Bree and Mack Gibbs sat silently in the living room of their tiny cottage, located in the only village in town, and watched as the fireworks went off on the television screen. It was the first New Year’s celebration without their mother, and her presence was sorely missed.

‘It’s not the same, is it?’ Bree said aloud, though not to anyone in particular.

Mack sat straight-backed on the couch and nodded slowly, to show his sister he agreed, or at least had heard.

Over in the next room, which was once a kitchen but had slowly morphed into a den of despair following Mrs Gibbs’ death, Mr Gibbs sat in near darkness as he flipped through photo album after photo album. He had looked over photos of him and his wife so many times he longer needed light to see them.

‘I can’t stand this, Mack,’ Bree whispered to her younger brother, ‘not for another year.’ She shuffled up from the floor so that she was sitting next to him and out of earshot of their father. ‘We have to do something. We have to leave.’

Mack continued to stare at the crimson red and speckled gold fireworks bursting in an airspace he had never breathed in, a world so far away it was as unattainable as his mother. This time he didn’t nod his head.

‘C’mon, Mack,’ Bree said, pulling at her brother’s arm so hard that he had to turn and slap her away.

Bree pulled and pushed and shoved, trying every trick in her book of older sister trickery, but nothing elicited anything but a stern grimace on the face of her younger brother, who, day by day, was becoming more and more like their father.

Staring into the chestnut eyes of her little brother, she could no longer recognise the same little boy who would go trick or treating with her each year or would help her play elaborate pranks on their parents. He was gone. Her little brother was gone. Her whole family was gone.
Now it was time for Bree to leave. She realised she couldn’t survive in this tiny cottage, located in the only village in town, away from the love and laughter that, until now, she hadn’t realised was the source of her mother.

Bree Gibbs jumped up from the couch and grabbed her woollen coat from the coat rack. She headed out the door, determined to never look back.

Strong arms into which I was nestled when all was dark Still cling to me dearly as sunlight pours through the window The sound of birds chirping carries on the wind And the sea breeze filters in, signalling a new day

One kiss, all it takes To bring me down to my knees, My face smudging earth

The horse killed the mayor With the help of his lion friends An infamous crime

Little Pablo, furry and cute His itty bitty paws wrapped around a boot Has fallen headfirst into a puddle Got quite a fright, and needs a good cuddle

The love of cuddling, Entwined with another soul Is dear to my heart

Mother says I shouldn’t trust anyone, except her, of course, because mothers never lie ro their children. Well, the voice of mother in my head, because my real mother has been dead for over fifteen years.

I think she’s talking about Father Morrissey. He’s been dead for a while now too, but his voice has never left my head.

It’s funny how when someone dies, they don’t really die. At least not for me. They just become characters in my head, which means they’ll live forever. Or at least as long as I’m alive - and, at the end of the day, that’s all that really matters.

My therapist Sarah calls it a coping mechanism. She’s real you see, because she hasn’t died yet. I can tell the difference between real people and voices in my head. It’s not like I’m crazy or anything.

But wait, what if Mother was actually talking about Sarah and not Father Morrissey? I mean the man’s a priest, surely he wouldn’t lie to me. Priests only lie about molesting children, right? I asked Sarah this once, and she said I probably shouldn’t share that thought with anyone else, since it may come across as insensitive.

I think I was making quite a valid point. So maybe Sarah was trying to silence me for some reason … That’s what Mother’s warning must have been about. But Mother used to say always listen to your therapist - they’re the truest friend you’ll ever have in this world. Was that real mother or voice-in-my-head mother? They both sound so similar it’s hard to tell the two apart.

If that’s the case then it must be Father Morrissey who’s keeping a secret from me! And if priests only lie about molesting children, then that must mean … that I was molested as a child. I don’t really remember that happening, but it must be true, since Mother would never lie, and since Sarah’s the truest friend I’ll ever have, and since priests only lie about one thing.

I’ve solved the mystery, finally. The only thing to do now is to alert the diocese of this terrible crime that has been seemingly committed against me, well the younger me, who must remember what happened better than I do. And if there’s anyone I trust wholeheartedly in this world, it’s me.

‘The humans are so weak.’

‘They hide from the very thing that would give them ultimate power.’

Xu and Yu crept through the silence of the suburban street, peering into windows and seeing nothing but sleeping humans.

They traced their skeletal grey talons against the glass, softly enough that the screech wouldn’t wake anyone.

‘Can you feel the power coursing through your veins, Yu?’

Xu looked at his companion with a sick look of glee on their face.

‘I can. I think it’s time. This is the one.’

The two crawlers had arrived at a Victorian-style mansion at the end of the street. Through the ground-floor window, they could see into the living room, where two boys and two girls were sleeping on mattresses on the carpet. A sleepover of friends who were afraid of the dark.

Xu and Yu pressed the decaying flesh of their faces against the window and started to make sucking noises with their piercing tongues.

‘I think we will feed well tonight, brother.’

‘The darkness has rewarded us well.’

The two creatures slunk into the house, in the dead of night, where no one could see the terror they were about to inflict.

The sound of gunshots are still ringing in my ear. I hold the hand of the little boy whose mother’s dead body lies in the sunken earth as we run deeper and deeper into the maze, nothing but moonlight to guide our way.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like there’s no way out of this maze, and the only thing that’s waiting for us, whichever path we choose, is death from one gun or another.

We stop running as soon as I feel the little boy’s little feet starting to drag. He has no energy left, all the adrenaline leeched from his body like the light from his mother’s hazel eyes.

He looks up at me, his eyes like a puppy who doesn’t know he’s about to be put down.

‘Mister … If we survive, can I go home?’

My mouth opens and closes. What can I possibly say to this child who has just watched his mother get murdered, who doesn’t understand that we likely only have moments left to live?

I bend down to his level and tuck a stray strand of hair behind his head, clasping his face as I do so.

‘Yeah buddy. If we survive, I promise I’ll get you home.’

A gun fires nearby, startling us both. We look into each other’s eyes, embers of defiance glowing between us. And so we run, praying for survival.

There’s fog all around me, smoky, wispy tendrils that form together to obscure my vision. I don’t know where I am, and the further I wade into the cloudy unknown, the less sure I am of whether I’m supposed to be here at all.

The last thing I remember was the steering wheel slipping from beneath my alcohol-lubricated hands and the blaring lights of another car. I must’ve crashed. But, that would mean that I’m dead … and that this is … heaven? That can’t be right. I can’t be dead. Where are the pearly white gates, the angels with halos of gold above their heads?

I think I see someone else, or at least the skeletal impression of a hand, and I start to run towards it, yelling for them to stop. But soon any remnant of them is gone, and I’m in an even darker fog. It’s like being in a storm before it strikes.

Is this how it all ends?