Orange rays of light shine against the handles of his bike. Leaves fall around him, some simply resting on the path after a long day of hanging, and he bikes as they decorate themselves on his clothes.

The streets are barren of people and cars, and there are rows of houses that have begun to collect webs and dust. There are no crickets or owls to accompany the moon’s light, and the trees grow still as he passes.

It is the boy’s birthday today. Eleven years of age. He is nearly a man, he thinks. It is why, today, he rides with his friend who sits on the bike beside his. Though the boy, of course, must help him—it is why his hand holds and guides the bike’s handle while the other holds his own.

“I’m gonna take a break, Johnny,” the boy says. He slowly removes himself from his bike, making sure his hands never leave the handles of each.

When he is no longer sitting on the bike, he drops it and gathers both hands to the handles of Johnny’s bike and guides it to the tree that sits only a few feet ahead.

He gently leans the bike against it and sits down beside it.

When his eyes begin to feel heavy, and he feels the bark of the tree kiss his neck, he jolts, catching sight of the pristine, untouched leather of Johnny’s bike. He begins to hear old, scared whispers in his head, and so he rises, not caring for the dirt on his pants, and runs to his bike to continue his journey.

He reminds himself that Johnny will be there tomorrow, waiting beside the tree, with the whispers of the boy who has held many things in his hands and has lost them all.

He wears his horns tonight. Very rarely does he wear his horns. Rebecca is dressed for bed, her sheets are cold, and she is ready to close her eyes and sleep, but he’s wearing his horns and waiting for her outside of her window. Judging by the rapid beat of her heart, she is far too scared to dismiss him, so she smooths her nightgown from any wrinkles it may have collected while it was folded, and sits in the chair in front of the window. In front of him. “Hello,” she says. “Hello.” His voice seems different tonight: smoother, softer. “I have a proposition,” he says. Confused, she raises her eyes from where they have wandered, to his. Crimson marks his pupils, two in each eye, and when he says her name, her eyes shoot to his lips. His lips are the only feature on him that looks human. He is intriguing, though she shouldn’t admit this. “What is it?” she asks. “Runaway with me.” Once again her eyes shoot to his, but this time they are green and hold only one pupil in each. “What?” He repeats what he had said, but her ears have closed. They have, instinctively, shut so as not to be tempted by his words, because her heart had liked the way it sounded far too much. To runaway. With him, nonetheless. “What do you mean?” “Well, what it sounds like, my dear.” “And what has brought this up?” “You.” She must tell her heart to slow. To calm down, because with the glint in his eye, she is sure he can hear it too. “No,” she says. He falters. “Why?” “Because you are the devil and merely here to tempt me.” “What is temptation if it is not something you already want?” He laughs at whatever look is on her face. “Get dressed. We leave soon.” “I am not leaving with you.” “Darling, I am not here to argue.” His voice has lost its softness and has returned to the voice she knows quite well. The voice that is much easier to refuse. “I’m sorry,” he says, and its softness has returned. “Maybe tomorrow,” she says. “There is no tomorrow. Let’s go, Rebecca.” She cannot help but feel the need to go. To take his hand and see what he must feel the need to show her. There is not much fight left within her, when he is right that there is some part of her that wants to run. “Okay,” she whispers.

There is a man that stands behind the mountain. He wears a very large cloak, one that to an individual would look far too big, but to him, it is perfect. The hood is perfectly sized to fit his head and hide his face, and the coat of it is just large enough for him to appear bigger but not too large to where it drags against any surface he may walk on.

Specifically the surface of the mountain.

Every third Wednesday of each month, he finds himself at the heel of the mountain. Though, he has yet to climb it— to step foot on the first rock that marks the path to the Door, there is not one month that he misses.

There are legends of the Door; of what is behind it. There are legends as to what an individual who walks the path will see, feel. Legends, tales, both good and bad. But when one hears these stories, the bad is what is remembered and feared.

But on the third Wednesday of the third month, the man in the very large cloak stands behind the mountain and walks past the first rock.

This mountain stands in the midst of the clouds and falls in a green forest. Trees surround it and part where the path begins.

He continues his walk up the path. He has made it a couple of feet and no legends or tales have been proven to be true, so he relaxes and continues with confidence.

The man in the very large cloak begins to tire as he climbs the steep mountain. Sweat lines his forehead and his breaths shorten. His legs feel like limp flowers, and his feet throb.

He begins to think about his home in the village: his bed that waits for him, the food that calls for him, and the coolness of temperature that readies for him.

His steps begin to slow, then finally come to a stop. He sits on the dirt path not caring for his clothes or the Door that he so often claims he wants to see.

He removes his hood and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his cloak and decides he will take a quick break. He will simply rest his eyes for just a moment and then continue his journey.

But when is eyelids begin to feel like weights tied to his lashes, he jolts at a sound behind him. Trees rustle, and he tells himself it is an animal. He is surrounded by trees; of course it is an animal.

