getting a bit cramped in here. Mind if I get out to stretch my legs?”
Angela nodded and opened her door. “Good idea. I think I’ll join you.”
He continued after getting out and shutting the door behind him. “The problem is that the triggers are usually pretty specific. So in an elevator, for example, if they want to keep people off of some floor, the message only gets triggered if that floor is requested. The message would tell you that it was an error, and that you must have wanted to get off on some other floor.”
“But then what do you do?” She asked as she knelt beside her bedroll. “If you get off anyway, you’d call attention to yourself, wouldn’t you?”
He laughed. “That’s the beauty of acting irrationally. You can get away with just about anything. Which reminds me, you seem to have skated out of your part of the bargain.”
She looked at him quizzically while laying out the mattress. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve told you a lot about me. Now it’s your turn.”
“Oh, that.” She scooted onto the mattress and motioned for him to join her. “What do you want to know?”
He stepped onto the cushion, and then descended, cross-legged in one smooth motion. “Not play that game, for one thing.”
She shook her head. “What game?”
He put his hands on the mattress and rotated in place to face her, and then lightly tapped her nose with his forefinger. “By posing that question, you set up a dynamic in which I have to know what to ask in order to get anywhere. It’s not only a stifling strategy, as far as conversation goes, it’s also a covert control maneuver.”
“I suppose I deserve that,” Angela said, amused. “After all, you did tell me that you worked with dynamics.”
He nodded happily. “So would you like to try again?”
“Okay.” She looked at him briefly. “Look, before I start, would you mind taking that jacket off? You look uncomfortable with it all twisted up like that, and for some reason it keeps reminding me of the GD drones I saw too many of back home.”
“Sure.” Lenny shrugged, slipped his faux-tweed jacket off, and tossed it aside. The white shirt he wore under it was more conventional, even though it had the kind of collar that went with his period getup. “You were about to tell me about yourself?”
Angela gazed at the alcove wall for a moment before speaking. “Growing up in Canberra, I learned two things. One was that our Australian government was a sham, and the other was that the Global Directorate over in Nullarbor City was, as well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s like this,” she said quietly. “When people, especially those in power, take a stand on something, they may or may not really believe in it. Some are paid to play the game; others do it to gain influence or to curry favor. Anyone who really pays attention can get a sense of this kind of duplicity, but for natural psychics it’s almost painful to watch. I mean, between the way it’s reflected in people’s auras and the way they suck energy from whoever they’re sucking up to at the moment, it’s kind of hard to miss.”
Lenny squeezed her knee gently. “I didn’t realize the world was so hard for a psychic to deal with.” Then, smiling, he added, “So, I guess we have something in common.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said, raising her chin with his finger. “We both have to put up with things that other people don’t even know are happening. The only difference is that as far as I know, I’m the only one with my particular ‘gift’. So what did you do?”
“Well,” she said, unfolding her legs to lay edgewise along the mattress, “At first, I tried to ignore it.”
“Been there,” he said lightly. “Didn’t work.”
“So, after asking around, I decided that the best thing to do was to learn more about it. To study techniques and learn what to do with it.”
He looked at her curiously for a moment, and then let his gaze drift waistward. “So you became a Healer?”
“Not exactly,” she said, propping herself up a bit higher. “I became a teenage shark. I figured that if they could get away with that sort of thing, then a psychic ought to do a whole lot better at it.”
Lenny unfolded his legs and stretched out along the opposite edge of the mattress, leaving about a foot between them. “How’d it work out?”
She laughed. “Not good. A lot of people had thought of that long before I had, especially at the racetrack. It sort of evened out the field, but didn’t change much.”
He placed his palm on the open area between them. “I could have told you that. Upgrading to psychic competition wouldn’t change the dynamic, just the tactics.”
Angela idly traced the veins on the back of his hand with a fingertip. “I guess. So anyway, when I got my head back to learning something useful, I ended up palling around with a few kids who idolized the jerks at the local MedCenter.”
Lenny slipped his hand out from under her finger and wove his fingers into hers. “Which, I guess, meant that you’d have to go the other route and become a Healer.”
She gently moved her hand against his, savoring the feel of skin against skin. “Yeah, that’s what happened, but how did you know?”
He curled his fingers and held her hand tightly. “It’s just your dynamic, that’s all.”
“Hmmm,” she said, looking into his eyes. “What say we try a twosome?”
 
(TOC)

Red Keep
Music
It was his birthday and he awoke as he had all this week. Feeling hale and fine. He had a huge breakfast, and the serving girl, again as he had this week. Before he cleaned and dressed.
He was greeted by Rudd Morrigen at the door of his chambers and passed the flowering guardsman a smile, which almost had him smile as well. “Come along Rudd.” Aemon said cheerfully as he walked down the hall to the Royal offices and his solar. “It’s a fine day.”
Rudd nodded “It is your Grace.” The knight intoned from behind the dragon. “Happy Birthday.” He added before Aemon looked over his shoulder and laughed.
“So it is.” And he went inside, with the Knight minding the door.
Inside the King settled at his desk, and took parchment and ink. He pushed away old papers and reports. He would get to those later. Instead he set to writing
The Last Wishes and Commands of King Aemon Targaryen, Second of his Name.
And there begin to scribble, his funerary wishes, and certain things he wished passed out and sent from his personal objects to various people. He had even gotten to such
As we look to who shall run the Kingdom, please note, it is my wish that ..
