“So, who’s going to die today? It’s a simple question, with a simple solution.” Jack stared down the barrel of the gun, still in disbelief. He couldn’t even tear his gaze away for a second to see how Gina was dealing with this. “I know I hit you hard, but you should still be able to ANSWER ME!” The last two words echoed throughout the room as the man shouted them with such intensity that Jack finally regained some of his sense. “Neither of us,” he breathed raggedly. “Wrong choice,” the man growled, pulling the hammer back.

It had been a day like any other. Jack had gone into town for groceries while Gina remained at home to make some coffee and breakfast. One of Jack’s favorite things about his new wife was her preference to brew coffee after breakfast, as she said it “doesn’t taste right on an empty stomach”. He had always been the type to need a cup before he could get anything done, but he adored Gina and her quirks. Jack yawned as he slowly wended his way through the aisles at their local supermarket. He thought about getting a coffee at the kiosk inside the store, but it felt like cheating. After perusing the bakery, Jack decided on making French toast; his secret was to use croissants as the bread. Picking up a pack of these as well as a dozen eggs, Jack once again ignored the coffee kiosk as he returned to the car. Fifteen minutes later, he was pulling into the cul-de-sac and parking in the driveway. A sleek black car was parked at his neighbor’s house, Jack noticed with a thought to how those retirees could afford such a high-end vehicle. “Honey, I’m home!” Jack announced, pushing the door open. The silence that answered him made him cringe at the cliché, but after arriving in the kitchen and smelling the burnt coffee, Jack felt a gnawing anxiety like a worm in his chest. “Gina? Where are you?” “Up here.” Her voice sounded strained, frightened. “Gina? Sweetie?” Jack tentatively began climbing the stairs. It wasn’t until he was halfway up them that he realized that he was still carrying the bag of groceries. Turning around to deposit them back in the kitchen, Jack felt a blinding pain on the back of his head. The pain wasn’t the only blinding effect, as Jack’s vision blurred. He felt something cool against his cheek, then everything went black.

Egg yolk puddled on the tile, shells making miniature continents in the sea of albumin. Jack’s blurry vision took in a horrific scene; Gina sat across from him, her face grimy with blood. Tracks had been worn from her eyes down to her jawline by tears and her eyes were red and puffy. Her usually perfectly styled hair was sticky with blood and he could see a large gash right at the hairline above her right eye. Jack moved to comfort her but found his arms fastened tightly to the arms of one of their kitchen chairs. “So, who’s going to die today?” a malevolent voice said from Jack’s side. “It’s a simple question, with a simple solution.” The man walked into view, wearing all black complete with a black balaclava. Before Jack could answer, a pistol was aimed between his eyes and the man cocked his head, seemingly mocking him. The man was not large by any means, in fact, he was quite small compared to Jack. Though Jack prided himself on his fitness, he was by no means a body-builder, yet this man was nearly half his size. “I know I hit you hard, but you should still be able to ANSWER ME!” Jack’s attention snapped back to the gun barrel in his face and a cold sweat broke out. His mind was blank with fear, and he returned his gaze to his wife, who had begun crying again. She strained against her bonds and screamed through a dishrag that had been shoved in her mouth. “Neither of us,” Jack managed, though he knew this was futile. “Wrong choice,” the assailant sneered, pulling the hammer back on the gun.

Liam watched as the man left the house, not even locking the door behind him. That was Liam’s favorite thing about this part of town; the illusion of safety. These fucking people always thought they were safe. He had learned from close calls in the past to give the man at least ten minutes before making his move, just in case he had forgotten something. Liam didn’t want the man to get home before he was ready for him. Pulling on his gloves and tucking his balaclava in his back pocket, Liam exited his black car and made his way to the unlocked front door. He locked his car smugly as he looked at the expensive facade of the house. A breath-takingly beautiful woman turned from the window dressed in a robe. Liam smiled a ghastly smile. The woman would be preoccupied in the shower while he made his entrance and set up. Opening the door as quietly as he could, Liam heard the water running upstairs. He slowly crept to the foot of the stairs, peering up before ascending. The carpeted steps muffled his approach and the wood made hardly a creak. Another reason Liam loved this part of town. He heard the water a few doors down from the landing and he followed the noise. As he passed through the doorframe, Liam stopped dead. The woman was still in her robe and stared at him in shock. Her perfect rosebud lips parted, showing a row of pearly white teeth. Anger bubbled in Liam’s stomach at her beauty. The woman turned and began running for her phone on her nightstand. Liam vaulted the bed and slammed her into the wall. She screamed, giving Liam the pleasure he was looking for, but it was cut short when she swung back with perfectly manicured acrylic nails. They raked across his face, slicing four neat lines down his cheek. His rage stoked, Liam whipped the pistol from his hip holster but managed to control his fury and slammed the butt of it against the woman’s head instead of shooting her on the spot. She crumpled to the ground immediately and Liam groaned as he saw the blood splattered on the wall and now pooling around her head. Her robe was hitched up to reveal her entire lower body and Liam suppressed a shudder. Her well toned butt and legs only further fueled his fury. These people did not know how good they had it. He would show them. Carefully and delicately pulling the robe back over the exposed legs, Liam checked the woman’s pulse to make sure he hadn’t already ruined his work. With a sigh of relief, he set to work moving her and setting his trap for the man.

