The fog mists in every direction like a thick curtain, not even the light from my lighthouse can break through. Everything is wet from the storm that rages outside angry and getting angrier by the second. A noise is the only thing that’s able to cut through, faint at first, but becoming louder and louder. The most beautiful singing I have ever heard in my whole life beckoning me toward it. First one voice then another and another until there are many all harmonizing singing different notes. There’s no discernible words or language that stands out, just a cacophony of song. Now it’s coming from every direction as if I’m surrounded it’s impossibly loud, but not unpleasant or deafening. I look out the window and see several small humanoid figures sticking out of the water, floating; more appearing the longer I look until there’s dozens of them. I can only see the vague outline, but they look oddly feminine. The humanoid figures just float there watching me watch them. I’m so entranced in the song and the figures in the water I don’t notice the lighthouse start to shift under my very feet until the whole thing starts to list and tilt and by then it’s too late. My heart skips and it feels like time stops. There is a great creaking sound that overtakes even the beautiful song of the creatures and the windows crack and explode in my face and I just get my arm up to shield myself in time. I’m stumbling and panicking, my mind blank with fear. The rocks the lighthouse was perched on have eroded and are falling into the sea taking the lighthouse and me with it. I take one last glance up when I see the humanoid figures rise up out of the water and now I see they aren’t humans at all, what I once thought were humanesque creatures from the deep I now see are long spindly fingers of a much larger creature. The hands become visible, then the top of the head, the water parts to accommodate this colossal beast breaching its surface. One of its massive hands comes up and catches the falling lighthouse, its fingers wrapping around several times like the tentacles of an octopus. It lets out a bellowing roar that rattles my very soul. The lighthouse jerks as the creature holds it like a child holds a toy and I lose what little footing I had left and shoot out the broken window, free falling toward the water. Another hand emerges from the depths and comes up to meet me as I land with a thud. It lifts me so I’m face to face with it and stares at me inquisitively. My eyes go directly to it’s massive gaping mouth filed with multiple rows of pointed, serrated, razor sharp teeth too big for it’s mouth so they stick out haphazardly and large completely black bulbous eyes. This is like nothing I’ve ever heard nor seen before. I looked behind me just in time to see one of it’s dark grey tentacle like finger extremities coming toward me, wrapping around my waist. It sets me down on the ground, safe back on land, and the lighthouse in the water in the general area it would have landed had the great beast let it fall and it backs up and sinks back to the depths, being swallowed back up by the sea and fog. All I can think is ‘no one will ever believe this’

The near silence was enveloping. The only sound was broken glass crunching under my heavy boots. This was the norm ever since everything crumbled. The world was under massive pressure. The economy, environment, political climate; it was all just too much. Society crumbled. It started out as small pockets of unrest here and there, but as greed kept barreling full force, head on like a bullet train nothing could stop the inevitable. Those at the top continued to take even, and quite frankly especially, when the rest of the world had nothing to give.

Now we’re here it was dubbed the great fall, though I never really saw the point of naming the end of the world, but that’s the funny thing isn’t it? Nothing is ever really the end. Everything is just a continuation impacted only by the decisions we make, but the world keeps turning, the sun comes up again in the morning, though you can barely see it through the haze of seemingly permanent pollution. I wish there were a proverbial “they” to blame for all this, for the thick air that’s often too toxic to breathe without a gas mask, the heat with little to no relief, being catapulted into the dark ages, but there isn’t. I am largely to blame for at least this part of the world’s destruction. I ran the biggest corporation making billions of dollars a year with little regard for anyone but myself. I could have helped but I didn’t. Instead The Great Fall was my great equalizer. My money valueless, pushed from my mansion by looters with nothing but the clothes on my back I have been walking across America to my home town. Back to where it all started. I convinced myself it would be better here, as if anywhere would be safe from the destruction. It’s a ghost town, not a living soul in sight. I stopped walking to look at my reflection in what was left of the shattered display window of the local bakery. I watched as a single tear rolled down my cheek and scolded myself. I was sad for the same reason I didn’t prevent this whole thing in the first place: I care only because it’s affecting me. I may be the same monster, but at least I’m self aware.

John sits in the conference room scrolling his phone and sipping the cheap, bitter coffee that was slightly viscous Joan, the receptionist, had made that morning. She went home early when everyone realized this is a slow day, and it has been unusually slow. Usually there would be walk ins, visitors, nice old ladies bringing cookies, the odd petty criminal being escorted in in handcuffs but today there is nothing. Dead silence. John absentmindedly sips his coffee again, coating his throat and mouth once again in the acrid liquid.