And then he stopped his hand smudging at the letter making it hard to tell if it was a B or an R. And Aemon stared for a moment
“This is too macabre for today.” And there he folded up the letter and got out, opening the door he bumped into Morrigen again. And handed him the paper in his hand “Take care of this, and fetch Daeron, I told him, I would garden with him today.”
The knight seemed confused as he looked at the letter, and then slid it under his breastplate, forgetting it momentarily as he walked to get the grandson And the King made through his own passages to the gardens below.
They had been in the gardens for several hours. It was getting close midday, and the wind had died down. It was getting warmer, and Aemon sat down, allowing Daeron to roam through his thick stalks of vegetables, and fruit trees. At the table, chilled wine was sitting, and Daeron had a water skein, and was tasked to go around the plants and give them water.
Daeron was sinning a song about a bear and a maiden, but Aemon was having trouble hearing. He felt light headed, and his sweat felt cool. Coughing, his throat felt thick, before he reached over and there he took up his cup and drank. Clearing it down, before he drained more. He felt a paint in his left armpit.
He motioned as Daeron looked at him, to some other plants. “Over hackcough over there.” The pain passed, and he coughed more. He glanced to see where Rudd Morrigen was, and the knight was still in his watchful place.
Aemon motioned at Daeron, “Come here boy,” he said softly before a coughing fit came and wine was applied to keep it at bay. The pain came and left. “Have some water, Daeron..” the King said.
“Okay Gwanpaw..” the r’s not being solidified in the young boy’s vocabulary. And while the young boy drank, Aemon drew a knife and took up an apple from the table, and cut a slice. Carefully the old man’s fingers worked at the peel on the back until he had carved a crude set of teeth
“My boy, turn around, turn around..” he said excitedly before he placed the apple teeth in his mouth and then he grabbed Daeron’s shoulders, causing the boy to turn around.
“Aweoooo.” Said the king while pulling a goofily scary face, which prompted a scream from the toddler and had the King scrambling to comfort the boy, taking the apple out:
“No, no no..” he said quickly as he got down to one knee. “It’s just grandpa.. just me, see Daeron?” And slowly the child calmed and started laughing. Aemon wiped the sweat from his brow and his cheeks, as he got up.
“Chase me gwanpa..” Daeron said before he went running into the bushes and flowers. With a lurch Aemon followed placing the fake teeth back in his mouth making fake monster noises. Which brought more squeals from the young boy who he chased around.
“I love you gwanpa!” came Daeron’s shrill voice amidst the cries and the giggles.
Aemon felt his legs feeling heavy and his arms became like bricks. He started coughing again, and felt a spasm of pain in his chest, he reached onto a young grape vine from the reach, and he tried to brace himself.
He spat his apple out.
He coughed again, and felt his throat close off, as his violet eyes rolled back, he moved forward and leaned into a tree, before he fell, his hands groping blindly pulling down several bushes and plants down with him.
He struggled and sat back up briefly, his eyes feeling cloudy, and his body not cooperating the king shakily used his strength and a nearby trough to get himself up.
“Daeron,” he gasped out between a cough. *The boy doesn’t need to see this. “I love you.” He eased out, as he leaned into his arm and that blinding pain sucked the wind from him.
“Run along boy..” he sputtered as he tried a few more steps, but it couldn’t work, and there for a moment he thought he saw a man in grey, or maybe it was Aegon, or Rhaella. Or maybe it was one of his babes- or Alyssa
“Remember, that I love you.”
It was meant for all of them, Daeron, little Aemon, for Baelor and Aegon, for his sweet children lost in the sickness, for Rhaella, For Alyssa for Rhaegar
For the realm.
And the figure was there at his side.
Hello, dear friend. Come for me? he said in his mind
But there was no man, just the awkward jerks as his heart simply stopped and the rest of the body hit the wall as well. He stood, his grip releasing the trough he was using for support, allowing his mass to fall back and crash into the roses he loved and cared for as much as his family, smashing the plants.
Before his back hit the turf and his head rolled to the side, he eased out breathe once, a slight smile there.
Daeron turned back and looked at him. His small voice asking for his grandpa before he turned and made for Rudd Morrigen
Aemon Targaryen, Second of his name, was dead.
Long Live the King.

Written by Patrick Ferrymoor
Branches swayed as a light chill engulfed. No-one was visible to the eye, but you could hear people faintly. It was Halloween night, and most were out having fun… except — for 24-year-old Sarah Linock
She sat within the confines of the bus stop shelter, which resided on a short rural road. She had just finished her eight-hour-shift at the local petrol station, a mile’s walk from the bus stop. Sarah’s brunette hair flickered gently — her left foot tapped repeatedly. The bus was five minutes late.
She glanced down at her phone —
9:05pm.
She sighed, rolling her big brown eyes. This was the third time this had happen within the week. All she had to keep her company was the orange leaves that scattered the ground, and the pub that resided half a mile away. The whistling air brought her just a smidge of comfort.
Sarah turned her head left to see a car driving in her direction. It beeped it’s horn, and gradually slowed down. The driver’s window lowered.
“Hey, fancy a lift, love ?” the girl shouted as she and her friend in the passenger seat giggled.