Jack closed his eyes as the man looked ready to squeeze the trigger. He was at least happy the last thing he saw was his wife’s face; no matter how battered and bloody it looked. Time seemed to slow and Jack could feel his heart thundering in his chest. “Why are you doing this?” Jack’s eyes flew open and he appeared just as astonished as the man to see Gina had managed to spit the dishrag out of her mouth. “Why am I doing this?” the criminal seethed, swinging so that the gun was now pointed at Gina. “Why am I doing this?” “Stop pointing that fucking gun at my wife!” Jack shouted. The man swung violently back to Jack and punched him in the gut with his free hand. Gina cried, begging for the man to stop. Jack coughed and gagged but the man relented. “Why am I doing this?” he said a third time. “You would ask that, wouldn’t you? You just think that nothing bad could ever happen to fortunate you. You who life has handed everything with others fight for every breath they take. You sit up here on your fancy cul-de-sac, looking down on what you call filth as you go into town. “You might lie to yourself and say you take pity on the destitute, handing some random junky a dollar or maybe the coins you got from the coffee shop that you felt inconvenienced to have anyway. But that’s no help, that’s just to make yourself feel better. I wonder how you could even sleep at night; you, the whore, and he, the cog in the infernal machine.” The man paused here for a bitter laugh. Jack’s eyes were only rivaled for shock by Gina’s, which were now the size of saucer plates. “But,” she tried. “SHUT UP!” the man yelled in a high voice. He was now flinging his arms wildly and exaltating in a frenzy. He paid no heed to the gun he gestured dangerously with. “I’m telling you why, aren’t I? You have no soul, you’ve never had to make a truly hard decision. Your lives are soft and easy. Well, guess what. Here’s one of the hardest, simplest decisions you’ll ever make. You, or him?” Now, the man was leveling the gun back at Gina, his eyes seemingly glowing with insanity. She had not stopped weeping since he had last beat Jack and she couldn’t speak. “ANSWER ME!” “Leave her alone!” Jack yelled again and the man wheeled on him. “It seems our decision has been made,” he growled menacingly. “How is this making the world better?” Gina shouted, catching the criminal off-guard. “What?” he sneered. “You’re saying that we are making the world worse, but how is you killing people like us making the world better?” The man stopped dead in his tracks. He actually seemed to ponder this conundrum. Fury vascillated with bemusement as Jack could see the wheels turning in his mind. “You’re right…” the man finally whispered. It almost sounded like he was defeated. “There’s only one thing to do now. Thank you. It seems the decision has a third option.” Before Jack could understand what he meant, the man turned the gun, placed it in his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

There was an energy in the air, seeming to charge everything around us. Usually this only happened when a storm was on its way, at least that’s what the Elders had said. But they also mentioned something like “clouds”, which, by their description, were nowhere to be seen. The sun beat down, as it always does in this godforsaken place. One sunny day followed by another, for all of memory. I had been born after The Event, so I only know of things like “rain” or “snow” from stories of the Elders, and the occasional kid my age who wanted to act like they had some forbidden bit of knowledge that made them superior. Apparently, a lot had been different before. Most parents and grandparents would speak of having more than enough. And I mean that broadly, as it was more than enough of anything: food, water, shelter, community, things I had never even heard of and struggled to understand. Not only was there an odd sensation in the air, but everybody was also acting strangely. It was as if they could feel the same thing as me, but didn’t want to let on that they did. Men and women pushed past me on the dirt street, people whom I knew but wouldn’t stop for a simple greeting or even to make eye contact. This made me uneasy, the town never acted like this. I had surely felt this intangible force before, but I hadn’t started acting strangely afterward. Had I? I rushed home, seeing that the central road of our settlement was clearing out. It almost seemed like doors and shutters were being slammed closed as I passed by. Perhaps this queer feeling was taking its toll on my senses. It almost felt as though the energy built with each step I took, going from a slight hum to a crackling that I could swear I should be able to see. Just as I felt that my bones were buzzing with this phantom current, I reached the faded wooden door of my family’s hovel. Nearly falling through the entrance, I threw myself into the dining room to find my parent’s and last surviving uncle sitting in a semicircle facing the doorway. “Do you guys feel…?” I ask, but my mother interjects. “The Storm is coming, once again.” I give her a quizzical look but she does not continue. “It’s been nearly thirty years since the last,” my father adds grimly. “I had hoped to not live to see it again.” “What is this Storm?” I inquire, anxiety rising in my skinny chest. “Who will be taken this time?” my uncle says, obvious fear in his voice. “It cannot be me, everyone else of my line has been lost in one way or another.” Without warning, my father leaps to his feet. “Then your line ends today!” he screams with a ferocity I thought I would never see out of him. My uncle howls, just as an alien sound grows outside. It is as if some invisible force is flinging sand and grit against the facade of our home. “The Wind heralds Its arrival!” my mother says in a monotone, as if reciting something reverent. “You cannot do this!” my uncle shrieks, falling backward out of his chair as my father looms over him. I am frozen with fear and confusion as I watch this horrendous drama unfold. The noise outside becomes a howl not unlike the one my uncle had just uttered, but more hollow somehow. “It must be this way,” my father mutters. “For the good of our family.” “I am your family!” my uncle shouts, spittle flying from his lips as tears brim around his red-rimmed eyes. Just then, I hear a loud crash outside and am temporarily blinded by a light so intense I’m not sure I will ever see again. Deaf and blind, I squirm on the ground and do not realize it is my scream echoing in my ears when my vision returns. I wish it hadn’t, as I see my father laid upon my uncle, his fingers wrapped tightly around his brother’s throat. My uncle’s face is purple and appears swollen as he slaps helplessly at my father’s arms. He flails and his mouth opens and closes silently as his eyes bulge. Tears stream down his discolored face and his tongue seemed to be about to burst out of his mouth. Finally, I felt the weight of the situation. “No!” I scream, flinging my small body on my father. I may not be strong, but it was enough to loosen his grip. My uncle took a sharp inhale that sounded like glass being dragged across the floor. “Do not interfere!” my father roars, his face ugly with fury. I feel familiar hands wrap themselves around my midsection. “It has to be this way,” my mother says in a strained voice. I struggle against her grip but I know it’s futile. My uncle regains his feet but my father is back on the attack. They grapple and throw each other around as the noise outside grows to a deafening din. Just as the house seems to be shaking from whatever was happening outside, the two men crash into the wall. Another flash like before blinds me and when my sight returns this time, my father and uncle are gone, replaced with a hole in the wall. I try to run to them but my mother continues to restrain me. “It’s better this way,” she says in a tight voice. “Perhaps two offerings from one house will keep the Storm away longer.” I stare at the hole in the wall, feeling as hollow inside as it. My mother whispers in my ear that in time I will come to understand this and that’s when I realize that it is deathly silent outside. Finally I slip out of my mother’s grasp and approach the new opening, looking out on the changed world. Except nothing has changed. It all appears as it had, but there is no trace of my father or uncle.