His face screws up in a mixture of disappointment and disgust when there’s a muffled scratching and barking coming from the direction of the front doors. Confusion washes over his face and he sets his phone and cup down, rising from his seat. If it insisted on being such a slow day at least he could go investigate this. He sticks his head out of the conference room and through the main lobby he sees a Jack Russell terrier sitting expectantly at the large glass front double doors. John inches into the lobby and the closer he gets the more the animal shuffles it’s paws, big brown eyes pleading to be let in as if they live here. John takes the few steps so he’s directly parallel with the doors and peers around as if the creature’s owner is going to materialize and take the dog away. John only opens the doors just far enough for the animal to squeeze through and the dog darts inside between his legs like a bullet. John 180s and lets the doors close behind him; now looking more closely he sees a note pinned to the dogs harness collar. This day went from mind-numbingly boring to confusing in a hurry. John slowly reaches down, testing the waters of the dogs temperament. When it doesn’t run or growl John unclips the mystery note from the dog and gives him a few pats on the head. John rips open the letter, immediately regretting touching the paper. He doesn’t know what could be on, or in this envelope, but he calms himself. If the dog seems fine he hopes he should be too. He pulls the folded piece of paper from its confines and opens it. A hand written letter that reads:

Dear Boss,

Do you remember me? Probably not. The last time you heard from me was over a hundred years ago and across the pond.

     Let me jog your memory

They called me ‘Jack The Ripper’ back then. You can call me whatever you want now. The outcome will be the same.

Bet you didn’t see this one coming! HA HA!

I love pulling one over on you. Then or now, here or across the pond. You’re all the same easily manipulated and fooled. You cops have never had the slightest idea of my true identity, and I don’t expect you to start now! I will do what I do, prove my points, play my silly little game then slip into the night as always.

      Hope those phones didn’t need answering!

           She’ll be my first victim this time, I think!

A shame, I’ve been watching and she’s good at her job!

       Lovingly,
     Saucy Jack

John stares at the note in shocked horror. What was this? Was it a prank or real? He takes a deep breath. ‘Don’t be silly’ he says to himself aloud. A Jack The Ripper copycat? That’s ridiculous. ‘That’s right, this is silly, don’t work yourself up.’ He jumps with a start as his phone rings. He cautiously walks to the conference room as the dog trails behind him, docked tail wagging.

He picks it up, pressing the green button.

‘Hello, John speaking.’

A uni he mentors a bit, Sean, is on the other end ‘we got a body.’ He says somberly. ‘And you’re really not gonna like this’

John can’t hear anything past that as the roaring in his ears becomes deafening. He feels the color drain from his whole body and the note he still held in this hand floated to the conference room floor, face up, like a taunt.

As the hazy light filtered through the trees Wren inhaled deep the cool crisp early morning air. Their mind blank, the only sounds were the white noise of the water and forest around them. This was Wren’s meditation, their happy place, these moments before the world was filled with activity of their fellow human. They took this most precious time to think, ponder, clear their mind. There was the sudden bloop of a fish tugging at the line and in that moment Wren knew everything would be ok, for today at least. Wren would eat, and with belly full and mind clear they would make it another day.

My hands were submerged nearly to my elbows in soapy dish water. This was my least favorite chore, but at least the water felt warm on my skin. I remember scrubbing a plate vigorously with a textured sponge, and kicking myself for leaving them so long.

It was partially my boredom with the task at hand, partially my curiosity that had been building for the last several days at the smell that had slowly been getting stronger emanating from the crawl space. It was a terrible smell. The only way I could describe it was noxious, nauseating, headache inducing, yet almost sweet. My husband told me a critter had died under the house, and he’d take care of it, but the smell was getting stronger. I felt I had to take care of it myself because the smell was nearly unbearable.

I gave my hands three good shakes over the sink to whip off the excess water, and grabbed the dish towel and dried them the rest of the way, chucking it haphazardly back toward the counter.

I walked across the room, relaxed, with my hands resting on my hips to investigate the crawl space. I crouch just outside the small broom closet that houses the opening to get under the house and lifted the linoleum covered hatch that matches the rest of the kitchen and set it on the floor. I placed my hands down to brace myself and laid on my stomach.