The driver was dressed as a nurse, and her friend a slutty clown. It was pretty clear both were under the influence of something. Alcohol? drugs? both? It was hard to tell.
“Oh, never mind then!” the driver laughed as she slammed her foot on the accelerator. Not even so much as giving Sarah a chance to respond.
The fumes from the car cornered her in the bus shelter.
“idiots,” Sarah said under her breath.
A part of her envied girls like that. She so wished she could be as care-free as them, but it just wasn’t in her nature. She hated the fact that she was so sensitive — so insecure. Her negative opinion of herself had been holding her back for most of her life. Sarah was completely unaware of her attractive qualities, and what she was capable of bringing to the table.
It had been a rough couple of months: Breaking up with her boyfriend of five years, along with financial struggles and toxic family drama. Sarah’s life was in a mega-rut, and her head was firmly planted in the sand.
Sarah’s eyes closed. The environmental whispers amplified. She took a deep breath — her eyes opened upon hearing a chirp from her phone.
“Happy Spooks Brat! Don’t be too boring tonight!” The text read from a contact named Bro Denny
She replied.
“Fuck you buck teeth lmao.”
Sarah’s ears picked up on relentless crunching. Her eyes darted right: A man approached. Silver headphones with minuscule wear and tear rested on his head. Plastic full-rimmed square glasses covered his blue eyes. He was casually good-looking. Textured navy zip-up cardigan, slim-fit black chino trousers, and a very peculiar pair of boots.
They were obnoxiously orange, having a similar texture to that of pumpkin skin. A visual not so easy on the eye — however, Sarah couldn’t look away. She had never seen such an unusual pair of boots. She almost respected the ballsiness to even wear them out in public.
The man entered the shelter, sitting down on the bench. There was a reasonable gap between he and Sarah. She could mildly hear the song that played in his headphones. It rung a bell for her, but she couldn’t quite remember what it was.
The man turned to Sarah, she quickly looked away. She felt slightly uncomfortable knowing that he was now looking at her. The man then focused straight ahead, sliding the headphones down his neck. He began running his fingers thoroughly through his dark brown, Ivy League hair.
“Late again, huh?” he said out-loud.
Sarah acknowledged his comment, turning.
“Oh never mind us, freezing our arses off.”
Sarah laughed.
“Well, to be fair it’s not that cold, but still,” he continued.
Sarah half smiled while nodding her head.
“Nick,” he said, going for a handshake.
“Sarah,” she replied, awkwardly reciprocating.
“So, have you been waiting long then, Sarah ?”
“Long enough.”
“I assume you’re… on your way home from work ?”
“You assumed right, Nick.”
“I work the night shifts myself. I suppose there are worse jobs than wondering around a mostly empty warehouse.”
“Sounds fun,” Sarah said.
“It has its perks,” laughed Nick.
“What do you do, Sarah ?”
Just as she was about to answer — they were both distracted, by two men wearing matching demonic skull masks, driving motorbikes.
“YEH!!! IT’S HALLOWEEN YA CUNTS!” yelled out one of the riders.
The motorbikes then sped down the road. The men screamed at the top of their lungs as they both did wheelies.
“Don’t you just hate vermin like that ?” said Nick.
“Vermin is a bit strong, but… yeh!” Sarah responded.
“Grown arse men, acting like snotty teens. It’s fucking embarrassing. Pathetic!”
Sarah couldn’t have agreed more.
Nick appeared somewhat flustered.
“I’ve been dealing with people like that my whole life. They sicken me… fucking sicken me!”
“You shouldn’t let them get to you, ya know,” Sarah said.
“I know, but they just frustrate me so much. Like, who do they think they are ? I…“ Nick sighed — a few seconds of silence then passed.
“Anyway, anyway,” he said motioning his hands.
“Like I was saying… where do you work, Sarah ?”
“At the petrol station just up there,” she pointed.
“I know the place, it’s… seen better days. Do you actually like working there ?”
“Um… it pays the bills, so…”
“I get ya, I get ya,” Nick said.
“I’m just gonna say this, and you can tell me to fuck right off if you want to, but… I think you’re too bloody pretty to be working at some petrol station.”
Sarah’s eyes fluttered, her cheeks flushed.
“Oh shut up!”
“No I’m serious, I mean… you’re a sort, Sarah.”
Sarah shook her head, laughing.
“It’s true!” Nick laughed back.
In that moment, both made heavy eye-contact. Sarah couldn’t help but be captivated by this mysterious man wearing the ugliest pair of boots she had ever seen.
“You’re… quite the charmer, Nick.”
“Well when you’ve practiced as much as I have in the mirror, I mean…“
“Well you’ve become quite the pro.”
“Why thank you, Sarah. I do appreciate it.”
Both continued to laugh at what now had become a ridiculous conversation.
Then, familiar sounds returned. Faint screaming emerged from the distance —the masked men were approaching.
“Here we fucking go,” mumbled Nick.
“Oi! Danny! The fuckers are still here,” the secondary rider said.
The front motorbike reduced its speed, eventually coming to a full stop. The other did the same.
The front rider wearing the black and yellow leather jacket removed his mask. His buddy in the brown body warmer opted to keep his on.
“Aw… you still waiting for your bus ? Fucking hilarious!”
“Mase, this is too sad,” laughed the man in the brown body warmer.
“Fuck it, Let’s get to know the cunts, Danny boy,” said Mase.