I would later learn that at least one person from each dwelling in our small settlement had vanished in one way or another that day. Though my mother had promised I would someday understand, it has been thirty years since then and not a word has been spoken of what happened. My mother died a few months later from an illness that swept through the settlement and I gave up on ever learning my father and uncle’s fates. Ever since then, I have feared feeling that same sensation I had that fateful morning. It weighs upon me every day as I watch the infinite sky above us, wondering at what had happened that day.

“Magic comes with a price, are you willing to pay?” The impossibly deep voice kept rumbling through Elizabeth’s head as she splashed through the damp cobblestone alley. Darting furtive glances around her, she hugged her shawl tighter. It seemed as though every shaded corner or dark alcove held those eyes. Eyes like smoldering coals. That’s all she had seen that night. Two slanted lines seemingly hovering in midair, surrounded by inky blackness. A voice boomed so loud Elizabeth feared that her room shook, yet somehow did not rouse anyone in the house. “Magic comes with a price.” Despite its volume and deep pitch, the voice was a sonorous purr. “Are you willing to pay?” “Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper, so much so she wasn’t even sure she had made a sound. Without another word her meager lump of black wax snuffed out, as though by a dark wind, though Elizabeth felt no draft in her room. Even with the existence of the stubby candle she had used, Elizabeth felt as though that night had been a dream. Finally, she came to the door to her cottage. Even before she pushed the door open, she heard the quiet groaning of Charlotte inside. Putting on a brave face, Elizabeth entered the home to find her sister prostrate in front of the pile of ashes one could hardly call a fire. Her ragged dress hardly covered her skinny arms and she couldn’t be very comfortable on the thin mat separating her from the dirt floor. “I’m back, Lottie,” Elizabeth announced with false cheer. “I tried to make haste. Here, sit up, sit up.” Her younger sister required significant help leaning forward even onto her elbows. Elizabeth’s hand grazed her sister’s uncovered arm and it was an effort not to reel back at the warmth emanating from her. Stroking Charlotte’s brittle, pale hair, Elizabeth eased her sister into her arms. “Did you get the salve?” Charlotte’s voice had always been diminutive but it was hardly a rasp now. “I did, dear Lottie.” “Please, use it now. I suffer so.” “Be still, sister.” Elizabeth placed the small jar she had traded her last ivory button for on the dusty floor, unscrewing its top. Dipping a finger into the viscous fluid, Elizabeth spread the tincture over a sore in Charlotte’s armpit. Her sister whimpered pitifully but Elizabeth persisted. It took almost the entire bottle to cover all of the hurts in various stages of deterioration. The worst were located in the creases of Charlotte’s hips; angry and red with black edges and a glossy sheen from pus. Most others appeared as raised ulcerations, barely showing any break down of the overlying skin, though the more severe ones had a dusky hue to them. Elizabeth was thorough in her work, slathering a healthy amount, taking care not to waste however, over each and every sore. “I’ll make us some tea,” Elizabeth said as she eased Charlotte back onto her mat. “Thank you.” Though it was certainly wishful thinking, Elizabeth thought her voice already sounded stronger. As the water boiled, Elizabeth had the sudden inspiration to give Charlotte a small treat. Traipsing out to their paltry garden, she hunted down the drooping mint plant and tore a sprig off. Smelling the fresh scent with a smile, she almost skipped back inside and tucked the herb into Charlotte’s cup before pouring the hot water over the tea leaves. “Where is yours?” Charlotte asked when Elizabeth returned. “We only had enough for one, don’t worry about me. Look!” She turned the steaming cup to present the mint leaf. Odd, she didn’t think the water was so hot to shrivel it so. It now hung limp over the lip of the mug, but Charlotte’s ghastly visage seemed to perk up anyway. Elizabeth guided the cup to her sister’s thin lips and slowly tipped it back after blowing on it. “How is mother today?” Elizabeth asked. “Same as yesterday,” Charlotte replied, taking another sip. “Same as the day before. Same as always. Ever since James…” “Perhaps when you get better, she will too,” Elizabeth said with a smile, pinching the small patch of unblemished skin on Charlotte’s cheek. “I’ll go and check on her and let her know how you are.” Before Charlotte could protest, Elizabeth swept upstairs, smoothing her dress as she went. Knocking softly, Elizabeth heard a soft humming stop inside the room. “James, is that you?” If Charlotte’s voice sounded like a rasp, her mother’s voice sounded like wind in leaves. “No, mother,” Elizabeth said, pushing the door open, “it’s Elizabeth.” “Lizzie.” Even after all this time, her mother’s gaunt face shocked her. A shock of thin, white hair hung like so many strings around the previously beautiful woman’s face. “How are you feeling today, mother?” Elizabeth had stopped calling her “Mama” after she retreated into her room after the loss of James. It was as if she had forgotten about her remaining children after that. Her mother gave a noncommital grunt and her glassy eyes strayed lazily from Elizabeth back to the wall. Her humming resumed as she sat stock still. Elizabeth sighed but crossed the room to stand behind her seated mother. Scooping up the ratty horsehair brush, Elizabeth began stoking her hair. Her mother’s hummed tune did not change the entire one hundred brushes. Bending over to kiss her mother on top of the head, Elizabeth felt a single tear leak down her cheek. “I still love you, mother,” she whispered before standing and walking away. Pausing at the door, Elizabeth looked back but thankfully did not allow her hope to be raised. Her mother sat just as still as she had been before, continuously humming that inane melody. Without a sound, Elizabeth closed the door behind her and set to work with the rest of her chores for the day.