This next part I remember vividly, it will be burned into my memory, replaying for the rest of my short life. I poked my head down in the hole and saw nothing but dirt and darkness under the house with a couple spots of light from the outside poking through. I craned my head as far as my neck would allow to both sides and saw more of the same. I popped out of the hole, to my feet, but still crouching. I swiveled so my back was facing the opening to the crawl space, and put one leg, then the other down until I hit solid dirt. I crouched again a did the same pivoting motion and didn’t see anything until I did a full 180 and all I see in the darkness are the top of a head with dark brown, long hair resting on an arm that looks limp and unnatural.

“All I wanted was a lazy Sunday, but now I have to kill you.” Is the next thing I heard. My husband’s voice. I hadn’t even heard him come in.

I looked up in confusion and the last thing I saw before I woke up in this wood box was my husband and the shovel in his hands about to connect with my face.

I tried banging on the top but every time just let in more and more dirt. Screaming was no use, though I screamed and yelled until I couldn’t anymore. The air eventually started to feel different, thinner, harder to breathe. Each inhale became more laborious, and my eyelids started feeling heavy.

I try to fight as long as I can, but no one is looking for me, I can’t claw my way out. My eyes droop and it’s trying harder to open them again. I can’t fight the urge to sleep any longer, and hope that when I wake up this will have all been a bad dream.

He was almost to the counter. He felt the note he planned to pass to the teller in his pocket like a lead weight. He wondered how things made it this far, or got to be this bad. This was always the point in the robbery he heard the nagging voice in his head tell him ‘it’s not too late, you can still turn around and walk out the door. No harm no foul!’ But he was next in line there was no turning back. The person in front of him finished and walked off. The teller was a polite young woman who smiled at him, waiting for him to step to the counter. He had specifically chosen her to be his next target. She was too young to have been there long enough to know what to do, and he could easily scare her to the point of doing what he asked quickly and without question. He stepped to the counter, pulled the note from his pocket and slid it to her like he’d done a few times before. She picked up the slip of paper, still smiling. A few seconds later the smile fell from her face and shifted to a grim frown, mouth slightly agape. She looked up at him. He said nothing, he had found it better to just let their mind run wild then make empty, meaningless threats. Tears sprung to her eyes and he immediately thought of his own daughters. He had a sudden urge to console her, but refrained.

“Why are you doing this?” She stage whispered to him.

That feeling sprung to his chest again and radiated out to his neck and stomach. Pity, remorse, sorrow. He cleared his throat.

“Just put the money in a bag, no trackers, no dye packs, no silent alarms, no games and everything will be fine. I’ll be on my way and you’ll never see me again.” He replied, sympathetic, yet stern.

He could tell her how he was in debt, lost his job due to the pandemic, how he was barely keeping his head above water, marriage in shambles because of it, but none of that would matter to her, rightfully so. All she’d care about is that a man is stealing from her.

She shoved the money into a paper bag as fast as she could and handed it to him. He wanted to apologize and explain to her this was the only way he saw out of this pit that circumstance had dug for him, wanted to explain to everyone his nose was just under the surface and if he just had an influx of cash he could get to the surface and take a breath, however fleeting.

“Give the note back.” He said flatly.

She looked at him in confusion but shoved the crumpled piece of paper back in his hand. He always did this to throw the cops. He wasn’t going to tediously plan this robbery, or the ones before it to then be caught by a hand writing analysis. He walked out the door, down the sidewalk, and out of sight. Never running, running drew too much attention. He was several blocks away until he breathed a sigh of relief. He heard sirens but none this way, he was going to get away with it again.

The small town pub is packed on Saturday, as usual, with miners looking to let off a little steam. You can’t hear yourself think over the chattering, yelling, singing, and thunderous laughter that erupt. A fire blared in the monstrous, stone fireplace that took up a whole corner of the room. The alcohol fueled festivities came to an abrupt stop when a young man, no more then 22, burst through the door pale as a ghost with a look of pure fear. Everything, and everyone stop and look at this frightened young man some with confusion, most with blank stares. The only thing that anyone hears now is the roar of the fire and this strange visitors heavy breathing.

After a long silence he says: “I was just in The City Of The Dead!”

Everyone simultaneously erupts into loud, hardy laughter. Skeptical miners yelling ‘that’s crazy’ ‘how much has the boy had to drink?’ ‘Either too much or not enough’.

“No, it’s true! I wouldn’t lie about this!” The young man said insistently.

One of the miners at the bar who was standing directly across from the door waves his hands in a ‘calm down’ motion.

“Tell us what happened, son.” He said after the room is quiet again, his voice gravely and slurred. He grabs the young man by the arm and pulls him further in the pub, and awkwardly slings his arm around the young man.