Nick stared daggers.
“What the fuck are you looking at, specky four eyes?!”
Nick didn’t budge.
Mase unzipped his jacket, and threw it at his motorbike.
“I said, what the fuck, are you looking at?!” he said shoving Nick’s forehead.
He then ripped the headphones from Nick’s neck. He dropped them, and proceeded to stomp rapidly.
“You like that, huh ?! You like that fuckface ?!” laughed Mase.
“I hope they weren’t a fortune, mate.”
Danny approached Sarah.
“Well, aren’t you a little fox”, he said, licking his cracked lips.
“Fuck off!” said sarah.
Danny grabbed her by the forearm, smirking as he did so.
“Mouthy, Mouthy,” he said.
’I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson now, slutbag.”
Mase watched on laughing.
“Go on, Danny! Show her who’s king!”
Mase looked back at Nick — he immediately felt something sharp slice against his face. He instinctively backed away, groping his left cheek. His hand, was covered in blood.
Nick held a black coated pocket knife. Beyond the lenses, his eyes displayed a look of harmful intent. Mase chose to keep up the tough guy act.
“COME ON THEN, SPECKY!” he roared.
Danny rushed toward Nick — he got a knife in the stomach for his troubles. Nick yanked the knife out of the gut.
“The cunt stabbed me, Mase! He fucking stabbed me!” Danny cried as he dropped to his knees.
Sarah looked on, big-eyed.
Mase moved forward with no common sense thought. Nick pointed the knife at the oncoming — it pierced right into Mase’s chubby Adam’s apple.
Both hands clutched his neck. He stumbled backward and collapsed onto the leaves. Nick sauntered toward him.
He stood over Mase. Blood poured out between his fingers. His eyes were draining of life — and fast!
Nick began penetrating the flesh of Mase. No part of him was safe.
Sarah winced with each stab. She looked away, but her ears continued to absorb every sound of flesh being violated.
Nick stopped upon realising stillness had overcome Mase. He turned his attention to Danny.
“PLEASE!” he screamed, guarding his wounded gut.
“I fucking beg of you! Leave me alone! please!”
Nick removed Danny’s mask. He grabbed him by his shaggy, dirty blonde hair, and positioned him to face Sarah.
“I dare you… DARE YOU, to call her slutbag again. I FUCKING… DARE YOU!”
“I’m sorry… I’m fucking sorry!”
“Didn’t quite catch that, Danny! Say it louder… GO ON! SAY IT! SAY IT!”
“I SAID I’M SORRY! PLEASE!”
Tears flowed from Sarah, she was frozen.
“You people, make me… sick!” Nick whispered in Danny’s ear.
He released his grip. Danny fell face first at Sarah’s feet.
“I’m sorry! Please… help!” Danny muttered.
Sarah let out a deafening scream — as the knife plunged into his back! Nick’s face was beaming. Sarah’s body shivered at the sounds of Danny’s cries. His vocal performance getting weaker and weaker.
“NOW WHO’S THE CUNT?! HUH ?! HUH ?!TELL ME, WHO’S THE FUCKING CUNT, DANNY BOY?!” screamed Nick.
The knife entered Danny’s back again — and again — and again. Mercy, didn’t linger anywhere near here.
Nick grabbed him by the hair and propped him up to face Sarah once more. The blade found its way in front of Danny’s throat. It pressed itself against the skin. His eyes vibrated weakly.
“Please… please,” said Danny in a barley passable voice — then — SLICE!
Danny gasped, he shook, but then he collapsed once again at Sarah’s feet. Nick turned his head. His eyes closed. Silence, hovered over this massacre.
“Why can’t they leave me alone ?” Nick whimpered as he put the bloodied knife back inside the inner pocket of his cardigan.
“All I want is peace. it’s… all I’ve ever wanted.”
Nick stared back at Sarah, teary-eyed.
“WHEN WILL IT EVER END? WHEN? I’M FUCKING TIRED!”
Nick wiped the tame tears away. He glanced downward. He dipped both palms into a mini blood-pool. Nick entered the bus shelter, and approached the frontal glass. He leisurely smeared its appearance with redness. Nick stood back, gripping both sides of his neck, and chuckled.
“I just… have to laugh at it all. Do you know what I mean? Like… what else can I do ?”
Sarah’s bottom lip quivered.
“Are you, ok… Sarah ?”
Sarah couldn’t look him in the eye. Her vision was firmly locked on his hideous boots.
“I understand I… really do,” Nick said.
“People like you and me, were just meant to suffer. It’s not fucking fair. Nothing about it is fair, but, that’s just the way it is, I suppose.”
He tittered.
“That’s just… the way… it… is!”

Written by Patrick Ferrymoor
Branches swayed as a light chill engulfed. No-one was visible to the eye, but you could hear people faintly. It was Halloween night, and most were out having fun… except — for 24-year-old Sarah Linock
She sat within the confines of the bus stop shelter, which resided on a short rural road. She had just finished her eight-hour-shift at the local petrol station, a mile’s walk from the bus stop. Sarah’s brunette hair flickered gently — her left foot tapped repeatedly. The bus was five minutes late.
She glanced down at her phone —
9:05pm.
She sighed, rolling her big brown eyes. This was the third time this had happen within the week. All she had to keep her company was the orange leaves that scattered the ground, and the pub that resided half a mile away. The whistling air brought her just a smidge of comfort.