Hands shook Elizabeth awake, but she did not jolt at the sudden movement. It was as if she knew the hands, almost as well as her own. “Lizzie!” A sweet voice called, seemingly echoing in her head. “Lizzie, wake up! The most amazing thing has happened! Lizzie!” Her eyes fluttered open to see an impossible sight. Charlotte, her pale and pristine face just as it had been before the plague, stood over Elizabeth, her hands gripping her shoulders and shaking her with excitement. “Lottie?” Elizabeth said groggily. Surely this had to be a dream. Not even those who survived the sickness were left unblemished. “Yes, dear Lizzie!” Charlotte exclaimed with a squeal of delight. “And it’s not just me. Come, come to the kitchen!” Feeling in a daze, Elizabeth followed Charlotte down into their kitchen, rubbing her eyes and trying to snap herself out of the dream this must be. It wasn’t until they stood in the kitchen that Elizabeth heard the clatter of spoon on kettle and smelled the familiar aroma of their mother’s special porridge. Her eyes grew to saucers as she looked up yet another incredulous sight. Their mother, as hale and pretty as ever, stirred a pot over the fire, her arms strung with healthy muscle. Elizabeth could not stifle a gasp, nor could she stop herself from rubbing her eyes once more. “Good morning, my sweets!” Their mother said with a grin, showing not the toothless mouth that Elizabeth had given up trying to brush. “How are you, Mama?” Charlotte cooed. “I feel oh so delightful.” “Delightful is the perfect word, my dear Lottie!” Elizabeth stumbled over to the nearest chair, collapsing into it with a grunt. “Lizzie, would you mind fetching some mint for the tea?” her mother asked in a tinkling voice. Elizabeth made her way out to their garden and found something that made her stomach drop. Laying limply into the sodden soil, the remains of their previously healthy mint plant almost matched the brown of the ground. Looking around at their basil and tomato plants, Elizabeth found them both the picture of herbal health. “Did you get it?” Her mother was now serving helpings of the steaming porridge with a smile. “No, something happened to the mint plant,” Elizabeth replied with a hollow voice. “Perhaps it got too much rain last night,” Charlotte offered. “Perhaps.” Elizabeth sat down, though her appetite had lessened. “Do you… do you remember anything from yesterday, mother?” “Mother? Does not that seem a bit formal? But yes, of course. I was just feeling under the weather.” “I feel so much better today, it’s like magic!” Charlotte interjected, shoveling the food into her mouth. “Slow down, Lottie,” her mother chuckled but Elizabeth hardly heard her. Like magic… Surely it must be coincidence. “Well, eat up, dear!” “Oh, yes…” Elizabeth said absently, taking a small bite. It smelled just like she remembered, but it tasted like ash in her mouth.

Elizabeth set off to the village, the words still rolling around in her mind. “Magic comes with a price, are you willing to pay?” Over and over, she didn’t notice the little boy before they collided. “I’m so sorry, mum!” the urchin exclaimed. “Please, do forgive me!” “It was my fault!” Elizabeth replied, her hands and feet numb with the shock. The grimy-faced child rubbed his red nose with a guilty look. “Here, go get something to eat.” Elizabeth pressed a farthing into the boy’s tiny hand with a smile. Despite the mud caking his palm, his skin was quite warm. “Thank you, mum!” The urchin tipped his shabby flat cap and gave her a mischievous grin. Elizabeth watched the child duck and weave his way through the crowd, making sure his trajectory led to a nearby butcher for some food. Nodding approvingly, Elizabeth set back to her errand. She arrived at the pharmacy she had first bought the salve from the day before, finding it nearly empty except for the chemist. Even after a brief conversation, during which he offered her a refill — which Elizabeth refused — he wouldn’t claim it a miracle cure. Concern mounting, Elizabeth heard those rumbling words over and over again as she hurried back up the street. Then she heard the shriek of horror. A rotund man wearing a blood-stained apron sprinted out of a building as a crowd formed in front of the edifice. “Wasn’t me fault!” the man shouted as he pushed through the gathering people. “An accident, I tell ya! An accident!” Elizabeth caught a glimpse between shoulders and her blood ran cold. A small, grimy hand extended from underneath a large shelf, flat on the ground.