The young man is close enough now he can smell the miner’s terrible breathe and it takes everything in him to not react.

“The streets are cobble stone, the buildings, stone. Everything is dark, grey, the fog so thick you can’t even see your feet half the time! Figures, faceless, in black cloaks lurk in your periphery!”

The miners all glance at each other skeptically at his campfire story. The boy has barely taken a breath since he barged into the pub and he takes deep, gulping breaths as if his lungs can’t take it anymore.

The boy, feeling their doubts, skips to the most important part while he still has their attention. “And the cloaked figure that kept the huge bell in town center told me the mine will collapse tomorrow with you all in it, and you’ll all die if you don’t listen to me and heed my warning!”

“Hog wash!” Someone yelled and everyone erupts into laughter again that sounds more like yelling. The man that pulled the boy in is now shoving him out.

“Great story, boy, now go back to wherever you came from.” And slams the door in the young man’s face.

The young man tries banging on the door and windows, but it’s no use. He’s being ignored. He sits in the chair just outside the pub and rubs his face. He don’t know what else to do and sits and mourns the pub full of miners that have less then 12 hours left alive.

I am the only one brave enough, dumb enough, desperate enough to take the night shift. Digging graves at night alone is not an ideal way to spend the night, but it puts food on the table and money is tight right now.

The crisp, wet, earthy smell fills my nose, soaking itself into my clothes and hair. I feel as though I’m inhaling the earth, permanently attaching itself to me. The silence is deafening, making each hit of the shovel on rock, roots and dirt seem like a gun shot going off. I scoop another shovel full when I hear something. It’s not me, this sound is clearly different, rhythmic. I stop to listen. Silence. Then:

Tap

Tap

Tap

I straighten, looking around. Shaking my head, I return to my work. The night is quiet, and when you’re in a place people prefer not to go when it’s light out, it can seem like the world stops. Your mind -— and ears can start to play tricks on you.

Tap

Tap

Tap

That time is distinct, unmistakably not me, and undeniably not a figment of my imagination. The stories that old timers tell about ghosts and spirits pop into my head. My heart drops into my stomach for a split second but I shoved those thoughts from my head. This is ridiculous I’m not even superstitious, but spending so much time in this purgatory being haunted by the remnants of other people’s ghosts makes your mind go to such odd places.

Tap

Tap

Tap

I tried to place the sound, but it seems to be coming from no particular place. It wasn’t fast, or urgent as if someone needs help. Can it be an animal? The wind, maybe? But there was no wind that night and it is such a peculiar sound I don’t know what animal could be making it.

Tap

Tap

Tap

The mausoleum. I can place the sound that time. It came from the direction of the mausoleum just in front of me and off to my right. I crawl from my hole, shovel in hand and creep slowly toward the crypt. It’s ostentatious, imposing design insinuate the importance of whoever is entombed inside. I am just feet from it’s doors and

Tap

Tap

Tap

I try to subdue the fear clutching my chest, my rational brain yells at me to get a grip. The slow tapping has completely stopped now and the only sound that can be heard on this still night is my heavy, labored breathing.

I take a key from the keychain attached to my waist and unlock the large padlock holding the chain that is double wrapped around the filigree handles. I give a pull of the chain and it falls to the concrete stairs with a shrill clank. I grab the handles, take a deep breath, and pull. The door creaks open revealing the inside. It takes my eyes and brain several seconds to register what I’m seeing.

The concrete burial vault which sits in the middle of the mausoleum has it’s heavy concrete lid sitting at its side, and the coffin lay in the burial vault like a morbid Russian nesting doll, but no body lay inside. No one has been in or out of this place since the funeral more then a decade ago, yet a dozen or so lit candles are scattered around the floor and on the edge of the burial vault. There is no animal prints anywhere and no animal. What could have been that tapping noise? I feel a quick pain from behind like someone has tackled me and next thing I know I’m on my back half on the steps of the mausoleum, half in the wet grass. My breath catches in my throat and I hear the blood rushing and roaring in my ears as my neck snaps back with the fall and the back of my head cracks on the top step.

The last thing I see before the world fades to black is the outline of a humanoid figure staring down at me, the large construction lights I use to see in the dark while I dig obscure my view of much detail. The Figure opens it’s mouth wide revealing needle sharp k9s. The Figure pounces and I feel a sharp pain in my neck.

Then

Darkness.