Sarah turned her head left to see a car driving in her direction. It beeped it’s horn, and gradually slowed down. The driver’s window lowered.
“Hey, fancy a lift, love ?” the girl shouted as she and her friend in the passenger seat giggled.
The driver was dressed as a nurse, and her friend a slutty clown. It was pretty clear both were under the influence of something. Alcohol? drugs? both? It was hard to tell.
“Oh, never mind then!” the driver laughed as she slammed her foot on the accelerator. Not even so much as giving Sarah a chance to respond.
The fumes from the car cornered her in the bus shelter.
“idiots,” Sarah said under her breath.
A part of her envied girls like that. She so wished she could be as care-free as them, but it just wasn’t in her nature. She hated the fact that she was so sensitive — so insecure. Her negative opinion of herself had been holding her back for most of her life. Sarah was completely unaware of her attractive qualities, and what she was capable of bringing to the table.
It had been a rough couple of months: Breaking up with her boyfriend of five years, along with financial struggles and toxic family drama. Sarah’s life was in a mega-rut, and her head was firmly planted in the sand.
Sarah’s eyes closed. The environmental whispers amplified. She took a deep breath — her eyes opened upon hearing a chirp from her phone.
“Happy Spooks Brat! Don’t be too boring tonight!” The text read from a contact named Bro Denny
She replied.
“Fuck you buck teeth lmao.”
Sarah’s ears picked up on relentless crunching. Her eyes darted right: A man approached. Silver headphones with minuscule wear and tear rested on his head. Plastic full-rimmed square glasses covered his blue eyes. He was casually good-looking. Textured navy zip-up cardigan, slim-fit black chino trousers, and a very peculiar pair of boots.
They were obnoxiously orange, having a similar texture to that of pumpkin skin. A visual not so easy on the eye — however, Sarah couldn’t look away. She had never seen such an unusual pair of boots. She almost respected the ballsiness to even wear them out in public.
The man entered the shelter, sitting down on the bench. There was a reasonable gap between he and Sarah. She could mildly hear the song that played in his headphones. It rung a bell for her, but she couldn’t quite remember what it was.
The man turned to Sarah, she quickly looked away. She felt slightly uncomfortable knowing that he was now looking at her. The man then focused straight ahead, sliding the headphones down his neck. He began running his fingers thoroughly through his dark brown, Ivy League hair.
“Late again, huh?” he said out-loud.
Sarah acknowledged his comment, turning.
“Oh never mind us, freezing our arses off.”
Sarah laughed.
“Well, to be fair it’s not that cold, but still,” he continued.
Sarah half smiled while nodding her head.
“Nick,” he said, going for a handshake.
“Sarah,” she replied, awkwardly reciprocating.
“So, have you been waiting long then, Sarah ?”
“Long enough.”
“I assume you’re… on your way home from work ?”
“You assumed right, Nick.”
“I work the night shifts myself. I suppose there are worse jobs than wondering around a mostly empty warehouse.”
“Sounds fun,” Sarah said.
“It has its perks,” laughed Nick.
“What do you do, Sarah ?”
Just as she was about to answer — they were both distracted, by two men wearing matching demonic skull masks, driving motorbikes.
“YEH!!! IT’S HALLOWEEN YA CUNTS!” yelled out one of the riders.
The motorbikes then sped down the road. The men screamed at the top of their lungs as they both did wheelies.
“Don’t you just hate vermin like that ?” said Nick.
“Vermin is a bit strong, but… yeh!” Sarah responded.
“Grown arse men, acting like snotty teens. It’s fucking embarrassing. Pathetic!”
Sarah couldn’t have agreed more.
Nick appeared somewhat flustered.
“I’ve been dealing with people like that my whole life. They sicken me… fucking sicken me!”
“You shouldn’t let them get to you, ya know,” Sarah said.
“I know, but they just frustrate me so much. Like, who do they think they are ? I…“ Nick sighed — a few seconds of silence then passed.
“Anyway, anyway,” he said motioning his hands.
“Like I was saying… where do you work, Sarah ?”
“At the petrol station just up there,” she pointed.
“I know the place, it’s… seen better days. Do you actually like working there ?”
“Um… it pays the bills, so…”
“I get ya, I get ya,” Nick said.
“I’m just gonna say this, and you can tell me to fuck right off if you want to, but… I think you’re too bloody pretty to be working at some petrol station.”
Sarah’s eyes fluttered, her cheeks flushed.
“Oh shut up!”
“No I’m serious, I mean… you’re a sort, Sarah.”
Sarah shook her head, laughing.
“It’s true!” Nick laughed back.
In that moment, both made heavy eye-contact. Sarah couldn’t help but be captivated by this mysterious man wearing the ugliest pair of boots she had ever seen.
“You’re… quite the charmer, Nick.”
“Well when you’ve practiced as much as I have in the mirror, I mean…“
“Well you’ve become quite the pro.”
“Why thank you, Sarah. I do appreciate it.”
Both continued to laugh at what now had become a ridiculous conversation.
Then, familiar sounds returned. Faint screaming emerged from the distance —the masked men were approaching.
“Here we fucking go,” mumbled Nick.
“Oi! Danny! The fuckers are still here,” the secondary rider said.
The front motorbike reduced its speed, eventually coming to a full stop. The other did the same.