Not caring that the sun was still rising and ignoring the cries from her sister and mother, Elizabeth sprinted to her room, closed the door and drew her curtains tight. Soon, the only light in her room was the low flicker of her black wax candle. “What was the price?” Elizabeth wailed, begging for those sinister eyes to reappear. “What is going to happen?” She had to clear her tearing eyes to be sure she saw what she thought she saw. Just like before, two red slits glowered from the darkness, looking into her very soul. “I don’t want the magic anymore!” Elizabeth sobbed. “Take it away.” The eyes remained impassive. “Can’t you hear me? Take it away!” With a deep rumbling laugh, the candle burst into flame before vanishing, plunging the room back into darkness. In a panic, Elizabeth flung her door open and screamed at what awaited her. Her mother, even more gaunt and ghastly than ever sat, stroking the hair of Charlotte. They sat before a pile of ashes, her mother humming that same tune as before. Elizabeth ran past them and into the street. The shadows flanking the cobblestones seemed to close in on her as she fled, just following where her feet led. It wasn’t until she arrived that Elizabeth realized she was back in the butcher’s shop. Humming quietly to herself, she approached the rack of razor-sharp knives. “I won’t hurt anyone without my hands,” she whispered.

Jake sat bolt upright in his bed. He had been lightly dozing, the gentle pattering of the rain had put him to sleep but now it was hammering against his windowpane. But that was not what had torn him from his slumber. He looked to the window, though in the darkness he could not see anything anyway. Jake shook his head, half in an attempt to clear it and half out of disbelief. Surely he hadn’t heard what he thought he had heard. It was just his sleep-deprived mind running wild. As his heart rate slowed, Jake laid his head back on his pillow. The moment his eyes drooped closed he was asleep.

The morning was gray and cold, just as the last one and the one before. He had moved to Tacoma in an attempt to escape the dry days of the Southwest, but after six months he understood why the locals grumbled about the rain. Jake was surprised at his desire for a sunny day. Jake crossed his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes when he stopped suddenly. His heart hammering in his chest, he backed up until he was in front of the window in his room. Slowly, Jake turned his head, not wanting to see what he thought he had seen. Fear was replaced by relieved bemusement as all he saw was a rain-streaked pane. Just to convince himself completely, Jake bent over and breathed onto the glass. Nothing appeared in the fog it created, no handprint with spindly fingers. Shaking his head and rubbing his eyes once more, Jake set to getting ready for his day.

The cold morning air swept in the scent of freshly wetted cement and a gentle mist of rain. Jake stepped out of the apartment complex and found that the drizzle outside was a thin fog, which his umbrella would be useless against. He tucked his umbrella under his trench coat and trotted down the steps down to the sidewalk. Jake joined the mill of people weaving between each other on their morning commutes, falling into the daily rhythm of commerce. Stopping at the nearest intersection, Jake gazed across the crosswalk to the group of people gathering opposite them. Everyone had the same idea as he had and had their umbrellas tucked under their overcoats. Losing himself in the comforting white noise of the water being sprayed behind the racing tires on the street, Jake found himself somewhat nostalgic for the drier climate of his old home. The gray and dreary morning blended with the last and the one before and so on, but then, something snapped him out of his reverie. Almost exactly across the street from him stood a man under an umbrella. What first caught Jake’s attention was the open umbrella, however the ghastly visage of its owner almost knocked Jake to the ground. Not only was the wretched individual as pale as a sheet, but a strange translucent blue film lay over the too-large eyes. Something stirred in Jake’s chest, a familiar fear, though he couldn’t place it. Suddenly, Jake leaped back as a city bus roared past. He was caught by the person behind him and, mumbling an apology to the not even aware woman, he turned his attention back to the intersection. The light had changed and the waiting mob surged forward. There was no open umbrella amongst the commuters and before Jake could gather himself, he felt shoulders bumping against him as he realized he hadn’t started walking yet. Rubbing his eyes for the third time that day, Jake joined in the communal trudge across the street and down the next sidewalk.

Jake had never before been so grateful for the monotonous nature of his work. His mind wandered, trying to grasp at half-formed memories and forgotten nightmares to place the horrible sight from the sidewalk. His fingers tapped mindlessly on the keyboard as his mind clambered for even the tiniest shred of remembrance. Maybe he wasn’t sleeping enough. True, he hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep for about a week, with the strange noises tearing him from his stupor only to disappear for the rest of the night. At first, he had blamed his poor sleep on the unfamiliar surroundings, but he had been in Tacoma for six months now and still went through weeks on end of insomnia. Jake jumped as his phone rang, and after calming himself he found the caller to be his supervisor. After a five minute lecture about how poor his work had been recently and multiple questions about if his heart was truly in this, Jake returned to his thoughtless task. Of course his heart was not in this work, whose would be?