Galèa rises to her feet from her crouching position, and takes a deep breath in the early evening air. She looks out, admiring the large expanse of land filled with any plant they could need for food, medicine, or any other purpose. This is her happy place: the smell of the dirt and plants, the feel of them between her bare toes and the sun shining down on her skin, warm and comforting. She feels the most comfortable outside, especially gardening for her community. She takes a moment more to absorb the warmth of the sun before grabbing the large wicker basket at her feet that is so full it’s nearly overflowing with plants of varying shades of green and yellow. The person nearest her, also picking that seasons harvest, nods and smiles in acknowledgment and Galèa returns the gesture. She walks back toward the grassy strip and dirt road that run parallel with the gardening land to empty her basket and return to the garden to fill it again like she has been doing all day and carefully places her haul into the back of one of the parked trucks the group drove there. Galèa turns to head back but notices the children who play in the grass while their parents work in the field are staring at something in the sky, she turns her attention to them.

“What are you looking at?” She yells to them.

One of the children looks back at her and excitedly yells “there’s a shooting star!” While pointing to the sky.

Galèa looks to where the child is pointing and sees a light in the sky. ‘A shooting star during the day? How odd’ thinks Galèa. Then she notices the smoke trailing behind the strange light.

“That’s not a shooting star.” Says Galèa.

“Well then what is it?” Asks one of the other children.

“I have no idea...” Galèa says, cupping her hand over her eyes to shield the sun.

The others working in the garden stop and turn to see what they are staring at.

“It’s getting closer, I think!” Shouts someone.

“It is and it’s going to land!” Shouts another.

Galèa brings her middle finger and thumb to her lips and gives a shrill whistle.

“Everybody listen, let’s head back and see if anyone in town knows what’s going on. Load up.” She yells.

Everyone, almost in unison, grabs their baskets, motions to the children to follow, and heads back to the trucks.

The whole community saw the light in the sky and stands staring at the large metal object that crash landed where the large fountain in town center used to be. There is so much smoke coming off it that you could make out only the shape of the object, and the heat is so intense everyone has to keep their distance. There are murmurs from the crowd asking ‘what is it’ or ‘what’s going on’. Then over everything there is a clicking and then air hissing noise like a great pressure being released, more clicking, then a pop, and metallic thud. You barely see some sort of movement in the smoky haze. Then as the figures moved closer the vague outline of 3 beings emerge.

“Hello, my name is commander Sheffield. I would like to speak with whoever is in charge.”

Everyone looks around at each other, confused, stunned, frozen. No one knows what to do, no one wants to be the first to make a move. The beings are quite short and stalky in comparison to the native planet dwellers. They wear some kind of protective suits with large, round helmets.

“Does anyone understand me? We’re here to speak with your highest ranking official.” Says commander Sheffield, his voice is muffled by his protective suit.

“We understand you, what did you call yourself? Commander? Our people speak several languages.” Says a voice from the crowd. 

A woman steps forward. “You have to forgive us, it isn’t every day someone crash lands in Town Center.” She says with her hands folded.

“Yes, well, we apologize. We didn’t think this planet would be inhabited, certainly not by creatures capable of building such an intricate village. Are you the one that’s in charge around here?” Says commander Sheffield in a slightly agitated tone. 

“No, no one is really in charge here. That’s not how our society functions.” She says with a tight smile.

Commander Sheffield scoffs. “Someone has to be in charge, here. You can’t function without a leader.” 

“Our ancestors found a long time ago we really don’t, and having someone ‘in charge’ causes more problems then solves them.” She says.

“Alright, well what is your name?” Commander Sheffield asks his annoyance starting to escalate in his tone.

“Call me Maè.” She says, bowing her head slightly.

“Is your atmosphere hospitable? Is there oxygen?” Asks commander Sheffield.

“Our planet is very oxygen rich, yes.” Maè assures him.

Commander Sheffield fidgets with his helmet, twists, then pulls. His face is revealed and it’s similar to the native planet inhabitants in some ways but his features are smaller, squatty looking. Commander Sheffield takes a deep breath, satisfied he motions for the 2 other beings to do the same. They nod to the crowd and smile. 

“This is Greer and Brennan.” Says commander Sheffield, motioning to them. “We’re here because our planet became uninhabitable and eventually ravaged by fire. No one saw it coming beforehand so we fled. We were hoping to rebuild here, but it looks like you already have that covered.” 

“We would be happy to host you until you find somewhere you could go to rebuild.” Maè says. “Is it just you three?” 