The front rider wearing the black and yellow leather jacket removed his mask. His buddy in the brown body warmer opted to keep his on.
“Aw… you still waiting for your bus ? Fucking hilarious!”
“Mase, this is too sad,” laughed the man in the brown body warmer.
“Fuck it, Let’s get to know the cunts, Danny boy,” said Mase.
Nick stared daggers.
“What the fuck are you looking at, specky four eyes?!”
Nick didn’t budge.
Mase unzipped his jacket, and threw it at his motorbike.
“I said, what the fuck, are you looking at?!” he said shoving Nick’s forehead.
He then ripped the headphones from Nick’s neck. He dropped them, and proceeded to stomp rapidly.
“You like that, huh ?! You like that fuckface ?!” laughed Mase.
“I hope they weren’t a fortune, mate.”
Danny approached Sarah.
“Well, aren’t you a little fox”, he said, licking his cracked lips.
“Fuck off!” said sarah.
Danny grabbed her by the forearm, smirking as he did so.
“Mouthy, Mouthy,” he said.
’I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson now, slutbag.”
Mase watched on laughing.
“Go on, Danny! Show her who’s king!”
Mase looked back at Nick — he immediately felt something sharp slice against his face. He instinctively backed away, groping his left cheek. His hand, was covered in blood.
Nick held a black coated pocket knife. Beyond the lenses, his eyes displayed a look of harmful intent. Mase chose to keep up the tough guy act.
“COME ON THEN, SPECKY!” he roared.
Danny rushed toward Nick — he got a knife in the stomach for his troubles. Nick yanked the knife out of the gut.
“The cunt stabbed me, Mase! He fucking stabbed me!” Danny cried as he dropped to his knees.
Sarah looked on, big-eyed.
Mase moved forward with no common sense thought. Nick pointed the knife at the oncoming — it pierced right into Mase’s chubby Adam’s apple.
Both hands clutched his neck. He stumbled backward and collapsed onto the leaves. Nick sauntered toward him.
He stood over Mase. Blood poured out between his fingers. His eyes were draining of life — and fast!
Nick began penetrating the flesh of Mase. No part of him was safe.
Sarah winced with each stab. She looked away, but her ears continued to absorb every sound of flesh being violated.
Nick stopped upon realising stillness had overcome Mase. He turned his attention to Danny.
“PLEASE!” he screamed, guarding his wounded gut.
“I fucking beg of you! Leave me alone! please!”
Nick removed Danny’s mask. He grabbed him by his shaggy, dirty blonde hair, and positioned him to face Sarah.
“I dare you… DARE YOU, to call her slutbag again. I FUCKING… DARE YOU!”
“I’m sorry… I’m fucking sorry!”
“Didn’t quite catch that, Danny! Say it louder… GO ON! SAY IT! SAY IT!”
“I SAID I’M SORRY! PLEASE!”
Tears flowed from Sarah, she was frozen.
“You people, make me… sick!” Nick whispered in Danny’s ear.
He released his grip. Danny fell face first at Sarah’s feet.
“I’m sorry! Please… help!” Danny muttered.
Sarah let out a deafening scream — as the knife plunged into his back! Nick’s face was beaming. Sarah’s body shivered at the sounds of Danny’s cries. His vocal performance getting weaker and weaker.
“NOW WHO’S THE CUNT?! HUH ?! HUH ?!TELL ME, WHO’S THE FUCKING CUNT, DANNY BOY?!” screamed Nick.
The knife entered Danny’s back again — and again — and again. Mercy, didn’t linger anywhere near here.
Nick grabbed him by the hair and propped him up to face Sarah once more. The blade found its way in front of Danny’s throat. It pressed itself against the skin. His eyes vibrated weakly.
“Please… please,” said Danny in a barley passable voice — then — SLICE!
Danny gasped, he shook, but then he collapsed once again at Sarah’s feet. Nick turned his head. His eyes closed. Silence, hovered over this massacre.
“Why can’t they leave me alone ?” Nick whimpered as he put the bloodied knife back inside the inner pocket of his cardigan.
“All I want is peace. it’s… all I’ve ever wanted.”
Nick stared back at Sarah, teary-eyed.
“WHEN WILL IT EVER END? WHEN? I’M FUCKING TIRED!”
Nick wiped the tame tears away. He glanced downward. He dipped both palms into a mini blood-pool. Nick entered the bus shelter, and approached the frontal glass. He leisurely smeared its appearance with redness. Nick stood back, gripping both sides of his neck, and chuckled.
“I just… have to laugh at it all. Do you know what I mean? Like… what else can I do ?”
Sarah’s bottom lip quivered.
“Are you, ok… Sarah ?”
Sarah couldn’t look him in the eye. Her vision was firmly locked on his hideous boots.
“I understand I… really do,” Nick said.
“People like you and me, were just meant to suffer. It’s not fucking fair. Nothing about it is fair, but, that’s just the way it is, I suppose.”
He tittered.
“That’s just… the way… it… is!”

Written by Patrick Ferrymoor
Branches swayed as a light chill engulfed. No-one was visible to the eye, but you could hear people faintly. It was Halloween night, and most were out having fun… except — for 24-year-old Sarah Linock
She sat within the confines of the bus stop shelter, which resided on a short rural road. She had just finished her eight-hour-shift at the local petrol station, a mile’s walk from the bus stop. Sarah’s brunette hair flickered gently — her left foot tapped repeatedly. The bus was five minutes late.