The hours dragged by, but finally it was five o’clock and Jake was on his way home, the same commute as this morning but in reverse. There were no unexpected occurrences and by the time he arrived back at his apartment, Jake’s heart felt a little lighter than usual. Perhaps tonight would hold a deep slumber with no interruptions. Taking his bowl of stir fried rice to the living room, Jake flipped on the television and immediately his blood ran cold. He didn’t even hear the remote hit the ground, slipping from his numb fingers. An eerie glow emitted from the screen, a color that seemed to consume the small room. Images flickered across the screen, all of the same subject but only lasting moments at a time. It was the… thing… from earlier that day. When he had seen it before he had thought it was a man, but now Jake was sure it wasn’t even human. The long, spindley fingers were wrapped around the handle of a black umbrella, though from the ever-changing images, it didn’t need an umbrella at all. Sometimes its grotesque back was facing the camera and only its oddly shaped bald skull protruded from lumpy shoulders, while other times it peered so intently into Jake’s life with its filmy eyes that Jake was certain it could see him. The eyes were about a half a size too big for its ugly face, as were its ears that jutted out almost sideways. It was always just standing there, gripping the umbrella in one hand, while the background would change from forests to deserts to office buildings behind it. After what seemed hours, the images came to a halt and Jake found himself holding his breath. The creature stood still on a sidewalk, still holding that umbrella. Not just any sidewalk, Jake realized, but the pavement in front of his apartment building. Without realizing it, Jake found himself tiptoeing toward his television, seemingly drawn in to examine the picture closer. When his nose almost made contact with the screen the thing moved suddenly. Falling back on his bottom Jake watched as the thing reached out its other hand to produce a… butterfly? Its vivid blue wings were almost painful to look at against the drab background of the creature’s black suit and the gray of the building behind it. The butterfly took flight and for some reason, Jake found himself comforted by the graceful movements of the beautiful insect. A city bus suddenly blared through the frame, splattering the butterfly and sending Jake crashing backwards. He knocked the recliner over in his flight from the television and found himself cowering behind it. Gulping air and trying to coax his heart back to a normal rate, he peeked over the edge of the chair, finding the television screen black, as if it had been off this whole time. Carefully, Jake stood up and turned his recliner back on its correct side, then crossed the room and brushed his fingertips on the screen. It felt cool, and though he knew most modern televisions don’t get hot, he still wanted to check. Admonishing himself for how jumpy he had been all day, he decided to call it an early night, and made his way to bed. The night brought nothing but restful sleep, exactly what Jake had needed. The next morning the sun was even peeking out from between the intrusive clouds and Jake thought to himself that things were finally looking up. Almost with a spring in his step, he got about his day and was soon on his daily commute. This jolly mood only lasted until he found himself standing almost exactly where he had been the previous morning. Once again, across the street stood the figure, sticking out even more today as it held that damned umbrella despite the somewhat sunny day. He wanted to scream and curse at it, ask why it was seemingly haunting him. While he was still fighting between the courage to yell and the rationality to stay quiet, the thing held out its horrible hand, balled in a fist. Every muscle in Jake’s body tensed and his eyes strained for all they were worth as he watched a butterfly appear from the palm of the creature as it opened its hand. It was the same butterfly as the video last night and Jake watched with trepidation as it took flight. Voices began screaming, but they seemed so far away, as if under water. The butterfly’s delicate wings swooped and fluttered as it traversed the street and Jake couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Without realizing it, he reached a hand out and was surprised when the insect alighted on his finger. With a slight smile, he brought the butterfly to his chest, as if it was the most precious thing to him in the entire world. It was only then that he heard what all of those voices were yelling about. “Get out of the road! The bus is—“

You watch with the closest approximation of glee your wicked heart can feel. Your twisted mouth twitches into a sickly rictus that should never be referred to as a smile. He had been fun while it had lasted, he was already so fragile when you found him. You liked that, fragility was the quickest way to what you wanted. Perhaps years ago you had known what exactly what it was you wanted, but it had been so long that you were going through the motions now. Maybe one day you’ll remember, but until then, you will continue to do your work. Ironic, isn’t it? Most of your best victims feel so trapped in their lives and work, and you are no different. But there is no sense in pondering these things. Time to pick out another victim.

My bones ached against the cold stone beneath me. When was I awoken? It had been so long since the last summoning and the lid to my crypt seemed heavier than last time. The stone ground harshly as I pushed it off and my old wedding dress rustled like dry leaves as I stepped out. Standing before me was my summoner, the name of his intended victim on a sheet of paper that he was holding out to me. Funny after all these years they still hadn’t learned. With lightning speed I was on him, windpipe clenched between my teeth. Relishing the flavor the sudden fear gave to his blood, I feasted as if I would never eat again. Perhaps I wouldn’t, that was the gamble I took each time I was summoned. Too bad there would be no one to tell of the betrayal.