The sound comes closer, creeping up his spine into the space between his cloak and his chest. He inhales whatever ounce of air is near and brings his fingers to his ears; it is the only way to drown the loud beat of his heart, but it only gets louder.

He rises.

Wipes the dirt from his cloak.

And runs.

The trees around him begin to shake. He did not look to where he ran but it is when a branch falls at his feet that he realizes he is only a couple of feet from the mountain’s peak.

This realization only makes the trees angrier. They call the wind to join forces, and the man in the cloak fights against it. He pushes with all of his might, every ounce of strength he can muster.

Trees whisper, wind howls, and the path he walks shakes with fury.

He is so close to surrendering. So close to drawing the white flag he keeps hidden, until the path stops shaking, the trees pick up the leaves they have dropped and turn their heads from him, and the wind stops it’s cries and begins to sing.

Alexander slowly let’s go of the grip he has on his cloak and drops to the ground. He claws at his throat begging for it to open— to take air and gift his lungs with it, but with his hands on his throat, he looks up.

The sky has cleared above the mountain. The sun wakes. The grass that sits at its peak waves at him, and that is when he takes his first breath.

The Door sits at the top of the mountain untouched, pristine. Not one scratch marks its service and not one smudge stains it.

It has been waiting.

For him.

Dozens of people walk beneath the bridge. They pass it and they do not raise their heads to look at it. It is as if it is not even there. Isabel, who is fairly new to town, comes to a point in which the bridge can be viewed clearly. Snow that falls from the sky settles on top of the bridge’s roof and the window panes that line the side of it are dark and foggy. She turns her head left and right as people pass her, trying to make eye contact with the folk that refuse to lift their heads from the snow covered roads. She reaches a hand toward an older passerby and taps her shoulder. “Pardon me,” she says. “What places does that bridge connect?” The woman adjusts her scarf as the space between her eyebrows crinkles. She looks over to where Isabel points and asks, “What bridge, darling?” Isabel looks back to the bridge, expecting it to have magically vanished, but it is still there. She looks back toward the older woman, but she has gone. Isabel turns back to the crowd in search of a red scarf, but black coats cloud her vision, no sign of crimson. She releases a breath that collides with the cold air that surrounds her and strides forward. She stands below the bridge and searches for an entrance. The snow below her feet crunches with each steps she takes, and then she sees it. A cracked window, that to one who merely glanced at it would only see brick that lines the wall behind it. But Isabel, who looks rather closely, sees a worn ladder. There is a thin web that takes place in its center and the third step has been snapped down the middle. Despite this, Isabel grabs hold of the ledge, keenly watching her arm as to not slice it, then swings her leg over. Once she has made it through the window, she wipes any dirt or dust from her coat and walks toward the ladder. The first step is quite sturdy, of course, but as she climbs, she finds herself taking large steps to pass the broken ones. When she reaches the top, her hands secured on the last step, she finds a metal door. It shines despite the lack of light, and as she looks closer there is not one scratch, not one smudge, not one sign of use. Remarkable, she thinks. She searches for a knob to turn, and when she realizes there simply is not one, she climbs upward to the final step and pushes against the cold, steel surface. The door groans as it opens, yet Isabel keeps her eyes glued to her shoes. She has not thought this far, naturally. She simply grew curious. But when she can no longer push the door further, she looks up.

                   TO BE CONTINUED.

There is a jar of purple powder that sits beside her bed. It begins to collect dust as days pass, never once being used. Every night, she fluffs her pillow and pulls her sheets open. She gets settled beneath her comforter, and when she thinks she is ready to remove the lid from the jar, her heart begins to race. Her thumb and first finger shake, and so she decides against it. It is a repetitive thing. The night Thea received the jar, the woman who held it smiled with mischief. “It will show you your last day,” she said. “What do you mean?” “On Earth.” Thea blinked. She muttered something beneath her breath and began to gather her things. The older woman placed a hand on her shoulder as Thea began to leave the room. She paused. “Goodbye, darling.” Thea did not need to think. She grabbed the strap of her bag, and through her arm, brought it to her shoulder. She passed through the curtain of beads, leaving the dark room behind her. When Thea arrived home, she removed her bag from her shoulder and reached inside for her keys. As she searched, she felt a strangely cold object the size of a dollar coin and removed it from her bag. She stilled. She dropped her arms, the bag hitting her legs, and then dropped her head back, making eye contact with the stars above. And she laughed. Tonight, she fluffs her pillows, pulls her sheets open, and settles beneath her comforter. She retrieves the jar from her nightstand, her hands shake, but she does not stop as she removes the lid from the jar. Thea dips a finger in the powder and brings it to her eye. With the hand that holds the jar, she sets it back onto the nightstand, then brings it to where the powdery finger waits. She lifts her eyelid and places the purple powder on her pupil. She does the same with the other. They begin to dilate before she has even removed her hand. Her eyelids flutter and when her breaths begin to slow and her body relaxes, she sees nothing. Black. A night sky devoid of stars and moons. Her lips part; her chest stills.