She glanced down at her phone —
9:05pm.
She sighed, rolling her big brown eyes. This was the third time this had happen within the week. All she had to keep her company was the orange leaves that scattered the ground, and the pub that resided half a mile away. The whistling air brought her just a smidge of comfort.
Sarah turned her head left to see a car driving in her direction. It beeped it’s horn, and gradually slowed down. The driver’s window lowered.
“Hey, fancy a lift, love ?” the girl shouted as she and her friend in the passenger seat giggled.
The driver was dressed as a nurse, and her friend a slutty clown. It was pretty clear both were under the influence of something. Alcohol? drugs? both? It was hard to tell.
“Oh, never mind then!” the driver laughed as she slammed her foot on the accelerator. Not even so much as giving Sarah a chance to respond.
The fumes from the car cornered her in the bus shelter.
“idiots,” Sarah said under her breath.
A part of her envied girls like that. She so wished she could be as care-free as them, but it just wasn’t in her nature. She hated the fact that she was so sensitive — so insecure. Her negative opinion of herself had been holding her back for most of her life. Sarah was completely unaware of her attractive qualities, and what she was capable of bringing to the table.
It had been a rough couple of months: Breaking up with her boyfriend of five years, along with financial struggles and toxic family drama. Sarah’s life was in a mega-rut, and her head was firmly planted in the sand.
Sarah’s eyes closed. The environmental whispers amplified. She took a deep breath — her eyes opened upon hearing a chirp from her phone.
“Happy Spooks Brat! Don’t be too boring tonight!” The text read from a contact named Bro Denny
She replied.
“Fuck you buck teeth lmao.”
Sarah’s ears picked up on relentless crunching. Her eyes darted right: A man approached. Silver headphones with minuscule wear and tear rested on his head. Plastic full-rimmed square glasses covered his blue eyes. He was casually good-looking. Textured navy zip-up cardigan, slim-fit black chino trousers, and a very peculiar pair of boots.
They were obnoxiously orange, having a similar texture to that of pumpkin skin. A visual not so easy on the eye — however, Sarah couldn’t look away. She had never seen such an unusual pair of boots. She almost respected the ballsiness to even wear them out in public.
The man entered the shelter, sitting down on the bench. There was a reasonable gap between he and Sarah. She could mildly hear the song that played in his headphones. It rung a bell for her, but she couldn’t quite remember what it was.
The man turned to Sarah, she quickly looked away. She felt slightly uncomfortable knowing that he was now looking at her. The man then focused straight ahead, sliding the headphones down his neck. He began running his fingers thoroughly through his dark brown, Ivy League hair.
“Late again, huh?” he said out-loud.
Sarah acknowledged his comment, turning.
“Oh never mind us, freezing our arses off.”
Sarah laughed.
“Well, to be fair it’s not that cold, but still,” he continued.
Sarah half smiled while nodding her head.
“Nick,” he said, going for a handshake.
“Sarah,” she replied, awkwardly reciprocating.
“So, have you been waiting long then, Sarah ?”
“Long enough.”
“I assume you’re… on your way home from work ?”
“You assumed right, Nick.”
“I work the night shifts myself. I suppose there are worse jobs than wondering around a mostly empty warehouse.”
“Sounds fun,” Sarah said.
“It has its perks,” laughed Nick.
“What do you do, Sarah ?”
Just as she was about to answer — they were both distracted, by two men wearing matching demonic skull masks, driving motorbikes.
“YEH!!! IT’S HALLOWEEN YA CUNTS!” yelled out one of the riders.
The motorbikes then sped down the road. The men screamed at the top of their lungs as they both did wheelies.
“Don’t you just hate vermin like that ?” said Nick.
“Vermin is a bit strong, but… yeh!” Sarah responded.
“Grown arse men, acting like snotty teens. It’s fucking embarrassing. Pathetic!”
Sarah couldn’t have agreed more.
Nick appeared somewhat flustered.
“I’ve been dealing with people like that my whole life. They sicken me… fucking sicken me!”
“You shouldn’t let them get to you, ya know,” Sarah said.
“I know, but they just frustrate me so much. Like, who do they think they are ? I…“ Nick sighed — a few seconds of silence then passed.
“Anyway, anyway,” he said motioning his hands.
“Like I was saying… where do you work, Sarah ?”
“At the petrol station just up there,” she pointed.
“I know the place, it’s… seen better days. Do you actually like working there ?”
“Um… it pays the bills, so…”
“I get ya, I get ya,” Nick said.
“I’m just gonna say this, and you can tell me to fuck right off if you want to, but… I think you’re too bloody pretty to be working at some petrol station.”
Sarah’s eyes fluttered, her cheeks flushed.
“Oh shut up!”
“No I’m serious, I mean… you’re a sort, Sarah.”
Sarah shook her head, laughing.
“It’s true!” Nick laughed back.
In that moment, both made heavy eye-contact. Sarah couldn’t help but be captivated by this mysterious man wearing the ugliest pair of boots she had ever seen.
“You’re… quite the charmer, Nick.”
“Well when you’ve practiced as much as I have in the mirror, I mean…“
“Well you’ve become quite the pro.”
“Why thank you, Sarah. I do appreciate it.”