“Excuse me, but do you have the next book in this series?” The voice catches me by surprise as I whirl around to see the young woman, holding a book up in her right hand. Her nails are perfectly manicured and painted a vibrant shade of pink, almost matching the cover of the book she has in her grip. Of course, I think with an internal eye roll. The flowers twining over the book cover evoke a feeling of exasperation at the newest obsession sweeping the nation. “We do, but all of the copies are on loan currently.” I try not to cringe at my sickly sweet voice that I put on when conversing with customers. “You can put in a hold at the front desk, if you’d like.” With a sigh of longing, the girl turns around and starts making her way to the front. Not even a thank you, I seethe to myself. I catch my breath as I see the man she joins with. His blonde, short-cut hair and strong jaw are the first thing I notice. Then his horn-rimmed glasses and finally, the book he clutches in his hand. It looks like one of various collections of Poe. My heart flutters as he turns the corner. I turn back to the cart of returns and the sight of the topmost cover almost makes me scream. In a sultry yellow sits another of those ridiculous books, surely earlier in the series based on how many copies await it on the shelf. I roll the cart down the aisles, taking solace in the familiar squeak its wheels make. In days past, I used to try to put the sequence of noises to songs. Reminiscing on this, I find myself humming La Valse absentmindedly. I almost chuckle at myself finding that even the purposefully discordant notes fitting to the squeaks. With as little reverence I can spare, but still the amount any book deserves, I place the sickly yellow book on the shelf with its companions. Surely someone like him can find someone with better taste than this nonsense, I think. Turning back to my cart, I smirk at the next cover of some half-naked man with bulging pectoral muscles grasping a swooning woman with breasts almost bursting out of her skin-tight, silk dress. Pushing the cart along, I find the melody of the wheels changed. It had never been as clearly a movement of Beethoven’s, I almost felt as if I was listening to the Ghost Trio movement. Images flash in my mind, unbidden. He is clutching me in his arms, my gossamer dress sheen and comfortable. With a slight smile, I make my way to the romance section and don’t even suppress a scoff as I drop the book into its place. The cart beckons me and I grin brightly as I see not only a writing of Poe, but one of his less notable works that the masses of faux-academics would name drop to impress their paramours. Ligeia was one of my favorites, in fact it was my favorite. Surely he had been responsible for this return, I mused as I clutch the book to my chest. Taking up my task with a new found glee, I skip to the classic section. When did someone put on Danse Macabre? I twirl as I gingerly place the piece of literary genius in its rightful place. Where did the cart go? I giggle as I dance down the aisle, gliding a finger along the spine of Fall of the House of Usher. Who turned the lights off? The sweet, chaotic music swells as I throw my arms out and laugh joyously. Spinning, spinning, spinnng. Laughing, laughing, laughing. Suddenly, I’m on the ground but even my stinging hands don’t stop my laughing. What caused my fall? Tears brim in my eyes as I sit up to see the body that I had tripped over. Camille Saint-Saëns’ magnum opus comes to its symphonic climax as I stand, looking down on my own masterpiece. Her body looks just as perfect and genteel as it had been, save the crimson puddle haloing her golden locks. I lift the copy of The Tell-Tale Heart and clasp it to my heaving chest. My laugh subsides into a giggle and tears stream down my face. Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub. Where did the music go? Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub. The book falls to the ground. Where is its place on the shelf? Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub. Why is there a draft of air? Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub. Who is making that awful racket in a library, of all places? Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub. Shhhhhhhhh. A metallic taste hits my tongue from my lips. My hands, covered in something red, shake as I look down on the corpse below me, a hollow cavity in her chest. Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub. Where did that book go? At my side sits a lump of bloody tissue. Is it still moving? Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub. “What have you done?” a voice shrieks. My hands grasp my offering and I turn to my Muse. “I am your Ligeia.” With shaking hands I offer the heart to my beloved. His scream is drowned out as I step ever closer. Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub.