“We’ll talk about all that later, but in the meantime we have come an awfully long way and would greatly appreciate being fed.” Says commander Sheffield.

“I think we can arrange a feast to welcome our new guests.” Maè looks around at the crowd for confirmation and sees everyone nodding back at her. “It would be our pleasure.” She says smiling, looking back at the beings. 

The native people would quickly regret the decision to welcome the strange beings forever.

“The world will burn.” Says a tired looking man in a button up shirt tucked into khaki pants that are both at least a size too big. The belt around his waist the only thing holding his pants in place.

“It’s going to be bad.” Jittery and worn he moves his hand in a shrugging motion, wafting smoke from the cigarette in his fingers in front of his face. As if just remembering it was there he puts it between his lips and puffs. The smoke rolls up, covering his face for just a moment. His eyes are red and watery from the strain of being awake for days.

The work station isn’t in much better shape. Lit only by a single bulb overhead empty coffee cups, and papers are strewn haphazardly across a less then sturdy desk that he leans against. Crumpled papers cover the floor around the wire trash can. Indents from the wheels of where his rolling chair usually sits in front of his computer are imprinted into the cheap commercial carpet.

“I’m positive about this, I ran the simulations.” With his cigarette still between his lips and smoke and ash being sent in different directions with every word, he rolls his sleeves higher up on his forearms. “The world will burn, it’s going to be chaos.” His voice was almost somber, he looks off as if searching for the answers to fix the events he knows are inevitable. He puts the cigarette back between his fingers.

“What do the simulations say?” Says his colleagues who stands at the threshold of his war torn looking office.

“The earth will be uninhabitable, the soil won’t be able to grow anything, what little water we have will be toxic, the air we breathe will even kill us. And that’s IF the flames that will cover most, if not, all of the earth don’t kill us first.” Rubbing his face with his free hand, he takes a deep breath. “This is solid data and I can’t get anyone to listen to me.”

“Well yeah, hellfire is bad for business.” His colleague says with a nervous laugh. “It’s more comfortable in the short term to ignore it.”

“They pay me to do a job and I did it. This isn’t a ‘maybe’, this is a ‘will %100 happen’ possibly even sooner then I think.” He said, leaning back on his rickety desk even more, putting his head back. “I should have never taken a job here.”

“What’s your timeline?” His colleague shifts uncomfortably.

“Well, quite honestly, the events have already been set into motion. At this point we can only do harm reduction, but for the ‘hellfire’ as you put it? Within 5 years, and that’s overshooting it in my opinion. Some simulations showed as soon as 6 months to a year for fires to start, and once they start it’s going to be a runaway train, then soon, a majority of the planet just....engulfed.” He waves his hand in the air and a trail of smoke follows. He grabs one of his empty coffee cups, put his cigarette out in it, and set it back down on the desk with force, shaking his head. “I can’t even get them to take my calls anymore. I’m the leading environmental scientist in the country, and they’re ignoring my calls like I’m some conspiracy theory nut.”

He grabs his pack of cigarettes from under the mess of papers and cups and lights a fresh one.

“You know you’re not supposed to be smoking inside.” Says his colleague.

“You gonna tell on me?” He retorts.

A smile creeps across his colleagues face and they shake their head. He offers his colleague a smoke and they take it and he lights it.

“Those’ll kill you, ya know.” He says jokingly.

“Sounds like it doesn’t much matter.” His colleague says. “I can try and make a few calls for you if you want? Maybe it can add some credibility if more then one scientist is concerned.”

“You can try, but don’t hold your breathe. They’re going to let the house burn down with all of us inside.” He sighs.

“It can’t hurt to try, though. I’ll do that tonight, but I’m on my way out. You should be too, get some rest.” Says his colleague.

“I’m right behind you.” He says but neither of them believe his lie.

His colleague motions for a cup and puts their cigarette out before walking down the hall to the elevators to leave the building.

The next day his colleague walks down the same hall they had walked countless times before catching their friend’s office in peripheral. Something was different, no, wrong. They stop and take several steps backward until they could see his office again. The same office that had coffee cups and papers blanketing it is now empty. The only evidence that anyone had ever been there are the indents of where the desk and chair had been in the carpet. They saw the person that worked in the next office over and wave to get their attention.

“Do you know where he went?” Pointing to the office.

The person just shrugs and says “he got promoted or demoted or transferred, I don’t really know. It was like that when I got here this morning.” The person walks into their office and shuts the door.

He’s gone, like he never existed.