Both continued to laugh at what now had become a ridiculous conversation.
Then, familiar sounds returned. Faint screaming emerged from the distance —the masked men were approaching.
“Here we fucking go,” mumbled Nick.
“Oi! Danny! The fuckers are still here,” the secondary rider said.
The front motorbike reduced its speed, eventually coming to a full stop. The other did the same.
The front rider wearing the black and yellow leather jacket removed his mask. His buddy in the brown body warmer opted to keep his on.
“Aw… you still waiting for your bus ? Fucking hilarious!”
“Mase, this is too sad,” laughed the man in the brown body warmer.
“Fuck it, Let’s get to know the cunts, Danny boy,” said Mase.
Nick stared daggers.
“What the fuck are you looking at, specky four eyes?!”
Nick didn’t budge.
Mase unzipped his jacket, and threw it at his motorbike.
“I said, what the fuck, are you looking at?!” he said shoving Nick’s forehead.
He then ripped the headphones from Nick’s neck. He dropped them, and proceeded to stomp rapidly.
“You like that, huh ?! You like that fuckface ?!” laughed Mase.
“I hope they weren’t a fortune, mate.”
Danny approached Sarah.
“Well, aren’t you a little fox”, he said, licking his cracked lips.
“Fuck off!” said sarah.
Danny grabbed her by the forearm, smirking as he did so.
“Mouthy, Mouthy,” he said.
’I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson now, slutbag.”
Mase watched on laughing.
“Go on, Danny! Show her who’s king!”
Mase looked back at Nick — he immediately felt something sharp slice against his face. He instinctively backed away, groping his left cheek. His hand, was covered in blood.
Nick held a black coated pocket knife. Beyond the lenses, his eyes displayed a look of harmful intent. Mase chose to keep up the tough guy act.
“COME ON THEN, SPECKY!” he roared.
Danny rushed toward Nick — he got a knife in the stomach for his troubles. Nick yanked the knife out of the gut.
“The cunt stabbed me, Mase! He fucking stabbed me!” Danny cried as he dropped to his knees.
Sarah looked on, big-eyed.
Mase moved forward with no common sense thought. Nick pointed the knife at the oncoming — it pierced right into Mase’s chubby Adam’s apple.
Both hands clutched his neck. He stumbled backward and collapsed onto the leaves. Nick sauntered toward him.
He stood over Mase. Blood poured out between his fingers. His eyes were draining of life — and fast!
Nick began penetrating the flesh of Mase. No part of him was safe.
Sarah winced with each stab. She looked away, but her ears continued to absorb every sound of flesh being violated.
Nick stopped upon realising stillness had overcome Mase. He turned his attention to Danny.
“PLEASE!” he screamed, guarding his wounded gut.
“I fucking beg of you! Leave me alone! please!”
Nick removed Danny’s mask. He grabbed him by his shaggy, dirty blonde hair, and positioned him to face Sarah.
“I dare you… DARE YOU, to call her slutbag again. I FUCKING… DARE YOU!”
“I’m sorry… I’m fucking sorry!”
“Didn’t quite catch that, Danny! Say it louder… GO ON! SAY IT! SAY IT!”
“I SAID I’M SORRY! PLEASE!”
Tears flowed from Sarah, she was frozen.
“You people, make me… sick!” Nick whispered in Danny’s ear.
He released his grip. Danny fell face first at Sarah’s feet.
“I’m sorry! Please… help!” Danny muttered.
Sarah let out a deafening scream — as the knife plunged into his back! Nick’s face was beaming. Sarah’s body shivered at the sounds of Danny’s cries. His vocal performance getting weaker and weaker.
“NOW WHO’S THE CUNT?! HUH ?! HUH ?!TELL ME, WHO’S THE FUCKING CUNT, DANNY BOY?!” screamed Nick.
The knife entered Danny’s back again — and again — and again. Mercy, didn’t linger anywhere near here.
Nick grabbed him by the hair and propped him up to face Sarah once more. The blade found its way in front of Danny’s throat. It pressed itself against the skin. His eyes vibrated weakly.
“Please… please,” said Danny in a barley passable voice — then — SLICE!
Danny gasped, he shook, but then he collapsed once again at Sarah’s feet. Nick turned his head. His eyes closed. Silence, hovered over this massacre.
“Why can’t they leave me alone ?” Nick whimpered as he put the bloodied knife back inside the inner pocket of his cardigan.
“All I want is peace. it’s… all I’ve ever wanted.”
Nick stared back at Sarah, teary-eyed.
“WHEN WILL IT EVER END? WHEN? I’M FUCKING TIRED!”
Nick wiped the tame tears away. He glanced downward. He dipped both palms into a mini blood-pool. Nick entered the bus shelter, and approached the frontal glass. He leisurely smeared its appearance with redness. Nick stood back, gripping both sides of his neck, and chuckled.
“I just… have to laugh at it all. Do you know what I mean? Like… what else can I do ?”
Sarah’s bottom lip quivered.
“Are you, ok… Sarah ?”
Sarah couldn’t look him in the eye. Her vision was firmly locked on his hideous boots.
“I understand I… really do,” Nick said.
“People like you and me, were just meant to suffer. It’s not fucking fair. Nothing about it is fair, but, that’s just the way it is, I suppose.”
He tittered.
“That’s just… the way… it… is!”