It was difficult to differentiate the smells filling the tent. Odors… odors was the much more fitting descriptor. The obvious candidates were piss, shit and blood, though the less apparent stenches were what had Ivy lathering her upper lip with harralander extract. Not only was it useful because of its powerful, fresh scent, but the herb was often used as a smelling salt, which the master healer desperately needed. It had been sixteen hours by now… or was it twenty already? When had she lost count of the hours? Certainly well after she lost count of the bodies. “This one may actually make it, Healer Sophista,” the hoarse voice of Mangen grunted. He hauled a pale, chattering man up onto the surgery table. Ivy’s hands had stopped shaking after the fourth amputation — which only happened to be in the opening minutes of the battle. “What’s his ailment?” she asked, trying to put forward a firm voice. “From what I can tell by just looking at the poor chap, severe neck trauma, narrowly missing the carotid and jugular vessels. Likely a collapsed lung, given the frothy nature of the blood coming from his gullet, though this could also come from a fractured trachea. Poor sod was already in shock when I reached him.” “Very good assessment, Mangen,” Ivy Sophista said, her voice only slightly wavering. “How would you continue?” Had she had any more of her breakfast inside of her, Ivy would have lost it. Vomit, that was another culprit of the odious fragrance her harralander oil was fighting a losing battle against. “I’d say this chap would already be dead if he had the ‘sucking’ injury so if his lung is down, it’s quite stable.” “Astute. Another way one can tell this is not the case is look at the neck. Can we see any distention of his jugular vein? Correct, we cannot. If there was extensive pressure building up on one side due to a tension pneumothorax, what you colloquially referred to as the ‘sucking injury’. Good, what next?” Mangen’s broad chest puffed with pride at her adulation. “We should do a quick exploration with any necessary debridement and sterilization of the neck wound. After making sure the major vessels are intact I would explore the integrity of the trachea before closing so that he wouldn’t be leaking air into the subcutaneous tissues.” “Very good, be sure to continue using the correct vernacular when discussing treatments. It will make it an automatic way of thinking about these cases. I will observe your exploration. What will you use as your cleansing agent?” “If I need to close the trachea or any other deep structures I would use a blamish oil-soaked catgut suture and for the skin closure I would use simple flax string. Depending on how much debridement I end up doing, I would cover the wound with gauze infused with irit, though if the wound is quite clean I would use a simple decoction of marrentill.” “I agree with your plan. A good idea to use blamish oil, the marrentill hardens the line while the snail slime allows it to slip easily through the tissues. Go ahead and begin your exploration.” Ivy tried to watch Mangen closely, but three more injured soldiers were wheeled in. She had learned early on that her magic was no good for this work; after the first hour Ivy had almost fainted from how much she was drawing on the Anima. It had taken four more hours for her to stop being lightheaded. For the most severe cases, she would spare a small modicum of magic to ease pain or staunch the fatalest of bleeds. A curse from Mangen almost caused Ivy to break an arrow shaft off halfway through its extraction. Whirling to her understudy, Ivy’s already heavy heart sank even lower as she saw his patient’s slack features and still chest. Mangen had already stormed away from the corpse, cursing a blue streak and kicking over buckets in frustration. Though Ivy did not approve of rage, she knew better than most that everyone releases tension in their own way. For herself, she placed a bloody hand on the already cold skin of the dead man and whispered a quick benediction to Guthix. It had become a sort of macabre mantra to her, the amount of times she had spoken it today. It did not even occur to her that the prayer fell on deaf ears, if the rumors were to be believed. But would any of this actually be happening if Guthix had not fallen? Forgetting the face of the slain man with frightening speed, Ivy turned back to her own patient to continue her grisly work. She fell back into the rhythm that had somehow kept her upright and working for countless hours, only taking breaks to reapply harralander ointment in between bouts of dry heaving and weeping. How could her body continue to produce tears even after all of this? Guthix knows how much later, Ivy heard a deafening sound she wasn’t sure she would ever hear again. It was odd to her that the screams and groans of the wounded and dying had become a grotesque white noise and how loud silence could be after so long. “We have pushed back the Zamorakian forces for now,” a strong, Faladorian voice announced outside of the medical tent. Ivy wiped her gore-stained hands on her apron, hardly even removing the topmost layer from her palms. She walked to the open flap of her tent to peer out into the camp. Night had fallen hours ago and a small group of soldiers surrounded a tall man in glittering white armor. His was the only breastplate the flickering fire reflected off of and Ivy felt no small amount of anger at this. The men gazing up at him were covered in grime and blood while he towered over them in his immaculate armor. Ivy would eat her apron, gore and all, if the man had seen combat at all this day. “It was well fought today, I congratulate you all. The day is not won yet, but we can rest tonight knowing that Saradomin has blessed our cause.” A raucous cheer rose from the soldiers, causing Ivy Sophista to feel the most nauseous she had felt all day. “Good work today, Mangen,” she sighed, plopping down on the soft earth next to their operating tables. “I did what I could, Madam Sophista,” the stocky man grunted, dropping down next to her. “‘‘Twas a dark day for all.” “And for what?” Ivy said, hanging her head in her hands. “Such a bloody waste of life.” “Now you’re speaking my vernacular!” Mangen exclaimed with a rough chuckle. “Dinnae ‘spect a lady of your bearing to know such words.” “I’ve been around my share of men in pain.” Ivy gave a smile that she did not feel, then returned her face to her hands. “I don’t know how you usually unwind after a day as shite-filled as today was, but…” Mangen groaned as he leaned back to produce a battered wineskin from under his red-stained apron. Ivy doubted very much that it actually contained wine, however. “I shouldn’t,” she said weakly. “You certainly should, Madam.” Mangen handed her a dented copper cup he untied from the flask and filled it nearly to the brim. The liquid was clear and as harsh-smelling as their strongest disinfectant. “The first one is the worst,” Mangen warned. “Then it becomes bearable. To our ‘ealth!” A dull clunk rang from their cups and Mangen took a healthy swig from his. Ivy cautiously pressed hers to her lips and could feel her tongue retreating to the back of her throat. “Best not to think on it,” her companion gasped and before she could stop him, he tipped her cup up with a hairy hand. The swill filled her mouth and half of it immediately was sprayed onto the ground while Ivy spluttered and coughed. “Good gods, what is this deadly concoction?” she hacked out, which took almost a full minute to enunciate between near-gags. “This here grog is vodka made from the finest, heartiest ‘tatoes straight from Relleka. Now we’ve gotta finish the cup before the burn wears off. Otherwise the night is ruined!” Before Ivy could protest or ask how not finishing the cup could possibly make this night any worse, Mangen once again tipped her cup with a meaty paw while he tossed his back. The man’s taste in drink may be questionable, but he was right about it only getting better. Ivy only spluttered for fifteen seconds this time and lost less than a sip. “I knew I could trust you!” Mangen almost roared, his face already bright and red with drink. “You could drink most men under the table, Madam!” “High praise,” Ivy laughed, feeling quite heady herself. “This is one bloody great way to unwind after such a bloody awful day!” She almost fell over laughing at the look Mangen gave her; almost one of reverence for her debauch behavior. She lost count of how many times he refilled their cups, but much like the rest of the day, she did not mind losing track of it.